Only the short-eared owl, with his wonderful eyes, beheld Pharaoh make his final rush; watched that living spring sprung quick as light, shooting out straight at the cat’s glaring eyes, and saw—­greatest miracle of all the lot—­Pharaoh dodge his head aside in the twentieth of a second, and blink, letting the blow that spelt death whiz by.

And only those same owl’s ears—­sharpest of all the ears of the wild—­heard the diabolical yell of Pharaoh as the long, sharp beak pierced through the loose skin of his shoulders, and, thanks to that same looseness, came out again an inch or two farther on, transfixing him; or listened to the devilish noise of the “worry,” as the cat turned in agony on himself and buried his fangs where he could behind those expressionless green reptilian eyes; or caught the stupendous flurry and whirl of wings and fur and gripping claws and scaly legs, as a cloud put out the moon and darkness fell with silence, like the falling curtain that ends a play.

* * * * * *

The very last pale rays of a watery setting sun slid bar-like through the cottage window, and fell, twirling, aslant the floor.

A late spider had spun a web across the fireplace, and the one last fly that always lingers sat in the sunbeam.  It was Hawkley’s cottage, dismantled and derelict.

Something like a furry round hassock, lying motionless in a far corner, moved at the sound of rain, and lifted a round head with round eyes that glared with so terrible an expression that one caught one’s breath.  There was blood—­dried blood—­by the furry shape, and drops of dried blood across the floor from the window in the next room, that it had been nobody’s business to shut.

The day went out in gloom and howling rain-rushes.  Darkness took possession of the room.  And—­the gate clicked.

Truly, it might only have been the wind, but—­Pharaoh was on his feet in a flash, growling, and there was a glint of green-yellow light as his eyes whipped round.

Followed a pause.  Then, in a lull, once, twice, the unmistakable crunch of a shod foot on gravel.

Another pause.  Pharaoh was crouching close now, trembling from head to foot.

“Pharaoh!  Pharaoh!  Pharaoh, old cat, are—­are you in there?”

The voice, strained and husky, came in at the open window.  In the last lingering afterglow of dying day, a face, haggard and set, showed there, framed in the lead casement.

“Phar——­ Ah!”

Pharaoh was up.  Pharaoh had given a strange, coaxing little cry, such as a she-cat gives to her kittens.  Pharaoh, lame and stiff, but with tail straight as a poker, was running to the window in the next room, was up on the sill, was rubbing against and caressing the haggard face like a mad thing.

There was a long, tense pause, broken only by a continuous purring.  Then the creaking sound as of the lid of a wicker basket being opened.  The purring ceased.  The creaking came again, as if the lid were being shut.  There came the crunch once more of stealthy shod feet on gravel, the click of the gate, and—­silence!