This afternoon Hunt and I were allowed to go into the city.

We were walking along one of the side streets, and came upon a man who was beating his horse most unmercifully.
"The poor thing was just a bag of bones, that seemed to have nothing but skin over them, and was hitched to a cart heavily loaded with earth and stones; its head was down, and it looked ready to drop, while the savage wretch (not worthy to be called a man) was beating it furiously, and cursing and swearing in a towering passion; men and boys gathering around, and some calling him to stop.
"But he didn't pay the smallest attention, till the poor beast spoke--at least the voice seemed to come from its mouth--'Aren't you ashamed to be beating me so, and swearing at me, too, when you've starved me till I haven't strength to drag even myself another step ?' "At that the man stopped both his beating and swearing, and stood looking half scared out of his wits.

The crowd, too, looked thunderstruck; and presently one fellow said, 'It's the story of Balaam and his ass over again.

There must be an angel somewhere round,' glancing from side to side as he spoke, in a way that almost made me laugh, angry as I was at the human brute, or rather the inhuman scoundrel, who had been treating the poor creature so cruelly.
"Others looked too, but didn't seem to be able to see the angel.
"Hunt, standing close at my side, gave a low whistle.

'What, upon earth ?' he said.