"Yes—but with small hope. The French do not run to the long bow, and while once I could ring the blanc I am sadly out of practice."
"Ring it now … you can," she said softly.
He looked at her hesitatingly. "Tell me," he said, coming a bit nearer; "tell me … will you be sorry if I fail?"
But the old habit held her and she veered off. "Assuredly … it would be poor friendship if I were not." … A bowstring twanged and the crowd applauded. "Come," she exclaimed, "the match has begun."
"And is this my answer?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir Insistent … until the ride back," and left him.
The luck of the discs had made the Countess of Clare the last to shoot. When she came forward to the line the butt was dotted over with the feathered shafts; but the white eye that looked out from their midst was still unharmed, though the Duchess of Buckingham and Lady Clifton had grazed its edge. Beatrix had slipped the arrows through her girdle, and plucking out one she fitted it to the string with easy grace. Then without pausing to measure the distance she raised the bow, and drawing with the swift but steady motion of the right wrist got only by hard practice, and seemingly without taking aim, she sped the shaft toward the mark.
"Bravo!" exclaimed the King, as it quivered in the white.
Before the word had died, the second arrow rested beside it; and even as it struck, the string twanged again and the third joined the others in the blanc.
"My dear Countess," said Richard, "I did not know we entertained another Monarch. Behold the Queen of Archery! Hail and welcome to our Kingdom and our Court! … Gentlemen, have you no knee for Her Majesty?"