"Run, Ernestine! Run!" I cried. "Run, Cathy! The stile! The stile!"
It was almost upon her, but even as it put down its head to charge, I flung my jacket over its horns, and, taking advantage of the few seconds of delay thus gained, I fled on wings of terror after the others to the stile. How I scrambled over, I can never remember; I know I fell on Cathy and Ernestine at the bottom. We all lay there for a few moments nearly dead with fright, imagining that the bull would leap after us, but the wall was high, and the stile very steep, and though we could hear its angry mutterings within a few feet of us, it was not able to clear so great an obstacle.
"Let us get away!" cried Ernestine. "Oh! it's terrible, terrible to think that dreadful beast is still so near us!"
She made an effort to rise; then, groaning with pain, she sank back on to the ground, and buried her face in her hands.
"I can't walk!" she moaned, "I've broken my foot. Go, girls, and leave me! If I have to die, I must."
"What nonsense!" said Cathy. "You're not going to die yet. I expect you twisted your ankle when you fell. You're quite safe here, for the bull can't leap a six-foot wall, or climb up crooked stone steps. We'll go for help, and Mr. Thompson and one of the men must come to carry you back to the farm."
"You go, Cathy," I said, "and I'll stay with Ernestine. She'd feel dreadfully frightened to be left here all alone, with the bull close by, although it can't get at us now. If you run all the way, you'll very soon be back with help."
Cathy started off at once at a brisk trot, and we watched her as she hurried down the clover-field and the meadow, and disappeared into the wood below.
I turned to Ernestine, who still sat under the wall where she had fallen, white to the lips, and trembling all over with pain.
"I'm afraid your foot's hurting you very much," I said. "Let me take your boot off, and I'll get some water to bathe it for you."