WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
Fionog-liat flew as usual to the slopes of 
Commergar. The mountain was white except 
where it was gashed by crags to which no 
snow could cling, and the trail of yesterday's 
hunting was covered up. Fionog-liat rose 
slowly up the hillside, and the other two 
crows, wheeling from a fruitless search in the 
bog, followed him. Suddenly they swooped, 
calling triumphantly. Under the stone the 
hare still crouched, with scarcely a heart-throb 
and his dim eyes half-closed. Fionog-liat 
hopped forward to give the death-blow, but 
there was an eager rush of wings, and he was 
almost borne over by his followers who hurled 
themselves on to the carcass. At no other 
time would they have dared to oust him thus, 
but they were mad with hunger, and for the 
time being he was not their leader but their 
rival. On any other occasion they would have 
met with a buffet which would have driven 
them back cowed, but as it was Fionog-liat 
was too famished to resent the insult, and all 
three fell greedily upon the first full meal which 
they had eaten for six days. 
They loitered round the place until nightfall. 
Now and then one descended to the rock for 
another morsel, but for the most part they 
huddled upon the crag, preening themselves 
languidly in the almost forgotten sensation of a 
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