“Is he going to set us free?” asked the cow.
“I don’t want to go down to the meadow again,” said the sheep and began to cry. “My legs are stiffer than they were, and I can’t walk as well as I used to. And my eyesight is worse and I have hardly any scent left: it’s so long since I used my senses. I want to stay with Two-Legs and feed out of his hand.”
“You’ve become a slave already,” said the cow. “And you don’t deserve to be free. If I see my chance, I shall be off. He killed my calf yesterday: I shall never forgive him for that.”
“Oh, well,” said the sheep, “suppose we do lose a youngling or two and even risk losing our own lives, what other fate could we expect in any case?”
“You have the soul of a serf!” said the cow contemptuously.
Two-Legs had finished breaking down the pen. Meanwhile, his wife had packed up all their things. They loaded the cow with as much as she could carry, took up the rest themselves and started on their way to the meadow.
“My fears are now being realized,” said the cow, groaning under the unwonted burden. “I am dead-tired in my loins and legs.”
And, hardly had they come down to where the meadow began, when she threw off her load and rushed away, followed by the bull. Trust flew after them, but they turned round and showed him their horns, which made him run back with his tail between his legs.
Two-Legs threw his spear at them, but missed them.
“Time will bring counsel,” he said. “I shall go out and catch them again to-morrow. Let us put up our tent now and arrange our things.”