His father, hoping to please him, presented him with a large
Saracen sabre. It was placed on a panoply that hung on a pillar,
and a ladder was required to reach it. Julian climbed up to it one
day, but the heavy weapon slipped from his grasp, and in falling
grazed his father and tore his cloak. Julian, believing he had
killed him, fell in a swoon.

After that, he carefully avoided weapons. The sight of a naked
sword made him grow pale, and this weakness caused great distress
to his family.

In the end, the old monk ordered him in the name of God, and of
his forefathers, once more to indulge in the sport's of a nobleman.

The equerries diverted themselves every day with javelins and
Julian soon excelled in the practice.

He was able to send a javelin into bottles, to break the teeth of
the weather-cocks on the castle and to strike door-nails at a
distance of one hundred feet.

One summer evening, at the hour when dusk renders objects
indistinct, he was in the arbour in the garden, and thought he saw
two white wings in the background hovering around the espalier.
Not for a moment did he doubt that it was a stork, and so he threw
his javelin at it.

A heart-rending scream pierced the air.