John Galsworthy

“ The screaming of the horses rose like cries from hell, Suddenly the tramp yelled.
“’Ark to the poor ’orses! Put your liquor up!—it’s a go! See me! you ——! See me!” Head down like a charging bull he sprang—wild cat—at a crack in the flames. His figure was spreadeagled black against the stable; the flames licked behind him; the crowd broke into a frenzied wail. From where he stood, with the heat leaping at his eyes, old Roux saw the charred wisp of man stoop to the flames, snatch a brand, spring through the door. Like a devil with a torch of divine fire he danced amongst the horses. ”

“ With sticks and sand and water they strove to keep the crack from closing. Maddened and snorting, scarred by the brand which descended like a whip upon his quarters, a grey horse charged the fire; from beneath his hoofs a whirl of sparks fled skywards like a million golden insects; his eyes rolled, he broke for the plain galloping for life from the redness of his terror, Lashed into courage by that gleaming scourge, brown, bay, dun, each followed, and vanished like a lost soul beyond the ken of the glare. ”

“ Within their stable, hedged by death, the horses screamed; the terror of men is as nothing to the terror of beasts at the breath of fire. The drought had sapped resistance, the water in the well was low, the stacks tinder to the burning. Safe within its belt of beaten sand, the house gleamed yellow. From the huddled group of men and women one would leap out and beat furiously at the fire with a stick, or cast a pail of water, that sprang hissing into the air—a futile puff of steam ”