Now ravens are rare birds, having been persecuted during the centuries almost to extinction. The reasons for that persecution are easily understandable. There was no compensation for the dead lambs, no money paid out for the slaughtered chicks, and many farmers, especially in the remote districts, found it hard enough to live, without being preyed upon by ravens. Still, the ravens were now heavily protected by law; in the village it was reckoned that any one who took their eggs or shot the parent birds would be imprisoned for at least a month. By reason of their rarity, a certain visiting bird-fancier from the town had mentioned that he would give ten shillings a bird for any fledgelings brought to him. It was a grand price, they agreed at the Nightcrow Inn; not knowing, of course, that the dealer would make a huge and assured profit by sending them to London. Along one of the sheep-wrought paths, among the springing brakeferns and blackthorns, sea-bleached holly-bushes and gorse clusters, just beginning to respond to the sunbeams, the three men went that spring morning. Already the larks were singing high in an azure sky, the kestrels hanging in the light wind, the buzzard wheeling in lone circles far above them. They did not pause to watch, however, for there was a dangerous job on hand, and it was three miles to the Point. The three hunters kept a sharp look-out for the ravens, but saw nothing, even when they neared the lip of the Hole. Aaron dropped his bar, the tackle was flung on the sward, and coats were stripped off. Work began in earnest. The first few powerful twangs of the sledge-hammer on the bar woke echoes in the Hole, and a thousand gulls spread pearly wings tipped with jet and slipped into the air. An uproar of hoarse voices came upwards, and, mounting high, a great seabird, spanning near six feet, dived at them with a soughing of vast wings and passed a bare two feet over their heads. But the men took no notice. Time was precious, and they feared that the policeman might discover them; the terrifying thought of prison was ever behind the thought of golden sovereigns in their pockets. Deep into the sward Aaron drove the bar, until it remained rigid, leaning backwards from the line of the cliff-face. Under his arms Tiger passed the hempen rope and the thinner guide-rope, while John Smith of Crowberry adjusted the hauling blocks. “Thaat be aa-right, reckons.” “Aiy aiy!” Aaron and John Smith of Crowberry took a strain on the rope and began to pay out hand over hand. The Tiger leaned outwards over the Hole and slowly disappeared over the edge. Two tugs on the guide-rope, and the men remained still. Next came three tugs, and Aaron whispered to Farmer John that Tiger was near the ledge. They held on tight.