Around him eddied a mob of sheep as wild as he, and a
Natolian dog raced hither and thither in a cloud of dust, rounding the
edge of the flock and shaping it to the advance of the young faun that
mastered it.
"Sheep! by the prophets!" one of the sedate Jews exclaimed.
"The only flock in existence in Judea, I venture!" his companion
declared.
"And so hopelessly doomed to Roman possession that it can not be
called in existence."
"Heigh! Hello! Young David!" one of the younger men called up to the
shepherd. "Does Titus pay you for minding his mutton?"
"Salute, neighbors!" another shouted. "Here is the Roman commissary!"
"Ill-fathered son of an Ishmaelite!" a Tyrian said to this jester.
"That you should make sport of Judea's humiliation!"
The shepherd who had paused amid his whirlpool of sheep wisely held
his peace. There was a division of sentiment here that were better not
aggravated. He halted long enough for the road to clear below him and
then descended into the valley and crossed to the low meadow on the
opposite side.
His scamper of sheep flocked into the sedge, parting around the
prostrate figure by a circle of coals now dead, and plunged into the
pasture. The boy inspected the earth and shook his head. It was too
wet for a long stay, inviting as it seemed. But here his flock might
pasture for a day without injury.
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