All night the big buck¹ rabbit—he was really a hare, but the backwoodsmen called him a rabbit—had been squatting² on his form under the dense³ branches of a young fir tree. The branches grew so low that their tips touched the snow all round him, giving him almost perfect shelter from the drift of the storm. The storm was one of icy rain, which everywhere froze instantly as it fell. All night it had been busy encasing the whole wilderness⁴—every tree and bush and stump⁵, and the snow in every open meadow or patch of forest glade⁶—in an armour⁷ of ice, thick and hard and glassy clear. And the rabbit, crouching⁸ motionless, save for an occasional forward thrust of his long, sensitive ears, had slept in unwonted security, knowing that none of his night-prowling foes⁹ would venture forth¹⁰ from their lairs¹¹ on such a night.  
At dawn the rain stopped. The cold deepened to a still intensity¹². The clouds lifted along the eastern horizon, and a thin, icy flood of saffron and palest rose washed down across the glittering desolation. The wilderness was ablaze¹³ on the instant with elusive¹⁴ tongues and points of coloured light—jewelled flames, not of fire, but of frost. The world had become a palace of crystal and opal, a dream-palace that would vanish at a touch, a breath. And indeed, had a wind arisen then to breathe upon it roughly, the immeasurable crystal would have shattered as swiftly as a dream, the too-rigid¹⁵ twigs¹⁶ and branches would have snapped and clattered¹⁸ down in ruin.
 
The rabbit came out from under his little ice-clad fir tree, and, for all his caution, the brittle²⁰ twigs broke about him as he emerged, and tinkled²¹ round him sharply. The thin, light sound was so loud upon the stillness that he gave a startled leap into the air, landing many feet away from his refuge. He slipped and sprawled²², recovered his foothold, and stood quivering, his great, prominent eyes trying to look in every direction at once, his ears questioning anxiously to and fro, his nostrils²³ twitching²⁴ for any hint of danger.
 
There was no sight, sound, or scent²⁵, however, to justify²⁶ his alarm, and in a few seconds, growing bolder, he remembered that he was hungry. Close by he noticed the tips of a little birch sapling sticking up above the snow. These birch-tips, in winter, were his favourite food. He hopped²⁷ toward them, going circumspectly²⁸ over the slippery surface, and sat up on his hindquarters to nibble²⁹ at them. To his intense surprise and disappointment, each twig¹⁷ and aromatic³⁰ bud was sealed away, inaccessible³¹, though clearly visible, under a quarter inch of ice. Twig after twig he investigated with his inquiring, sensitive cleft³² nostrils, which met everywhere the same chill reception. Round and round the tantalizing³³ branch he hopped, unable to make out the situation. At last, thoroughly³⁴ disgusted, he turned his back on the treacherous³⁵ birch bush and made for another, some fifty yards down the glade.
 
As he reached it he stopped short, suddenly rigid, his head half turned over his shoulder, every muscle gathered like a spring wound up to extreme tension. His bulging³⁶ eyes had caught a movement somewhere behind him, beyond the clump³⁷ of twigs which he had just left. Only for a second did he remain thus rigid. Then the spring was loosed. With a frantic³⁸ bound he went over and through the top of the bush. The shattered and scattered³⁹ crystals rang sharply on the shining snow-crust. And he sped away in panic terror among the silent trees.
 
From behind the glassy twigs emerged another form, snow-white like the fleeting⁴⁰ rabbit, and sped in pursuit—not so swiftly, indeed, as the rabbit, but with an air of implacable purpose that made the quarry⁴¹ seem already doomed⁴². The pursuer was much smaller than his intended victim, very low on the legs, long-bodied, slender, and sinuous⁴⁴, and he moved as if all compacted of whipcord muscle. The grace of his long, deliberate bounds was indescribable. His head was triangular⁴⁵ in shape, the ears small and close-set, the black-tipped muzzle⁴⁶ sharply pointed⁴⁷, with the thin, black lips upcurled to show the white fangs⁴⁸; and the eyes glowed red with blood-lust⁴⁹. Small as it was, there was something terrible about the tiny beast, and its pursuit seemed as inevitable⁵⁰ as Fate. At each bound its steel-hard claws scratched sharply on the crystal casing of the snow, and here and there an icicle from a snapped twig went ringing silverly across the gleaming surface.
 
For perhaps fifty yards the weasel followed straight upon the rabbit's track. Then he swerved⁵¹ to the right. He had lost sight of his quarry. But he knew its habits in flight. He knew it would run in a circle, and he took a chord of that circle, so as to head the fugitive⁵² off. He knew he might have to repeat this manoeuvre⁵³ several times, but he had no doubts as to the result. In a second or two he also had disappeared among the azure⁵⁴ shadows and pink-and-saffron gleams of the ice-clad forest.
 
For several minutes the glade was empty, still as death, with the bitter but delicate glories of the winter dawn flooding ever more radiantly across it. On a sudden the rabbit appeared again, this time at the opposite side of the glade. He was running irresolutely⁵⁵ now, with little aimless leaps to this side and to that, and his leaps were short and lifeless, as if his nerve-power were getting paralysed. About the middle of the glade he seemed to give up altogether, as if conquered by sheer panic. He stopped, hesitated, wheeled round, and crouched⁵⁶ flat upon the naked snow, trembling violently, and staring, with eyes that started from his head, at the point in the woods which he had just emerged from.
 
A second later the grim pursuer appeared. He saw his victim awaiting him, but he did not hurry his pace by a hair's-breadth. With the same terrible deliberation he approached. Only his jaws⁵⁷ opened, his long fangs glistened⁵⁸ bare; a blood-red globule of light glowed redder at the back of his eyes.
 
One more of those inexorable bounds, and he would have been at his victim's throat. The rabbit screamed.
 
At that instant, with a hissing⁵⁹ sound, a dark shadow dropped out of the air. It struck the rabbit. He was enveloped⁶⁰ in a dreadful flapping of wings. Iron talons⁶¹, that clutched and bit like the jaws of a trap, seized him by the back. He felt himself partly lifted from the snow. He screamed again. But now he struggled convulsively, no longer submissive to his doom⁴³, the hypnotic spell cast upon him by the weasel being broken by the shock of the great hawk⁶²'s unexpected attack.
 
But the weasel was not of the stuff or temper to let his prey⁶³ be snatched thus from his jaws. Cruel and wanton assassin though he was, ever rejoicing to kill for the lust of killing⁶⁴ long after his hunger was satisfied, he had the courage of a wounded buffalo⁶⁵. A mere⁶⁶ darting⁶⁷ silver of white, he sprang straight into the blinding confusion of those great wings.
 
He secured a hold just under one wing, where the armour of feathers was thinnest, and began to gnaw⁶⁸ inwards with his keen fangs. With a startled cry, the hawk freed her talons from the rabbit's back and clutched frantically⁶⁹ at her assailant. The rabbit, writhing⁷⁰ out from under the struggle, went leaping off into cover, bleeding copiously⁷¹, but carrying no fatal hurt. He had recovered his wits, and had no idle curiosity as to how the battle between his enemies would turn out.
 
The hawk, for all her great strength and the crushing superiority of her weapons, had a serious disadvantage of position. The weasel, maintaining his deadly grip and working inwards like a bull-dog, had hunched⁷² up his lithe⁷³ little body so that she could not reach it with her talons. She tore furiously at his back with her rending⁷⁴ beak⁷⁵, but the amazingly tough, rubbery muscles resisted even that weapon to a certain degree. At last, securing a grip with her beak upon her adversary's thigh⁷⁶, she managed to pull the curled-up body out almost straight, and so secured a grip upon it with one set of talons.
 
That grip was crushing, irresistible⁷⁷, but it was too far back to be immediately fatal. The weasel's lithe body lengthened⁷⁸ out under the agonizing⁷⁹ stress of it, but it could not pull his jaws from their grip. They continued inexorably their task of gnawing⁸⁰ inwards, ever inwards, seeking a vital spot.
 
The struggle went on in silence, as far as the voices of both combatants were concerned. But the beating of the hawk's wings resounded⁸¹ on the glassy-hard surface of the snow. As the struggle shifted ground, those flapping wings came suddenly in contact with a bush, whose iced twigs were brittle as glass and glittering like the prisms of a great crystal candelabrum. There was a shrill⁸² crash and a thin, ringing clatter¹⁹ as the twigs shattered off and spun⁸³ flying across the crust.
 
The sound carried far through the still iridescent⁸⁴ spaces of the wilderness. It reached the ears of a foraging⁸⁵ fox, who was tiptoeing with dainty care over the slippery crust. He turned hopefully to investigate, trusting to get a needed breakfast out of some fellow-marauder's difficulties. At the edge of the glade he paused, peering through a bush of crystal fire to size up the situation before committing himself to the venture.
 
Desperately⁸⁶ preoccupied⁸⁷ though she was, the hawk's all-seeing eyes detected the red outlines of the fox through the bush. With a frantic beating of her wings she lifted herself from the snow. The fox darted⁸⁸ upon her with a lightning rush and a shattering of icicles. He was just too late. The great bird was already in the air, carrying her deadly burden with her. The fox leapt straight upwards⁸⁹, hoping to pull her down, but his clashing jaws just failed to reach her talons. Labouring heavily in her flight, she made off, striving to gain a tree-top, where she might perch⁹⁰ and once more give her attention to the gnawing torment⁹¹ which clung beneath her wing.
 
The fox, being wise, and seeing that the hawk was in extremest straits, ran on beneath her as she flew, gazing upwards expectantly.
 
The weasel, meanwhile, with that deadly concentration of purpose which characterizes his tribe, paid no heed⁹² to the fact that he was journeying through the air. And he knew nothing of what was going on below. His flaming eyes were buried in his foe's feathers, his jaws were steadily⁹³ working inwards toward her vitals.
 
Just at the edge of the glade, immediately over the top of a branchy young paper-birch which shot a million coloured points of light in the sunrise, the end came. The fangs of the weasel met in the hawk's wildly throbbing⁹⁴ heart. With a choking burst of scarlet⁹⁵ blood it stopped.
 
Stone dead, the great marauder of the air crashed down through the slim birch-top, with a great scattering⁹⁶ of gleams and crystals. With wide-sprawled wings she thudded down upon the snow-crust, almost under the fox's complacent⁹⁷ jaws. The weasel's venomous head, covered with blood, emerged triumphant⁹⁸ from the mass of feathers.
 
As the victor writhed⁹⁹ free, the fox, pouncing¹⁰⁰ upon him with a careless air, seized him by the neck, snapped it neatly¹⁰¹, and tossed the long, limp body, aside upon the snow. He had no use for the rank, stringy meat of the weasel when better fare was at hand. Then he drew the hawk close to the trunk of the young birch, and lay down to make a leisurely¹⁰² breakfast.