162 GRIMALKIN THE CAT 
sprang. His claws sank deep into the white collar, 
but the Collared Buck neither moved nor gasped. 
His body was warm and limp, and round his neck, 
although Grimalkin never noticed it, was twisted 
a wicked strand of brass wire. It never occurred to 
Grimalkin to question how his long-sought quarry 
had died. He drew himself up and his tail swayed 
with triumph. The Collared Buck lay beneath 
his claws and old scores were repaid. He began to 
play the death-game which the cat kind always 
play over the kill. First of all he touched the 
rabbit with his paw, daring it to rise up and run 
from him ; then, as though to make surety doubly 
sure, he leaped upon it and struck again. While 
there is life in bird or beast they will struggle from 
the death-play blindly, but the Collared Buck 
lay placidly still with the rain draggling his fur 
and his eyes staring. Even his sensitive nose never 
quivered ; for, although Grimalkin did not know it, 
the wire round his neck had long ago choked the 
breath in his throat. Next Grimalkin rolled upon 
the ground, and drawing the limp form towards 
him, licked its fur and caressed it, while he sang a 
song praising its strength and cunning, and vaunting 
his own superior skill as a hunter. The wrens in 
the furze scolded and flew away, for few of the lesser 
folk are bold enough to stand by while Grimalkin 
