were an insult. She knew he intended it as such, and it bewildered her.

‘And you,’ she cried in retort, ‘why do you always take your soul in your mouth, so frightfully full?’

‘So that I can spit it out the more readily,’ he said, pleased by his own retort.

Gerald Crich, his face narrowing to an intent gleam, followed up the hill with quick strides, straight after Gudrun. The cattle stood with their noses together on the brow of a slope, watching the scene below, the men in white hovering about the white forms of the women, watching above all Gudrun, who was advancing slowly towards them. She stood a moment, glancing back at Gerald, and then at the cattle.

Then in a sudden motion, she