“Wish I had a bag with me,” he thought, as he heard a peculiar squeaking arise from beneath his feet. “Never mind: I’ll tie their legs together with my handkerchief, or thrust them into toy breast.”
Croak—croak—craw—awk! came from one of the ravens, as it swept by him with a rush.
“Wait a minute, my fine fellow, or madam,” said the boy. “Hard for you, perhaps; but how many chickens and ducklings have you stolen? how many unfortunate lambs have you blinded this spring? Can’t have ravens here. Hah! that’s it.”
For upon forcing his hands well into a fault in the rock, he had lowered his feet and found good foot-hold on the ledge, lowered himself a little more, and saw that he could easily sit down, hold on by his left hand, the stout bush being ready, and draw out a pair of well-grown nestlings as soon as he liked.
“I’m afraid, Master Rayburn, that if there are eggs I should get them broken if I put them in my pocket,” he said aloud; “and if they do break, phew! It would be horrible. Ah, put them in my cap. Let’s see.”
He thrust his right hand into the niche, and snatched it back, for the young ravens were big enough to use their beaks fiercely, and set up a loud, hoarse series of cries, as soon as they found that an enemy was at the gate.
“You vicious little wretches!” he cried. “My word, they can bite. Ah, would you!”
This was to one of the ravens, which rendered frantic by the cries of the young, swooped at him, and struck him with a wing in passing.
“Declaration of war, eh!” he said. “Well, it’s your doing, you murderous creatures, you lamb-slayers. I did not know you could be so fierce.”
The raven had sailed off to a distance now, croaking loudly, and joined its mate; and as at the next movement of Mark, seated on his perilous perch, the young ravens screeched hoarsely again, it was evident that there was to be a fresh attack, this time united.