"It seems to me, I confess, inconvenient in a falconer that he should
be nice as to the colour of his quarry. There must be some reason for
this. I will forgive you for making a bad day's sport worse if you
will tell me your story."
Prosper was troubled. He connected his story with Isoult, though he
could hardly say why. He had merely seen a white bird before his
marriage; yet without that sequel the story could have no point. He
did not wish to speak of his marriage, if for no other reason than
that it was much too late to speak of it. The other reasons remained
as valid as ever; but he was bound to confess the superior cogency of
this present one. Meanwhile the Countess clamoured.
"The story, Prosper, the story!" she cried. "I must and will have the
story. I am very sure it is romantic; you are growing red. Oh, it is
certainly romantic; I shall never rest without the story."
Prosper in desperation remembered a hawking mishap of his boyhood, and
clutched at it.
"This is my story," he said. "When I was a boy with my brothers our
father used to take us with him hawking on Marbery Down. There is a
famous heronry in the valley below it whence you may be sure of a
kill; but on the Down itself are great flocks of sheep tended by
shepherds who come from all parts of the country round about and lie
out by their fires. One day--just such a windy morning as this--my
father, my brother Osric, and I were out with our birds, and did
indifferently well, so far as I can remember. I had new falcon with
me--a haggard of the rock which I had mewed and manned myself. It was
the first time I had tried her on the Down, and she began by giving
trouble; then did better, but finally gave more trouble than at first,
as you shall hear. Towards noon I found myself separate from our
company on a great ridge of the Down where it slopes steeply to the
forest, as you know it does in one place. The flocks were out feeding
on the slopes below me, and their herds--three or four boys and girls
--were lying together by a patch of gorse, but one of them stood up
after a while and shaded her eyes to look over the forest. Then I saw
a lonely bird making way for the heronry. I remember it plainly; in
the sun it looked shining white. I flew my haggard out of the hood at
her, sure of a kill. She raked off at a great pace, as this one did
just now; but in mid air she checked suddenly, heeled over, beat up
against the wind, stooped and fell headlong at the shepherds. I could
not tell what had happened; it was as if the girl had been shot. But,
by the Saviour of mankind, this is the truth: I saw the girl who was
standing throw her arms up, I heard her scream; the others scattered.
Then I saw the battling sails of my falcon. She was on the girl. I
spurred my pony and went down the hill headlong to the music of the
girl's screaming. Never before or since have I seen a peregrine engage
at such a quarry as that. She had her with beak and claws below the
left pap. She had ripped up her clothes and drawn blood, sure enough.
The poor child, who looked very starved, was as white as death: I
cannot think she had any blood to spare. As for her screaming, I have
not forgotten it yet--in fact, the bird we struck to-day reminded me
of it and made me act as I did. To cut down my story, I pulled the
hawk off and strangled it, gave the girl what money I had, said what I
could to quiet her, and left her to be patched up by her friends. She
was more frightened than hurt, I fancy. As I told you, I was a boy at
the time; but these things stay by you. It is a fact at least that I
am queasy on the subject of white birds. Before I came to High March,
indeed it was almost my first day in Morgraunt, I saw and rescued a
white bird from two hen-harriers; and now I have been troubled by
another. I seem beset by white birds!"