He came close.
For a moment the two men eyed each other silently.
"Strike, son of the Prophet!" cried the Master.
Up whirled the Olema's blade, flickering in the sun.

The metallic _click_ of the brass switch synchronized with that sweep; Brodeur shifted the reflector by the fraction of a degree.
Bara Miyan's arm grew rigid, quivered a second, then dropped inert.
From his paralyzed hand the simitar fell to the grass.

Brodeur threw off the ray; and the Master, unsmiling, stooped, picked up the blade and with a salaam handed it back, hilt-first, to the old man.
Only with his left hand could Bara Miyan accept it.

He spoke no word, neither did any murmur run through the massed horsemen.

But the shadow of a deep astonishment could not quite veil itself in the profound caverns of the old man's eyes.
"Strike again, Bara Miyan," invited the Master.