The bird of evil omen swooped round in circling flight above the motionless figure.
Each circle was smaller than the previous one, each second brought the bird nearer to its destined prey.
Still stared the eyes upward—still on the white face played the flickering sunbeams.
With a downward swoop, the carrion-bird alighted on the breast of the stricken man.
The blood that stained the hunting-shirt of the silent figure crimsoned the talons of the disgusting bird.
With a hoarse note the crow flapped its sable wings as if in gloating triumph over the coming feast.
One short minute more and the great eyes would stare no more at the sky above. The beak of the carrion crow would be scarlet with human gore.
But, ere ten seconds of that minute passed away, a slight rustle came from the tangled thicket that fringed the ravine. The crow, with a hoarse note of anger, spread its wings and, cheated of its prey—cheated of the great eyes and the banquet of blood—soared lazily upward.
Then from the thicket, with stealthy tread, came a gaunt wolf.
A moment later the beast stood upon the edge of the ravine. Then it scented the blood that had trickled from the breast of the man who lay motionless upon the rocks.