In silence and magnificent resolve they came at us. We fought with
sticks and all the power of our lungs. Rest was out of the question. The
leafy dyke and "bed" stood ever in need of repair; the sallies were
continuous and determined. The "bed" was not made for those knightly
fish to lie ignobly upon. A single fish would slip down-stream, and,
gathering speed and effort, leap with the glitter of heroism in its eyes.
One such George caught in his arms. Another slipped through my fingers
and struck me on the shoulders, and I bore the mark of the assault for a
week. George's brow was bleeding. Indeed, all his blood was up. His
"heroic rage" was at bursting point. We had toiled for two hours and
counted but three fish, while as many hundred had battled past our siege
works. Quite as many remained, and time, as it generally does, seemed to
be in favour of the attacking party.

Was Charles Lamb right when he spoke of "the uncommunicating muteness of
fishes"? These beleaguered mullet surely exchanged ideas and acted with
deliberation and in concert. All swayed this way or that in accordance,
so it seemed, with the will of the front rank. A tremor there was
repeated instantly at the rear. When a detachment made a bid for liberty
it was in response to a common impulse. When a single individual started
on a forlorn hope the others seemed to watch our hostile demonstrations
as it leaped--flashing silvery lights from its scales--to prove the
unworthiness of weirs and beds, and we, of the ranks of Tuscany, cheered
if its deed of derring do was neatly and successfully achieved.

Fish to the number of five having fallen into our clutches, we stood by
and watched the rest. Most of them leaped gloriously to liberty. Some
ignominiously wriggled. Others remained in the pool, their nerves so
shattered by bluster and assault that they had not the melancholy courage
to slip away. In his wrath--for blood still oozed from his forehead--