There was no time to say more, for the bull had wheeled and was again coming toward him. Molly turned and ran as she never ran before, and never before did so many thoughts flash through her mind. Above all came the torturing regret that she could be of no possible service to the man who, at that moment perhaps, was giving up his life for hers. Leaping rocks, stumbling over hillocks, tearing through bushes, she finally reached the wall, scrambled up and over as best she could, then, with a throbbing heart and pallid face, looked back into the field. They were farther up the hill, and Amos had evidently just jumped aside, for again the bull and he were facing each other. The animal was advancing slowly toward him, head down, with an angry lashing of the tail and occasional snorts that drove the blood from the spectator’s heart. As Amos retreated slowly, his face to the animal, she saw him look swiftly in her direction, then back at the bull. Faster and faster the animal came toward him, and when finally he bounded forward on a run Amos turned and ran for his life. He was now making for this side of the pasture, but she saw with the keenest anguish that all his elasticity had departed, that he was losing ground much faster than at first. That he should show signs of exhaustion caused her no surprise, for the ground was rough, low briars and bushes concealing rocks of treacherous shapes and varying sizes, and the race was harder for the man than for the bull. The distance between them was being lessened with a rapidity that might end the struggle without a second’s warning, and the horns were now within a yard of his heels. Again he jumped to one side, but this time it brought a cry of agony from beyond the wall. His foot slipped, and instead of landing a yard or more from the creature’s path, he measured his length upon the ground. The bull lowered his head and plunged savagely upon him. The horns grazed the prostrate body, and the heavy brute, by his own impetus, dashed a dozen yards beyond. Amos raised first his head and shoulders, then climbed to his feet, slowly, like one bewildered or in pain. He stood cautiously upon his legs as if uncertain of their allegiance, but he still clutched the crimson sunshade. The bull, with fiery nostrils and bloodshot eyes, once more came on, and Amos started for the wall. It was evident to the one spectator that his strength was gone. With every jump of the thing behind him he was losing ground, and the awful end was near, and coming swiftly. She sank against the wall and clutched it, for the sky and pasture were beginning to revolve before her straining eyes. But Amos, instead of coming straight for the wall, bore down the hill. With the hot breath close upon his heels, he opened the crimson sunshade, jumped aside, and thrust it upon the pursuing horns: then without looking back he made a bee-line for the wall. It was skilfully done, and for one precious moment the seeming victor was