Again it struck, this time in the throat, and that lion groaned and died.
The King looked at me angrily, and from the court behind rose a murmur of wonder mingled with wrath, wonder at my marksmanship, and wrath because I had dared to shoot before the King.
"The wager looks well for us," muttered Bes, but I bade him be silent, for more lions were stirring.
Now one leapt across the open space, passing in front of the King and within thirty paces of us.

He shot and missed it, sending his shaft two spans above its back.

Then I shot and drove the arrow through it just where the head joins the neck, cutting the spine, so that it died at once.
Again that murmur went up and the King struck the charioteer on the head with his clenched fist, crying out that he had suffered the horses to move and should be scourged for causing his hand to shake.
This charioteer, although he was a lord--since in the East men of high rank waited on the King like slaves and even clipped his nails and beard--craved pardon humbly, admitting his fault.
"It is a lie," whispered Bes.

"The horses never stirred.

How could they with those grooms holding their heads?
Nevertheless, Master, the pearls are as good as round your neck." "Silence," I answered.