"The tercels, falconer--a cast of tercels!
Quick, man, quick! Ha! the rascal makes for wood! He puts in!
Well flown, brave peregrine! He makes his point. Drive him out
to thy comrade. Serve him, varlets! Beat the bushes! He breaks!
He breaks! Nay, come away then! You will see Master Magpie no
more."
The bird had indeed, with the cunning of its race, flapped its way
through brushwood and bushes to the thicker woods beyond, so that
neither the hawk amid the cover nor its partner above nor the
clamorous beaters could harm it. The King laughed at the
mischance and rode on. Continually birds of various sorts were
flushed, and each was pursued by the appropriate hawk, the snipe
by the tercel, the partridge by the goshawk, even the lark by the
little merlin. But the King soon tired of this petty sport and
went slowly on his way, still with the magnificent silent
attendant flapping above his head.
"Is she not a noble bird, fair son?" he asked, glancing up as her
shadow fell upon him.
"She is indeed, sire. Surely no finer ever came from the isles of
the north."
"Perhaps not, and yet I have had a hawk from Barbary as good a
footer and a swifter flyer. An Eastern bird in yarak has no
peer."
"I had one once from the Holy Land," said de Manny. "It was
fierce and keen and swift as the Saracens themselves. They say of
old Saladin that in his day his breed of birds, of hounds and of
horses had no equal on earth.
Pages:
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138