The tally-keeper in the judges’ stand droned the words after the official scorer. Then the people seemed to catch their breath.
“What skill!” said one, pointing to the still quivering arrow. “What strength!” cried another, while the men of Tlamco, but lately humbled, lifted their heads proudly and looked with admiration at their leader.
The exertion flushed Yermah’s face, but there was that in his expression which seemed to augur better things. He had yet to prove himself; so he renewed his efforts with energy and determination.
The second shot sent the arrow into the red ring below goal, and nearly opposite the blue, scoring seven points.
“Here is fine aiming!” said the judges to one another, while the spectators leaned forward in strained positions and watched intently.
There was just the shadow of a smile around Yermah’s mouth, as he bent for the final shot.
“Ping!” murmured the third arrow as it hit exact center.
“Haille! Haille!” shouted the Azes. “Haille! Haille!” responded the Monbas, catching the enthusiasm, and complimenting their visitors by adopting their cry.
The whole crowd were on their feet, all talking at once, not paying the slightest attention to the tellers and scorers, who rushed about bawling the result.
“Five—seven—nine are the points; twenty-one for final score,” they said.