ome down heavily. A rumble of thunder
sounded over the hills as he raised the latch of his door. He felt glad
he had not left the white goat tethered in the whins on the hill.

His little daughter had gone to sleep. His wife told him the child on
being put to bed had wept bitterly, but refused to confess the cause of
her grief. The Herd said nothing, but he knew the child had wept for the
white goat. The thought of the child's emotion moved him, and he turned
out of the house again, standing in the darkness and the rain. Why had
they attacked the poor brute? He asked the question over and over
again, but only the rain beat in his face and around him was darkness,
mystery. Then he heard the voices higher up on the side of the hill,
first a laugh, then some shouts and cries. A thick voice raised the
refrain of a song, and it came booming through the murky atmosphere. The
Herd could hear the words:

_Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! Hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! Hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run
When first you went to carry a gun?
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!_

And then came the chorus like a roar down the hills:

_With drums and guns, and, guns and drum
The enemy nearly slew ye;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!_

The voices of the labourers passing from the tillage fields died away,
and the rumble of thunder came down more frequently from the hills. The
Herd crossed his garden, his boots sinking in the soft ground. Half way
across he paused, for a loud cry had dominated the fury of the breaking
storm. His ears were quick for the cries of animals in distress. He went
on rapidly toward the stable.

The ground grew more sloppy and a thin stream of water came from the rim
of his soft black hat, streaming down his face. He noted the flashes of
lightning overhead. Through it all the cry of the white goat sounded,
with that weird, vibrating "mag-gag" that was the traditional note of
her race. It had a powerful appeal for the Herd. It stirred a feeling of
passion within him as he hurried through the rain.

How they must have lacerated her, a poor brute chained to the sod, at
the mercy of their abuse! The red row of marks along her gams, raw and
terrible, sprang to his sight out of the darkness. Vengeance, vengeance!
He gripped his powerful hands, ope