There was but one thing Felix could do in the way of exercise and sport.
He could shoot with the bow in a manner till then entirely unapproached.
His arrows fell unerringly in the centre of the target, the swift deer
and the hare were struck down with ease, and even the wood-pigeon in
full flight. Nothing was safe from those terrible arrows. For this, and
this only, his fame had gone forth; and even this was made a source of
bitterness to him.

The nobles thought no arms worthy of men of descent but the sword and
lance; missile weapons, as the dart and arrow, were the arms of
retainers. His degradation was completed when, at a tournament, where he
had mingled with the crowd, the Prince sent for him to shoot at the
butt, and display his skill among the soldiery, instead of with the
knights in the tilting ring. Felix shot, indeed, but shut his eyes that
the arrow might go wide, and was jeered at as a failure even in that
ignoble competition. Only by an iron self-control did he refrain that
day from planting one of the despised shafts in the Prince's eye.

But when Oliver joked him about his failure, Felix asked him to hang up
his breastplate at two hundred yards. He did so, and in an instant a
shaft was sent through it. After that Oliver held his peace, and in his
heart began to think that the bow was a dangerous weapon.

"So you are late again this morning," said Oliver, leaning against the
recess of the window, and placing his arms on it. The sunshine fell on
his curly dark hair, still wet from the river. "Studying last night, I
suppose?" turning over the parchment. "Why didn't you ride into town
with me?"

"The water must have been cold this morning?" said Felix, ignoring the