And the polecat knew she was there, and he knew she was on her nest—­she would not have been fool enough to keep there otherwise.  His nose told him—­not his eyes, I think, for that was nearly impossible.  The thing was, he wanted her to move.  That was what he was waiting for.  No more than the twitch of an eyelid would do to show which end was head and which tail; for he could only smell her, and, in a manner, would have to pounce blind if she did not move.

She did not move, however, and in the end he had to pounce blind, anyhow, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, when it did come, shifting like a streak, that there seemed to have been no time to shout even, or gasp.

Yet that peewit found time in that fraction of a second to rise, open her wings, and get two feet into the air.  And then the polecat took her, leaping with unexpected agility, and pulling her down out of limitless freedom and safety.  There was just a rush, a snap, a wild-bird squawk, and down the pair went, to the accompaniment of furiously fluttering wings and in a cloud of feathers.

She had made a slight mistake in her calculations, that peewit, a matter of perhaps a quarter of a second, but enough.  Nature has not got much room for those who commit slight mistakes in the wild, I guess; they mostly quit the stage before passing that habit on, or soon after.

For a moment there was a horrible, strenuous jumble of fur and feathers on the ground, and then the polecat’s flat head rose up on his long neck out of the jumble, his eyes alight with a new look, and his lifted upper lip stained with a single little bright carmine spot.  The peewit was dead.

He pivoted upon his shanks and examined the nest.  It was empty.

He got to his feet with rapidity, and, in great excitement, dropped his head and began hunting.  In a minute a mottled pebble seemed to get up under his nose and run.  He snapped at it, and it fell upon the grass, stretching out slowly in death—­a baby peewit.

He circled rapidly, stopped, swerved, and, at the canter, took up another scent.  Suddenly, in a tussock of marram, his nose and he stopped dead.  Nothing moved.  Then he bit, and a second buff-and-black-mottled soft body stretched slowly out into the open as death took it—­a second baby peewit.  He circled again, fairly racing now, and so nearly fell over a third pebble come to life that it scuttled back between his legs; but he spun upon himself like a snake, and caught it ere it had gone a yard.  He snapped again, held it, dropped it, and another downy, soft, warm chick thing straightened, horribly and pathetically, in the unpitying sun, and was still—­a third baby peewit.

But there were no more.  He hunted around and around for the next ten minutes, but never struck a trail.  Evidently there had been only three.  And all the time father-peewit, who had just come back from dinner, swooped, and stooped, and dived, and rocketed, and shot down and around, his wings humming through the still air above as he went clean mad, and seemed like to break his neck and the polecat’s back in any and every one of his demented abysmal plunges, but somehow never did quite.