The object to
which the Prince had pointed was but a black dot in the southern
sky, but his strained eyes had not deceived him, and both Bishop
and King agreed that it was indeed a heron, which grew larger
every instant as it flew in their direction.
"Whistle him off, sire! Whistle off the gerfalcon!" cried the
Bishop.
"Nay, nay, he is overfar. She would fly at check."
"Now, sire, now!" cried the Prince, as the great bird with the
breeze behind him came sweeping down the sky.
The King gave the shrill whistle, and the well-trained hawk raked
out to the right and to the left to make sure which quarry she was
to follow. Then, spying the heron, she shot up in a swift
ascending curve to meet him.
"Well flown, Margot! Good bird!" cried the King, clapping his
hands to encourage the hawk, while the falconers broke into the
shrill whoop peculiar to the sport.
Going on her curve, the hawk would soon have crossed the path of
the heron; but the latter, seeing the danger in his front and
confident in his own great strength of wing and lightness of body,
proceeded to mount higher in the air, flying in such small rings
that to the spectators it almost seemed as if the bird was going
perpendicularly upward.
"He takes the air!" cried the King. "But strong as he flies, he
cannot out fly Margot. Bishop, I lay you ten gold pieces to one
that the heron is mine.
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