He put the stem into the lamb's jaws and poured milk down it, feeding the lamb as well as the ewe could have done. It may be I shall get him home alive, Jesus muttered to himself. Thou'lt do it, if luck be with thee, and if thou canst rear him my breed has passed from me. Thou'lt be rewarded for taking my shekel, Jesus answered. A fine lamb for a month, the villager remarked. One that will soon begin to weigh heavy in my bosom, Jesus answered; a true prophecy, for after a few miles Jesus was glad to let him run by his side; and knowing now no other mother but Jesus, he trotted after him as he might after the ewe: divining perhaps, Jesus said to himself, the leathern bottle at my girdle.
But very soon Jesus had to carry him again, and, despite his weight, they were at noon by the well at the end of the oak wood. Lamb, we'll sleep awhile together in a pleasant hollow at the edge of the wood. Lay thyself down and doze. The lamb was obedient, but before long he awoke Jesus with his bleating. He wants some milk, he said, and undid the leather girdle and placed the feeding-pipe into the lamb's mouth. But before giving him milk he was moved to taste it: for if the milk be sour---- The milk has soured, he said, and the poor bleating thing will die in the wood, his bleatings growing fainter and fainter. He'll look into my face, wondering why I do not give him the bottle from which he took such a good feed only a few hours ago; and while Jesus was thinking these things the lamb began to bleat for his milk, and as Jesus did not give it to him he began to run round in search of the ewe, and Jesus let him run, hoping that a wild beast would seize and carry him away and with his fangs end the lamb's sufferings quicker than hunger could.
But no wolf or panther was in the thicket, and the lamb returned to him: brought back, he said, by a memory of the bottle. But, my poor wee lamb, there is no sweet milk in my bottle, only sour, which would pain thee. Think no more of life, but lie down and die: we shall all do the same some day.... Thy life has been shorter than mine, and perhaps better for that. No, I've no milk for thee and cannot bear to look in thy face: run away again in search of the ewe and find instead the panther that took her. Poor little lamb, dying for milk in this wild place. So thou hast returned to me, having found neither ewe nor panther. Go, and seek a wolf, he will be a better friend to thee than I.