his face, smothering him, beating him down.

Ah, but I have seen some fights, yet never such a fight as that; and
never again do I want to see such a fight as the one between Gulo and
the golden eagle that made a mistake in his pride of power.

All the awful, cruel, diabolical, clever, devilish, and yet almost
human fury that was in that old brute of a Gulo flamed out in him at
that moment, and he fought as they fight who go down to hell. It was
frightful. It was terrifying. Heaven alone knows what the eagle
thought he had got his claws into. It was like taking hold of a flash
of forked lightning by the point. It was--great!

Still, flight _is_ flight, and lifting-power is lifting-power. Gulo,
even Gulo, could not get over that. He could not stop those vast vans
from flapping; and as they flapped they rose, the eagle rose,
he--though it was like the skinning of his back alive--rose too,
wriggling ignominiously, raging, foaming, snapping, kicking, but--he
rose.

Slowly, very slowly, the great bird lifted his terrible prey up and
up--ten, twenty, thirty, forty feet, but no higher. That was the limit
of his lift, the utmost of his strength; and at that height parallel
with the ridge, he began to carry the wolverine along, the wolverine
that was going mad with rage in his grasp.

It was a mistake, of course--a mistake for the wolverine to be out on
the open ridge in stark daylight; another mistake for the eagle,
presuming on his fine, lustful pride of strength, to attack him.