Lord Frederick Leighton The Last Watch of Hero painting

Lord Frederick Leighton The Last Watch of Hero paintingLord Frederick Leighton The Garden of the Hesperides paintingLord Frederick Leighton The Fisherman and the Syren painting
them; she who slipped so softly through eternity without bumping into anything. Behind her they were breaking like
glass in the rush of the Red Bull. He roared once again, and a great branch clubbed her on the shoulder so hard that she staggered and fell. She was up immediately, but now roots humped under her feet as she ran, and others burrowed as busily as moles to cut across the path. Vines struck at her like strangling snakes, creepers wove webs between the trees, dead boughs crashed all around her. She fell a second time. The Bull's hoofs on the earth boomed through her bones, and she cried out.
She must have found some way out of the trees, for she was running on the hard, bald plain that lay beyond the prosperous pasture lands of Hagsgate. Now she had room to race, and a unicorn is only loping when she leaves the hunter kicking his burst from one body to another or running down a sword; swifter than anything burdened with legs or wings. Yet without looking back, she knew that the Red Bull was gaining on her, coming like the moon, the sullen, swollen hunter's moon. She could feel the shock of the livid horns in her side, as though he had already struck.
Ripe, sharp cornstalks leaned together to make a hedge at her breast, but she trampled them