Yet the two saw little of this, dear and familiar as they found it; since, first they rode together, and next, as it should be with young hearts, the sport presently began and drove all else away.

The sport was done in this way: 

The two that rode in front selected each from the cadge one of his own falcons (it was peregrines that were used at the beginning of the day, since they were first after partridges), and so rode, carrying his falcon on his wrist, hooded, belled, and in the leash, ready to cast off.  Immediately before them went a lad with a couple of dogs to nose the game—­these also in a leash until they stiffened.  Then the lad released them and stepped softly back, while the riders moved on at a foot’s-pace, and the spaniels behind rose on their hind legs, choked by the chain, whimpering, fifty yards in the rear.  Slowly the dogs advanced, each a frozen model of craft and blood-lust, till an instant afterwards, with a whir and a chattering like a broken clock, the covey whirled from the thick growth underfoot, and flashed away northwards; and, a moment later, up went the peregrines behind them.  Then, indeed, it was sauve qui peut, for the ground was full of holes here and there, though there were grass-stretches as well on which all rode with loose rein, the two whose falcons were sprung always in front, according to custom, and the rest in a medley behind.  Away then went the birds, pursued and pursuers, till, like a falling star the falcon stooped, and then, maybe, the other a moment later, down upon the quarry; and a minute later there was the falcon back again shivering with pride and ecstasy, or all ruffle-feathered with shame, back on his master’s wrist, and another torn partridge, or maybe two, in the bottom of the lad’s bag; and arguments went full pelt, and cries, and sometimes sharp words, and faults were found, and praise was given, and so, on for another pair.

It was but natural that Robin and Marjorie should compete one against the other, for they were riding together and talked together.  So presently Mr. Thomas called to them, and beckoned them to their places.  Robin set aside Agnes on to the cadge and chose Magdalen, and Marjorie chose Sharpie.  The array was set, and all moved forward.

It was a short chase and a merry one.  Two birds rose from the heather and flew screaming, skimming low, as from behind them moved on the shadows of death, still as clouds, with great noiseless sweeps of sickle-shaped wings.  Behind came the gallopers; Marjorie on her black horse, Robin on Cecily, seeming to compete, yet each content if either won, each, maybe—­or at least Marjorie—­desiring that the other should win.  And the wind screamed past them as they went.

Then came the stoops—­together as if fastened by one string—­faultless and exquisite; and, as the two rode up and drew rein, there, side by side on the windy turf, two fierce statues of destiny—­cruel-eyed, blood-stained on the beaks, resolute and suspicious—­eyed them motionless, the claws sunk deeply through back and head—­awaiting recapture.