THE PHEASANT 
Never again in the dewy mornings, before the 
glamour in the east was trodden out before the 
rising of the sun himself, would he be able to 
claim the fields of Tonsella as his own. He 
would be driven to lurk in secret covert while 
the Cock, man's bird, encroached on the free 
wood. . . . There was guile in the fashion in 
which with drooping wing he crept across the 
clearing before the Cock's onslaught. The 
" Chickery-Cock," full of the lust of fight, fell 
into the trap. He was more than half exhausted 
himself, but he charged mightily. Creaban heard 
his short noisy breathing, and the scurry of his 
feet behind, and swerved aside. The Cock 
overshot his mark and crashed into the bramble 
brake. Before he could recover himself Creaban 
saw his chance. He seized the great hanging 
wattle and clung to it. He was too exhausted 
to pull or tear at the tough red flesh. He 
merely hung on like a dead weight, while the 
Cock, all his bravado gone, ran cackling hither 
and thither. He had been superbly sure of his 
own defences, but this firm coercive grip at his 
throat threw them out of gear. This attack 
contravened all the known laws of battle : he 
could not meet it. He tired himself by his 
own strength, and with his weakness came the 
Pheasant's chance. The Cock was beaten with 
his breast to the moss : Creaban dropped the 
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