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, opening and closing the fists.  Then he was conscious of something in the storm and the darkness that robbed him of his craving for personal vengeance.  All that belonged to the primitive man welled up in him.  He knew that in the heart of the future there lurked a reckoning—­something, somebody—­that would count the tally at the appointed time.  Then he had turned round the gable of the stable.  He saw the ghostly white thing, shadowy in the blackness, lying prostrate before the door.  He stood still, his breath drawn inward.

There was a movement in the white shape.  He could discern the blurred outline of the head of the animal as she raised it up a little.  There was a low moan followed by a great cry.  The Herd stood still, terror in his heart.  For he interpreted that cry in all the terrible inarticulate consciousness of his own being.  That cry sounded in his ears like an appeal to all the generations of wronged dumb things that had ever come under the lash of the tyranny of men.  It was the protest of the brute creation against humanity, and to the Herd it was a judgment.  Then his eyes caught a murky gleam beside the fallen white shape, and the physical sense of things jumped back to his mind.

He remembered that in wet weather a pool of water always gathered before the stable door.  He remembered that there was a glimmer of it there when he had led the white goat into the stable.  He remembered how she had shown fear of it.

He stooped down over the white goat where she lay.  Thin wisps of her hair floated about looking like dim wraiths against the blackness of the pool.  He caught a look of the brown eyes and was aware that the udder and teats bulged up from the water.  He sank down beside her, the water making a splash as his knees dropped into the place.  The animal raised her head a little and with pain, for the horns seemed to weigh like lead.  But it was an acknowledgment that she was conscious of his presence; then the head fell back, a gurgle sounding over one of the ears.