Otto stands gazing still, and leaning on his bow.  “What is the prize?” asks one archer of another.  There are two prizes—­a velvet cap, embroidered by the hand of the Princess, and a chain of massive gold, of enormous value.  Both lie on cushions before her.

“I know which I shall choose, when I win the first prize,” says a swarthy, savage, and bandy-legged archer, who bears the owl gules on a black shield, the cognizance of the Lord Rowski de Donnerblitz.

“Which, fellow?” says Otto, turning fiercely upon him.

“The chain, to be sure!” says the leering archer.  “You do not suppose I am such a flat as to choose that velvet gimcrack there?” Otto laughed in scorn, and began to prepare his bow.  The trumpets sounding proclaimed that the sports were about to commence.

Is it necessary to describe them?  No:  that has already been done in the novel of “Ivanhoe” before mentioned.  Fancy the archers clad in Lincoln green, all coming forward in turn, and firing at the targets.  Some hit, some missed; those that missed were fain to retire amidst the jeers of the multitudinous spectators.  Those that hit began new trials of skill; but it was easy to see, from the first, that the battle lay between Squintoff (the Rowski archer) and the young hero with the golden hair and the ivory bow.  Squintoff’s fame as a marksman was known throughout Europe; but who was his young competitor?  Ah? there was one heart in the assembly that beat most anxiously to know.  ’Twas Helen’s.

The crowning trial arrived.  The bull’s eye of the target, set up at three-quarters of a mile distance from the archers, was so small, that it required a very clever man indeed to see, much more to hit it; and as Squintoff was selecting his arrow for the final trial, the Rowski flung a purse of gold towards his archer, saying—­“Squintoff, an ye win the prize, the purse is thine.”  “I may as well pocket it at once, your honor,” said the bowman with a sneer at Otto.  “This young chick, who has been lucky as yet, will hardly hit such a mark as that.”  And, taking his aim, Squintoff discharged his arrow right into the very middle of the bull’s-eye.

“Can you mend that, young springald?” said he, as a shout rent the air at his success, as Helen turned pale to think that the champion of her secret heart was likely to be overcome, and as Squintoff, pocketing the Rowski’s money, turned to the noble boy of Godesberg.

“Has anybody got a pea?” asked the lad.  Everybody laughed at his droll request; and an old woman, who was selling porridge in the crowd, handed him the vegetable which he demanded.  It was a dry and yellow pea.  Otto, stepping up to the target, caused Squintoff to extract his arrow from the bull’s-eye, and placed in the orifice made by the steel point of the shaft, the pea which he had received from the old woman.  He then came back to his place.  As he prepared to shoot, Helen was so overcome by emotion, that ’twas thought she would have fainted.  Never, never had she seen a being so beautiful as the young hero now before her.