"That one," Owen cried, "is about to stoop."
And down came the hawk upon the heron, but the heron swerved
cleverly. Owen followed the beautiful shape of the bird's long neck
and beak, and the trailing legs. The second hawk stooped. "Ah! now
he is doomed," Owen cried. But again the heron dodged the hawk
cleverly, and the peregrine fell past him, and Owen saw the tail go
out, stopping the descent.
Heron and hawks went away towards the desert, Owen galloping after
them, watching the aerial battle from his saddle, riding with loose
rein, holding the rein lightly between finger and thumb, leaving his
horse to pick his way. Again a hawk had reached a sufficient height
and stooped; again the heron dodged, and so the battle continued,
the hawks stooping again and again, but always missing the heron,
until at last, no doubt tired out, the heron failed to turn in time:
heron and hawk came toppling out of the sky together; but not too
quickly for the second hawk, which stooped and grappled the prey in
mid-air.
Owen touched his horse with the spur; and, his eyes fixed on the spot
where he had seen the heron and hawks falling, he galloped,
regardless of every obstacle, forgetful that a trip would cost him a
broken bone, and that he was a long way from a surgeon.
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