A vague
trouble haunted them; or, rather, a presentiment of trouble. It grew
and grew; and almost as it became intolerable, a bell seemed to clang
in his ears, and he started up, awake, gripping his chair, his brow
clammy with a sudden sweat. He glanced around him. The fire was
cold, his lamp burned low, his book had fallen to the floor. Was it
this that had aroused him? No; surely a bell had clanged in his
ears. His brain kept the echo of it yet.
He listened. The clang was not repeated; but gradually his ears
became aware of a low murmuring, irregular yet continuous; a sound,
it seemed, of voices, yet not of human voices; a moaning, and yet not
quite a moaning, but rather what the French would call a
_mugissement_. Yes, it resembled rather the confused lowing of
cattle than any other sound known to him. But that was
inconceivable. . . .
He stepped to the window-curtains through which the pale dawn
filtered; pulled them aside and started back with a cry of something
more than dismay. The Vicarage faced upon the churchyard; and the
churchyard was filled--packed--with cattle! Oxen and cows, steers,
heifers, and young calves; at least thirty score were gathered there,
a few hardier phlegmatic beasts cropping the herbage on the graves;
but the mass huddled together, rubbing flanks, swaying this way and
that in the pressure of panic as corn is swayed by flukes of summer
wind.
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