Somebody has written somewhere that gulls never touch a carcass on land.  Sometimes they touch things on land which were not carcasses before they touched them.  This gull, however, did not wait for any landing.  Perhaps he knew that, once stranded, the gray crows might come to assist him in their own peculiar way, or a raven, who would not assist him at all, except into the next world, if he did not relinquish all claim to the feast.  Anyway, whatever we poor mortals may kid ourselves into thinking he did or did not know, or what we may think he ought to have known, he began operations as soon as the skua came alongside, so to speak—­that is, drifted against the particular bowlder upon which the sphinx-like herring-gull happened by chance—­always by chance, of course—­to be standing.

Now, there is no particular joy in having your eyes hammered at by a blunted sharp instrument, like a herring-gull’s beak, for instance, even if those eyes happen to be shut, as I think the skua’s were, and the instrument wielded with the extreme clumsiness of the half-trained, as I know the herring-gull’s beak was.  But, all the same, it was the kindest thing that could have happened, for, had it not been for that, the skua was like to have drifted in that fashion from that little inlet out upon another sea; not the one connected with the inlet, but one where you can drift forever, and whose name is Death.  The physical pain, however, brought him round.  He was only stunned, and the agony of the eyes, or eye, rather, was acute.

He opened the other eye—­a wonderful, piercing, fierce orb.  He contracted his feathers.  The world grew from a mist in that eye to a little bay in a little inlet, with the seaweed-covered bowlder-rocks, the old-gold sand, the green grass, the brown-plush furze, and the patch of wonderful blue sky over-top.  Then it took in the spotless, gaunt form of the herring-gull, and—­he remembered that he was a skua, only some twenty-one inches long, ’tis true, but still a skua, to be treated and respected as such.

Wherefore, who so surprised as that big father of herring-gulls when the bedraggled, smoky-hued thing under his bill, which he may, or may not, have taken for a corpse, woke up, returned to life suddenly, and erupted into his very face, with the yells of a fiend, the weapons of a fury, and the rage of several devils?  He yelled, too, that herring-gull, not entirely with rage, and did his best to get under way as quickly as might be, but became, before he knew where he was, altogether too busy even for that.

Not being in the habit of performing optical operations upon Arctic skuas as a rule, he had nothing in his memory to warn him of what followed, nothing to put him up to the absolutely diabolical fury of the onslaught he had to meet in the next few seconds.  He certainly did his level best with such weapons as Nature had given him, but his blunt, hooked beak and the claws he had not got seemed suddenly meager against the hammering, tearing, stabbing, rending dagger weapons of his—­“meal.”