This never-ceasing struggle between her own personality and the instinct inherited from a thousand generations of man-serving ancestors was at times so intense that on many a still, dark night she had sneaked home to the farm fully determined to remain; but at daybreak the rough sounds of wooden clogs and men’s voices broke the spell, and she had fled again to the fields....
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DEMON MOUSER
The crofter lived down by the marsh, where he owned some fields with blackish-brown soil, which he was ploughing for the autumn sowing....
The ploughing progressed spasmodically; for he had only one horse, and that a small one, that had to stop every few minutes for breath.
“Get along!” said the man to it lethargically.... “Gee up!”
But the horse declined; it considered that it should be allowed a little longer respite.
“Gee up!” came the order again—and now the man took hold of the reins which hung loose on the horse’s back.
The nag continued to breathe heavily. The whip had to be produced.
“Get along!... Gee up!”