The wildest pursuit

It was 5pm at last. From early morning, I had busied myself about the farm with the constant feeling of a day only half alive; it had been like this for two weeks, ever since young Helen flew loose to the lure. She was a falcon taken at an eyrie renowned for its gamehawks. Five o’clock was her flying time and any day now I expected she would make her first kill. So far the partridges had been too wily, but Helen was intelligent and learned from her mistakes.

It was not, however, the prospect of killing alone that was responsible for my feelings; simply to see her high