Slowly, quite slowly, one leg, bent for the leap, bending still, moves
a few inches to the rear. Gently, quite gently, a fore paw follows the
movement. After a stop, slowly, quite slowly, the other legs do the
same, and both beasts, insensibly, little by little, and always
facing, withdraw, up to the moment where their mutual withdrawal has
created between them an interval greater than can be traversed in a
bound. Lion and tiger turn their backs slowly and, without ceasing to
observe, walk freely. They resume without haste their natural gaits,
with that sovereign dignity characteristic of great seigneurs. I have
ceased to shudder, but I do not laugh.

There is no more to laugh at in man in battle, because he has in his
hands a weapon more terrible than the fangs and claws of lion or
tiger, the rifle, which instantly, without possible defense, sends one
from life into death. It is evident that no one close to his enemy is
in a hurry to arm himself, to put into action a force which may kill
him. He is not anxious to light the fuse that is to blow up the enemy,
and himself at the same time.

Who has not observed like instances between dogs, between dog and cat,
cat and cat?

In the Polish War of 1831, two Russian and two Polish regiments of
cavalry charged each other. They went with the same dash to meet one
another. When close enough to recognize faces, these cavalrymen
slackened their gait and both turned their backs. The Russians and
Poles, at this terrible moment, recognized each other as brothers, and
rather than spill fraternal blood, they extricated themselves from a
combat as if it were a crime. That is the version of an eyewitness and