At dead of night out in a lonely country, what sound freezes the blood
like the quick cry of an animal seized and being killed? The fright,
the pain, the despair: whosoever has heard these notes has listened to
the wild death-music of Nature, ages old.
On the still frozen air near two or three o'clock of next morning, such
a cry rang out from inside the barn. There were the short rushes to and
fro, round and round; then violent leapings against the door, the
troughs, and sides of the stable; then mad plunging, struggling,
panting; then a long, terrified, weakened wail, which told everything
beyond the clearness of words.
Up in his room, perfectly dark, for the coals in the grate were now
sparkless, David was lying on his back, sleeping heavily and bathed in
perspiration. Overheated, he had pushed the bed covers off from his
throat; he had hollowed the pillow away from his face. So deep was the
stillness of the house and of the night air outside, that almost the
first sounds had reached his ear and sunk down into his brain: he
stirred slightly. As the tumult grew louder, he tossed his head from
side to side uneasily, and muttered a question in his broken dreams.
And now the barn was in an uproar; and the dog, chained at his kennel
behind the house, was howling, roaring to get loose. Would he never
waken? Would the tragedy which he himself had unwittingly planned and
staged be played to its end without his hearing a word? (So often it is
that way in life.) At last, as one who has long tugged at his own
sleep, striving to rend it as a smothering blanket and burst through
into free air, he sat up in bed, confused, listening.
"Dogs!" he exclaimed, grinding his teeth.
He was out of bed in an instant, groping for his clothes. It seemed he
would never find them. As he dressed, he muttered remorsefully to
himself:--"I simply put them into a trap."
When he had drawn on socks, boots, and trousers, he slipped into his
overcoat, felt for his hat, and hurried down. He released the dog,
which instantly was off in a noiseless run, and followed, buttoning the
coat about him as he went: the air was like ice against his bare, hot
throat. Another moment and he could hear the dogs fighting. When he
reached the door of the shed and threw it open, the flock of sheep
bounded out past him in a wild rush for the open. He stepped inside,
searching around with his foot as he groped. Presently it struck
against something large and soft close to the wall in a corner. He
reached down and taking it by the legs, pulled the sheep out into the
moonlight, several yards across the snow: a red track followed, as
though made with a broad dripping brush.
David stood looking down at it and kicked it two or three times.
"Did it make any difference to you whether your life were taken by dog
or man? The dog killing you from instinct and famine; a man killing you
as a luxury and with a fine calculation? And who is to blame now for
your death, if blame there be? I who went to college instead of
building a stable? Or the storm which deprived these prowlers of nearer
food and started them on a far hunt, desperate with hunger? Or man who
took you from wild Nature and made you more defenceless under his
keeping? Or Nature herself who edged the tooth and the mind of the
dog-wolf in the beginning that he might lengthen his life by shortening
yours? Where and with what purpose began on this planet the taking of
life that there might be life? Poor questions that never troubled you,
poor sheep! But that follow, as his shadow, pondering Man, who no more
knows the reason of it all than you did."
The fighting of the dogs had for the first few moments sounded farther
and farther away, retreating through the barn and thence into the lot;
and by and by the shepherd ran around and stood before David, awaiting
orders. David seized the sheep by the feet and dragged it into the
saddle-house; sent the dog to watch the rest of the flock; and ran back
to the house, drawing his overcoat more tightly about him. As quickly
as possible he got into bed and covered up warmly. Something caused him
to recollect just then the case of one of the Bible students.
"Now I am in for it," he said.
And this made him think of his great masters and of Gabriella; and he
lay there very anxious in the night.