We were on a side road or path, perhaps five
hundred yards from the main highway.
At the moment Max gave wing to his bird, two ladies and three gentlemen
came up the road, returning to Peronne, and halted to witness the
aerial combat. That they were of the court, I could easily see by their
habits, though the distance was so great that I could not distinguish
their faces.
Never did hawk acquit itself more nobly. It seemed to realize that it
had a distinguished audience. The heron opened the battle desperately,
and persisted in keeping its course to the south. The hawk, not ready
for battle till the prey should be over our heads, circled round and
round the heron, constantly striking, but carefully avoiding the _coup
de grace_. After the birds had flown several hundred yards away from us,
and were growing small in the distance, the heron, less hardy than its
knightly foe, showed signs of weariness and confusion. It changed its
course, still flying away from us. This did not suit the hawk, and it
continued circling about its faltering prey with a vicious swiftness
well calculated to inspire terror. Its movements became so rapid that it
appeared to describe a gray circle about the heron. These circles, with
the heron as the centre, constantly grew smaller, and after a time we
could see that the birds were slowly but surely approaching us.
When they were almost over our heads, the hawk rose with incredible
swiftness above its prey, and dropped like a bolt of gray lightning upon
the heron.
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