Abeham pushed his boat under the branches and stood up, reaching his hand toward the bird. Next moment he shrank back in open-mouthed terror, with his eyes fixed on the eagle, and actually fell into the seat at the end of his punt.
What a change had come over the wounded creature! The dying king had arisen in his harness. He had rallied for a last stroke as his enemies closed upon him. The head that was drooping a moment ago was raised with infinite pride and defiance, and the neck stiffened with wrath. The eyes glared with piercing anger at the foe that dared to touch him; the massive yellow legs were drawn up to strike, and the talons opened and shut with ferocious passion.
This was the dread vision that had terrified Abeham, and no wonder. The bird at that moment could have torn him limb from limb.
But it was only a flash, only the agonized effort of despair and death. Next moment a gray film spread over the fierce eye, the yellow beak dropped on the breast, and the legs reached downward pitifully and found no footing. Then, once more making us start in our boats, he rallied with raised head, gave a wild look around, and with a desperate struggle raised himself from the branches, and dashed toward the low bank twenty feet away.
