Chapter Forty Eight
The men and boys were lined up, bow-tips resting gently in the dirt, quivers at their sides, looking down the hill at their targets, sheaves of hay scattered about a hundred yards downslope. He raised his hand high and called the count, "Eyes forward." The men stared downslope, each picking out his target.
"Draw!" Every man, in rough unison with his fellows, withdrew a long arrow from his quiver, nocked it to string, and drew past his ear. They held, straining, waiting for the word.