VI

He had undertaken this long journey in the wilderness for the sake of

a few days' falconry, and dreaded a disappointment, for all his life

long, intermittently of course, he had been interested in hawks. As

a boy he had dreamed of training hawks, and remembered one taken by

him from the nest, or maybe a gamekeeper had brought it to him, it

was long ago; but the bird itself was remembered very well, a large,

grey hawk--a goshawk he believed it to be, though the bird is rare

in England. As he lay, seeking sleep, he could see himself a boy

again, going into a certain room to feed his hawk. It was getting

very tame, coming to his wrist, taking food from his fingers, and,

not noticing the open window, he had taken the hawk out of its cage.

Was the hawk kept in a cage or chained to the perch? He could not

remember, but what he did remember, and very well, was the moment

when the bird fluttered towards the window; he could see it resting

on the sill, hesitating a moment, doubting its power of flight. But

it had ventured out in the air and had reached a birch, on which it

alighted. There had been a rush downstairs and out of the house, but

the hawk was no longer in the birch, and was never seen by him

again, yet it persisted in his memory.

The sport of hawking is not quite extinct in England, and at various

times he had caused inquiries to be made, and had arranged once to

go to the New Forest and on another occasion to Wiltshire. But

something had happened to prevent him going, and he had continued to

dream of hawking, of the mystery whereby the hawk could be called

out of the sky by the lure--some rags and worsted-work in the shape

of a bird whirled in the air at the end of a string. Why should the

hawk leave its prey for such a mock? Yet it did; and he had always

read everything that came under his hand about hawking with a

peculiar interest, and in exhibitions of pictures had always stood a

long time before pictures of hawking, however bad they might be.

But Evelyn had turned his thoughts from sport to music, and gradually

he had become reconciled to the idea that his destiny was never to

see a hawk strike down a bird. But the occasion long looked for had

come at last, to-morrow morning the mystery of hawking would cease

to be a mystery for him any longer; and as he lay in his tent,

trying to get a few hours' sleep before dawn, he asked himself if

the realisation of his dream would profit him much, only the certain

knowledge that hawks stooped at their prey and returned to the lure;

another mystery would have been unravelled, and there were few left;

he doubted if there was another; all the sights and shows with which

life entices us were known to him, all but one, and the last would

go the way the others had gone. Or perhaps it were wiser to leave

the last mystery unravelled.

Wrapping himself closer in his blanket he sought sleep again,

striving to quiet his thoughts; but they would not be quieted. All

kinds of vain questions ran on, questions to which the wisest have

never been able to find answers: if it were good or ill-fortune to

have been called out of the great void into life, if the gift of

life were one worth accepting, and if it had come to him in an

acceptable form. That night in his tent it seemed clear that it would

be better to range for ever, from oasis to oasis with the bedouins,

who were on their way to meet him, than to return to civilisation.

Of civilisation it seemed to him that he had had enough, and he

wondered if it were as valuable as many people thought; he had found

more pleasure in speaking with his dragoman, learning Arabic from

him, than in talking to educated men from the universities and such

like. Riches dry up the soul and are an obstacle to the development

of self. If he had not inherited Riversdale and its many occupations

and duties, he would be to-day an instinctive human being instead of

a scrapbook of culture. For a rich man there is no escape from

amusements which do not amuse; Riversdale had robbed him of himself,

of manhood; what he understood by manhood was not brawn, but

instincts, the calm of instincts in contradiction to the agitation of

nerves. It would have been better to have known only the simple

life, the life of these Arabs! Now they were singing about the camp

fires. Queer were the intervals, impossible of notation, but the

rhythms might be gathered... a symphony, a defined scheme.... The

monotony of the chant hushed his thoughts, and the sleep into which

he fell must have been a deep one.

A long time seemed to have passed between sleeping and waking....

Throwing his blanket aside, he seized his revolvers. The night was

filled with cries as if the camp had been attacked. But the

disturbances was caused by the stampeding of the horses; three had

broken their tethers and had gone away, after first tumbling into

the reeds, over the hills, neighing frantically. As his horse was

not one of the three it did not matter; the Arabs would catch their

horses or would fail to catch them, and indifferent he stood watching

the moon hanging low over the landscape, a badly drawn circle, but

admirably soft to look upon, casting a gentle, mysterious light down

the lake. The silence was filled with the lake's warble, and the

ducks kept awake by the moon chattered as they dozed, a soft cooing

chatter like women gossiping; an Arab came from the wood with dry

branches; the flames leaped up, showing through the grey woof of the

tent; and, listening to the crackling, Owen muttered "Resinous

wood... tamarisk and mastic." He fell asleep soon after, and this

time his sleep was longer, though not so deep... He was watching

hawks flying in pursuit of a heron when a measured tramp of hooves

awoke him, and hard, guttural voices.

"The Arabs have arrived," he said, and drawing aside the curtain of

his tent, he saw at least twenty coming through the blue dusk, white

bournous, scimitars, and long-barrelled guns! "Saharians from the

desert, the true bedouin."

"The bedouin but not the true Saharian," his dragoman informed him.

And Owen retreated into his tent, thinking of the hawks which the

Arabs carried on their wrists, and how hawking had been declining in

Europe since the sixteenth century. But it still flourished in

Africa, where to-day is the same as yesterday.

And while thinking of the hawks he heard the voices of the Arabs

growing angrier. Some four or five spurred their horses and were

about to ride away; but the dragoman called after them, and Owen

cried out, "As if it matters to me which hawk is flown first." The

quarrel waxed louder, and then suddenly ceased, and when Owen came

out of his tent he saw an Arab take the latchet of a bird's hood in

his teeth and pull the other end with his right hand. "A noble and

melancholy bird," he said, and he stood a long while admiring the

narrow, flattened head, the curved beak, so well designed to rend a

prey, and the round, clear eye, which appeared to see through him

and beyond him, and which in a few minutes would search the blue air

mile after mile.

The hawk sprang from the wrist, and he watched the bird flying away,

like a wild bird, down the morning sky, which had begun in orange,

and was turning to crimson. "Never will they get that bird back! You

have lost your hawk," Owen said to the Arab.

The Arab smiled, and taking a live pigeon out of his bournous, he

allowed it to flutter in the air for a moment, at the end of a

string. A moment was sufficient; the clear round eye had caught

sight of the flutter of wings, and soon came back, sailing past,

high up in the air.

"A fine flight," the Arab said, "the bird is at pitch; now is the

time to flush the covey." A dog was sent forward, and a dozen

partridges got up. And they flew, the terrible hawk in pursuit,

fearing their natural enemy above them more than any rain of lead.

Owen pressed his horse into a gallop, and he saw the hawk drop out

of the sky. The partridge shrieked, and a few seconds afterwards some

feathers floated down the wind.

Well, he had seen a falcon kill a partridge, but would the falconer

be able to lure back his hawk? That was what he wanted to see, and,

curious and interested as a boy in his first rat hunt, he galloped

forward until stopped by the falconer, who explained that the moment

was always an anxious one, for were the hawk approached from behind,

or approached suddenly, it "might carry"--that is to say, might bear

away its prey for a hundred yards, and when it had done this once it

would be likely to do so again, giving a good deal of trouble. The

falconer approached the hawk very gently, the bird raised its head to

look at the falconer, and immediately after dipped its beak again

into the partridge's breast.

Owen expected the bird to fly away, but, continuing to approach, the

falconer stooped and reaching out his hand, drew the partridge

towards him, knowing the hawk would not leave it; and when he had

hold of the jesses, the head was cut from the partridge and opened,

for it is the brain the hawk loves; and the ferocity with which this

one picked out the eye and gobbled it awoke Owen's admiration again.

"Verily, a thing beyond good and evil, a Nietzschean bird."

He had seen a hawk flown and return to the lure, he had seen a hawk

stoop at its prey, and had seen a hawk recaptured; so the mystery of

hawking was at an end for him, the mystery had been unravelled, and

now there was nothing for him to do but to watch other birds and to

learn the art of hawking, for every flight would be different.

The sun had risen, filling the air with a calm, reposeful glow; the

woods were silent, the boughs hung lifeless and melancholy, every

leaf distinct at the end of its stem, weary of its life, "unable to

take any further interest in anything" Owen said, and the cavalcade

rode on in silence.

"A little too warm the day is, without sufficient zest in it," one of

the falconers remarked, for his hawk was flying lazily, only a few

yards above the ground, too idle to mount the sky, to get at pitch;

and as the bird passed him, Owen admired the thin body, and the

javelin-like head, and the soft silken wings, the feathered thighs,

and the talons so strong and fierce.

"He will lose his bird if he doesn't get at pitch," the falconer

muttered, and he seemed ashamed of his hawk when it alighted in the

branches, and stood there preening itself in the vague sunlight. But

suddenly it woke up to its duty, and going in pursuit of a

partridge, stooped and brought it to earth.

"A fine kill; we shall have some better sport with the ducks."

Owen asked the dragoman to translate what the falconer said.

"He said it was a fine kill. He is proud of his bird."

Some Arabs rode away, and Owen heard that a boat would be required to

put up the ducks; and he was told the duck is the swiftest bird in

the air once it gets into flight, but if the peregrine is at pitch

it will stoop, and bring the duck to earth, though the duck is by

five times the heavier bird. The teal is a bird which is even more

difficult for the hawk to overtake, for it rises easier than the

duck; but if the hawk be at pitch it will strike down the quick teal.

One of the Arabs reined in his horse, and following the line of the

outstretched finger Owen saw far away in a small pool or plash of

water three teal swimming. As soon as the hawk swooped the teal

dived, but not the least disconcerted, the hawk, as if understanding

that the birds were going to be put up, rose to pitch and waited,

"quite professional like," Owen said. The beautiful little drake was

picked out of a tuft of alfa-grass. But perhaps it was the snipe that

afforded the best sport.

At mid-day the falconers halted for rest and a meal, and Owen passed

all the hawks in review, learning that the male, the tercel, is not

so much prized in falconry as the female, which is larger and

fiercer. There was not one Barbary falcon, for on making inquiry

Owen was told that the bird he was looking at was a goshawk, a much

more beautiful hawk it seemed to him than the peregrine, especially

in colour; the wings were not so dark, inclining to slate, and under

the wings the breast was white, beautifully barred. It stood much

higher than the other hawks; and Owen admired the bird's tail, so

long, and he understood how it governed the bird's flight, even

before he was told that if a hawk lost one of its tail feathers it

would not be able to fly again that season unless the feather was

replaced; and the falconer showed Owen a supply of feathers, all

numbered, for it would not do to supply a missing third feather with

a fourth; and the splice was a needle inserted into the ends of the

feathers and bound fast with fine thread. The bird's beauty had not

escaped Owen's notice, but he had been so busy with the peregrines

all the morning that he had not had time to ask why this bird wore

no hood, and why it had not been flown. Now he learnt that the

gosshawk is a short-winged hawk, which does not go up in the air, and

get at pitch, and stoop at its prey like the peregrine, but flies

directly after it, capturing by speed of wing, and is used

principally for ground game, rabbits, and hares. He was told that it

seized the hare or the rabbit by the hind quarters and moved up,

finding the heart and lungs with its talons. So he waited eagerly

for a hare to steal out of the cover; but none appeared, much to the

bird's disappointment--a female, and a very fine specimen, singularly

tame and intelligent. The hawk seemed to understand quite well what

was happening, and watched for an opportunity of distinguishing

herself, looking round eagerly; and so eager was she that sometimes

she fell from the falconer's wrist, who took no notice, but let her

hang until she fluttered up again; and when Owen reproved his

cruelty, he answered:

"She is a very intelligent bird and will not hang by her legs longer

than she wants to."

It was in the afternoon that her chance came, and a rare one it was.

Two bustards rose out of a clump of cacti growing about a deserted

hermitage. The meeting of the birds must have been a chance one, for

they went in different directions, and flying swiftly, soon would

have put the desert between themselves, and the falconers, and each

other, if the bird going eastward had not been frightened by the

Arabs coming up from the lake, and, losing its head, it turned back,

and flying heavily over the hawking party, gave the goshawk her

single chance, a chance which was nearly being missed, the hawk not

making up her mind at once to go in pursuit; she had been used for

hunting ground game; and for some little while it was not certain

that the bustard would not get away; this would have been a pity,

for, as Owen learned afterwards, the bird is of great rarity, almost

unknown.

"She will get him, she will get him!" the falconer cried, seeing his

hawk now flying with determination, and a moment after the bustard

was struck down.

As far as sport was concerned the flight was not very interesting,

but the bustard is so rarely seen and so wary a bird that even the

Arabs, who are not sportsmen, will talk with interest about it, and

Owen rode up curious to see this almost fabulous bird, known in the

country as the habara, a bird which some ornithologists deny to be

the real bustard. Bustard or no bustard, the bird was very

beautiful, six or seven pounds in weight, the size of a small turkey,

and covered with the most beautiful feathers, pale yellow speckled

with brown, a long neck and a short, strong beak, long black legs

with three toes, the fourth, the spur, missing. That a hawk should

knock over a bustard had not happened often, and he regretted that

he knew not how to save the bird's skin, for though stuffed birds

are an abomination, one need not always be artistic. And there were

plenty at Riversdale. His grandfather had filled many cases, and this

rare bird merited the honour of stuffing. All the same, it would

have to be eaten, and with the trophy hanging on his saddle bow Owen

rode back to the encampment, little thinking he was riding to see

the flight which he had been longing to see all his life.

One of the falconers had sent up a cast of hawks, and an Arab had

ridden forward in the hope of driving some ducks out of the reeds;

but instead a heron rose and, flopping his great wings, went away,

stately and decorative, into the western sky. The hawks were far

away down on the horizon, and there was a chance that they might

miss him; but the falconer waved his lure, and presently the hawks

came back; it was then only that the heron divined his danger, and

instead of trying to outdistance his pursuers as the other birds had

done, and at the cost of their lives, he flopped his wings more

vigorously, ringing his way up the sky, knowing, whether by past

experience or by instinct, that the hawks must get above him. And

the hawks went up, the birds getting above the heron. Soon the

attack would begin, and Owen remembered that the heron is armed with

a beak on which a hawk might be speared, for is it not recorded that

to defend himself the heron has raised his head and spitted the

descending hawk, the force of the blow breaking the heron's neck and

both birds coming down dead together.

"Now will this happen?" he asked himself as he watched the birds now

well above the heron. "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.

But Owen's horse picked his way very cleverly through the numerous

rubble-heaps, avoiding the great stones protruding from the sand....

These seemed to be becoming more numerous; and Owen reined in his

horse.... He was amid the ruins of a once considerable city, of

which nothing remained but the outlying streets, some doorways, and

many tombs, open every one of them, as if the dead had already been

resurrected. Before him lay the broken lid of a sarcophagus and the

sarcophagus empty, a little sand from the desert replacing the ashes

of the dead man. Owen's horse approached it, mistaking it for a

drinking trough; "and it will serve for one," he said, "in a little

while after the next rainfall. Some broken capitals, fragments of

columns, a wall built of narrow bricks, a few inscriptions... all

that remains of Rome, dust and forgetfulness."

About him the Arabs were seeking a heron and hawks; a falconer

galloped across the plain, waving a lure, in pursuit of another

hawk, so Owen was informed by his dragoman--as if falcon or heron

could interest him at that moment--and he continued to peer into the

inscription, leaving the Arabs to find the birds. And they were

discovered presently among some marbles, the heron's wings

outstretched in death, the great red wound in its breast making it

seem still more beautiful.