“Ugh!” cried Ursula in sudden panic, starting to her feet.
“They’re quite all right,” rang out Gudrun’s sardonic voice.
On the left stood a little cluster of Highland cattle, vividly coloured and fleecy in the evening light, their horns branching into the sky, pushing forward their muzzles inquisitively, to know what it was all about. Their eyes glittered through their tangle of hair, their naked nostrils were full of shadow.
“Won’t they do anything?” cried Ursula in fear.
Gudrun, who was usually frightened of cattle, now shook her head in a queer, half-doubtful, half-sardonic motion, a faint smile round her mouth.
“Don’t they look charming, Ursula?” cried Gudrun, in a high, strident voice, something like the scream of a seagull.
“Charming,” cried Ursula in trepidation. “But won’t they do anything to us?”
Again Gudrun looked back at her sister with an enigmatic smile, and shook her head.
“I’m sure they won’t,” she said, as if she had to convince herself also, and yet, as if she were confident of some secret power in herself, and had to put it to the test. “Sit down and sing again,” she called in her high, strident voice.
“I’m frightened,” cried Ursula, in a pathetic voice, watching the group of sturdy short cattle, that stood with their knees planted, and watched with their dark, wicked eyes, through the matted fringe of their hair. Nevertheless, she sank down again, in her former posture.