“In the devil’s name, then, be silent!” wheezed Grey Dick, with a flash of his half-opened eye.
“Ay, be silent—be silent!” said the King. “We do not see such shooting every day.”
Now Dick set his foot apart and, arrow on string, thrice he lifted his bow and thrice let it sink again, perhaps because he felt some breath of wind stir the still air. A fourth time he lifted, and drew, not as he had before, but straight to the ear, then loosed at once.
Away rushed the yard-long shaft, and folk noted that it scarcely seemed to rise as arrows do, or at least not half so high. It rushed, it smote, and there was silence, for none could see exactly what had happened. Then he who stood near the target to mark ran forward, and screamed out:
“By God’s name, he has shattered Jack Green’s centre arrow, and shot clean through the clout!”
Then from all sides rose the old archer cry, “He, He! He, He!” while the young Prince threw his cap on high, and the King said:
“Would that there were more such men as this in England! Jack Green, it seems that you are beaten.”
“Nay,” said Grey Dick, seating himself again upon the grass, “there is naught to choose between us in this round. What next, your Grace?”
Only Hugh, who watched him, saw the big veins swell beneath the pale skin of his forehead, as they ever did when he was moved.
“The war game,” said the King; “that is, if you will, for here rough knocks may be going. Set it out, one of you.”