men clapping their hands,
the voice of the tipsy woman dominant in its hysteria over the uproar.
The singer was bowing profuse acknowledgments from the stage, his eyes,
sly in their cynical humour, upon the face of the Slav at the piano, his
head thrown back, the pallor of his face ghastly.

The lady from Alabama joined in the tribute to the singer.

"'Core, 'core," cried Ole Sahara, raising her glass in the dim vapour.
"Here's to Denis Donohoe!"

THE WHITE GOAT

I

The white goat stood in a little clearing closed in by a ring of whins
on the hillside. Her head swayed from side to side like the slow motion
of the pendulum of a great clock. The legs were a little spread, the
knees bent, the sides slack, the snout grey and dry, the udder limp.

The Herd knew the white goat was in great agony. She had refused the
share of bran he had brought her, had turned away from the armful of
fresh ivy leaves his little daughter held out to her. He had desisted
from the milking, she had moaned so continuously.

Some days before the Herd had found the animal injured on the hill; the
previous night he had heard the labourers making a noise, shouting and
singing, as they crossed from the tillage fields. He knew what had
happened when he had seen the marks of their hob-nailed boots on her
body. She was always a sensitive brute, of a breed that came from the
lowlands. The sombre eyes of the Herd glowed in a smouldering passion as
he stood helplessly by while the white goat swung her head from side to
side.

He gathered some dry bracken and spread a bed of it near the white goat.
It would be unkind to allow her to lie on the wet grass when the time
came that she could no longer stand. He looked up at the sky and marked
the direction of the wind. It had gone round to the west. Clouds were
beginning to move across the sky. There was a vivid light behind the
mountains. The air was still. It would rain in the night. He had
thought for the white goat standing there in the darkness, swaying her
head in agony, the bracken growing sodden at her feet, the rain beating
into her eyes. It was a cold place and wind-swept. Whenever the white
goat had broken her tether she had flown from it to the lowlands. He
remembered how, while leading her across a field once, she had drawn
back in some terror when they had come to a pool of water.

The Herd looked at his little daughter. The child had drawn some
distance away, the ivy leaves fallen