nor that my string might break. The raging winds cannot drive my shafts off course; no cuirass, helmet, or coat of mail can shield against them, and no weapon can withstand their force. Ask the forts and citadels about me: is there anyone but I who takes up my post to defend them? Then question their armies about the one who stands at the head of those ranks, the one they point to in those moments of dread. Does your archer have the endurance that I can bear (1)? Do you have the power to parry my bolt and my blade? Who has ever been struck by my arrow (2) and not been left a corpse? Or who has received it in his courtyard without being swiftly stripped of the garment of life (3)? Who, then, can take my place when my fierce power is unleashed? What bow besides mine shoots iron-tipped arrows? Indeed, a single one of my shafts weighs as much as another bow in its entirety. When the enemy surrounds a fortress, every kind of weapon fails its defenders—except me (4). The mangonel and I were nursed at the same breast. Confront me with a single man and he will need a host of helpers; whoever wars against me has no hands fit for the fight, and whoever challenges my strength openly denies what plain sight attests.

Section
The hand-drawn bow said (5):