"Hurrah!" exclaimed Ned, as the beautiful hawk spread his pinions and sailed swiftly away. "He seeth the heron!"
His own eyes could not see the game very well, so high in the air it was flying, and the sunlight dazzled him.
Higher, higher, in great circles, the falcon sped upward until he arose above the now frightened and screaming heron.
"He will strike soon!" said Lars. "See! He is swooping! He never faileth! He is the king of gerfalcons!"
At that moment the falcon seemed to Ned a mere speck against the sky, while the heron was flying lower, as if its fear bore it downward. Then the speck above it disappeared for a moment, so like a flash of lightning was the unerring pounce of the well-trained bird of prey.
"Struck! Well struck!" shouted Lars. "Forward, now; we must be with them at their falling."
It was not far that they had to run, and Ned kept well abreast of his young Norse comrade. He saw the hawk and the heron strike the earth together, fluttering and struggling, and then the game lay motionless. Forward darted Lars, before the falcon released the grip of his talons, and in a moment more the bird's bright eyes were hooded again.
"He shall not tear," said Lars. "It would harm his training."
Nevertheless, his favourite screamed angrily as he was restored to the wrist of his master.
"Thou knowest," said Lars, "that no hawk will come to a whistle when his talons are in. It is only when they miss that thou canst call them back."