The Vicar was no coward. Recovering himself, he ran to the passage,
caught his hat down from the peg, and flung wide the front door.
A little beyond his gate a lime-tree walk led down through the
churchyard to the town. But gazing over the chines of the herd
beyond his garden railing, he saw that through this avenue he could
not hope to force a passage; it was crowded so densely that dozen
upon dozen of the poor brutes stood with horns interlocked, unable to
lift or lower their heads.
To the right a line of cottages bounded the churchyard and overlooked
it; and between them and the churchyard wall there ran a narrow
cobbled lane known as Pease Alley (_i.e., pis aller_, the Vicar was
wont to explain humorously). Through this he might hope to reach
the Lower Town and discover some interpretation of the portent.
He opened the gate boldly.
It was obvious, whatever might be the reason, that terror possessed
the cattle. At the creaking of the gate the nearest brutes
retreated, pressing back against their fellows, lowering their heads;
and yet not viciously, but as though to meet an unknown danger.
"Soh!" called the Vicar. "Soh, then! . . . upon my word," he went on
whimsically, answering the appeal in their frightened, liquid eyes,
"it's no use your asking me. You can't possibly be worse puzzled
than I am!"
He thrust a passage between them and hurried down Pease Alley.
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