"A noble and
melancholy bird," he said, and he stood a long while admiring the
narrow, flattened head, the curved beak, so well designed to rend a
prey, and the round, clear eye, which appeared to see through him
and beyond him, and which in a few minutes would search the blue air
mile after mile.
The hawk sprang from the wrist, and he watched the bird flying away,
like a wild bird, down the morning sky, which had begun in orange,
and was turning to crimson. "Never will they get that bird back! You
have lost your hawk," Owen said to the Arab.
The Arab smiled, and taking a live pigeon out of his bournous, he
allowed it to flutter in the air for a moment, at the end of a
string. A moment was sufficient; the clear round eye had caught
sight of the flutter of wings, and soon came back, sailing past,
high up in the air.
"A fine flight," the Arab said, "the bird is at pitch; now is the
time to flush the covey." A dog was sent forward, and a dozen
partridges got up. And they flew, the terrible hawk in pursuit,
fearing their natural enemy above them more than any rain of lead.
Owen pressed his horse into a gallop, and he saw the hawk drop out
of the sky. The partridge shrieked, and a few seconds afterwards some
feathers floated down the wind.
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