The next day found the three young men back at the cliff. They had mapped out a scheme whereby they hoped to get the young birds, and had brought with them seven hundred and fifty feet of stout rope, far more than enough to reach from the top of the cliff down to the bottom of the canyon. To make quite sure of this, however, they first lowered the rope, weighted with a stone, down the face of the rock, and saw that, while there yet remained a big coil at their feet, the weighted end of the rope rested on the floor of the canyon. Then the rope was hauled back and a tight loop made in one end. This was paid out over the edge of the cliff until it hung directly in front of the eagles’ nest. The other end of the rope was hitched round a convenient tree. During all this time the men kept close watch for the old eagles, but saw nothing of them. “Off hunting lambs, I suppose,” said one of the young fellows. Then Williams stepped forward, laid hold of the rope, and quickly disappeared over the side, sliding slowly downward, using one leg, around which the line was wrapped, as a brake to keep himself from going too fast. Across his shoulders was slung a stout bag, in which he intended placing the little eagles when he secured them. In one hand he carried a stout stick for use in an emergency: the other hand grasped the rope. Down, down he went until just in front of the eyrie. Then he slipped one leg through the loop at the end of the cord and turned to look into the dark hole, where he could hear the eaglets “talking.” Slowly he swung round, bracing his foot against the rocky wall, until he faced the cleft and could give his attention to the nest. Suddenly, screaming wildly with rage and fright, out from the dark cleft came the old mother-bird. Like a stone from a catapult she flung herself at Williams’s face. Dismayed by the suddenness of the attack, Williams recoiled; his foot slipped from the wall, and his body spun round and out of reach as the huge bird went past him. He did not escape altogether scathless, for one claw, like a knife blade, cut across his cheek, and in an instant the blood was flowing from a cut half an inch deep. Only a few yards did the old eagle fly; then she wheeled and, with the speed of an arrow, shot once more at the man hanging at the end of the rope before her nest. This time Williams braced himself and, with his stout stick ready in his right hand, awaited the onslaught of the big bird. His left hand grasped the rope. The eagle struck Williams on the head with her wing, and at the same moment Williams lashed at the bird with his stick. Such was the fury and strength of the creature, however, that the stick flew from Williams’s hand and went whirling through space to the bottom of the canyon, far below. Again the eagle turned sharply and swooped down on the man, now left defenceless, with only a single bare hand to fight against the infuriated mother-bird’s sharp claws, powerful beak, and mighty wings.