“Out to sea!” cried Sakr-el-Bahr. “He’ll not swim far in any case. But we will shorten his road for him.” He snatched a cross-bow from the rack about the mainmast, fitted a shaft to it and took aim.
On the point of loosing the bolt he paused.
“Marzak!” he called. “Here, thou prince of marksmen, is a butt for thee!”
From the poop-deck whence with his father he too was watching the swimmer’s head, which at every moment became more faint in the failing light, Marzak looked with cold disdain upon his challenger, making no reply. A titter ran through the crew.
“Come now,” cried Sakr-el-Bahr. “Take up thy bow!”
“If thou delay much longer,” put in Asad, “he will be beyond thine aim. Already he is scarcely visible.”
“The more difficult a butt, then,” answered Sakr-el-Bahr, who was but delaying to gain time. “The keener test. A hundred philips, Marzak, that thou’lt not hit me that head in three shots, and that I’ll sink him at the first! Wilt take the wager?”
“The unbeliever is for ever peeping forth from thee,” was Marzak’s dignified reply. “Games of chance are forbidden by the Prophet.”
“Make haste, man!” cried Asad. “Already I can scarce discern him. Loose thy quarrel.”
“Pooh,” was the disdainful answer. “A fair mark still for such an eye as mine. I never miss—not even in the dark.”