But Otto was busy that moment whittling a willow-twig he had just cut.  Max, the second best archer, shot and missed.

“Then,” said Wolfgang, “I must try myself:  a plague on you, young springald, you have lost a noble chance!”

Wolfgang prepared himself with all his care, and shot at the bird.  “It is out of distance,” said he, “and a murrain on the bird!”

Otto, who by this time had done whittling his willow-stick (having carved a capital caricature of Wolfgang upon it), flung the twig down and said carelessly, “Out of distance!  Pshaw!  We have two minutes yet,” and fell to asking riddles and cutting jokes; to the which none of the archers listened, as they were all engaged, their noses in air, watching the retreating bird.

“Where shall I hit him?” said Otto.

“Go to,” said Rudolf, “thou canst see no limb of him:  he is no bigger than a flea.”

“Here goes for his right eye!” said Otto; and stepping forward in the English manner (which his godfather having learnt in Palestine, had taught him), he brought his bowstring to his ear, took a good aim, allowing for the wind and calculating the parabola to a nicety.  Whiz! his arrow went off.

He took up the willow-twig again and began carving a head of Rudolf at the other end, chatting and laughing, and singing a ballad the while.

The archers, after standing a long time looking skywards with their noses in the air, at last brought them down from the perpendicular to the horizontal position, and said, “Pooh, this lad is a humbug!  The arrow’s lost; let’s go!”

“Heads!” cried Otto, laughing.  A speck was seen rapidly descending from the heavens; it grew to be as big as a crown-piece, then as a partridge, then as a tea-kettle, and flop! down fell a magnificent heron to the ground, flooring poor Max in its fall.

“Take the arrow out of his eye, Wolfgang,” said Otto, without looking at the bird:  “wipe it and put it back into my quiver.”

The arrow indeed was there, having penetrated right through the pupil.

“Are you in league with Der Freischutz?” said Rudolf, quite amazed.

Otto laughingly whistled the “Huntsman’s Chorus,” and said, “No, my friend.  It was a lucky shot:  only a lucky shot.  I was taught shooting, look you, in the fashion of merry England, where the archers are archers indeed.”

And so he cut off the heron’s wing for a plume for his hat; and the archers walked on, much amazed, and saying, “What a wonderful country that merry England must be!”

Far from feeling any envy at their comrade’s success, the jolly archers recognized his superiority with pleasure; and Wolfgang and Rudolf especially held out their hands to the younker, and besought the honor of his friendship.  They continued their walk all day, and when night fell made choice of a good hostel you may be sure, where over beer, punch, champagne, and every luxury, they drank to the health