I reappeared at the Temple as a tired procession stumbled up the beach. The goat was leaning back obstinately all the way. Something about her predicament aroused my fellow feeling; I too spent most of my life bleating and being led towards certain doom.
There was nobody else in authority, so the senior suppliant consulted me.
'Go home,' I commanded, inventing cheerfully. 'Sweep out your house with cypress twigs-'
'What about the goat?'
'This goat,' I pronounced with dignity (thinking of tasty ribs, roasted in the open air with sea salt and wild sage), 'is sacred to the Goddess Hera now. Leave her with me!'
The pilgrims collected their wreaths then trekked away homewards; the acolytes scampered into the Temple to get up to whatever horrible young servitors play at together when they find themselves unsupervised. With a grin, I took charge of the goat.
The animal shuddered woefully on a long piece of rope. She was a pretty little thing. Luckily for her, although I had nothing to eat, as a priest I suddenly felt much too pure-minded to contemplate devouring Hera's sacred goat.
Better own up; I was incapable of slaughtering any creature who looked up at me with such melting, mournful eyes.