"Come on!" he said. "I'll show thee. There won't be any game in sight, but I'll fly him, and call him. I trained him myself. He's a gerfalcon. Hardrada's brother gave him to father after the fight with the pirates at Croning's Fiord. Father killed five of them, and took one of their boats. It was almost big enough for a ship. It got sunk, though, last winter, by the ice."
So they chatted, back and forth, as they walked along together, away out of the village. They met people who bowed and greeted them, but no other boys seemed to feel at liberty to join them. Ned learned, afterward, that it was considered bad manners for anybody to interfere with hawking or any other kind of sport.
Suddenly Lars uttered a short, sharp cry, as he looked upward, and the falcon began to ruffle his feathers.
"A heron!" exclaimed Lars. "He is well up, but my bird can reach him."
Off came the falcon's hood, and his brilliant eyes winked rapidly as they were getting accustomed again to the light.
"WITH A STRONG MOTION THEN HE THREW HIS HAWK UPWARD."
"He seeth!" shouted Lars. "I'll cast him!" With a strong motion then he threw his hawk upward, blowing a shrill screech upon a bone whistle that hung by a cord of braided leather around his neck.