"Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas
Immolat"--

Quivered every feather, from beak to tail and talon, in his last
convulsion,

"Vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras!"

In the season of love what combats have we been witness
to--Umpire--between birds of prey! The Female Falcon, she sat aloof like
a sultana, in her soft, sleek, glossy plumes, the iris in her eye of
wilder, more piercing, fiery, cruel, fascinating, and maddening lustre,
than ever lit the face of the haughtiest human queen, adored by princes
on her throne of diamonds. And now her whole plumage shivers--and is
ruffled--for her own Gentle Peregrine appears, and they two will enjoy
their dalliance on the edge of the cliff-chasm--and the Bride shall
become a wife in that stormy sunshine on the loftiest precipice of all
these our Alps. But a sudden sugh sweeps down from heaven, and a rival
Hawk comes rushing in his rage from his widowed eyry, and will win and
wear this his second selected bride--for her sake, tearing, or to be
torn, to pieces. Both struck down from heaven, fall a hundred fathom to
the heather, talon-locked, in the mutual gripe of death. Fair play,
gentlemen, and attend to the Umpire. It is, we understand, to be an
up-and-down fight. Allow us to disentangle you--and without giving
advantage to either--elbow-room to both. Neither of you ever saw a human
face so near before--nor ever were captive in a human hand. Both fasten
their momentarily frightened eyes on us, and, holding back their heads,
emit a wild ringing cry. But now they catch sight of each other, and in
an instant are one bunch of torn, bloody plumes. Perhaps their wings are
broken, and they can soar no more--so up we fling them both into the
air--and wheeling each within a short circle, clash again go both birds
together, and the talons keep tearing throats till they die. Let them
die, then, for both are for ever disabled to enjoy their lady-love. She,
like some peerless flower in the days of chivalry at a fatal tournament,
seeing her rival lovers dying for her sake, nor ever to wear her glove
or scarf in the front of battle, rising to leave her canopy in tears of
grief and pride--even like such Angelica, the Falcon unfolds her wings,
and flies slowly away from her dying ravishers, to bewail her virginity
on the mountains. "O, Frailty! thy name is woman!" A third Lover is
already on the wing, more fortunate than his preceding peers--and
Angelica is won, wooed, and