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She parried his stroke, and the hen-raven lunged. Nothing now, she knew, could save her eggs, unless she rose to fight the cock-raven. The hen-raven then ran in. She only required a second in which to ruin each egg, but she never got it. Nobody saw the avalanche coming, but everybody heard it arrive.
He certainly used to wake up with outcries, and he equally certainly made that cock-raven shy of that island for evermore. No one would have thought of looking for any living beast in the raffle of dried twigs and tamarisk "leaves" between the crawling, snake-like roots of the feathery tamarisks if it had not been for the noise.
But the island seemed empty of life, and her yelling useless. Down dropped the raven in front of her. Down winnowed the hen-raven at the back of her. And, both together, they approached. And all the time the great black-backed gull continued to yell, "How-how-how-how!" At last, when he had got close enough, the cock-raven lunged at her, or, rather, underneath her.
It was of snow-white, and it was of jet-black, and it knocked the cock-raven one way, and sent the hen-raven, picking up her skirts, as it were, and fleeing, the other. And the name of the avalanche was Cob. I fancy he considered that he bore a grudge against that cock bandit-raven. Perhaps in dreams he could still feel that trap on his leg. Who knows?
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