Quickly the parrot rallied from her panic. As if she knew that her arch-enemy was not seeking her now, but the precious bit of fluff at her side, she began a series of terror-inspiring performances learned in the profane garrison town of her hatching; she gave tongue to dire words that had long since gone out of her repertory. Ruffled to twice her size, she strutted along her perch, shrieking angry orders to mount, flinging out “_Vuelta! vuelta! vuelta!_” in husky trooper tones, and whistling the bugle calls. It failed to scare Tomasso. Within the cage, as it gently danced from its spring, was a tempting morsel, one that lured all the more through its effort to escape. The cat crept steadily forward, velvet foot following velvet foot, across the shifting dapple before the great crucifix, across the packed gravel of the garden path, to the near shade of a gold of Ophir. There, under the roses, he paused, amber eyes glowing, whetted claws slipping in and out expectantly, muscles rolling and flexing with the measurement of the leap. Then, with the cunning of the wild mother, Loretta adopted new tactics, seeking to divert him. She wobbled upon her perch, giving vent to bursts of hysterical laughter; she got between him and the cage and railed at him. His unblinking eyes did not leave his quarry, his muscles kept their quiver of preparation. At the end of his sleek body, his long tail swept, to and fro, like a furry pendulum marking off the dread time. By now other inmates of the garden were alarmed. A blue jay scolded from the terra-cotta roof of the chapel. From the cross-piece of the tree a line of sparrows gave over their squabbling to look down. Loretta’s excitement grew wilder. Out of her beak poured phrases not of mass or military, not of good-days or -nights. For under the gold of Ophir the furry pendulum was standing out straight and the moving muscles down Tomasso’s length were tight and still. Her instinct knew the signs, and again and again she quavered out the “_Fuego!_” that had disgraced St. John’s Day. No one heard. From the chapel still sounded the intoning of prayer, broken by the rumble and swell of the padres’ voices. A moment, and she acted. With a “_Ga-a-wk!_” of defiance, she aimed her flight for the ground, took it in all but a somersault, and landed herself directly before the astonished Tomasso. Then once again she spread her wings and squared her rudder, making ready for a clash. Tomasso’s eyes fell to her, he relaxed, body and tail, spitting resentfully. Quickly emboldened, she came a hand’s breadth nearer him, snapping at the black tip of his nose. He retreated to his haunches, but directed a swift cuff her way. To this she responded with hoarse laughter and yells of “_To-ony!_” as if she summoned the canary to witness the encouraging progress of the fight. Then she stalked forward once more.