"Are you hurt, miss?" said he.
I struggled into a sitting posture, and pulled myself up on my feet by the help of the gate.
"No; no, thank you," answered I. But my head was dizzy, and my arm ached dreadfully.
"I'm afraid I flung you over rather hard," said he. "But there wasn't time to do it nicely."
"You flung me over!" cried I, aghast.
"To be sure," answered he, "Did you think it was the bull?"
He gave a short laugh, scarcely a laugh, it was so very grim and quiet. But when he laughed his smile was like a white flash—I remember noticing it. I gazed at him. Angry as I was—and I was absurdly, childishly angry—I could not help gazing at this man, who could take me up like a baby and fling me over a five-barred gate in a twinkling.
He was very broad and strong, his eyes were dark brown, his hair was black and curling, and so was his beard. He had neither a pleasant face nor a handsome face—until he smiled. I was not conscious at the time of any of these details; but there in the fog I thought he looked very imposing.
"I'm afraid if it had been the bull he would have flung you farther, and hurt you more," said he. "You lay there very handy for him."
How I hated myself for having fallen to the ground!