Upon this pond were three wild-duck at which a falcon was instantly
flown. For a while, however, they kept their presence of mind and
refused to leave the water--diving beneath the surface at the moment
that the enemy was within a foot of them. On went the hawk, in its
terrible, cruel onset, and up came the ducks, all ready to repeat these
tactics when it turned and attacked again. But on one of the party (I
swear it was not I), in order to assist the hawk, firing his gun, two of
the ducks became panic-stricken and left the water, only of course to be
quickly destroyed. It was on the hawk's return journey to the pond to
make sure of the third duck that I saw for the first time in my life--
and I hope the last--the expression on the countenance of these terrible
birds in the execution of their duty: more than the mere execution of
duty, the determination to have no more nonsense, to put an end to
anything so monstrous as self-protection in others; for my horse being
directly in the way, he flew under its neck and for a moment I thought
that he was confusing me with the desired mallard. Nothing more
merciless or purposeful did I ever see.
Then began a really heroic struggle on the part of the victim. He timed
his dives to perfection, and escaped so often that the spirit of
chivalry would have decreed a truce. But blood had been tasted, and, the
desire being for more, the guns were again discharged.
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