In the third room, he met the goat. It was their first meeting. The goat was standing atop a tall cabinet, munching turnip greens. It looked like a small breed of mountain goat, but it had a bald head that appeared bright blue by lamplight. Undoubtedly a freak by birth. ‘Poet?’ he inquired, softly, looking straight at the goat and touching his pectoral cross. ‘In here,’ came a sleepy voice from the fourth room. Dom Paulo sighed with relief. The goat went on munching greens. Now that had been a hideous thought, indeed.
