But hark! The church clock down in the village is striking the appointed hour. A little figure, clad in red satin from head to foot, darts out from the thicket of trees below, and now a procession of twelve boys, some in white, some in red, and some in green satin, take their places in the open ring that has been left for the competitors. All the little archers have sashes and caps of bright-colored silk, and, looking down from the green knoll, the whole scene is a kaleidoscope of color.
A silver arrow—the victor’s prize—glitters temptingly in the sunlight; and a tall lad, who stands among the waiting twelve, bends eagerly forward to examine it.
“Just look at Percival!” whispers one little archer to his neighbor. “He’s bound to get that arrow, isn’t he?”
“Pooh! who cares for the arrow?” responds the other, disdainfully. “It’s nothing but a plaything, anyway! What I think about is winning the game, not the arrow!”
“Yes; but you see it’s different with Percival!” said the first speaker. “His three older brothers, three years in succession, won the arrows while they were here at the Harrow School, and the father says that Percival must win the fourth for the one empty corner in the drawing-room, or he shall be ashamed to call him his son!”
Just here the boys were interrupted in their talk, for the target was ready, and, at a signal, the contest began. At first, one shot after another fell quite outside the third circle that surrounded the bull’s-eye, then came a shaft that glanced just to one side of the inner circle; but at last, after many fruitless attempts, the bull’s-eye was fairly pierced, and the feat was greeted with a gay concert from the French horns.
Now, it so happened—at least this is one of the traditions of Harrow—that the name of this last boy was “Love,” and when his arrow touched the bulls-eye a number of his school-fellows shouted high above the horns:
“Omnia vincit Amor!”