He left me, moved forward to her. He seemed so black in that tender pulsing, rainbow radiance. The eager strength in him was not going to be controlled. I realized, though merely with surprise, that he did not regard her as a specially enchanting creature, worthy to be a me of his own kind—she was female. He was going to take her.

She saw him. She came towards him, her silvery-rose claws—she was altogether a fairy-tale bird—gripping the turf. She was about to pass him, with a sort of impersonal lovingness, to change her dance to pass him as he had (she believed) specially come to pass her. Her steps, like those of all the other animals, were timed to the pipe which only excited Urns. He moved forward without grace, or with the grace only of power, not to pass but to meet She found her way blocked, accepted this as part of it all and side-stepped to loop round him. He emitted a hoarse, impatient, brief protest, and again barred her way. His crest rose jerkily, disturbed a heavy red cluster of berries big as grapes and a cloud of humming gnats rose unsettled from it. She stared with wonder, the beginning of alarm, at his head.

Urns’ wings lifted, shut down, lifted. The rasp hit the music as the warbling bellows of the larger animals had not. The animals near turned and regarded him as though he had made an unpleasant noise in church. The female passaged away again, as though nervous to dissociate herself as soon as possible from this intruder.

Urns followed, before her at every turn, he had no intention of letting her get away and his wings fell and rasped up more rapidly. His bird-of-prey red eye gleamed. It was like a hot coal. A topaz-striped tiger, horribly long and lean, pacing near with a flock of stately-happy flamingoes all together, turned

and stiffened and began to lash his tail from side to side.

The female, still in time to the music, tried to escape behind the goat. She was nervous but calm. Urns followed. The goat, following the condemnatory dislike which was spreading among the animals—heads everywhere were turning—butted and bleated, no more than a hint to “get away”. Urns, hot coal still fixed glowering on the female, lifted a foot and raked his claws down the side of the goat’s head, at the same time shoving him away.

Blood dripped steaming; where it fell, the turf dimmed and then became opaque.