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he could in no way comprehend; and though, beyond an aching in neck and shoulders, he felt none the worse physically, he had nevertheless a sense of having been worsted, of having been treated with ignominy, in spite of the fact that it was his foe, and not he, who had retired from the field. For several days he wore a subdued air and kept about meekly with his docile cows. Then his old, bitter moodiness reasserted itself, and he resumed his solitary broodings on the crest of the knoll.

When the winter storms came on, it had been Last Bull's custom to let himself be housed luxuriously at nightfall, with the rest of the herd, in the warm and ample buffalo-shed. But this winter he made such difficulty about going in that at last Payne decreed that he should have his own way and stay out. "It will do him no harm, and may cool his peppery blood some!" had been the keeper's decision. So the door was left open, and Last Bull entered or refrained, according to his whim. It was noticed, however, -and this struck a chord of answering sympathy in the plainsman's imaginative temperament,that, though on ordinary nights he might come in and stay with the herd under shelter, on nights of driving storm, if the tempest blew from the west or north- | west, Last Bull was sure to be out on the naked knoll to face it. When the fine sleet or stinging rain drove past him, filling his nostrils with their cold, drenching his matted mane, and lashing his narrowed eyes, what visions swept through his troubled, half-comprehending brain, no one may know. But Payne, with understanding born of sympathy and a common native soil, catching sight. of his dark bulk under the dark of the

low sky, was wont to declare that he knew. He would say that Last Bull's eyes discerned, black under the hurricane, but lit strangely with the flash of keen horns and rolling eyes and frothed nostrils, the endless and innumerable droves of the buffalo, with the plains wolf skulking on their flanks, passing, passing, southward- into the final dark. In the roar of the wind, declared Payne, Last Bull, out there in the night, listened to the trampling of all those vanished droves. And though the other keepers insisted to each other, quite privately, that their chief talked a lot of nonsense about "that there mean-tempered old buffalo," they nevertheless came gradually to look upon Last Bull with a kind of awe, and to regard his surly whims as privileged.

It chanced that winter that men were driving a railway tunnel beneath a corner of the Park. The tunnel ran for a short distance under the front of Last Bull's range, and passed close by the picturesque cottage occupied by Payne and two of his assistants. At this point the level of the Park was low, and the shell of earth was thin above the tunnel roof.

There came a Sunday afternoon, after days of rain and penetrating January thaw, when sun and air combined to cheat the earth with an illusion of spring. The buds and the mould breathed of April, and gay crowds flocked to the Park, to make the most of winter's temporary repulse. Just when things were at their gayest, with children's voices clamoring everywhere like starlings, and Bong, the little elephant, swinging good-naturedly up the broad white track with all the load he had room for on his back, there came an ominous jar and rumble, like the first

of an earthquake, which ran along the | heavy sound of the cave-in. For a few front of Last Bull's range.

With sure instinct, Bong turned tail and fled with his young charges away across the grassland. The crowds, hardly knowing what they fled from, with screams and cries and blanched faces, followed the elephant's example. A moment later and, with a muffled crash, all along the front of the range, the earth sank into the tunnel, carrying with it half a dozen panels of Last Bull's hated fence.

Almost in a moment the panic of the crowd subsided. Every one realized just what had happened. Moreover, thanks to Bong's timely alarm, every one had got out of the way in good season. All fear of earthquake being removed, the crowd flocked back eagerly to stare down into the wrecked tunnel, which formed now a sort of gaping, chaotic ditch, with sides at some points precipitous and at others brokenly sloping. The throng was noisy with excited interest and with relief at having escaped so cleanly. The break had run just beneath one corner of the keepers' cottage, tearing away a portion of the foundation and wrenching the structure slightly aside without overthrowing it. Payne, who had been in the midst of his Sunday toilet, came out upon his twisted porch, half undressed and with a shaving-brush covered with lather in his hand. He gave one look at the damage which had been wrought, then plunged indoors again to throw his clothes on, at the same time sounding the hurry call for the attendants in other quarters of the Park.

Last Bull, who had been standing on his knoll, with his back to the throngs, had wheeled in astonishment at the

minutes he had stared sullenly, not grasping the situation. Then very slowly it dawned on him that his prison walls had fallen. Yes, surely, there at last lay his way to freedom, his path to the great open spaces for which he dumbly and vaguely hungered. With stately deliberation he marched down from his knoll to investigate.

But presently another idea came into his slow mind. He saw the clamorous crowds flocking back and ranging themselves along the edge of the chasm. These were his enemies. They were coming to balk him. A terrible madness surged through all his veins. He bellowed savage warning and came thundering down the field, nose to earth, dark, mountainous, irresistible.

The crowd yelled and shrank back. "He can't get across!" shouted some. But others cried: "He can! He's coming! Save yourselves!" And with shrieks they scattered wildly across the open, making for the kiosks, the pavilions, the trees, anything that seemed to promise hiding or shelter from that on-rushing doom.

At the edge of the chasm-at this point forming not an actual drop, but a broken slide-Last Bull hardly paused. He plunged down, rolled over in the débris, struggled to his feet again instantly, and went ploughing and snorting up the opposite steep. As his colossal front, matted with mud, loomed up over the brink, his little eyes rolling and flaming, and the froth flying from his red nostrils, he formed a very nightmare of horror to those fugitives who dared to look behind them.

Surmounting the brink, he paused. There were so many enemies, he knew

not which to pursue first. But straight | foes. The ground shook under his pon

ahead, in the very middle of the open, and far from any shelter, he saw a huddled group of children and nurses fleeing impotently and aimlessly. Shrill cries came from the cluster, which danced with colors, scarlet and yellow and blue and vivid pink. To the mad buffalo, these were the most conspicuous and the loudest of his foes, and therefore the most dangerous. With a bellow he flung his tail straight in the air, and charged after them.

An appalling hush fell, for a few heartbeats, all over the field. Then from different quarters appeared uniformed attendants, racing and shouting frantically to divert the bull's attention. From fleeing groups black-coated men leapt forth, armed only with their walking-sticks, and rushed desperately to defend the flock of children, who now, in the extremity of their terror, were tumbling as they ran. Some of the nurses were fleeing far in front, while others, the faithful ones, with eyes starting from their heads, grabbed up their little charges and struggled on under the burden.

Already Last Bull was halfway across the space which divided him from his

derous gallop. At this moment Payne reappeared on the broken porch.

One glance showed him that no one was near enough to intervene. With a face stern and sorrowful he lifted the deadly .405 Winchester which he had brought out with him. The spot he covered was just behind Last Bull's mighty shoulder.

The smokeless powder spoke with a small, venomous report, unlike the black powder's noisy reverberation. Last Bull stumbled. But recovering himself instantly, he rushed on. He was hurt, and he felt it was those fleeing foes who had done it. A shade of perplexity darkened Payne's face. He fired again. This time his aim was true. The heavy expanding bullet tore straight through bone and muscle and heart, and Last Bull lurched forward upon his head, ploughing up the turf for yards. As his mad eyes softened and filmed, he saw once more, perhaps, or so the heavy-hearted keeper who had slain him would have us believe,—the shadowy plains unrolling under the wild sky, and the hosts of his vanished kindred drifting past into the dark.

SECTION X

ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Baldwin, James, The Story of Roland. The Story of Siegfried.
Baring-Gould, Sabine, Curious Myths of the Middle Ages.

Becquer, G. A., Romantic Legends of Spain.

Canton, W. V., Child's Book of Saints.

Cervantes-Saavedra, Miguel de, Don Quixote. [In translation, or as retold by Havell or Parry.]

Church, Alfred J., Stories from the Iliad. Stories from the Odyssey. Heroes of Chivalry and Romance. Stories of Charlemagne and the Twelve Peers of France.

Colum, Padraic, The Adventures of Odysseus and the Tale of Troy.

Crommelin, Emeline G., Famous Legends.

Darton, F. J. H., Wonder Book of Old Romance.

Farrington, Margaret V., Tales of King Arthur.

Finnemore, John, The Story of Robin Hood and His Merry Men.

Guerber, H. A., Legends of the Middle Ages.

Guest, Lady Charlotte, The Mabinogion.

Herbertson, Agnes G., Heroic Legends.

Homer, Iliad. [Prose translation by Lang, Leaf, and Myers; poetic by Bryant.]
Homer, Odyssey. [Prose translation by George H. Palmer; poetic by Bryant.]
Hull, Eleanor, The Boys' Cuchulain: Heroic Legends of Ireland.

Lamb, Charles, The Adeventures of Ulysses.

Lane, E. W., Arabian Nights' Entertainments.

Lang, Andrew, A Book of Romance.

Lanier, Sidney, The Boy's King Arthur. The Boy's Mabinogion.

MacLeod, Mary, King Arthur and His Noble Knights.

Marshall, H. E., The Story of William Tell. The Story of Roland.

Marvin, Frank S. (and others), Adventures of Odysseus.

Morris, William, Sigurd, the Volsung.

Newbolt, Henry, Stories from Froissart.

Pyle, Howard, Stories of King Arthur and His Knights. Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. Plummer, Mary W., Stories from the Chronicle of the Cid.

Ragozin, Z. A., Frithjof and Roland. Siegfried and Beowulf.

Rolleston, T. W., High Deeds of Finn.

Scudder, Horace E., The Book of Legends.

Tappan, Eva March, Robin Hood: His Book.

Tennyson, Alfred, The Idylls of the King.

Warren, Maude Radford, King Arthur and His Knights. Robin Hood and His Merry Men. Wilson, C. D., Story of the Cid for Young People.

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