ide. He made
out the shape of the knife, but hesitated.
One of the hooves of the white goat struck him on the ankle as her limbs
worked convulsively. His hand went into his pocket and closed around the
weapon. He would need to be quick and sure, to have a steady hand, to
make a swift movement. He allowed himself some moments to decide. Then
the blade of the knife shot back with a snap.
The sound seemed to reach the white goat in all its grim significance.
She struggled to her feet, moaning more loudly. The Herd began to
breathe hard. He was afraid she would cry out even as she had cried out
as she lay in the pool before the stable door. The terror of the things
that made up that cry broke in upon the Herd. He shook with fear of it.
Then he stooped swiftly, his fingers nervously feeling over the delicate
course of the throat of the white goat. His hands moved a little
backwards and forwards in the darkness. He felt the hot stream on his
hands, then the animal fell without a sound, her horns striking against
the wall. He stood over her for a moment and was conscious that his
hands were wet. Then he remembered with a shudder that the whole tragedy
of the night had been one of rains and pools and water and clinging damp
things, of puddles and sweats and blood. Even now the knife he held in
his fingers was dripping. He let it fall. It fell with a queer thud,
sounding of flesh, of a dead body. It had fallen on the dead body of the
white goat. He turned with a groan and made his way uncertainly for the
stable door.
At the door he stood, thoughts crowding in upon him, questions beating
upon his brain and giving no time for answer. Around him was darkness,
mystery, Death. What right had he to thrust his hand blindly into the
heart of this mystery? Who had given him the power to hasten the end, to
summon Death before its time? Had not Nature her own way for counting
out the hours and the minutes? Had not she, or some other power,
appointed an hour for the white goat to die? She would live, even in
agony, until they could bear her up no longer; and having died Nature
would pass her through whatever channel her laws had ordained. Had not
the white goat made her last protest against his interference when she
had risen to her feet in her death agony? And if the white goat, dumb
beast that she was, had suffered wrong at the hands of man, then there
was, the Herd now knew, a Power deliberate and inexorable, scrupulous in
its deli
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