I'm sorry."
"Don't mention it. I was losing
anyway. All right, I'll leave you alone, but you wouldn't think of
doing anything silly now, would you? No sense in sticking your neck
out. Remember what I told you about the ring-dove."
And at that exact moment, a ring-dove
went by like an arrow, with a clap and whistle of wings that sent
up a flurry of frost like a wake. Close behind her, a little above,
ready to strike, went a merlin.
The dove rose a fraction as she met
the slope, skimming up as a gull skims a rising wave, hurtling
towards a thicket near the lip of the dell. She was barely a foot
from the ground, and for the falcon to strike her was dangerous,
but he must have been starving, for, just as she reached the edge
of the thicket, he struck.
A scream, a fierce kwik-ik-ik from the
falcon, a flurry of crashing twigs, then nothing. A few feathers
drifted lazily down, like snow.
I started forward, and ran up the
bank. "He got her!" It was obvious what had happened; both birds,
locked together, had hurtled on into the thicket and crashed to the
ground. From the silence, it was probable that they both now lay
there, stunned.
The thicket was a steep tangle almost
covering one side of the dell. I thrust the boughs aside and pushed
my way through. The trail of feathers showed me my way. Then I
found them. The dove lay dead, breast downwards, wings still spread
as she had struck the stones, and with blood smearing bright over
the iris of her neck feathers. On her lay the merlin. The steel
ripping-claws were buried deep in the dove's back, the cruel beak
half driven in by the crash. He was still alive. As I bent over
them his wings stirred, and the bluish eyelids dropped, disclosing
the fierce dark eye.
Cerdic arrived, panting, at my
shoulder. "Don't touch him. He'll tear your hands. Let me." I
straightened. "So much for your ring-dove, Cerdic. It's time we
forgot her, isn't it? No, leave them. They'll be here when we come
back."
"Come back? Where from?"
I pointed silently to what showed
ahead, directly in the path the birds had been taking. A square
black gap like a door in the steep ground behind the thicket; an
entrance hidden from casual sight, only to be seen if, for some
reason, one pushed one's way in among the tangled
branches.
"What of it?" asked Cerdic. "That's an
old mine adur, by the look of it."
"Yes. That's what I came to see.
Strike a light, and come along." He began to protest, but I cut him
short. "You can come or not, as you please. But give me a light.
And hurry, there isn't much time." As I began to push my way
towards the adur I heard him, muttering still, dragging up handfuls
of dry stuff to make a torch.
Just inside the adur there was a pile
of debris and fallen stone where the timber props had rotted away,
but beyond this the shaft was smooth enough, leading more or less
levelly into the heart of the hill. I could walk pretty nearly
upright, and Cerdic, who was small, had to stoop only slightly. The
flare of the makeshift torch threw our shadows grotesquely in front
of us. It showed the grooves in the floor where loads had been
dragged to daylight, and on walls and roof the marks of the picks
and chisels that had made the tunnel.
"Where the hell do you think you're
going?" Cerdic's voice, behind me, was sharp with nerves. "Look,
let's get back. These places aren't safe. That roof could come
in."
"It won't. Keep that torch going," I
said curtly, and went on.
The tunnel bent to the right, and
began to curve gently downhill. Underground one loses all sense of
direction; there is not even the drift of wind on one's cheek that
gives direction even on the blackest night; but I guessed that we
must be winding our way deep into the heart of the hill on which
had stood the old king's tower. Now and again smaller tunnels led
off to left and right, but there was no danger of losing our way;
we were in the main gallery, and the rock seemed reasonably good.
Here and there had been falls from roof or wall,
"Don't mention it. I was losing
anyway. All right, I'll leave you alone, but you wouldn't think of
doing anything silly now, would you? No sense in sticking your neck
out. Remember what I told you about the ring-dove."
And at that exact moment, a ring-dove
went by like an arrow, with a clap and whistle of wings that sent
up a flurry of frost like a wake. Close behind her, a little above,
ready to strike, went a merlin.
The dove rose a fraction as she met
the slope, skimming up as a gull skims a rising wave, hurtling
towards a thicket near the lip of the dell. She was barely a foot
from the ground, and for the falcon to strike her was dangerous,
but he must have been starving, for, just as she reached the edge
of the thicket, he struck.
A scream, a fierce kwik-ik-ik from the
falcon, a flurry of crashing twigs, then nothing. A few feathers
drifted lazily down, like snow.
I started forward, and ran up the
bank. "He got her!" It was obvious what had happened; both birds,
locked together, had hurtled on into the thicket and crashed to the
ground. From the silence, it was probable that they both now lay
there, stunned.
The thicket was a steep tangle almost
covering one side of the dell. I thrust the boughs aside and pushed
my way through. The trail of feathers showed me my way. Then I
found them. The dove lay dead, breast downwards, wings still spread
as she had struck the stones, and with blood smearing bright over
the iris of her neck feathers. On her lay the merlin. The steel
ripping-claws were buried deep in the dove's back, the cruel beak
half driven in by the crash. He was still alive. As I bent over
them his wings stirred, and the bluish eyelids dropped, disclosing
the fierce dark eye.
Cerdic arrived, panting, at my
shoulder. "Don't touch him. He'll tear your hands. Let me." I
straightened. "So much for your ring-dove, Cerdic. It's time we
forgot her, isn't it? No, leave them. They'll be here when we come
back."
"Come back? Where from?"
I pointed silently to what showed
ahead, directly in the path the birds had been taking. A square
black gap like a door in the steep ground behind the thicket; an
entrance hidden from casual sight, only to be seen if, for some
reason, one pushed one's way in among the tangled
branches.
"What of it?" asked Cerdic. "That's an
old mine adur, by the look of it."
"Yes. That's what I came to see.
Strike a light, and come along." He began to protest, but I cut him
short. "You can come or not, as you please. But give me a light.
And hurry, there isn't much time." As I began to push my way
towards the adur I heard him, muttering still, dragging up handfuls
of dry stuff to make a torch.
Just inside the adur there was a pile
of debris and fallen stone where the timber props had rotted away,
but beyond this the shaft was smooth enough, leading more or less
levelly into the heart of the hill. I could walk pretty nearly
upright, and Cerdic, who was small, had to stoop only slightly. The
flare of the makeshift torch threw our shadows grotesquely in front
of us. It showed the grooves in the floor where loads had been
dragged to daylight, and on walls and roof the marks of the picks
and chisels that had made the tunnel.
"Where the hell do you think you're
going?" Cerdic's voice, behind me, was sharp with nerves. "Look,
let's get back. These places aren't safe. That roof could come
in."
"It won't. Keep that torch going," I
said curtly, and went on.
The tunnel bent to the right, and
began to curve gently downhill. Underground one loses all sense of
direction; there is not even the drift of wind on one's cheek that
gives direction even on the blackest night; but I guessed that we
must be winding our way deep into the heart of the hill on which
had stood the old king's tower. Now and again smaller tunnels led
off to left and right, but there was no danger of losing our way;
we were in the main gallery, and the rock seemed reasonably good.
Here and there had been falls from roof or wall,
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