th leading to the stile they had crossed, the high untrimmed
hedge between the fields concealing what was taking place.

Helen followed quickly, feeling certain the while that the drove of
bullocks in the next meadow were the cause of the trouble and alarm.

Dexter reached the stile far in advance; and when at last Helen attained
to the same post of observation, it was to see Sir James Danby at the
far side standing upon the next stile toward the town, shouting, and
frantically waving his hat and stick, while between her and the stout
baronet there was the drove of bullocks, and Dexter approaching them
fast.

For a few moments Helen could not understand what was the matter, but
directly after, to her horror, she saw that young Edgar Danby was on the
ground, with one of the bullocks standing over him, smelling at the
prostrate boy, and apparently trying to turn him over with one of its
horns.

"Here! Hi!" shouted Dexter; "bring me your stick."

But Sir James, who had been chased by the leading bullock, was
breathless, exhausted, and too nervous to attempt his son's rescue. All
he seemed capable of doing was to shout hoarsely, and this he did more
feebly every moment.

Dexter made a rush at the bullocks, and the greater part of the drove
turned tail; but, evidently encouraged by its success, the leader of the
little herd stood firm, tossed its head on high, shook its horns, and
uttered a defiant bellow.

"Here, I can't do anything without a stick," said Dexter, in an ill-used
tone, and he turned and ran toward Sir James, while, still more
encouraged by what must have seemed to its dense brain like a fresh
triumph, the bullock placed one of its horns under Edgar Danby and
cleverly turned him right over.

"Here, give me your stick!" shouted Dexter, as he ran up to Sir James.
"You shouldn't be afraid o' them."

"The boy will be killed," cried Sir James, in agony; and he shouted
again, "Help! help!"

"No, he won't," cried Dexter, snatching the magistrate's heavy ebony
stick from his hand. "I'll make 'em run."

Raising the stick in the air, Dexter ran toward where the whole drove
were trotting back, and gathering round their leader, who now began to
sing its war-song, throwing up its muzzle so as to straighten its
throat, and emitting a bellow that was, in spite of its size, but a
poor, feeble imitation of the roar of a lion.

As Dexter ran up, the drove stood firm for a few moments; then the
nearest to him