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agitation was nothing to the terrible fear in her mind, where one thought had formed to the exclusion of all others.
    If the girl was lost, then all was lost.
    The passion of Cartimandua was a fearsome thing. Sometimes it seemed beautiful; more often it was like an ache that would not go away, and sometimes it was blank and terrible, gripping and then hurling her forwards so that she was helpless. So it was now. As she raced up the slope with the sun on her cheek, it seemed to her that her passion for her husband was endless. She desired him. She wanted to protect him. She needed him. She found it hard to imagine her existence without him. As for their little family and the baby, how would they manage without a father? Besides, she was ready to have more children. She passionately desired that too.
    She had no illusions. There were already more women than men in the hamlets along the river. If there were fighting and he was killed, her chances of finding another man were poor. Her passion had driven her; motherhood and the preservation of her family had made her reason harshly. She had to. And so she had come to her terrible and secret decision, the agony of which had been with her all spring like a haunting and reproachful echo.
    Had she done right? She told herself she had. The bargain was a good one. The girl might be happy; probably she would be better off. It was necessary. It was all for the best.
    Except that every day she found she wanted to scream.
    And now – this was the terrible secret of which her husband and children were unaware – if anything happened to little Branwen, her husband would probably die.
    Branwen heard the wolf when it was only twenty feet behind her. Turning and seeing it, she screamed. The wolf watched her, ready to spring forward. But then it paused. For something surprising happened.
    Branwen was terrified, but she was also quick-witted. She knew that if she ran the wolf would have her in its savage teeth in an instant. What could she do? There was only one chance. Like all the village children, she had driven cows. Even running cattle could be turned by a man waving his arms. Perhaps, just possibly, she could face the creature down. If she did not show fear.
    If only she had a weapon, even a stick. But she had nothing. The only weapon she possessed was the one she often used at home and which nearly always seemed to work. Her temper. If I can pretend to be angry, she thought. Better yet, if I could just get really angry. Then she would not be afraid.
    And so it was that the wolf suddenly found itself confronted by a tiny child, her face red and contorted with rage, waving her little arms and hurling obscenities that, although unintelligible to the wolf, conveyed their sense clearly enough. Stranger yet, instead of running away, the girl was advancing. Uncertain for a moment, the wolf backed away two paces.
    “Go. Get away!” the little girl shouted furiously. “Stupid animal. Clear off!” And then, doubling herself up just as she did when she threw a real tantrum at home, she positively screamed: “Get out!”
    The wolf backed off a little further. Its ears twitched. But then, watching her carefully, it stood its ground.
    Branwen clapped her hands, shouted, stamped her foot. She had actually succeeded in working herself up into a real fury now, though at the same time she was carefully calculating the battle of wills. Did she dare make a rush at the wolf to make it turn and run? Or would it snap at her? Once it bit her, she knew she was finished.
    Watching, the wolf sensed her hesitation and understood the bluff. It took two steps towards her, growled, and crouched to spring. Desperately the little girl, knowing that the game was up, bellowed at it in rage. But she had stopped coming forward. The wolf crouched lower.
    It was just at this moment that the wolf saw another figure appear behind the girl. The animal tensed. Did this mean hunters were coming? It glanced right and left. No.