and then falling into it with a cry,
fulfilling her destiny. He wondered if he himself had the same instinct
for the things that would prove fatal to him? Why was he always so
nervous when he stooped to or lay upon the ground? Why did it always
give him a feeling that he would be trampled under the hooves of
stampeding cattle rounded up for treatment for the warble fly? He
trembled as he heard the beat of hooves on the ground behind him. He
peered about and for a while did not recognise the shape that moved
restlessly about in the darkness. He heard the neigh of the brood mare.
He knew then she had been hovering about the stable afraid to go in out
of the storm. She was afraid to go in because of the thing that lay
before the stable door. He heard the answering call of the young foal
in the stable, and he knew that it, too, was afraid to come out even at
the call of its dam. Death was about in that night of storm, and all
things seemed conscious of it.

He stooped down over the white goat and worked his hands under her
shoulders. He lifted her up and felt the strain all over his frame, the
muscles springing tense on his arms. She was a dead weight, and he had
always prided on her size. His knees dug into the puddle in the bottom
of the pool as he felt the pressure on his haunches. He strained hard as
he got one of his feet under him. With a quick effort he got the other
foot into position and rose slowly, lifting the white form out of the
pool. The shaggy hair hung from the white goat, limp and reeking,
numerous thin streams of water making a little ripple as they fell. The
limbs of the Herd quivered under the weight, he staggered back, his
heavy boots grinding in the gravel; then he set his teeth, the limbs
steadied themselves, he swayed uncertainly for a moment, then staggered
across the stable door, conscious of the hammer strokes of the heart of
the white goat beating against his own heart. He laid her down in the
bed of straw and heard the young foal bounding out of the stable in
terror. The Herd stood in the place, the sweat breaking out on his
forehead, then dropping in great beads.

The white goat began to moan. The Herd was aware from the rustling of
the straw that her limbs were working convulsively. He knew from the
nature of her wounds that her death would be prolonged, her agonies
extreme. What if he put her out of pain? It would be all over in a
moment. His hand went to his pocket, feeling it on the outs