The lean
old Mok's arms were locked about a monster sheaf of straight flint-headed
arrows, a sheaf greater in size than ever man had looked upon before. The
crippled veteran had not been idle in his cave. He had worked upon the
store of shafts and flintheads he had accumulated, and here was the
result in a great emergency!
The old man cast his sheaf upon the ground and then sank down, somewhat
totteringly, beside it. There needed no shout of command from Ab to tell
those about him what to do. There was one combined yell of sudden
exultation, a rush together for the shafts and a swift filling of empty
quivers. It was but the work of a moment or two. Then something promptly
happened. The great fellows, though acting without orders, shot almost
"all together," as the later English archers did, and so close just
across the flame wall was the opposing group that the meanest archer in
all the lot could scarcely fail to reach a living target, and stronger
arms drew back those arrows than were the arms of those who drew
bowstring in the battles of mediaeval history. With the first deadly
flight came a scattering outside and men lay tossing upon the ground in
their death agony. There was no cessation to the shot, though Boarface
sought fiercely to rally his followers, until all had fled beyond the
range of the bowmen.
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