wing-room without
his ever moving again. But that was only because of the head he had
seen--and its reputation. Moreover, the head was not alone. At least,
it had multiplied itself half-a-dozen times in less than half-a-dozen
seconds, and even a stoat, which the head belonged to, cannot be in two
places at once--though for sheer quickness of movement it, and far more
its cousin the weasel, comes very near to it.

Just at this moment it seemed that about the roost unhealthful thing he
could do would be to be seen in the air. Wherefore did this innocent
and guileless old bird affect not to see the stoats, but made out that
he was feeding his way along, quite and absolutely intent upon that
yellow devil of a weed whose other name is charlock. He did not even
hurry, and each deliberate step was taken with almost a proud
daintiness. The only thing was, he never lifted his head; he was
almost too obviously unwary--for him. And he gave the impression that
every step would be his last out into the field; that he was always
going to turn back next instant or the next, as he had done before when
the stoats were not there.

On and on he kept till he had crossed the field, going faster and
faster, till he ended at the far hedge with a run. And there, so far
as he was concerned, was an end of the stoats. He put them aside. He
forgot all about them.

They, however, had not forgotten about him.

It was half-an-hour later, and he was patiently gleaning such food as
the rooks and the sparrows and the larks had left behind them, when
something, he could not tell what, caused him to straighten up, with
that beautiful, proud bearing that seems part of the pheasant's
heritage from the gorgeous East.

And he was only just in time.

The stoat that had come up behind him, unseen, turned on its heels as
it charged, changing its mind at the last moment, as if it saw he saw,
and was gone again before you could click a finger, diving superbly
back into long grass.

They were following him, then, those little hounds of death; tracking
him; running him down. And why? He did not know, perhaps, yet--maybe
he did. Blood is a dangerous thing to have on you in the wild--a
flaming signal of distress for eye and nose to detect--and they are not
often rescuers who hurry to the scene. He had blood on his back, that
cock-pheasant, and just every now and then a single bright drop fell by
the way. The .22-bore bullet had only grazed him.