"Ay but," replied my guide, "he is a gifted one, versed in mystics."

I was just going to say a good javelin, shod with iron, was a stronger
argument than any mystic I had ever heard of could stand, when out of
the crowd stepped a youth, and amid the derisive cheers of his friends
chose a reed from the bundle. He poised it in his hand a minute to get
the middle, then turned on the living target. Whatever else they might
be, these Martians were certainly beautiful as the daytime. Never had
I seen such a perfect embodiment of grace and elegance as that boy as
he stood there for a moment poised to the throw; the afternoon sunshine
warm and strong on his bunched brown hair, a girlish flush of shyness
on his handsome face, and the sleek perfection of his limbs, clear cut
against the dusky background beyond. And now the javelin was going.
Surely the mystic would think better of it at the last moment! No! the
initiate held his ground with tight-shut lips and retrospective eyes,
and even as I looked the weapon flew upon its errand.

"There goes the soul of a fool!" I exclaimed, and as the words were
uttered the spear struck, or seemed to, between the neck and shoulder, but
instead of piercing rose high into the air, quivering and flashing, and
presently turning over, fell back, and plunged deep into the turf, while
a low murmur of indifferent pleasure went round amongst the onlookers.

Thereat An, yawning gently, looked to me and said, "A strong-willed
fellow, isn't he, friend?"

I hesitated a minute and then asked, "Was it WILL which turned that
shaft?"