“We must stop. He's on us. Get behind me.”
She felt herself caught and pinioned by two arms that seemed set on the wrong way. Instinct, and a general softness told her that she was back to back with her granddaughter.
“Let me go!” she gasped; “let me go!”
And suddenly she felt herself being propelled by that softness forward towards the stile.
“Shoo!” she said; “shoo!”
“Granny,” Barbara's voice came, calm and breathless, “don't! You only excite him! Are we near the stile?”
“Ten yards,” panted Lady Casterley.
“Look out, then!” There was a sort of warm flurry round her, a rush, a heave, a scramble; she was beyond the stile. The bull and Barbara, a yard or two apart, were just the other side. Lady Casterley raised her handkerchief and fluttered it. The bull looked up; Barbara, all legs and arms, came slipping down beside her.
Without wasting a moment Lady Casterley leaned forward and addressed the bull:
“You awful brute!” she said; “I will have you well flogged.”