“Why don’t you take sight, Mr. Jerrold?” Arabella queried.
Mervyn, looking on disaffectedly as all were so merrily busy, noticed that two or three soldiers who passed near enough to see down the little grassy glade among the trees sensibly slackened their pace in their interest in the commotion, and, indeed, the whole scene was visible to the sentries at the gate, the warder in the tower, and to a certain extent from the galleries of the barracks.
“Don’t you think it is injudicious, Jerrold,” he remarked, with distant displeasure, “to make yourself ridiculous in the eyes of the men of your command?”
“Oh, no!” said Jerrold, lightly. “They know it is capital punishment to ridicule me. Make your mind easy.”
“It must lessen your influence!” Mervyn persisted. He hardly knew what he wanted in this argument. He did not care a fig for Jerrold’s influence over the men. He only desired some subterfuge to break up the merry-making in which he did not choose to share.
Jerrold did not even answer. Arabella on one side was offering a dozen suggestions tending to improve his aim, and Raymond was by precept and example endeavoring to get him into the right posture.
“Now,—hold steady for a minute before you shoot,” said Raymond.
“If you only could count ten in that position without moving,” suggested Arabella.
“Or better still, repeat the Cherokee invocation for good aim,” Raymond proposed. “Might improve your luck.” And he continued sonorously: “Usinuli yu Selagwutsi Gigagei getsu neliga tsudandag gihi ayeliyu, usinuliyu. Yu!” (Instantly may the Great Red magic arrow strike you in the very centre of your soul.)
“Oh, repeat it! repeat it!” cried Arabella. “Try it, and see if it will really mend your aim! What strange, strange words!”