He had seen his son, a speck in the dawnlight, invisible to our eyes, sailing from peak to upflung peak.  He had seen him suddenly check and circle downwards.  And then—­he had not seen him.

He had waited two hours, with that patience which birds and reptiles have, and still he had not seen him.  Yet, if during that time he had risen, the Chieftain must have seen him.  And the Chieftain knew that.  He knew also that a golden eagle very rarely makes a “kill” so big that he has to remain with it two hours.  The alternative, therefore, would seem to be death or carrion; and the way in which he had circled down would seem to suggest carrion.  And it is written among the laws of the king of birds that when carrion is about, the strict rules and regulations as to the inviolability of the frontiers may be, in some degree, broken.

Therefore the king unfurled his overshadowing vans, and launched himself down the lake with mighty, slow, powerful strokes, like the steady thrust of marine engines.  He would go and see.

Five minutes later the Chieftain was as motionless as his son, perched, like him, too, upon a rock, watching the highwaymen and footpads of the moors squabbling over the bait—­they had no eyes to see what they were doing, for they had to keep one eye upon each eagle—­and about two hundred yards away on the other side.

This may have hurried matters somewhat, for within only about another half-hour the Chieftain’s son rose, and, with heavy wing-flaps, flew down to the bait, sending the ravens and the crows up in a cloud, like blown bits of burnt paper, as he came to anchor.  And it was curious that, in stooping to meanness, the royal bird’s aspect was no longer grand.  He flew heavily and clumsily to the spot.  He settled without grace, and almost overbalanced on to his Grecian nose.  He clutched, and tore, and gulped, and gorged like a vulture.  Thus Nature always dresses her actors for their parts.  You may have noticed it.

[Illustration:  “He clutched, and tore, and gulped, and gorged”]

But Pig Head—­Pig Head was chuckling.  He had silently and softly removed the clod of peat that blocked the aperture before mentioned.  Running through this aperture he had a cord whose other end was fastened to the bait, and every time the great eagle wrenched and tore at the flesh, he very, very gently pulled the bait towards him.  He did not move when the mighty bird had his head up, gulping, you will note; for even Pig Head knew that an eagle nearly standing on his head and tugging, and not feeling the difference between his own tugs and the tugs on a cord, is not the same as an eagle with his head up and eyes stabbing everywhere at once.

At last the victim had been drawn, upon the bait, within reach, and Pig Head, slipping his hand through the opening, grabbed the thick, powerful legs of the bird, and pulled.  There was one mighty upheaval of vast vans, and—­no eagle!  What happened down inside the hiding-place was more or less private.  There were sounds as if a young earthquake were getting ready to be born in that place; but in the end the Chieftain’s son had his legs tied, and suffered the indignity of being ignominiously thrust into a filthy sack.  He said nothing during that argument, but his looks were enough to kill anything with a thinner hide than Pig Head.