'Easy and slow, Aylward. There are very many things which I cannot do, but there are also one or two which I have the trick of. It is in my mind that I can beat this shoot, if my bow will but hold together.'
'Go on, old babe of the woods! Have at it, Hampshire!' cried the archers, laughing.
'By my soul! you may grin,' cried John. 'But I learned how to make the long shoot from old Hob Miller of Milford.'
He took up a great black bow as he spoke, and sitting down upon the ground he placed his two feet on either end of the stave. With an arrow fitted, he then pulled the string towards him with both hands until the head of the shaft was level with the wood. The great bow creaked and groaned and the cord vibrated with the tension.
'Who is this fool's-head who stands in the way of my shoot?' said he, craning up his neck from the ground.
'He stands on the further side of my mark,' answered the Brabanter, 'so he has little to fear from you.'
'Well, the saints assoil him!' cried John. 'Though I think he is over near to be scathed.' As he spoke he raised his two feet, with the bow-stave upon their soles, and his cord twanged with a deep rich hum which might be heard across the valley. The measurer in the distance fell flat upon his face, and then, jumping up again, began to run in the opposite direction.
'Well shot, old lad! It is indeed over his head,' cried the bowmen.
'Mon Dieu!' exclaimed the Brabanter, 'who ever saw such a shoot!'
'It is but a trick,' quoth John. 'Many a time have I won a gallon of ale by covering a mile in three flights down Wilverley Chase.'
'It fell a hundred and thirty paces beyond the fifth mark,' shouted an archer in the distance.
'Six hundred and thirty paces! Mon Dieu! but that is a shoot! And yet it says nothing for your weapon, mon
