So he had lived since he could remember. He could
not rightly conceive any other mode of existence.
The holy hermit who dwelt at the head of the valley,
a full hour's journey away, from whom he had
heard the tale of the great cities where dwelt
people--poor souls!--who had no sheep, gave him
no knowledge of that early time, when, so he
reasoned, he must have been small and helpless like
a lamb.
It was through thinking on these mysteries and
marvels, and on that horrible change to silence and
decay which he felt sure must sometime come to
him, as he had seen it come to so many of his flock
--as it came to all living things except the birds
--that Haita first became conscious how miserable
and hopeless was his lot.
'It is necessary,' he said, 'that I know whence and
how I came; for how can one perform his duties
unless able to judge what they are by the way in
which he was entrusted with them? And what con-
tentment can I have when I know not how long it is
going to last? Perhaps before another sun I may
be changed, and then what will become of the sheep?
What, indeed, will have become of me?'
Pondering these things Haita became melancholy
and morose. He no longer spoke cheerfully to his
flock, nor ran with alacrity to the shrine of Hastur.
In every breeze he heard whispers of malign deities
whose existence he now first observed. Every cloud
was a portent signifying disaster, and the darkness
was full of terrors.
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