The mare champed under the stinging pressure of the curb. It walked as if it were stepping on glass.
"My poor animal, you are having a bad time of it," thought Hertha.
And then she looked at him. The peaked cap pushed back on the nape of his neck, his brow pouring with perspiration, the veins standing out in knots on his temples, his glance stern; thus he rode up to the fence. A tyrant, every inch of him!
Hertha did not see the fair glossy beard, the erect figure, and graceful seat, or any of the things which maidens are accustomed to take notice of in their cavaliers. She was too overcome by a paralyzing fear and growing defiance of one who was to be a greater power than herself.
He drew rein, and the tightly curbed horse shied at the wooden fence.
"What have we got there?" he inquired, in a grim voice of command.
Hertha began to tremble. Had his angry eyes discovered her behind the bushes? Was he going to treat her as a common trespasser on his property?
But his question concerned the bailiff, who came riding to his side.
"Bullocks--thirty-two head," he reported, with quite military precision.
"How old?"