“They had no better weapons,” he reminded her, with an air of instruction. “And their victories were not child’s play. It was the best they could do.”
“And this is the best that I can do!” she said, fitting an arrow to the bow and throwing herself into that attitude of incomparable grace.
Whether it was an accident, whether she had made an extraordinary effort, whether the discord, the nettled displeasure, the roused pride, served to steady her nerves, as self-assertion sometimes will do, the arrow, springing from the string, cleft the air with a musical sibilance that was like a measure of song, and flying straight to the mark struck the bull’s-eye fairly and stuck there, rendering the feat absolutely impossible of disallowance.
Raymond’s delight knew no bounds. He sympathized so in her pleasure. They looked at each other with wide, brilliant eyes full of mutual joy, and ran together to the target to make sure of what was already assured. As they came back both were laughing excitedly, and Raymond was loudly talking. “Let us leave it there to show to Captain Howard. He will never believe it else. Let not another arrow be shot till then, lest somebody strike the target and the jar bring this arrow down.”
“Except Mr. Jerrold!” Arabella stipulated, with a gush of laughter. “There is no danger of his hitting the target, far or near.”
“Yes,—yes,—” exclaimed Raymond, adopting the suggestion. “Here, Jerrold, value your special privileges! You only may draw the bow.”
Jerrold braced himself to the endeavor, good-naturedly adopting the advice of each in turn as they took up their station, one on either side.
“Slip your left hand lower!” Raymond urged.
“Oh, you must hold the arrow steady!” Arabella admonished him.
“Now aim,—aim,—man!” Raymond prompted.