but the sob of the sheep-bells, the bleating of the flocks and the
lash-like crack of the lightning on the summits, and, proud and happy,
they waited while the little spaniel bore witness.

She took a step forward. But not a sound came from her throat. She
licked the hand of Francis, and then lay down at his feet.

And the ewe bleated.

Her bleats were so full of sadness that it seemed as if she were
already exhaling her soul toward death at the very thought of leaving
Francis. As she stood there in silence, her lamb, seized by some
strange melancholy, was suddenly heard, crying like a child.

And the ewe spoke:

"Neither the placidity of grassy meadows toned down by the mists of
the dawn, nor the sweet woods of the mountains dotted by the fog
with the pearls of its silvery sweat, nor the beds of straw of the
smoke-filled cabins, are in any way comparable to the pasture-grounds
of your heart. Rather than leave you we should prefer the bloody and
loathful slaughter-house, and the rocking of the cart on which we are
carried thither with our legs tied and our flanks and cheeks on the
boards. Oh Francis, it would be like unto death to us to lose you, for
we love you."

And while the sheep spoke the owl and the hawks, perched near one
another, remained motionless, their eyes full of anguish and their
wings pressed close to their sides lest they fly away.