He twisted her about and gave her a push.
“Don’t look around.”
Gasping, faint, and so weak from terror that she could hardly direct her steps, she did as she was told. In her dazed mind there was no conception of time or distance, but, a moment after, hearing a snort from the bull and the quick pounding of his feet, she stopped and turned. She expected to see Amos on the creature’s horns, but Amos was running in the other direction, so far safe, although scarcely his own length ahead. In an instant she saw to her horror that, although a nimble runner, he was losing distance with every spring of the bull. But with a presence of mind that did much toward renewing her own courage, he kept looking over his shoulder, and when further running was hopeless, he jumped swiftly to one side, the side up the hill, and the ponderous brute plunged on for several feet before he could come to a stop. Amos looked at once in her direction, and when he saw her he shook his hand and cried, in an angry voice:
“Run! Run! Your life depends on it!”
There was no time to say more, for the bull had wheeled and was again coming toward him. Molly turned and ran as she never ran before, and never before did so many thoughts flash through her mind. Above all came the torturing regret that she could be of no possible service to the man who, at that moment perhaps, was giving up his life for hers. Leaping rocks, stumbling over hillocks, tearing through bushes, she finally reached the wall, scrambled up and over as best she could, then, with a throbbing heart and pallid face, looked back into the field.
They were farther up the hill, and Amos had evidently just jumped aside, for again the bull and he were facing each other. The animal was advancing slowly toward him, head down, with an angry lashing of the tail and occasional snorts that drove the blood from the spectator’s heart. As Amos retreated slowly, his face to the animal, she saw him look swiftly in her direction, then back at the bull. Faster and faster the animal came toward him, and when finally he bounded forward on a run Amos turned and ran for his life. He was now making for this side of the pasture, but she saw with the keenest anguish that all his elasticity had departed, that he was losing ground much faster than at first. That he should show signs of exhaustion caused her no surprise, for the ground was rough, low briars and bushes concealing rocks of treacherous shapes and varying sizes, and the race was harder for the man than for the bull. The distance between them was being lessened with a rapidity that might end the struggle without a second’s warning, and the horns were now within a yard of his heels. Again he jumped to one side, but this time it brought a cry of agony from beyond the wall. His foot slipped, and instead of landing a yard or more from the creature’s path, he measured his length upon the ground. The bull lowered his head and plunged savagely upon him. The horns grazed the prostrate body, and the heavy brute, by his own impetus, dashed a dozen yards beyond. Amos raised first his head and shoulders, then climbed to his feet, slowly, like one bewildered or in pain. He stood cautiously upon his legs as if uncertain of their allegiance, but he still clutched the crimson sunshade. The bull, with fiery nostrils and bloodshot eyes, once more came on, and Amos started for the wall. It was evident to the one spectator that his strength was gone. With every jump of the thing behind him he was losing ground, and the awful end was near, and coming swiftly. She sank against the wall and clutched it, for the sky and pasture were beginning to revolve before her straining eyes. But Amos, instead of coming straight for the wall, bore down the hill. With the hot breath close upon his heels, he opened the crimson sunshade, jumped aside, and thrust it upon the pursuing horns: then without looking back he made a bee-line for the wall. It was skilfully done, and for one precious moment the seeming victor was delayed by goring the infuriating color; but only for a moment. He saw his enemy escaping and bounded in pursuit. This time, however, he missed him by a dozen feet and saw him vault the barrier into safety. The wall he accepted as a conclusion, but he stood close against it, looking over in sullen anger, frothing, hot-eyed, and out of breath.
Then he witnessed a scene, to him of little interest, but which signified much to another person. He saw the girl, anxious, pale, with disordered hair, eagerly approach the exhausted runner; then, nervously pressing a hand to her cheek, she bent forward and asked a question. The young man, who was leaning against a tree and seemed to have trouble with his breathing, suddenly, with a joyful face, stretched forth his hands, and with even more eagerness than her own, asked in his turn a question, whereupon the color rushed to her face. Looking down, then up at him, then down again, she smiled and muttered something, and he, without waiting for further words, seized her in his arms, and with one hand holding her chin, kissed her mouth and cheeks, not once but many times. But she pushed away from him, flushed and possibly angry. However, it could not have been a deep-seated or lasting anger, for she created no disturbance when he took one of her hands in both of his and made a little speech. It appeared an interesting discourse, although she looked down and off, and all about, at everything except at him, smiling and changing color all the while. He seemed foolishly happy, and when a moment later he wished to assist in rearranging her hair, he was not depressed because the offer was declined with contempt.
Then the young man took a few steps toward the wall, and stood facing the huge head whose bloodshot eyes were still upon him. As he lifted his hand there was a hitch in the motion, and a spasm of pain drew down a corner of his mouth, but the girl behind him could not see this. He raised his cap and saluted his adversary.
“I thank you, Bull, for chasing me into Molly Cabot’s heart”