When Clare returned, his enemy was there still. He had got clear of the gate, but seemed in much pain, for he lay tearing up the grass and sod in handfuls. When Clare stooped to ask what he should do for him, he struck him a backhanded blow on the face that knocked him over. Clare got up and ran. “Coward!” cried Simpson; “to leave a man with a broken leg to get home by himself!” “I’m going to find some one strong enough to help you,” said Clare. But Simpson, after his own evil nature, imagined he was going to let the bull into the field again, and fell to praying him not to leave him. Clare knew, however, that, if his leg was broken, he could not get him home, neither could he get home by himself; so he made haste to tell the people at the farm, and Simpson lay in terror of the bull till help came. From that hour he hated Clare, attributing to him all the ill he had brought on himself. But he was out of mischief for a while. The trouble fell on his mother--who deserved it, for she would believe no ill of him, because he was _hers_. One good thing of the affair was, that the bully was crippled for life, and could do the less harm. It was a great joy to Mr. Porson to learn how Clare had defended his sister. Clergyman as he was, and knowing that Jesus Christ would never have returned a blow, and that this spirit of the Lord was what saved the world, he had been uneasy that his adopted child behaved just like Jesus. That a man should be so made as not to care to return a blow, never occurred to Mr. Porson as possible. It was therefore an immeasurable relief to his feelings as an Englishman, to find that the boy was so far from being destitute of pluck, that in defence of his sister he had attacked a fellow twice his size. “Weren’t you afraid of such a big rascal?” he said. “No, papa,” answered the boy. “Ought I to have been?” He put his hand to his forehead, as if trying to understand. His father found he had himself something to think about.