THE BIG BLOW. 243 
Then the crow stood off, and pondered. 
This rook, because of his exceptional size, 
was not to be broken down by direct frontal 
attack, evidently. How now, then? 
The old rook, swaying a little, watched his 
enemy with one eye, and let the other rove 
around, and then—then his heart sank. There 
were plenty of crow-like forms about, but not 
one of them all black. He was alone. The 
flock had deserted him, fearing the crows more 
than they troubled about him as a brother. 
And, upon my word, I don’t wonder. There 
was not one of them that he had not bullied 
and robbed at one time or another—bullied 
and robbed, as the leaders of all bandit 
gangs do. 
‘Curra! curra! curra!’ shouted the gray 
crow, hoarsely and loudly, into the raging 
wind ; and instantly half-a-dozen of his gang 
lifted on heavy wings, and came flapping low, 
through the drifting snow, towards him. 
The old president of the elder rooks knew 
what was coming. For a moment he stared 
down at his legs, buried in snow, where a 
little bright-red stain was slowly gathering 
upon the spotless white. Then he looked up 
into the blizzard, tearing by like some live 
fiend overhead. It, at least, would show him 
more mercy than these outlaw cousins of his. 
