The Vicarage faced upon the churchyard; and the churchyard was filled--packed--with cattle! Oxen and cows, steers, heifers, and young calves; at least thirty score were gathered there, a few hardier phlegmatic beasts cropping the herbage on the graves; but the mass huddled together, rubbing flanks, swaying this way and that in the pressure of panic as corn is swayed by flukes of summer wind.
The Vicar was no coward.

Recovering himself, he ran to the passage, caught his hat down from the peg, and flung wide the front door.
A little beyond his gate a lime-tree walk led down through the churchyard to the town.

But gazing over the chines of the herd beyond his garden railing, he saw that through this avenue he could not hope to force a passage; it was crowded so densely that dozen upon dozen of the poor brutes stood with horns interlocked, unable to lift or lower their heads.
To the right a line of cottages bounded the churchyard and overlooked it; and between them and the churchyard wall there ran a narrow cobbled lane known as Pease Alley (_i.e., pis aller_, the Vicar was wont to explain humorously).

Through this he might hope to reach the Lower Town and discover some interpretation of the portent.
He opened the gate boldly.
It was obvious, whatever might be the reason, that terror possessed the cattle.

At the creaking of the gate the nearest brutes retreated, pressing back against their fellows, lowering their heads; and yet not viciously, but as though to meet an unknown danger.
"Soh!" called the Vicar.