A trial of skill ensues between the Parisian and the Bedouin, the former promising the latter, who is unwilling to waste his powder, six charges for every one he fires away. The Arab fires at a plover and misses. M. Dumas brings down a snipe. The Arab smiles. “‘The Frenchman shoots well,’ he said; ‘but a true hunter uses not shot, but a ball.’ The janissary translated his words to me. “‘’Tis true’ I replied; ‘tell him I quite agree with him, and that, if he will fix upon a mark, I engage to do what he does.’ “‘The Frenchman owes me six charges of powder,’ quoth the Arab. “‘True again,’ I replied; ‘let the Arab hold out his hand.’ He held it out, and I emptied into it about a third of the contents of my flask. He produced his horn, and poured in the powder to the very last grain. This done, he would evidently have been well-pleased to depart; but that would not answer the purpose of Giraud and Boulanger, who had not yet finished their sketches. Accordingly, at the first movement he made, “‘Remind your countryman,’ said I to El-Arbi-Bernat, ‘that we have each of us to send a bullet somewhere, whithersoever he pleases.’ “‘Yes,’ said the Arab. He looked about and found a stick, which he picked up, and then again set himself to seek for something. I had in my pocket a letter from one of my nephews, employed on His Majesty’s private domain: this letter reposed peaceably in its square envelope, adorned with a red seal; I give it to the Arab, suspecting he was looking for it, or for something like it. The letter was the very thing for a target. The Arab understood at once; he split the end of the stick with his knife, stuck in the letter, planted the stick in the sand, and returned to us, counting twenty-five paces. Then he loaded his gun. I had a double-barrelled rifle, ready loaded; an excellent weapon, made by Devisme: in each of its barrels was one of those pointed bullets with which one kills a man at fifteen hundred metres, (an English mile; well done, M. Dumas!) I took it from Paul, its usual bearer, and I waited. “The Arab took aim with a care which showed the importance he attached to not being vanquished a second time. He fired, and his bullet carried off a corner of the envelope. Masters of themselves as Arabs generally are, ours could not restrain a cry of joy as he pointed to the rent in the paper. I made sign that I saw it perfectly well. He addressed to me a few animated words. “‘He says it is your turn,’ interpreted the janissary. “‘Certainly,’ I replied; ‘but tell him that in France we do not fire at so short a distance.’ I measured fifty paces. He watched me with astonishment. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘tell him that, with the first shot, I will hit the target nearer the centre than he has done; and with the second I will cut the stick that sustains it.’