Arnaux 
with speed unslacked on the now familiar road. 
In an hour the Catskills were at hand. In two 
hours he was passing over them. Old friendly 
places, swiftly coming now, lent more force to 
his wings. Home! home! was the silent song 
that his heart was singing. Like the traveller 
dying of thirst, that sees the palm-trees far 
ahead, his brilliant eyes took in the distant 
smoke of Manhattan. 
Out from the crest of the Catskills there 
launched a Falcon. Swiftest of the race of 
rapine, proud of his strength, proud of his 
wings, he rejoiced in a worthy prey. Many 
and many a Pigeon had been borne to his nest, 
and riding the wind he came, swooping, reserv- 
ing his strength, awaiting the proper time. Oh, 
how well he knew the very moment! Down, 
down like a flashing javelin; no wild Duck, no 
Hawk could elude him, for this was a Falcon. 
Turn back now, O Homer, and save yourself ; 
go round the dangerous hills. Did he turn? 
Not a whit! for this was Arnaux. Home! 
home! home! was his only thought. To meet 
the danger, he merely added to his speed; and 
the Peregrine stooped; stooped at what?—a 
IOI 
