Thus instructed, I was soon able to distinguish between the almost white road and the yellow-grey and brown flock which composed a single moving mass,—repeated above all those regularly swaying backs by a thin cloud of dust which spread over the fields on either side. At once I saw again the picture in my Bible which showed Abraham travelling to the land of Canaan.
In front of the flock marched a shepherd, wrapped in a great cape which must have been many a time exposed to wind and rain, for it was of the greenish colour of a thatched roof over which many winters have passed. Notwithstanding the sun, his ample covering appeared not to inconvenience him. No doubt our sun was not as warm as that which he had left behind. His hat pulled down over his eyes cast a dark shadow over the upper part of his face, only his grey beard being distinctly visible. He was an old man, and he advanced slowly with a slight swaying of the whole body. He might have been taken for a beggar but for an unconscious air of majesty which covered him like his cloak—that of a captain leading his company, that of a sower sowing his seed. He took no one step faster than another, and the rhythm of his regular advance seemed to communicate itself to the entire column. It gave an impression as of the whole landscape following, obeying in cadence a law which he fixed, the oxen tracing the furrows, the reapers laying bare the fields, the morning and the evening obedient to the time of returning, and even the stars at night traversing, unhastingly, a part of the sky which I had thought I could see moving in grandfather’s spy-glass.
He seemed to me so important that I bowed to him, but he did not return my salutation, nor deign to detach his attention from his absorbing task. Grandfather began a sentence:
“Tell me, shepherd ...” but deemed it useless to go on, recognising the intense seriousness of the man.
A black dog walked almost under his feet, and behind came, in a triangular group, three lean, hairless donkeys, laden with objects which could not be seen since they were covered with an awning. Their heads hung almost to the ground as if they would fain have snuffed it up, or browsed upon it. The main body of the army followed them, the sheep-people, crowding close to one another, eight or ten in a row when one could manage to count them, but most of the time the rows were indistinct, subject to flux and reflux, the great mass of wool undulating as if it were that of a single rampant and interminable animal, over which continual shivers passed.
I did not at first distinguish anything in this uniform and agitated mass. Then I noticed little black spots that were ears. By degrees, as I got used to them, certain individualities emerged from the compact, monotonous throng. There were rams, generally taller, with long horns rolled in a circle, and bells hanging from their necks by a wooden horseshoe shaped collar. There were sheep with white or black coats, better cared for than the others, walking with a certain ostentation. There were also vagabond animals, capricious as goats, which would gladly have escaped from the road but for the vigilance of the dogs that operated on the flanks of the procession, long-haired grey dogs, with eyes shining from cavernous depths under overhanging brows, attentive and active, not to be by any means distracted from their duty as sergeants. One of the sheep climbed upon the stones that protected us, and was immediately imitated by several of her companions. One of the guardians, open-mouthed, cut short the escapade, and forced them to return to their proper place.
They passed and they passed. I thought they would never be done, estimating their number at several thousands. Perhaps there really were three or four hundred of them. At last the flood slackened, the ranks grew thinner, seven or eight isolated sheep closed the procession. Last of all came the rearguard, composed of four pack mules and a second shepherd, less august and solemn than the first. When he had come opposite us grandfather, grown braver, put the question to which the other one had paid no heed:
“Well, shepherd, where are you going like that?”
He was a young man, supple, thin and muscular, wearing a short jacket, red sash, and hat on the back of his head,—one who cared neither for heat nor cold. His bronzed face was exposed to the full rays of the sun. He was whistling to pass away the time, and smiling while he whistled, as if he enjoyed his music—though perhaps it was the curve of his lips that made him look as if he were smiling.
At grandfathers question he burst into a frank laugh; his teeth shone between his lips—such teeth as I had seen in wolves or other wild beasts in a menagerie to which I was once taken. He simply replied: