WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
Three times within the next two hundred yards 
the hare lay down, but every time the rustle of 
the hunters' wings drove him on. The third 
time, Fionog-liat believed that his patience was 
to be rewarded, and sidled tentatively within a 
yard of the game ; but at his step on the snow 
the hare dragged himself up and hurried on 
again with a white glint of fear in his up- 
turned eyes. The crows flew away and circled 
over the Gap a quarter of a mile off, for Fionog- 
liat would not touch living meat. 
So the slow chase went on. One crow gave 
it up, but the other two under the leadership of 
Fionog-liat waited for the end. The grey even- 
ing drew in. The crows grew bolder and more 
clamorous, but Geirr-fiad still crawled along 
with blood on his tongue, struggling obliquely 
up the hill to ease his wounded leg. Fionog- 
liat, fearing to lose his prey in the night, tried 
to hustle his victim and wear him out, but 
Geirr-fia'd, clinging desperately to life as the 
Fur Folk will though it has nothing to offer 
them but gangrene or starvation, stubbornly 
refused to lie down and die. 
The sun set, and the bitter little wind hardened. 
Snow began to drive along the mountain-side 
in small pellets, which bounced from the rocks 
and sifted through the furze bushes, and dark- 
ness fell swiftly as it will on a stormy evening 
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