"What has that to do with this disgraceful exhibition?" said Leo, standing on the dyke that bounded the wet field.
"Everything. This man could not plough without my help. He thinks that I am a stray bullock."
"But he is a mud-crusted cottar with matted hair," insisted Leo. "We are not meant for his use."
"You may not be; I am. I cannot tell when the Scorpion may choose to sting me to death—perhaps before I have turned this furrow." The Bull flung his bulk into the yoke, and the plough tore through the wet ground behind him, and the countryman goaded him till his flanks were red.
"Do you like this?" Leo called down the dripping furrows.
"No," said the Bull over his shoulder as he lifted his hind legs from the clinging mud and cleared his nostrils.
Leo left him scornfully and passed to another country, where he found his brother the Ram in the centre of a crowd of country people who were hanging wreaths round his neck and feeding him on freshly plucked green corn.
"This is terrible," said Leo. "Break up that crowd and come away, my brother. Their hands are spoiling your fleece."
"I cannot," said the Ram. "The Archer told me that on some day of which I had no knowledge, he would send a dart through me, and that I should die in very great pain."
"What has that to do with this?" said Leo, but he did not speak as confidently as before.