The sun had risen, filling the air with a calm, reposeful glow; the
woods were silent, the boughs hung lifeless and melancholy, every
leaf distinct at the end of its stem, weary of its life, "unable to
take any further interest in anything" Owen said, and the cavalcade
rode on in silence.
"A little too warm the day is, without sufficient zest in it," one of
the falconers remarked, for his hawk was flying lazily, only a few
yards above the ground, too idle to mount the sky, to get at pitch;
and as the bird passed him, Owen admired the thin body, and the
javelin-like head, and the soft silken wings, the feathered thighs,
and the talons so strong and fierce.
"He will lose his bird if he doesn't get at pitch," the falconer
muttered, and he seemed ashamed of his hawk when it alighted in the
branches, and stood there preening itself in the vague sunlight. But
suddenly it woke up to its duty, and going in pursuit of a
partridge, stooped and brought it to earth.
"A fine kill; we shall have some better sport with the ducks."
Owen asked the dragoman to translate what the falconer said.
"He said it was a fine kill. He is proud of his bird."
Some Arabs rode away, and Owen heard that a boat would be required to
put up the ducks; and he was told the duck is the swiftest bird in
the air once it gets into flight, but if the peregrine is at pitch
it will stoop, and bring the duck to earth, though the duck is by
five times the heavier bird.
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