Jude the Obsure

"Of course you shan't do it," said Jude. "I'll do it, since it must

be done."

He went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of a

couple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with the

knives and ropes at hand. A robin peered down at the preparations

from the nearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of the

scene, flew away, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joined

her husband, and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed the

affrighted animal, who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose to

repeated cries of rage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and together

they hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Jude

held him Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs to

keep him from struggling.

The animal's note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but the

cry of despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless.

"Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have had

this to do!" said Jude. "A creature I have fed with my own hands."

"Don't be such a tender-hearted fool! There's the sticking-knife--

the one with the point. Now whatever you do, don't stick un too

deep."

"I'll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it. That's

the chief thing."

"You must not!" she cried. "The meat must be well bled, and to do

that he must die slow. We shall lose a shilling a score if the meat

is red and bloody! Just touch the vein, that's all. I was brought

up to it, and I know. Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long.

He ought to be eight or ten minutes dying, at least."

"He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat may

look," said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig's

upturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat;

then plunged in the knife with all his might.

"'Od damn it all!" she cried, "that ever I should say it! You've

over-stuck un! And I telling you all the time--"

"Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature!"

"Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and don't talk!"

However unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done. The

blood flowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she

had desired. The dying animal's cry assumed its third and final

tone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on

Arabella with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizing

at last the treachery of those who had seemed his only friends.