Soeur Séraphine laughed heartily at the antics of her namesake, and declared that she had had much the same disposition in her youth. “But not the beauty!” she added. “As Atli says, it is difficult to be severe with so charming a creature.”
“It’s funny that the best cow and the worst goat should be white, isn’t it?” said Vivette.
“As mademoiselle says! A thing very curious. Bimbo, now! a black goat may by right be mischievous, is it not so, my ladies? Yet Bimbo also is handsome, we think.”
As if he heard and understood, Bimbo, the young he-goat, lifted his head, and reconnoitered the party standing on the green; then, slowly and with an air of elaborate carelessness, he detached himself from the flock, and began a circuitous approach, pausing to nibble—or to make a pretence of nibbling—at every other step. He was jet black, with white horns and hoofs; a superb animal, already larger than Moufflon, his father and leader.
“He is a beauty!” said Patricia. “I should like to have a pair of him to drive, wouldn’t you, Moriole? We’d take Stephanie out—and upset her into the lake!” she added in an undertone.
Stephanie did not hear her. Her eyes were fixed in terror on the advancing flock, and especially on Moufflon, a goat of great dignity, with wide-branching horns and a notable beard.
Stephanie was naturally afraid of all animals. Their size mattered little; a cow or a mouse threw her into almost equal agonies of terror. Indeed, the mouse was the more to be dreaded of the two, since—horror! it could, and certainly would if given the opportunity—run up one’s sleeve, in which case one would die on the spot, on the instant. Moreover, the poor child’s nerves had been thoroughly upset by the Purple Cow episode (which naughty Patricia was already turning into verse in her mind!). She had made up her mind that Moufflon meant to attack her. Pressing close to Gretli’s side, shaking in every limb, she kept her eyes fixed on him in the fascination of terror. Ah! but she did not notice—nobody noticed Bimbo! Gretli herself, keeping a watchful eye on the mischievous Séraphine, prepared to check and punish any outbreak on the part of that obstreperous young beauty, had no eye for the black goat, quietly circling to the rear of the party, quietly moving forward, with a sharp glance now and then through his forelock. If any one had cast a glance at Bimbo, he would have been seen nibbling grass, serenely unconscious; the catastrophe might have come just the same: but no one did cast a glance.
Presently, Madame Madeleine called Gretli to her, to ask some question about the descent. Gretli, stepping forward some paces, left Stephanie for the moment standing alone, still holding the unlucky red parasol. Directly in front of her stood Honor, her eyes fixed on the mountains, lost in a dream of the Norse gods. Bimbo’s moment had arrived. Two at a time! glorious sport. Lowering his head, he advanced at a smart gallop. Biff! bang! a wild shriek rang out. Stephanie and Honor were rolling together at the feet of Soeur Séraphine, and the others, turning in bewilderment, saw the black goat quietly nibbling grass, apparently unconscious of them and of the world.
Stephanie sprang up and rushed sobbing and screaming to throw herself into the tender arms of Madame Madeleine. Honor lay still. The air was black and full of sparks; there was a pain somewhere, a rather sickening pain.
Gretli and Soeur Séraphine ran to raise her, and she uttered a little cry.