Like the arrow of Acestes, which caught fire as it flew, or the dart of Abaris, which is the wisdom of concentrated thought, this winged thing sang through the air, and imbedded itself in the blue ring above the center, where it rocked violently from the shock of impact. “Yermah of Tlamco, scores five at elevation of forty-five degrees; drawing force, one hundred and thirty pounds.” The tally-keeper in the judges’ stand droned the words after the official scorer. Then the people seemed to catch their breath. “What skill!” said one, pointing to the still quivering arrow. “What strength!” cried another, while the men of Tlamco, but lately humbled, lifted their heads proudly and looked with admiration at their leader. The exertion flushed Yermah’s face, but there was that in his expression which seemed to augur better things. He had yet to prove himself; so he renewed his efforts with energy and determination. The second shot sent the arrow into the red ring below goal, and nearly opposite the blue, scoring seven points. “Here is fine aiming!” said the judges to one another, while the spectators leaned forward in strained positions and watched intently. There was just the shadow of a smile around Yermah’s mouth, as he bent for the final shot. “Ping!” murmured the third arrow as it hit exact center. “Haille! Haille!” shouted the Azes. “Haille! Haille!” responded the Monbas, catching the enthusiasm, and complimenting their visitors by adopting their cry. The whole crowd were on their feet, all talking at once, not paying the slightest attention to the tellers and scorers, who rushed about bawling the result. “Five—seven—nine are the points; twenty-one for final score,” they said. Yermah flung down his bow and stepped aside to make room for his competitors. He stood helmet in hand, wiping his brow, pleased with the warming sentiment manifested toward him. “Hanabusa, the Azes, scores three, five and seven. Fifteen for final count.” “Ben Hu Barabe can do better,” was said on all sides, as Hanabusa made way for him. “Now the Azes will learn how to shoot!” “He will never equal the first score,” said other archers. “The Atlantian is a fine bowman.” Ben Hu Barabe bent to his task. He sent his first arrow with a vim and energy which bespoke long familiarity and constant practice. He, too, made a center shot, but it was the upper edge of the gold disk which received the barb; next time, the red ring suffered; but the final shot sped feebly, and barely indented the black ring. “The first fort yields to the Azes,” announced the judges. “Move on to the next coign of vantage.” Now came the real test of skill. Here every man was interested, because they all made use of the bow and arrow themselves. The first trial was of strength, but this would require finesse and nicety of calculation. Hundreds of the spectators left their seats and crowded around the contestants.