“Ah! Yes! You ought to have been killed with the arrows.”
“Ought I?”
“Yes, that you ought. Those fellows shoot very straight, and send those thin splints of wood with tremendous force.”
“They do,” sighed Chris. “My poor mustang!”
“Ah! Poor plucky little thing; he nearly killed you too.”
“In his agony, poor creature. He was shot savagely.”
“Ah! Yes. Seems rather hard on him—a horse to be shot by means of a horse.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Chris, staring.
“No? Don’t you know what some of their bows are?”
“Oh, you mean the strings. Made out of twisted gut, perhaps.”