The night-watchman looked in, but the aisle between the rows of cattle was empty, save for the over-turned bag of corn. He lifted his lantern high, and looked into the stalls nearest him. All quiet everywhere.
“Now he is coming,” thought Van, and he stood silent and quivering, never taking his eyes from the enormous foe who seemed to grow bigger in the dim lantern-light. She faced him as before, and neither made a sound. The watchman turned, and went out into the night.
Van shuddered, and the great mountainous mass lowed ominously, and swayed from side to side. If he stirred a hair out of his place she would be upon him with her horns.
Another slow hour must creep around. Van’s nerves were near the breaking point, but he must hold on. If only he could have done something, it would have been easier. But he could not rush a monster like that. He had no weapons with which to fight dragons. More than one knight in the fairy tales has been chewed up because he attempted the impossible, or lost his guard for an instant. He must simply stand there, with every nerve and muscle in hand. He must not move, and thus bring on the unequal struggle, in which he would certainly be killed. If the struggle came he would fight, and fight to his finish. Until then he must simply stand at bay. Help might come even yet.
Courage and endurance! Courage and endurance! Could he last another hour?
The chimes struck the half-hour—three-quarters—then the welcome One—Two! Soon the door would grow light again. Yes, there he was—the watchman!
A quavering cry that was almost a sob, broke from Van. “Oh, come to me!” he seemed to say, “I cannot hold out much longer.”
The Mother Cow swayed and grumbled, once—twice. She, too, was tiring. Why not rush him and have it over?
“Hello!” said the night-watchman. “What’s the trouble? That sounds like something in distress.”
This time he came in and went down the long aisle. At the very end he stopped and looked over into the box-stall. There stood the cow in one corner, with her baby lying huddled behind her, her great mother-eyes, fierce with fear, looking straight into the brave brown eyes of a wee dog. Even then Van did not stir. He must hold that awful thing back by the force of his will, until the last moment of danger was over.