The rhythmic thunder rode down upon them like the wind. A few yards away, head down, tail straight, the big bull charged over the ground like an avalanche. Roseanne lifted herself in time to see Hugo take two quick steps, draw back his fist, and hit the bull between the horns. It was a diabolical thing. The bull was thrown back upon itself. Its neck snapped loudly. Its feet crumpled; it dropped dead. Twenty feet to one side was a stone wall. Hugo picked up a hoof and dragged the carcass to the base of the wall. With his hand he made an indenture in the rocks, and over the face of the hollow he splashed the bull’s blood. Then he approached Roseanne. The whole episode had occupied less than a minute.

She had hunched her shoulders together, and her face was pale. She articulated with difficulty. “The bull”—her hands twitched—“broke in here—and you hit him.”

“Just in time, Roseanne.”

“You killed him. Then—why did you drag him over there?”

“Because,” Hugo answered slowly, “I thought it would be better to make it seem as if he charged the wall and broke his neck that way.”

Her frigidity was worse than any hysteria. “It isn’t natural to be able to do things like that. It isn’t human.”

He swallowed; those words in that stifled intonation were very familiar. “I know it. I’m very strong.”

Roseanne looked down at the grass. “Wipe your hand, will you?”

He rubbed it in the earth. “You mustn’t be frightened.”

“No?” She laughed a little. “What must I be, then? I’m alive, I’m crawling with terror. Don’t touch me!” She screamed and drew back.

“I can explain it.”

“You can explain everything! But not that.”

“It was an idiotic, wild, unfair thing to have happen at this time,” he said. “My life’s like that.” He looked beyond her. “I began wanting to do tremendous things. The more I tried, the more discouraged I became. You see, I was strong. There have been other things figuratively like the bull. But the things themselves get littler and more preposterous, because my ambition and my nerve grows smaller.” He lowered his head. “Some day—I shan’t want to do anything at all any more. Continuous and unwonted defeat might infuriate some men to a great effort. It’s tiring me.” He raised his eyes sadly to hers. “Roseanne—!”

She gathered her legs under herself and ran. Hugo made no attempt to follow her. He merely watched. Twice she tripped and once she fell. At the stone wall she looked back at him. It was not necessary to be able to see her expression. She went on across the fields—a skinny, flapping thing—at last a mere spot of moving colour.