The bull leaped forward like a hurricane. And just as the pale and horrified girl expected to see the man impaled to the tree, he slipped deftly behind it. The head of the bull crashed against the oak, and the animal staggered as if struck by a butcher’s maul. The stranger laughed. “That ought to give you a slight headache,” he said. “Run!” cried the girl. “This way—quick! Now’s the time!” Dazed, the bull was backing off slowly, shaking his head. Evidently the man agreed with Bessie that the moment was propitious, for he turned and raced toward the fence. But the animal had not been injured nearly as much as one might have supposed, and, seeing his mocking foe in flight, he plunged in pursuit. The stranger was fleet-footed, but the bull was a trifle fleeter. Just as the runner gathered himself to take the fence with one clean leap, the beast overtook him. Through the air sailed the man, propelled by the head and horns of the bull, as well as by the spring of his own legs. Over the fence in a great curve he came, crashing head downward amid the rocks and bushes. When the young man opened his eyes again, he discovered that his head was resting in the lap of Miss Bessie Wiggin, who, sobbing hysterically, was wiping his forehead with a bloodstained handkerchief. He looked up at her and smiled. “Daphne!” he whispered. “Reginald!” she cried. CHAPTER III IT NEVER RAN SMOOTH. “You’re not killed, are you?” she sobbed, trying to stanch the flow of blood that trickled from a gash at the edge of his hair near his temple. “If I am,” he returned, with a feeble effort to jest, “I don’t know it yet.” “But you’re hurt. You struck on your head.” “Probably that saved my life. Solid ivory, you know. I will admit that I feel a trifle upset, so to speak. No, don’t move—please don’t! The mere thought of your moving gives me pain.” “But I must go for help. You’re wounded.” “I am,” he admitted, gazing up into her blue eyes in a manner that gave her a most peculiar sensation. “Mortally wounded. I fear. I never was hit so hard in my life, and I am afraid I can’t recover.” Again she cried out in apprehension and distress. “Oh, I was afraid you were done for when that beast caught you!” “I am,” was his singularly cheerful acknowledgment; “I’m done for. I’ve got mine. The jig is up with me.” “Is it your arms, your legs? Your ribs—are they smashed? Where do you feel it most?” “Here,” he answered, putting his hand to his heart. “Rut it isn’t my ribs; it’s something deeper, Daphne.” “That isn’t my name; it’s Bessie.” “Bessie! Mine’s George. Awfully commonplace, isn’t it? Now, if my folks had only called me Reginald——” “You mustn’t try to talk. I’m sure it’s painful. You must keep still.”