This wood terminated finally in a glade of extraordinary beauty, richly clothed with grass and studded with the gorgeous flowers of the tropical regions. This glade spread before them level for some distance, then gradually sloped upwards, thickly grown with wild oats, and then with brush, to a great height, the whole forming an isolated mountain, which was apparently flat at the summit.
The young boys declared this must be the very abode of enchantment; and as the ascent was a succession of green terraces, they were all able, with some fatigue, but with little difficulty, to attain the highest ridge, when they saw, with some astonishment, that a few feet below them lay a basin or crater, covered with verdure--tall grass mingled with the usual thick brush.
After gazing on it for a few minutes, Hugh said, "What a capital place for our hut. Margaret cannot call this height gloomy, for, by mounting the ridge, we can look over the forest and survey the whole country round us. Then the flowers are so gay and pleasant, and we shall see multitudes of birds. Do look, papa, at those two superb eagles that are soaring above our heads, and that doubtless have their eyrie somewhere in this mountain."
But while they were gazing at the birds, O'Brien, who stood at some distance from them, was making ready his bow, and before they were aware of it he had skilfully sent an arrow into one of the eagles, which fell fluttering and screaming among the brushwood.
"Victory! victory!" he cried, looking round for Mr. Mayburn. "Did you see me shoot the eagle, papa?"
"I saw and admired the magnificent creatures, Gerald," answered Mr. Mayburn; "and I deeply grieved to see one fall by your hand. It was no victory, but a wanton cruelty. You have destroyed the noble bird for no useful purpose, and my heart is afflicted to observe the distress of the attached mate. See how he circles round the spot which has left him bereaved and lamenting. I am forcibly reminded of the powerful words of one of our modern classical poets, who, in describing such a tragical bereavement, writes,--
'She whom he mourns Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge, out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers: never more Shall the lake glass her flying over it; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by!'"