The wings beat about him in a deafening thunder, and the owl's beak tore at his flesh, until the pool of moonlight in which they fought was red with blood.

At last something gave way.

There was a ghastly cry that was like the cry of neither bird nor beast, a weak flutter of wings, and Gargantua of the Air staggered up into the treetops and fell with a crash among the thick boughs of the spruce.
Peter raised himself weakly, the severed leg of the owl dropping from his jaws.

He was half blinded.

Every muscle in his body seemed to be torn and bleeding, yet in his discomfort the thrilling conviction came to him that he had won.