“Where did you get it—that creature?”
“Uncle found him when he was ever so young. Somebody or something, a hunter or some other bird, had hurt his wing and one foot. Eagles can be injured by the least little blow upon their wings, you know.”
“No. I know nothing about them—yet. But I shall, some day.”
“Oh! I hope so. They’re delightful to study. Tom is very large, we think. He’s nearly four feet tall, and his wings—Spread your wings, sir! Spread!”
Margot had dropped upon the floor before the wide fireplace, her favorite seat. Her arms clasped her strange pet’s body, while his white head rested lovingly upon her shoulder. His eyes were fixed upon the blazing logs, and the yellow irises gleamed as if they had caught and held the dancing flames. But at her command he shook himself free, and extended one mighty wing, while she stretched out the other. Their tips were full nine feet apart and seemed to fill and darken the whole place.
In spite of this odd girl’s fearless handling of the bird, it looked most formidable to the visitor, who retreated again to a safe distance, though he had begun to advance toward her. And again he implored her to put the uncanny monster out of the house.
Margot laughed, as she was always doing; but, going to the table, filled a plate with the fragments from the stew, and, calling Tom, set the dish before him on the threshold.
“There’s your supper, Thomas the King! Which means, no more of Angelique’s chickens, dead or alive.”
The eagle gravely limped out of doors and the visitor felt relieved, so that he cast somewhat longing glances upon the table, and Margot was quick to understand them. Putting a generous portion upon another plate, she moved a chair to the side nearest the fire.
“You’re so much stronger, I guess it won’t hurt you to take as much as you like now. When did you eat anything before?”