wn by the only impulse that those glorious wings would
honor,--up, up, in widening, heightening circles of ashy blue in the
blue, flashing those many-lettered wings of white, till they seemed
like jets of fire--up and on, driven by that home-love, faithful to his
only home and to his faithless mate; closing his eyes, they say;
closing his ears, they tell; shutting his mind,--we all believe,--to
nearer things, to two years of his life, to one half of his prime, but
soaring in the blue, retiring, as a saint might do, into his inner
self, giving himself up to that inmost guide. He was the captain of the
ship, but the pilot, the chart and compass, all, were that
deep-implanted instinct. One thousand feet above the trees the
inscrutable whisper came, and Arnaux in arrowy swiftness now was
pointing for the south-southeast. The little flashes of white fire on
each side were lost in the low sky, and the reverent robber of Syracuse
saw Arnaux nevermore.

The fast express was steaming down the valley. It was far ahead, but
Arnaux overtook and passed it, as the flying wild Duck passes the
swimming Muskrat. High in the valleys he went, low over the hills of
Chenango, where the pines were combing the breezes.

Out from his oak-tree eyrie a Hawk came wheeling and sailing, silent,
for he had marked the Flyer, and meant him for his prey. Arnaux turned
neither right nor left, nor raised nor lowered his flight, nor lost a
wing-beat. The Hawk was in waiting in the gap ahead, and Arnaux passed
him, even as a Deer in his prime may pass by a Bear in his pathway.
Home! home! was the only burning thought, the blinding impulse.

Beat, beat, beat, those flashing pinions went with speed unslacked on
the now familiar road. In an hour the Catskills were at hand. In two
hours he was passing over them. Old friendly places, swiftly coming
now, lent more force to his wings. Home! home! was the silent song that
his heart was singing. Like the traveller dying of thirst, that sees
the palm-trees far ahead, his brilliant eyes took in the distant smoke
of Manhattan.

Out from the crest of the Catskills there launched a Falcon. Swiftest
of the race of rapine, proud of his strength, proud of his wings, he
rejoiced in a worthy prey. Many and many a Pigeon had been borne to his
nest, and riding the wind he came, swooping, reserving his strength,
awaiting the proper time. Oh, how well he knew the very moment! Down,
down like a flashing javelin; no wild Duck,