"With a corselet slung across his body, he ran up to the gate tower, carrying a closely wound rattan bow and a twenty four arrow war quiver, drew forth an arrow from the middle of the quiver, fitted it along the string and opened the boards of a window to make a peaked hole, and shouting down he spoke a word to the enemy.
     'Soon you will know the degree of our skill, pretentious host!  Who may your grand marshal be?  Let him approach to receive one of my arrows!'
     Speaking, he pulled back the bowstring, full and slow, until with a singing sound the arrow few away that measured twelve hands and the breadth of three fingers.  Its arrowhead hit square in the middle of the foremost rider's helmet and drove through clearly to the first neck plate, so that he fell headlong from the horse"