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208
Animal Heroes
·
Ernest Thompson Seton
99
Once
they
seemed
to
sense
their
peril,
but
a
long
await
dispelled
the
fear.
Now
they
were
almost
in
reach,
and
she
trembled
with
all
the
eagerness
of
the
hunting
heart
and
the
hungry
maw.
Her
eye
centred
on
a
white
one
not
quite
the
nearest,
but
the
color
seemed
to
hold
her
gaze.
There
was
an
open
space
around
the
rat-house;
outside
that
were
tall
weeds,
and
stumps
were
scattered
everywhere.
The
white
bird
wandered
behind
these
weeds,
the
red
one
of
the
loud
voice
flew
to
the
top
of
the
rat-mound
and
sang
as
before.
The
mother
Lynx
sank
lower
yet.
It
seemed
an
alarm
note;
but
no,
the
white
one
still
was
there;
she
could
see
its
feathers
gleaming
through
the
weeds.
An
open
space
now
lay
about.
The
huntress,
flattened
like
an
empty
skin,
trailed
slow
and
silent
on
the
ground
behind
a
log
no
thicker
than
her
neck;
if
she
could
reach
that
tuft
of
brush
she
could
get
unseen
to
the
weeds
and
then
would
be
near
enough
to
spring.
She
could
smell
them
now--the
rich
and
potent
smell
of
life,
of
flesh
and
blood,
that
set
her
limbs
a-tingle
and
her
eyes
a-glow.
The
Partridges
still
scratched
and
fed;
another
flew
to
the
high
top,
but
the
white
one
remained.
Five
more
slow-gliding,
silent
steps,
and
the
Lynx
was
behind
the
weeds,
the
white
bird
shining
through;
she
gauged
the
distance,
tried
the
footing,
swung
her
hind
legs
to
clear
some
fallen
brush,
then
leaped
direct
with
all
her
force,
and
the
white
one
never
knew
the
death
it
died,
for
the
fateful
gray
shadow
dropped,
the
swift
and
deadly
did
their
work,
and
before
the
other
birds
could
realize
the
foe
or
fly,
the
Lynx
was
gone,
with
the
white
bird
squirming
in
her
jaws.
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