We pulled up our horses and watched them awhile, very statuesque figures, with their great bows pulled taut waiting the word to loose. Then the snapped order from the N.C.O. and the bowstrings sang home as the long yellow arrows changed to flickers of yellow light in the sunshine ere they stood quivering half-buried in the wood backing of the targets.
At fifty yards one would want stout mail to stand up to the shock of the steel-shod war arrows loosed from a six-foot treble-sprung bow with a big man behind it.
“Does every man in Sakaeland use a bow?” I asked.
“Yes, every one, and some of the women, too.”
“Do you?” The idea of Aryenis’s slim arms pulling an arrow to the point seemed incongruous.
“Yes. A light one, of course. But with that I can beat Stephnos at fifty paces, and he’s good—though not as good as Andros.”
“I should like to see you do it.”
“You shall one day—that is, if you don’t want to go back to your own country directly the war’s over.”
“Why do you think I want to go back quickly?”
“Well, your sister’s waiting, isn’t she?—and then you will get tired not having all the wonderful things you’ve told me about. Carriages that go without horses, and things that fly, and glass that you can see through.”