CHiaSTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



or into that cell, almost a parlour, with a Gothic roof 

 formed by large stones leaning one against the other 

 and so arrested, as they tumbled from the frost-riven 

 breast of the precipice. Wait there, though it should 

 be for hours — but it will not be for hours; for both 

 the old hawks are circling the sky, one over the marsh 

 and one over the wood. She comes — she comes — the 

 female Sparrowhawk, twice the size of her mate; and 

 while he is plain in his dress, as a cunning and cruel 

 Quaker, she is gay and gaudy as a Demirep dressed 

 for the pit of the Opera — deep and broad her- bosom, 

 with an air of luxury in her eyes that glitter like 

 a serpent's. But now she is a mother, and plays a 

 mother's part — greedier, even than for herself, for 

 her greedy young. The lightning flashes from the 

 cave-mouth, and she comes tumbling, and dashing, 

 and rattling through the dwarf bushes on the cliif- 

 face, perpendicular, and plumb-down, within three 

 yards of her murderer. Her husband will not visit 

 his nest this day — no — nor all night long; for a 

 father's is not as a mother's love. Your only chance 

 of killing him, too, is to take a lynx-eyed circuit 

 round about all the moors within half a league; and 

 possibly you may see him sitting on some cairn, or 

 stone, or tree-stump, afraid to fly either hither or 

 thither, perplexed by the sudden death he saw ap- 

 pearing among the unaccountable smoke, scenting it 

 [110] 



