Van Dorn, a Hollander from Falconswaerd—whence in those days all falconers came—bowing, proceeded to execute the command, by removing their hoods from the hawks.
“Before he surrenders it to their tender mercies, may I ask a favour?”
It was Eustace Trevor who interrogated, addressing himself to the young lady.
“Of course you may. What is it, sir?”
“Leave to appropriate a few of the heron’s feathers.”
“Why, certainly! The falconer will pluck them for you. Van Dorn, pull out some of its feathers, and hand them to this gentleman. I suppose you mean those over the train, Mr Trevor?”
“Yes, they.”
“You hear, Van Dorn.”
Without that the man knew what was wanted; the loose tail coverts so much prized for plumes; and, drawing them out one by one, he bound them into a bunch with a piece of cord whipped round their shanks; then handed them up to the cavalier. After which he went off to attend upon his hawks.
There was a short interregnum of silence as the falconer turned his back on them, and till he was out of earshot. Then the young lady asked, with apparent artlessness,—