Presently, about fifty paces from him, a wood dove flew from out a tree and, as such birds do at the first breath of spring, for the day was mild and sunny, hovered a moment in the air ere it dipped toward a great fir where doubtless it had built for years.

Never, poor fowl, was it destined to build again, for as it turned its beak downward Dick's shaft pierced it through and through and bore it onward to the earth.
Still in the midst of a great silence, Dick took up his quiver and emptied it on the ground, then gave it to the captain of the archers, saying: "And you will, step sixty, nay, seventy paces, and set this mouth upward in the grass where a man may see it well." The captain did so, propping the quiver straight with stones and a bit of wood.

Then, having studied all things with his eyes, Dick shot upward, but softly.

Making a gentle curve, the arrow turned in the air as it drew near the quiver, and fell into its mouth, striking it flat.
"Ill done," grumbled Dick; "had I shot well, it should have been pinned to earth.

Well, yon shadow baulked me, and it might have been worse." Then he unstrung his bow, and slipped it into its case.
Now, at length, the silence was broken, and in good earnest.