CHAPTER XXIX. 



A STRANGE SCENE. 



THE secretary-bird took but a second or two to scan the serpent, which did not 

 coil, like the rattlesnake, but reared its head, with its tongue darting back and 

 forth, its tiny eyes flashing, and its whole appearance showing its intense 

 rage. It knew that it was to be attacked, and was ready for it. 



There was no sign of fear on the part of the bird, but she was cautious, her sit- 

 uation being something like that of our friends when fighting the Bushmen. They 

 despised the foe, but dreaded their pestilent missiles. 



She stepped slowly toward the reptile, and, before arriving within striking dis- 

 tance, thrust the point of one of her wings forward. This, as was proven the next 

 moment, was for the purpose of parrying the blows of her enemy. 



Having thrown up her guard, so to speak, the bird pushed farther, for the pur- 

 pose of drawing the attack of the snake. Sure enough, the horrid head suddenly 

 shot forward, with a quickness that the eye could scarcely follow, the blow being 

 twice repeated with the same marvelous swiftness, but each time it was parried by 

 the pinion, and turned harmlessly aside. 



Seeing its failure, the snake crawled slowly toward the bird, so as to secure a 

 better chance of landing its blows, but the feathers had already caught its spare 

 venom, and some time was necessary for nature to replenish the supply. 



Well aware of this, the secretary-bird promptly met the snake, and, leaping 

 upon the writhing form, quickly clawed a part of its body to shreds, instantly 

 driving out all semblance ex life. 



This done, the serpent-eater proceeded to make her dinner at leisure, while Jack 

 Harvey, carefully screening himself from sight, watched the performance with a 

 profound admiration for the prowess of a bird that could vanquish a large, venomous 

 serpent in such thorough fashion. 



An incautious movement on the part of Jack caused the secretary-bird to turn 

 like a flash. That she saw him for the first time, was evident from her manner, 

 which showed, too, that she was as ready to attack him as the serpent. 



The Texan smiled at its combative manner, but he chose to use discretion, not 

 that he felt any fear of the bird, but because he held it in too great respect to wish 

 it harm. 



" There is no need why you and I should have any trouble," he said, carefully 

 withdrawing, with his face toward her, " but I'll remember this spot, and I shouldn'* 

 wonder if we saw each other later." 



The mother did not follow him, though, if he had ventured to approach, she 

 would have flown at him with the fierceness of a tigress defending her young. In 



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