The female at last faced him again. He thrust his neck over hers, a rough fore-play, a way of getting control. He moved behind her and she turned awkwardly, brought her lovely wing up and flapped it in his face, a warning. At this insult, this added playing-coy after all the rest, he let out a harsh, deep squawk of fury, seized the wing in his beak and dragged her over to the side of the dance. She went perforce, uttering bewildered pain-moans, white and blue feathers drifting everywhere. Urns clawed aside a peacock in the way; other feathers were added to the drift.

The dance had all but stopped. They were animals again; Urns’ squawk was answered by the challenges of lion, tiger, a big bull with a yellow arc of horns, the shrill belligerent cries of foxes and rodents. The smell of the blood had broken the pipe-spell. There was tail-lashing, uncertain growls which would soon be certain, but no longer singing. Eyes fixed glaring on Urns who pushed the female behind him and stood poised ready with eager arrogance. Eyes from the peacock’s tail lay staring on the grass.

A cold little wind rustled. I realized the pipe had stopped. I glanced round, saw in the night on the knoll the man standing naked, the pipe dangling in one hand, the other up caressing the little whimpering gazelle about his shoulders. His narrow eyes were not clearly to be seen, it was all much darker without the earth-light, but I think they were watchful on the ring round Urns—then he turned full to me. I met his gaze with curiosity and a readiness, he the shepherd of his creatures and I of mine which were having an argument as creatures will. My look was turned back into me. His was of disgust, complete. Then, as though he dismissed me, he was gone.

A dark blue bird with red crest up, and plumage edged with red, left the ring of animals and approached my black bird. The other animals, I thought, would leave it at that, their bird spokesman for all their wrath, single combat, diatryma v. diatryma.

The few circled each other for a few tense-wary moments, but Urns was a born fighter even among such a savage race as his own—he belonged to that separate species Fighter just as Ael did, and the sergeant with pale eyes, and Zerd who had given me this one—and he soon put an end to the ogling, darted in and sank his hooked beak in the other’s neck. The blue bird was not a Fighter. He squealed with pain and defiance, and lashed out but missed. He had courage. But Urns was still unscathed when the blue’s blood spurted out. Every dark nostril widened, there was a low growl, swish-swash as the lion’s tail beat in the grass and up like a stiff springy rope on his own flanks.