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They were hurrying from their pastures to the goat-shelter, one stopping, maybe, to bite the top of a hedge and another giving this one a blow with her horns to hurry her on. "By your silver horns, we must go faster," said the King of Ireland's Son to the Fawn. They went more quickly then.
The fawn saw them, bounded into the air, and raced away to the wood as quickly as any arrow that a man ever shot from a bow. "That is Whitefoot the Fawn," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands. "She grazes with my goats but none of my gillies can bring her into my goat-house. Here is your first task run down Whitefoot the Fawn and bring her with my goats into the goat-shelter this evening."
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