The Herd knew what had happened, and it was all very tragical to his mind.  His wife had come out to the stable for something, and had left the door open behind her.  The white goat, goaded by the growing pain, had staggered out the door, perhaps feeling some desire for the open fields in her agony.  Then she had seen before the threshold of the door that which had always been a horror to her—­a pool of water.  The Herd could see her tottering and swaying 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 outside.  He made out the shape of the knife, but hesitated.