descended on shining backs. A bull
bellowed wildly. Others followed suit. There was a dreadful roaring, and a
rushing of hoofs that sounded in Angela's horrified ears like the
beginning of an earthquake. The whole troop, hundreds of horned heads and
humpy backs, massed and seethed together. It was as if an irresistible
force from behind impelled them all forward in a pack. She stood still and
watched the black wave of cattle, fascinated, appalled, her heart beating
thickly. No, they could not stop now. Nothing could stop them, except some
great obstacle which they could not pass. And, when they came to that
obstacle, many would be killed by others' trampling hoofs. They would fall
and die, and their brothers would beat them down, not knowing, blind and
mad and merciless. It was a stampede. She had read of such things
happening among wild cattle in the West. Poor creatures, poor stupid
brutes, how sorry, how sickeningly sorry she was for them! Who could have
fired the shot, and why? Men on horses were in sight now--two, she
thought--no, three, galloping fast, but far behind the drove. They could
do no good. Only the fence would stop the rush, she told herself, through
the poundings of her heart. Then--then--it was as if a loud voice cried
the question in her ears--_Would the fence stop it?_

If not--"May God help me!" she heard herself saying. For an instant she
stared at the oncoming black wave which swept on, faster and faster toward
her, so incredibly, terribly fast now that in another second she knew they
would break down the line of wire fence. The cattle, those that were not
trampled to death, would soon pour through the gap, would sweep on and on,
overwhelming this hill where she stood.

Strange, some lines of a poem were saying themselves in Angela's head. She
had read them lately, since she came to America, the story of a stampede
and a girl. Laska--yes, that was the name--loved a man, and saved him
from the rush of wild cattle by covering his body with hers, protecting
it with her bleeding flesh from the blows of the iron hoofs.

Nick had given her the book. She had been in a train when she read the
story of Laska. She saw herself sitting safely and cosily in a stateroom,
all panelled satinwood and green velvet. Now----

Blindly she started to run. It was useless, she knew, for the fence was
certain to go, and she could no more outrun that black billow of death
than she could outrace one of Paolo di Sereno's