He knew that everything depended on this last shot. If he could again hit the gold, it would then be impossible for Hammond to beat him, for he already led Hammond by one and Hammond could do no more than strike the gold. Therefore he went about his preparations with the utmost coolness and care. Grasping the bow in the middle with his left hand, he placed the notch of the feathered arrow on the middle of the string with his right, resting the shaft across the bow on the left side just above and touching his left hand. Then, with the first three fingers of his right hand, which were covered with leather tips to protect them, he grasped the string and the arrow-neck. It was an inspiring sight just to look on Merriwell at this supreme moment, as he stood ready to shoot. He seemed to be unconscious that there was another person in the world. His body was gracefully erect, his left side slightly turned toward the target, his left arm rigidly extended, and his right hand drawing steadily on the string of the bow. There was a shining light in his eyes and on his face a slight flush. The profound silence that had fallen on every one was broken by the twang of the bowstring, by the arrow’s whizzing flight and by the audible sighs that went up as it sped on its way. “Nine—in the gold!” called the marker, with a thrill in his usually monotonous voice. But there was no cheering, though Rattleton felt like cracking the blue dome of the sky and his throat as well. The excitement was too intense. “I’ll duplicate that or break the bow!” Hammond was heard to mutter. Merriwell walked down toward the target, anxious to observe the arrow as it struck, a proceeding that was perfectly allowable so long as he kept out of the archer’s way. Diamond, who was watching Hammond, saw the latter’s face darken while the pupils of the boy’s eyes seemed to contract to the size of pin points. “That fellow is a regular devil,” thought Diamond. “I must warn Frank to look out or he’ll be waylaid and shot by him some of these fine evenings.” Hammond drew the arrow to the head with a steady hand, but, just as he released it, his foot slipped back on the grass and the arrow was sharply deviated from the line it should have taken to reach the target. Instead of flying toward the gold, it flew toward Merriwell. “Look out!” screamed Diamond, jumping to his feet. Merriwell had reached the narrow path that ran across the grounds and was directly in front of a tree that stood in the path and cut off the view toward the village. He heard the “whir-r-r” of the arrow, heard Diamond’s cry, and dropped to the ground on his face. At the same instant, the straight, lithe form of a girl of seventeen or eighteen appeared from behind the tree. She was directly in the line of the arrow’s flight. She, too, heard the warning, but she did not understand it. She did not dream of peril. Then the arrow struck her, and, uttering a cry, she staggered backward and went down in a heap.