The door of the barn had fallen off, and was leaning against one wall; and the wall of the ox pen was collapsed, the gap repaired not with the stone, which still lay on the ground, but with tree branches and bits of rope. A pair of bony, thin-shanked brown oxen stood with their heads down, lacking, I expect, the strength to move. Sharing the too-small pen were five fat pigs laying in the dung, their feet bound.

At the far end of the yard lay an enormous round grinding stone which was turned by means of a pole attached to a centre post. If not for the four men standing nearby, I would have thought the mill derelict and abandoned. But I saw the old grindstone and realized that this was what Dodu had been talking about when he said the miller kept oxen: when dry summer turned the stream to a bare trickle no longer capable of turning the great water wheel, the miller hitched his beasts to the grindstone, and kept his customers supplied.

The men were completely engrossed in the activity before them, and took no notice of us as we strolled into the reeking yard. Another sharp pig squeal tore the air with a distressingly human scream, and a sick feeling spread through me as sight confirmed what I had already guessed was taking place.

A young boy-perhaps eight or ten years old-armed with a spear, was making sport of killing the poor pig. Encouraged by those who stood cheering his efforts, the boy was enthusiastically torturing the animal. He had already put out both eyes, and carved a long, bloody slice of hide from the back. Now, he had the spear thrust up the wretched creature's backside, and was jerking the shaft back and forth while the bawling pig, its feet tied so it could not escape, spewed blood from its mouth as it shrieked.

The expression of demented glee on the boy's face filled me with cold rage. That this should be allowed was abhorrent; that it should be encouraged was monstrous. I started forwards, and felt Padraig's hand on my arm, pulling me back. 'Be careful,' he warned. 'There is great evil in this place.'

Shaking off his hand, I said, 'They should be punished for what they are doing.'

'They will be punished, never doubt it,' he assured me. 'But you may not be the instrument of that punishment. God, I think, has other plans for you.'

'Then what would you have me do?' I demanded.

'It may be our presence will suffice to shame them,' he said.

'And if not?'

'It is in God's hands, Duncan.' He stared at me. 'Truly.'

'Oh, very well,' I relented. I took a deep breath, and put aside my anger; when I had calmed myself once more, I proceeded towards the men, calling out to let them know we were there. At my greeting, one of the men turned slowly and regarded us with dull malevolence.

'What do you want?' he said, his deep voice sharp with irritation at having been interrupted in his pleasure.

Behind me, I heard Roupen gasp, and whisper to Padraig, 'It is the bandit who robbed us!'

Although I was taken aback quite as much as Roupen, I could not allow the man to see that I recognized him. So I said, 'We have come to ask if you have any oxen we might borrow for a day or two?'

'Ask a haulier,' he grunted, turning away again, 'I grind grain for my pay.'

'You see,' I persisted, moving nearer, 'we have had a slight misfortune on the road. If we could persuade you to lend us two of your oxen, all would be well. We could pay you for your trouble.'

The big man spun around angrily. 'And are you deaf as well as stupid?' he growled, spittle flying from his fleshy lips.

At his shout, two of the men with him turned. One of them bent down and picked up a chunk of wood which was lying beside the grindstone, hefting it like a club.

'I would not ask,' I told the man, 'if need were not great. A few days, no more-and the beasts would be well treated.' I said this last to embarrass him, but he took no notice.

'This is a mill, not a stable!' he roared. 'Get you gone before I set the dogs on you!' He kicked at a lump of dog dirt and sent it flying at me.

The man with the chunk of wood raised it in the air and made as if he would attack. Since there was nothing to be gained by provoking them further, I quickly retreated. I had taken but a step or two when I felt a sharp thump on my back as the wood chunk struck me between the shoulder blades. I did not look back, but straightened and continued on to the sound of the miller and his friends laughing at me.

'Well?' demanded the young lord as I rejoined them. 'Was he the man who robbed us?'

'No,' I told him, 'this man is older and heavier. Even so, the resemblance is too strong to be happenstance.'

Padraig nodded in agreement. 'Brothers then?'

'That is my guess,' I said.

'Be they brothers, sisters, or husband and wife,' snarled Roupen with unusual fury, 'I say those pie-bald oxen belong to Dodu, and the pigs were stolen from the farmer.'

'Peace,' I told him. 'As day follows night, I am certain of it.'

'Then why are we running away?'

'We are not running away,' I replied, starting off once more. 'We are going to find a place to rest.'

'Rest!' he fumed. 'While they laugh at us and torture those animals with impunity?'

'No,' I said. 'While we wait for darkness to befriend us.'

Roupen frowned with dissatisfaction. 'Cowards,' he muttered.

Padraig stepped close. 'He means,' explained the monk, resting his hand on the young man's shoulder, 'that having been as meek as doves, now we will become as shrewd as serpents to bring a measure of justice to bear on the crimes of these wicked men.'

'We gave the brute a chance to treat us courteously and fairly,' I said, 'now we will do business in a way he understands.'

'What are you going to do?' asked Roupen.

'Wait and see,' I told him, striding on.

We laid up in a neighbouring field under a rack of drying hay, dozing on and off through the long afternoon. The rest through the heat of the day was welcome, and it was not until the sun began to set that we stirred. I had taken the measure of the millhouse and yard, and knew how I wished to proceed.

My only worry was the dogs the miller had mentioned. Although I had not seen the beasts, I had seen ample sign of them in the lumps of dung scattered across the filth-covered yard. I did not know how many there might be, nor whether they were large and fierce, or small and noisy.

'The oxen will trouble us not at all,' I told my fellow-thieves. 'It is the pigs that will prove difficult. Even if we can avoid rousing the dogs, the pigs will squeal as soon as we go among them.'

We talked about this for a time, and then Padraig said, 'Leave the pigs to me. I will take care of them.' With that he rose and walked out into the field where he lay down on his stomach and stretched out his arms on either side.

'What is he doing?' wondered Roupen.

'Praying,' I said.

'For pigs?'

'For all of us.'

In a little while the last of the daylight faded, and a fine blue twilight descended over us. I lay back and listened as night gathered the little river settlement to its sleep. From the trees along the river came the raucous chatter of rooks in their high nests, and from the surrounding fields the homely sound of cattle lowing as they trailed towards barn and byre; here and there dogs barking, and the rusty clinking of goat bells. When at last darkness grew full, we set to work.

Setting Roupen on the road to watch between the mill and settlement should anyone come along, Padraig and I hurried to the field where Dodu's oxen were being held. It was as I expected: the wall was ill-made and half-falling down, and the animals had not been stabled for the night, nor cared for in any way, but merely left out in the field to browse as they would. We quickly found a weak place in the wall, leaned hard against it, and pushed it down.