11097	----	YOUNG ROBIN HOOD BY G. MANVILLE FENN Author of "The Little Skipper," "Our Soldier Boy," etc. WITH TWENTY-THREE ILLUSTRATIONS Sit still, will you? I never saw such a boy: wriggling about like a young eel." "I can't help it, David," said the little fellow so roughly spoken to by a sour-looking serving man; "the horse does jog so, and it's so slippery. If I didn't keep moving I should go off." "You'll soon go off if you don't keep a little quieter," growled the man angrily, "for I'll pitch you among the bushes." "No, you won't," said the boy laughing. "You daren't do so." "What! I'll let you see, young master. I want to know why they couldn't let you have a donkey or a mule, instead of hanging you on behind me." "Aunt said I should be safer behind you," said the boy; "but I'm not. It's so hard to hold on by your belt, because you're so----" "Look here. Master Robin, I get enough o' that from the men. If you say I'm so fat, I'll pitch you into the first patch o' brambles we come to." "But you are fat," said the boy; "and you dare not. If you did my father would punish you." "He wouldn't know." "Oh! yes he would, David," said the little fellow, confidently; "the other men would tell him." "They wouldn't know," said the man with a chuckle. "I say, aren't you afraid?" "No," said the boy. "What of, tumbling off? I could jump." "'Fraid of going through this great dark forest?" "No. What is there to be afraid of?" "Robbers and thieves, and all sorts of horrid things. Why, we might meet Robin Hood and his men." "I should like that," said the boy. "What?" cried the serving man, and he looked round at the great oak and beech trees through which the faintly marked road lay, and then forward and backward at the dozen mules, laden with packs of cloth, every two of which were led by an armed man. "You'd like that?" "Yes," said the boy. "I want to see him." "Here's a pretty sort of a boy," said the man. "Why, he'd eat you like a radish." "No, he wouldn't," said the boy, "because I'm not a bit like a radish; and I say, David, do turn your belt round." "Turn my belt round?" said the man, in astonishment. "What for?" "So as to put the sword the other side. It does keep on banging my legs so. They're quite bruised." "It's me that'll be bruised, with you punching and sticking your fisties into my belt. Put your legs on the other side. I can't move my sword. I might want it to fight, you know." "Who with?" asked the boy. "Robbers after the bales o' cloth. I shall be precious glad to get 'em safe to the town, and be back home again with whole bones. Sit still, will you! Wriggling again! How am I to get you safe home to your father if you keep sidling off like that? Want me to hand you over to one of the men?" "Yes, please," said the boy, dolefully. "What? Don't want to ride on one of the mules, do you?" "Yes, I do," said the boy. "I should be more comfortable sitting on one of the packs. I'm sure aunt would have said I was to sit there, if she had known." "Look here, young squire," said the man, sourly; "you've too much tongue, and you know too much what aren't good for you. Your aunt, my old missus, says to me: "'David,' she says, 'you are to take young Master Robin behind you on the horse, where he can hold on by your belt, and you'll never lose sight of him till you give him into his father the Sheriff's hands, along with the bales of cloth; and you can tell the Sheriff he has been a very good boy during his visit'; and now I can't." "Why can't you?" said the boy, sharply. "'Cause you're doing nothing but squirming and working about behind my saddle. I shall never get you to the town, if you go on like this." The boy puckered up his forehead, and was silent as he wondered whether he could manage to sit still for the two hours which were yet to elapse before they stopped for the night at a village on the outskirts of Sherwood Forest, ready to go on again the next morning. "I liked stopping with aunt at Ellton," said the little fellow to himself, sadly, "and I should like to go again; but I should like to be fetched home next time, for old David is so cross every time I move, and----" "Look here, young fellow," growled the man, half turning in his saddle; "if you don't sit still I'll get one of the pack ropes and tie you on, like a sack. I never see such a fidgety young elver in my----Oh, look at that!" The man gave a tug at his horse's rein; but it was not needed, for the stout cob had cocked its ears forward and stopped short, just as the mules in front whisked themselves round, and the men who drove them began to huddle together in a group. For all at once the way was barred by about a dozen men in rough weather-stained green jerkins, each with a long bow and a sheaf of arrows at his back, and a long quarter-staff in his hand. David, confidential servant and head man to Aunt Hester, of the cloth works at Ellton, looked sharply round at the half-dozen heavily-laden mules behind him; and beyond them he saw another dozen or so of men, and more were coming from among the trees to right and left. "Hoi! all of you," cried David to his men. "Swords out! We must fight for the mistress's cloth." As he spoke, he seized the hilt of his sword and began to tug at it; but it would not leave its sheath, and all the while he was kicking at his horse's ribs with his heels, with the result that the stout cob gave a kick and a plunge, lowered its head, and dashed off at a gallop, with David holding on to the pommel. Two of the men made a snatch at the reins, but they were too late, and turned to the mule-drivers, who were following their leader's example and trying to escape amongst the trees, leaving the mules huddled together, squealing and kicking in their fright. Young Robin just saw two packages roll to the ground as the cob dashed off; then he was holding on with all his might to old David's belt as the cob galloped away with half-a-dozen of the robbers trying to cut it off. [Illustration: The stout cob dashed of at a gallop, with David holding on to the pommel.] Then the little fellow felt that he was being jerked and knocked and bruised, as the horse tore along with David, head and neck stretched out. There was a rush under some low boughs, and another rush over a patch of brambles and tall bracken; then the cob made a bold dash at a dense mass of low growth, when there was a violent jerk as he made a bound, followed by a feeling as if the boy's arms were being torn out at the shoulders, a rush through the air, a heavy blow, and a sensation of tearing, and all was, giddiness and pain. CHAPTER II It is not nice to be pitched by a man off a horse's back on to the top of your head. That is what young Robin thought as he sat up and rubbed the place, looking very rueful and sad. But he did not seem to be entirely alone there in the dense forest, for there was another young robin, with large eyes and a speckled jacket, sitting upon a twig and watching him intently. Robin could think of nothing but himself, his aching head, and his scratches, some of which were bleeding. Then he listened, and fancied that he heard shouting, with the trampling of mules and the breaking of twigs. But he was giddy and puzzled, and after struggling through some undergrowth he sat down upon what looked like a green velvet cushion; but it was only the moss-covered root of a great beech tree, which covered him like a roof and made all soft and shady. And now it was perfectly quiet, and it seemed restful after being shaken and jerked about on the horse's back. Robin was tired too, and the dull, half-stupefied state of his brain stopped him from being startled by his strange position. His head ached though, and it seemed nice to rest it, and he stretched himself out on the moss and looked up through the leaves of the great tree, where he could see in one place the ruddy rays of the evening sun glowing, and then he could see nothing--think nothing. Then he could think, though he still could not see, for it was very dark and silent and strange, and for some minutes he could not understand why he was out there on the moss instead of being in Aunt Hester's house at Elton, or at home in Nottingham town. But he understood it all at once, recollecting what had taken place, and for a time he felt very, very miserable. It was startling, too, when from close at hand someone seemed to begin questioning him strangely by calling out: "Whoo-who-who-who?" But at the end of a minute or two he knew it was an owl, and soon after he was fast asleep and did not think again till the sun was shining brightly, and he sat up waiting for old David to come and pull him up on the horse again. Robin waited, for he was afraid to move. "If I begin to wander about," he said to himself, "David will not find me, and he will go home and tell father I'm lost, when all the time he threw me off the horse because he was afraid and wanted to save himself." So the boy sat still, waiting to be fetched. The robin came and looked at him again, as if wondering that he did not pull up flowers by the roots and dig, so that worms and grubs might be found, and finally flitted away. Then all at once there was the pattering of feet, and half-a-dozen deer came into sight, with soft dappled coats, and one of them with large flat pointed horns; but at the first movement Robin made they dashed off among the trees in a series of bounds. Then there was another long pause, and Robin was thinking how hungry he was, when something dropped close to him with a loud rap, and looking up sharply, he caught sight of a little keen-eyed bushy-tailed animal, looking down from a great branch as if in search of something it had let fall. "Squirrel!" said Robin aloud, and the animal heard and saw him at the same moment, showing its annoyance at the presence of an intruder directly. For it began to switch its tail and scold after its fashion, loudly, its utterances seeming like a repetition of the word "chop" more or less quickly made. Finding its scolding to be in vain, and that the boy would not go, the squirrel did the next best thing--bounded along from bough to bough; while, after waiting wearily in the hope of seeing David, the boy began to look round this tree and the next, and finally made his way some little distance farther into the forest, to be startled at last by a harsh cry which was answered from first one place and then another by the noisy party of jays that had been disturbed in their happy solitude. To Robin it was just as if the first one had cried "Hoi! I say, here's a boy." And weary with waiting, and hungry as he was, the constant harsh shouting irritated the little fellow so that he hurried away followed by quite a burst of what seemed to be mocking cries, with the intention of finding the track leading across the forest; but he had not gone far before he found himself in an open glade, dotted with beautiful great oak trees, and nearly covered with the broad leaves of the bracken, which were agitated by something passing through and beneath, giving forth a grunting sound. Directly after he caught sight of a long black back, then of others, and he saw that he was close to a drove of small black pigs, hunting for acorns. One of the pigs found him at the same moment and saluted him with a sharp, barking sound wonderfully like that of a dog. This was taken up directly by the other members of the drove, who with a great deal of barking and grunting came on to the attack, for they did not confine themselves to threatening, their life in the forest making them fierce enough to be dangerous. Robin's first thought was to run away, but he knew that four legs are better than two for getting over the ground, and felt that the drove would attack him more fiercely if they saw that he was afraid. His next idea was to climb 'up into the fork of one of the big trees, but he knew that there was not time. So he obeyed his third notion, which was to jump to where a big piece of dead wood lay, pick it up, and hit the foremost pig across the nose with it. That blow did wonders; it made the black pig which received it utter a dismal squeal, and its companions stop and stand barking and snapping all around him. But the blow broke the piece of dead wood in two, and the fierce little animals were coming on again, when a voice cried: "Hi! you! knocking our tigs about!" And a rough boy about a couple of years older than Robin rushed into the middle of the herd, kicking first at one and then at another, banging them with a long hooked stick he held, and making them run squealing in all directions. "What are you knocking our tigs about for?" cried the boy sharply, as he stared hard at the strange visitor to the forest, his eyes looking greedily at the little fellow's purple and white jerkin and his cap with a little white feather in it. "They were coming to bite me," said Robin quickly, while it struck him as funny that the boy should knock the pigs about himself. "What are you doing here?" said the boy. Robin told of his misfortune, and finished by saying: "I'm so hungry, and I want to go home. Where can I get some breakfast?" "Dunno," said the boy. "Have some of these?" He took a handful of acorns from a dirty satchel, and held them out, Robin catching at them eagerly, putting one between his white teeth, and biting it, but only to make a face full of disgust. "It's bitter," he said. "It's not good to eat." "Makes our tigs fat," said the boy; "look at 'em." "But I'm not a pig," said Robin. "I want some bread and milk. Where can I get some?" The boy shook his head. "Where do you live?" asked Robin. "Along o' master." "Where's that?" The boy shook his head and stared at the cap and feather, one of his hands opening and shutting. "Will you show me the way home, then?" The boy shook his head again, and now stared at the velvet jerkin, then at his own garb, which consisted of a piece of sack with slits in it for his head and arms to come through, and a strip of cow-skin for a belt to hold it in. "I could show you where to get something," he said at last. "Well, show me," cried Robin. "You give me that jacket and cap, then," cried the boy, in a husky, low voice. "Give you my clothes?" said Robin, wonderingly. "I can't do that." "Then I shall take 'em?" said the boy, in a husky growl. "I'm so hungry," cried Robin. "Show me where to get something, and I'll give you my cap and feather." "I wants the jacket too," said the boy. "I tell you I can't give you that," cried Robin. "Then I means to take it." Robin shrank away, and the boy turned upon him fiercely. "None of that," he cried. "See this here stick? If you was to try to run away I should send it spinning after you, and it would break your legs and knock you down, and I could send the tigs after you, and they'd soon bring you back." Robin drew a deep breath; he felt hot, and his hands clenched as he longed to strike out at his tyrant. But the young swineherd was big and strong, and the little fellow knew that he could do next to nothing against such an enemy. Then there was a pause. Robin stood, hot, excited, and panting; the herd-boy threw himself down on his chest, rested his chin upon his hands, as he stared fiercely at Robin, and kicked his feet up and down; while the pigs roamed here and there, nuzzling the fallen acorns out from the bracken, and crunching them up loudly. Robin wanted to run, and he did not want to run, and all at the same time, for his strongest desire just then was to fight his tyrant; and for some minutes neither spoke. At last the big boy said, in a low, growling way: "Now then, are you going to give me them things?" "No," said Robin, through his set teeth; and again there was silence. "You give 'em to me, and I'll show you the way to where they live and they'll give you roast deer and roast pig p'raps, for two of ourn's gone. Master says he counted 'em, and they aren't all there, and he wales me with a strap because I let them take the pigs, and next time he counts 'em there's more than there was before, but he's whipped me all the same. You give me them things, and I'll take you where you'll get lots to eat, and milk and eggs and apples. D'yer hear?" "I won't give them to you. I can't--I mustn't," cried Robin passionately. The boy said nothing, but looked away at his pigs, two of which were fighting. "Ah, would you?" he cried; and he made believe to rush at them with his big hook-handled stick. Robin was thrown off his guard, and before he was aware of it the boy made a side leap and, dropping his stick, seized him, threw him over on his back, and sat astride upon his chest. "Now won't you give em to me?" cried the herd-boy; and he whipped off the cap and threw it to a little distance, with the result that half a dozen pigs rushed at it; and as he made a brave fight to get rid of his enemy, the last that Robin saw of his velvet cap and plume was that one black pig tore out the feather, while another was champing the velvet in his mouth. It was a brave fight, but all in vain, and a few minutes later the boy was standing triumphantly over poor Robin, with the gay jerkin rolled up under his arm; and the little fellow struggled to his feet in his trunk hose and white linen shirt, hot, angry, and torn, and wishing with all his might that he were as big and strong as the tyrant who had mastered him. "I told yer I would," said the young ruffian, with a grin. "You should ha' given 'em to me at first, and then I shouldn't have hurt yer. Come on; I'll show yer now where yer can get something to eat." In his anger and shame Robin felt that he wanted no food now, only to go and hide himself away among the trees; but his enemy's next words had their effect. "You didn't want this here," he said. "You've got plenty on you now. Better nor I have. There, go straight on there, and I'll show yer. D'yer hear?" "I don't want to go now," said Robin fiercely. "Oh, don't yer? Then I do. You're agoing afore I makes yer, and when they've give yer a lot, you're going to eat part and bring some to me so's I can help eat the rest. You bring a lot, mind, 'cause I can eat ever so much. Now then, go on." "I can't--I don't want to," cried Robin. "You go first." "What, and master come, p'raps, and find me gone! Likely! he'd give me the strap again. There, get on." Robin winced, for the young ruffian picked up his stick and poked him as he would one of his pigs. But the little fellow could not help himself, and he went on in the required direction among the trees, the forest growing darker and darker, till suddenly voices were heard, and the boy stopped, "You go straight along there," he said, "and I'll wait." "No, you go," said Robin. "You know them." "Oh! yes, and them want some more pigs! Want me to be leathered again?" Robin said "No," but he felt all the time that he should like to see the young tyrant flogged and forced to return the folded up doublet; and he thought sadly of his spoiled and lost cap. CHAPTER III "Now then, don't you be long," cried the young swineherd, and he raised his stick threateningly, and made another thrust at Robin, which was avoided; and feeling desperate now as well as hungry, feeling too, that it would be better to fall into any other hands, the little fellow ran on, following a faint track in and out among the trees, till he came suddenly into an opening, face to face with a group of fifty or sixty people busily engaged around a heap beneath a spreading beech tree. Robin's first act was to stand and stare, for the heap consisted of bales similar to those with which he had seen the mules laden a couple of days back, and tied up together a few yards away were the very mules, while the little crowd of men who were busy bore a very strong resemblance to those by whom the attack was made on the previous day. Robin knew nothing in those days about the old proverb of jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, but he felt something of the kind as he found himself face to face with the marauders who had seized upon the bales of cloth and put his aunt's servants to flight, and without a moment's hesitation he turned and began to hurry back, but ran into the arms of a huge fellow who caught him up as if he had been a baby. [Illustration: Robin ran into the arms of a huge fellow, who caught him up as if he had been a baby.] "Hullo, giant!" cried the big man, "who are you?" And the party of men with him, armed with long bows and arrows, began to laugh merrily. "Let me go--let me go!" cried the boy, struggling angrily. "Steady, steady, my little Cock Robin," said the man, in his big bluff way; "don't fight, or you'll ruffle your feathers." The boy ceased struggling directly. "How did you know my name was Robin?" he said. "Guessed it, little one. There, I shan't hurt you. Where do you come from?" "Ellton," said the boy. "But what are you doing here in the forest?" "You came and fought David, and frightened him and the men away, and those are our mules and the cloth." Robin stopped short, for the big man broke out into a loud whistle, and then laughed. "Oh, that's it, is it?" he said; "and so your name's Robin, is it?" The little fellow nodded. "Yes," he said. "What's yours?" "John," said the great fellow, laughing heartily; "and they call me little because I'm so big. What do you think of that?" "I think it's very stupid," said the boy. "I thought you must be Robin Hood." "Then you thought wrong. But if you thought that this one was you would be right. Here he comes." The boy looked in wonder at a tall man who looked short beside Little John, as he came up in coat of green with brown belt, a sword by his side, quiver of arrows hung on his back, and longbow in his hand. "What woodland bird have you got here, John?" he said. And the boy saw that he smiled pleasantly and did not look fierce or threatening. "A young Robin," said the big fellow; "part of yesterday's plunder." "I want to find my way home," said the boy. "Will you please show me?" "But you did not come here into the forest in shirt and hose, did you, my little man?" said the great outlaw. "No; someone took my cap and doublet away, sir." Robin Hood frowned. "Who was it?" he cried angrily. "Find out, John, and he shall have a bowstring about his back. Point out the man who stripped you, my little lad," he continued, turning to the boy. "It wasn't a man," said the little fellow, "but a boy who minds pigs." "What, a young swineherd!" cried the outlaw, laughing. "Why did you let him? Why didn't you fight for your clothes like a man?" "I did," said young Robin stoutly; "but he was so big, he knocked me down and sat upon me." "Oh! that makes all the difference. How big was he--big as this man?" Young Robin glanced at the giant who had caught him, and shook his head. "No," he said; "not half, so big as he is. But he was stronger than I am." "So I suppose. Well, bring him along. Little John, and let's see if the women can find him some clothes and a cap. You would like something more to wear, wouldn't you?" "I should like something to eat,"' said the boy sadly. "I have not had anything since breakfast." "That's not so very long," said Robin Hood. "We have not had anything since breakfast." "But I mean since breakfast yesterday," said young Robin piteously. "What!" cried Little John. "Why, the poor boy's starved. But we can soon mend that. Come here!" Young Robin's first movement was to shrink from the big fellow, but he smiled down in such a bluff, amiable way, that the boy gave him his hands, and in an instant he was swung up and sitting six feet in the air upon the great fellow's shoulder, and then rode off to an open-fronted shed-like place thatched with reeds, Robin Hood, with his bow over his shoulder, walking by the side. "Here, Marian," cried the outlaw, and young Robin's heart gave a throb and he made a movement to get down to go to the sweet-faced woman who came hurriedly out, wide-eyed and wondering, in her green kirtle, her long soft naturally curling hair rippling down her back, but confined round her brow by a plain silver band in which a few woodland flowers were placed. "Oh! Robin," she cried, flushing with pleasure; "who is this?" "It is some one for you to take care of," said the outlaw, who smiled at the bright look in the girl's face. "He is both hungry and tired, and his people ran away and left him alone in the forest." "Oh, my dear!" she cried, as Little John lightly jumped the boy down at her feet. "Come along." Young Robin put his hand in hers and gave her a look full of trust and confidence, before turning to the two men, for all his troubles seemed over now. "Thank you for bringing me here," he said; "but are you bold Robin Hood and Little John, of whom I've heard my father talk?" "I daresay we are the men he has talked about," said the outlaw smiling; "but who is your father, and what did he say?" "My father is the Sheriff of Nottingham," said the boy, "and he said that he was going to catch you and your men some day, for you were very wicked and bad. But he did not know how good and kind you are, and I shall tell him when you send me home." The two men exchanged glances with Maid Marian. "We shall see," said the outlaw; "but you are nearly starved, aren't you?" "Yes, very, very hungry," said the boy, looking piteously at his new protector, whose hand he held. "Hungry?" she cried. "Yes, he has had nothing since yesterday morning; but you can cure that." "Oh, my dear, my dear!" cried the woman. And she hurried young Robin beneath the shelter, and in a very short time he was smiling up in her face in his thankfulness, for she had placed before him a bowl of sweet new milk and some of the nicest bread he had ever tasted. As he ate hungrily he had to answer Maid Marian's questions about who he was and how he came there, which he did readily, and it did not strike him as being very dreadful that the mules and their loads had been seized, for old David had been very cross and severe with him for getting tired, and these people in the forest were most kind. CHAPTER IV It was a very strange life for a boy who had been accustomed to every comfort, but young Robin enjoyed it, for everything seemed to be so new and fresh, and the men treated him as if he had come to them for the purpose of being made into a pet. They were, of course, fierce outlaws and robbers, ready to turn their bows and swords against anyone; but the poor people who lived in and about the forest liked and helped them, for Robin Hood's men never did them harm, while as to young Robin, they were all eager to take him out with them and show him the wonders of the forest. On the second day after his arrival in the camp, the boy asked when he was to be shown the way home, and he asked again on the third day, but only to be told each time that he should go soon. On the fourth day he forgot to ask, for he was busy with big Little John, who smiled with satisfaction when young Robin chose to stay with him instead of going with some of the men into the forest after a deer. Young Robin forgot to ask when he was to be shown the way home, because Little John had promised to make him a bow and arrows and to teach him how to use them. The great tall outlaw kept his word too, and long before evening he hung a cap upon a broken bough of an oak tree and set young Robin to work about twenty yards away shooting arrows at the mark. "You've got to hit that every time you shoot," said Little John; "and when you can do that at twenty yards you have got to do it at forty. Now begin." For the bow was ready and made of a piece of yew, and half a dozen arrows had been finished. "Think you can hit it?" said Little John, after showing the boy how to string his bow and fit the notch of the arrow to the string. "Oh! yes," said Robin confidently. "That's right! then you will soon be able to kill a deer." "But I don't want to kill a deer," said the boy. "I want to see some, but I shouldn't like to kill one." "Wait till you're hungry, my fine fellow," said Little John, laughing. "But my word! you look fine this morning; just like one of us. Did Maid Marian make you that green jerkin?" "Yes," said the boy. "That's right; so's your cap and feather. But now then, try if you can hit the cap. Draw the arrow right to the head before you let it go. My word, what funny little fumbling fingers yours are!" "Are they?" cried Robin, who thought that his teacher's hands were the biggest he had ever seen. "Like babies' fingers," said Little John, smiling down at the boy as if very much amused. "Now then, draw right to the head." "I can't," said the boy; "it's so hard." "That's because you are not used to it, little one. Try again. Hold tight, and pull hard. Steadily. That's the way. Now loose it and let it go." Young Robin did as he was told, and away went the arrow down between the trees, to fall with its feathered wings just showing above the fallen leaves. "That didn't hit the cap," said Little John. "Never went near." Young Robin shook his head. "Did you look at the cap when you loosed the arrow?" "No," said Robin; "I shut my eyes." "Try again then, and keep them open." Robin tried and tried again till he had sent off all six of his shafts, and then he stood and looked up at Little John, and Little John looked down at him. "You couldn't kill a deer for dinner to-day," said the big fellow. "No," said young Robin; "it's so hard. Could you have hit it?" "I think I could if I stood ten times as far away," said the great fellow quietly. "Oh, do try, please," cried Robin. "Very well; only let's pick up your arrows first, or we may lose some of them. Always pick up your arrows while they are fresh--I mean, while you can remember where they are." The shafts were picked up, mostly by Little John, whose eyes were very sharp at seeing where the little arrows lay; and then they walked back, and Robin had to run by his big companion's side, for he began to stride away, counting as he went, till he had taken two hundred steps from the tree all along one of the alleys of the forest, when he stopped short. "Now then, my little bowman," he said; "think I can hit the mark now?" "No," said Robin decisively; "we're too far away. I can hardly see the cap." "Well, let's try," said Little John, stringing his bow, and then carefully selecting an arrow from the quiver at his back. This arrow he drew two or three times through his hand so as to smooth the feathering and make the web lie straight, before fitting the notch to the string. "So you think it's too far?" said Little John. "Yes, ever so much." "Ah, well, we'll try," said the big fellow coolly. "Where-about shall I hit the cap--in the middle?" [Illustration: "Ah, well, we'll try," said Little John. "Whereabouts shall I hit the cap?"] "No," said Robin; "just at the top of the brim." "Very well," said the big fellow, standing up very straight and rather sidewise, as he held his bow at his left arm's length, slowly drew the arrow to the head, and then as Robin gazed in the direction of the indistinctly seen hat hanging on the tree-trunk-- Twang! The arrow had been loosed, and the bow had given forth a strange deep musical sound. Robin looked sharply at Little John, and the big outlaw looked down at him. "Where did that arrow go?" said the boy. "Let's see," said Little John. "I don't think we shall ever find it again," continued Robin. They walked back, the outlaw very slowly, and Robin quite fast so as to keep up with him. "Perhaps not," said Little John, "but I don't often lose my arrows." "This one has gone right through the ferns," thought Robin, and he felt glad with the thought of the big fellow having missed the mark, but as they walked nearer, he kept his eyes fixed upon the great trunk dimly seen in the shade, being tripped up twice by the bracken fronds; but he saved himself from a fall and watched the tree trunk still, while the hat hanging on the old bough grew plainer, just as it had been before. They had walked back nearly three parts of the way when Robin suddenly saw something which made him start, for there was a tiny bit of something white above something dark, and those marks were not on the brim of the hat before. The next minute Robin's eyes began to open wider, for he knew that he was looking at the feathered end of the arrow, pointing straight at him; and directly after, as he stepped a little on one side to avoid an ant-hill, he could see the whole of the arrow except the point, which had passed through the brim of the hat. "Why, you hit it!" he cried excitedly. "Well, that's what I tried to do," said Little John. "But you hit it just in the place I said." "Yes, you told me to," said Little John, smiling. "That's how you must learn to shoot when you grow up to be a man." Young Robin said nothing, but stood rubbing one ear very gently, and staring at the hat. "Well," said Little John, smiling down at his companion, "what are you thinking about?" "I was thinking that it is very wonderful for you to stand so far off and shoot like that." "Were you, now?" said Little John. "Well, it is not wonderful at all. If you keep on trying for years you will be able to do it quite as well. I'll teach you. Shall I?" "I should like you to," said Robin, shaking his head; "but I can't stop here. I must go home to my father." "Oh! must you?" said Little John. "Go home to your father and mother, eh?" Robin shook his head. "No," he said; "my mother's dead, and I live sometimes with father and sometimes with aunt. I am going home to father now, as soon as you show me the way. When are you going to show me?" Little John screwed up his face till it was full of wrinkles. "Ah," he said, "I don't know. You must ask the captain." "Who is the captain?" said the boy. "Eh? Why, Robin Hood, of course. But I wouldn't ask him just yet." "Why not?" "Eh? Why not? Because it might be awkward. You see, it's a long way, and you couldn't go by yourself." "Well, you could show me," said young Robin. "You would, wouldn't you?" "I would if I could," said Little John; "but I'm afraid I couldn't." "Oh! you could, I'm sure," said young Robin. "You're so big." "Oh! yes, I'm big enough," said Little John, laughing; "but if I were to take you home your father would not let me come back again; and besides, the captain would not let me go for fear that I should be killed." "Killed?" said the boy, staring at his big companion. "Why, who would kill you?" "Your father, perhaps." "What, for being kind to me?" "I can't explain all these things to you, mite. Here's someone coming. Let's ask him. Hi! Captain! Young squire wants me to take him home." Robin Hood, who had just caught sight of the pair and come up, smiled and shook his head. "Not yet, little one," he said. "I can't spare big Little John. Why, aren't you happy here in the merry greenwood under the trees? I thought you liked us." "So I do," said young Robin, "and I should like to stay ever so long and watch the deer and the birds, and learn to shoot with my bow and arrows." "That's right. Well said, little one," cried Robin Hood, patting the boy on the head. "But I'm afraid that my father will be very cross if I don't try to go home." "Then try and make yourself happy, my boy," said Robin Hood, "for you have tried hard to go home, and you cannot go." "Why?" said young Robin. "For a dozen reasons," said the outlaw, smiling. "Here are some: you could not find your way; you would starve to death in the forest; you might meet people who would behave worse to you than the young swineherd, or encounter wild beasts; then, biggest reason of all: I will not let you go." Young Robin was silent for a moment or two, and then he said quickly: "You might tell Little John to take me home. My father would be so glad to see him." Robin Hood and the big fellow just named looked at one another and laughed. "Yes," said Robin Hood, patting the boy on the shoulder, "now that's just it. Your father, the Sheriff, would be so glad to see Little John that he would keep him altogether; and I can't spare him." "I don't think my father would be so unkind," said Robin. "But I am sure he would, little man," said the outlaw. "He'd be so glad to get him that he would spoil him. Eh, John? What do you think?" "Ay, that he would," said Little John, shaking his head. "He'd be sure to spoil me. He'd cut me shorter, perhaps, or else hang me up for an ornament. No, my little man, I couldn't take you home." "There," said the outlaw, smiling; "you must wait, my boy. Try and be contented as you are. Maid Marian's very kind to you, is she not?" "Oh! yes," cried the boy, with his face lighting up, "and that's why I don't want to go." "Hullo!" growled Little John. "Why, you said just now that you did want to go!" "Did I?" said the boy thoughtfully. "To be sure you did. What do you mean." "I mean," said the boy, looking wistfully from one to the other, "that I feel as if I ought to go home, but I think I should like to stay." "Hurrah!" cried Little John, taking off and waving his hat. "Hear that, captain? You've got another to add to your merry men. Young Robin and I make a capital pair. Come along, youngster, and let's practise shooting at the mark, and then we'll make enough arrows to fill your quiver." Five minutes later young Robin was standing as he had been placed by his big companion, who sat down and watched him while he sturdily drew the notch of his arrow right to his ear, and then loosed the whizzing shaft to go flying away through the woodland shade, while Little John shouted as gleefully as some big boy. "Hurrah! Well done, little one! There it is, sticking in yonder tree." CHAPTER V "As far as you like, Robin," said the outlaw, "only you must be wise. Don't go far enough to lose your way. Learn the forest by degrees. Some day you will not be able to lose yourself." "But suppose I did lose myself," said the boy; "what then?" "I should have to tell Little John to bring all my merry men to look for you, and Maid Marian here would sit at home and cry till you were found." "Then I will not lose myself," said Robin. And he always remembered his promise when he took his bow and arrows and, with his sword hanging from his belt, went away from the outlaws' camp for a long ramble. His bow was just as high as he was himself, that being the rule in archery, and his arrows, beautifully made by Little John, were just half the length of his bow. As to his sword, that was a dagger in a green shark-skin sheath given to him by Robin Hood, who said rightly enough that it was quite big enough for him. Maid Marian found a suitable buckle for the belt, one which Little John cut out of a very soft piece of deer-skin, the same skin forming the cross-belt which went over the boy's shoulder and supported his horn. For he was supplied with a horn as well, this being necessary in the forest, and Robin Hood himself taught him in the evenings how to blow the calls by fitting his lips to the mouthpiece and altering the tone by placing his hand inside the silver rim which formed the mouth. It was not easy, but the little fellow soon learned. All the same, though, he made some strange sounds at first, bad enough, Little John declared, to give one of Maid Marian's cows the tooth-ache, and frighten the herds of deer farther and farther away. That was only at the first, for young Robin very soon became quite a woodman, learning fast to sound his horn, to shoot and hit his mark, and to find his way through the great wilderness of open moorland and shady trees. But it was more than once that he lost his way, for the trees and beaten tracks were so much alike and all was so beautiful that it was easy to wander on and forget all about finding the way back through the sun-dappled shades. And so it happened that one morning when the outlaw band had gone off hunting, to bring back a couple of fat deer for Robin Hood's larder, young Robin started by himself, bow in hand, down one of the lovely beech glades, and had soon gone farther than he had been before. The squirrels dropped the beech mast and dashed away through the trees, to chop and scold at him; the rabbits started from out of the ferns and raced away fast, showing the under part of their white cotton tails, before they plunged into their shady burrows; and twice over, as the boy softly passed out of the shade into some sunny opening, he came upon little groups of deer--beautiful large-eyed thin-legged does, with their fawns--grazing peacefully on the soft grass which grew in patches between the tufts of golden prickly furze, for they were safe enough, the huntsmen being gone in search of the lordly bucks, with their tall flattened horns if they were fallow deer, small, round, and sharply pointed if they were roes. There was always something fresh to see, and he who went slowly and softly through the forest saw most. At such times as this young Robin would stop short to watch the grazing deer and fawns with their softly dappled hides, till all at once a pair of sharp blue eyes would spy him out, and the jay who owned those eyes would set up his soft speckled crest, show his fierce black moustachios, and shout an alarm again in a harsh voice--"Here's a boy! here's a boy!" and the does would leave off eating, throw up their heads, and away the little herd would go, nip--nip--nip, in a series of bounds, just as if their thin legs were so many springs, their black hoofs coming down close together and just touching the short elastic grass, which seemed to send them off again. "I wish they wouldn't be afraid of me," young Robin said. "I shouldn't hurt them." But the does and fawns did not know that, for as Robin said this he was fitting an arrow to his bow-string, and threatening to send it flying after the shrieking jay which had given the alarm. He forgot, too, that he had eaten heartily of delicious roasted fawn only a few days before. As he wandered on through glades where the sun seemed to send rays of glowing silver down through the oak or beech leaves as if to fill the golden cups which grew beneath them among the soft green moss, he would come out suddenly perhaps on one of the sunny forest pools, perhaps where the water was half covered with broad flat leaves, among which were silver blossoms, in other places golden, with arrow weed at the sides, along with whispering reeds and sword-shaped iris plants. There beneath the floating leaves great golden-sided carp and tench floated, and sometimes a fierce-eyed green-splashed pike, while over all flitted and darted upon gauzy wings beautiful dragon-flies, chasing the tiny gnats--blue, brown, golden, and golden-green--and now and then encountering and making their wings rustle as they touched in rapid flight. Then as he stood with his hand resting against a tree trunk, peering forward, a curious little head with bright crimson eyes divided the sedge or reeds growing in the water, its owner looking out to see if there was any danger; and as it looked, Robin could see that the bird's beak seemed to be continued right up into a fiat red plate between its eyes. [Illustration: Robin stood with his hand resting against a tree trunk.] Then it came sailing out, swimming by means of its long thin legs and toes, coming right into the opening, looking of a dark shiny brownish green, all but its stunted tail, the under part of which was pure white, with a black band across. Little John told him afterwards that it was a moor-hen, even if it was a cock bird. It was, not this which took so much of Robin's attention, but the seven or eight little dark balls which followed it out along one of the lanes of open water, swimming here and there and making dabs with their little beaks at the insects gliding about the top. It was so quiet and seemed so safe that directly after the reeds parted again and another bird swam out from among the sheltering reeds. Robin knew this directly as a drake, but he had never before seen one with such a gloriously green head, rich chestnut-colored breast, soft gray back, or glistening metallic purple wing spots. Robin could have sent a sharp-pointed arrow at this beautiful bird, and perhaps have killed it, for he knew well that roast duck or drake is very nice stuffed with sage and onions, and with green peas to eat therewith; but he never thought of using his bow, and he was content to feast his eyes upon the bird's beauty and watch its motions. The drake took no notice of the moor-hen and her dusky dabs, but swam right out in the middle, seemed to stand up on the water, stretching out his neck and flapping his wings so sharply that something right on the other side moved suddenly, and Robin saw that there was another bird which he had not seen before--a long-necked, long-legged, loose-feathered gray creature with sharp eyes and a thin beak, standing in the water and staring eagerly at the drake as much as to say: "What's the matter there?" while he uttered aloud the one enquiring cry-- "Quaik?" "Wirk--wirk--wirk!" said the drake. "Quack, quack, quack, quack!" came from out of the reeds, and a brown duck came sailing out, followed by ten little yellow balls of down with flat beaks, swimming like their mother, but in a hurried pop-and-go-one fashion, in and out, and round and round, and seeming to go through country dances on the water in chase of water beetles and running spiders or flies, while the duck kept on uttering a warning quack, and the drake, who, first with one eye and then with the other, kept a sharp look up in the sky for falcons and hawks, now and then muttered out a satisfied "Wirk--wirk--wirk!" Robin was Just thinking how beautiful it all was, when the danger for which the drake was watching in the sky suddenly came from the water beneath. One of the downy yellow dabs had swum two yards away from the others and his mother, after a daddy long-legs which had flown down on to the surface of the water, and had opened its little flat beak to seize it, when there was a whirl in the water, a rush and splash, and two great jaws armed with sharp teeth closed over the duckling, which was visible one moment, gone the next, and Robin drew an arrow out to fit to his bow-string. But he was too late to send it whizzing at the great pike, which had given a whisk with its tail and gone off to some lair in the reeds to peacefully swallow the young duck, while the rest followed their quacking father and mother back to the shelter of the reeds, rushes, and sedge, where the moor-hen and her brood were already safe, while, startled by the alarm, the heron bent down as it spread its great gray wing's, sprang up, gave a few flaps and flops, and began to sail round above the pool till it grew peaceful again, when, stretching out its legs, the heron dropped back into the water, stood motionless gazing down with meditative eyes as if quite satisfied that no fish would touch it, and then, _flick_! It had taken place so rapidly that Robin hardly saw the movement, but certainly the heron's beak was darted in amongst the bottoms of the reeds where they grew out of the water, and directly afterwards the bird straightened itself again, to stand up with a kicking green frog in its scissor-shaped beak. Then there was a jerk or two, which altered the frog's position, and the beak from being only a little way open was shut quite close, and a knob appeared in the heron's long neck, went slowly lower and lower, and then disappeared altogether. Then the heron shuffled its wings a little as if to put the feathers quite straight, said "_Phenk_" loudly twice over, and shut one eye. For the bird had partaken of a satisfactory dinner, and was thinking about it, while young Robin sighed and thought it seemed very dreadful; but the next moment he was watching a streak of blue, which was a kingfisher with a tiny silver fish in its beak, and thinking he was beginning to feel hungry himself. So he left the side of the pool with another sigh, the noise he made sending off the great gray heron, and after a little difficulty he found his way back to the outlaws' camp and his own dinner, which, oddly enough, was not roast buck or fawn, but roast ducks and a fine baked pike, cooked in an earthen oven, with plenty of stuffing. Then, being hungry, young Robin partook of his own meal, and forgot all about what he had seen. CHAPTER VI It was all very wonderful to young Robin when he saw Little John or one of the other men let fly an arrow with a twang of the bow-string and a sharp whizz of the wings through the air, to quiver in a mark eighty or a hundred yards away, or to pierce some flying wild goose or duck passing in a flock high in air; but by degrees that which had seemed so marvellous soon ceased to astonish him, and at last looked quite easy. For Robin was delighted with his bow and arrows as soon as he found that he could send one of the light-winged shafts whistling in a beautiful curve to stick in some big tree. Then he began shooting at smaller trees, and then at saplings when he could hit the small trees. But the saplings were, of course, much more difficult. One day though, he went back to Little John in triumph to tell him that he had shot at a young oak about as thick as his wrist. "But you didn't hit it?" said the big fellow, smiling. "I just scratched one side of it though," cried the boy. "Did you now? Well done! You keep on trying, and you'll beat me some day." "I don't think I shall," said Robin, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Oh! but you will if you keep on trying. A lad who tries hard can do nearly anything." "Can he?" said Robin. "To be sure he can; so you try, and when you can hit anything you shoot at you'll be half a man. And when you've done growing you'll be one quite." "Shall I ever be as big as you?" asked Robin. "I hope not," said Little John, laughing. "I'm too big." "Are you?" said Robin. "I should like to be as big as you." "No, no, don't," cried Little John. "You go on growing till you're a six-footer, and then you stop. All that grows after that's waste o' good stuff, and gets in your way. Big uns like me are always knocking their heads against something." "But how am I to know when I'm six feet high?" said Robin. "Oh! I'll tell you, I'll keep measuring you, my lad." "And how am I to stop growing?" Little John took off his cap and scratched his head, as he wrinkled up his big, good-humored face. "Well, I don't quite know," he said; "but there's plenty o' time yet, and we shall see. Might put a big stone in your hat; or keep you in a very dry place; or tie your shoulders down to your waist--no, that wouldn't do." "Why?" said Robin promptly. "Because it wouldn't stop your legs growing, and it's boys' legs that grow the most when they're young. I say, though, what's become of all those arrows I made you?" "Shot them away." "And only two left. You mustn't waste arrows like that. Why didn't you look for them after you shot?" "I did," cried Robin, "but they will hide themselves so. They creep right under the grass and among the weeds so that you can't find them again. But you'll make me some more, won't you?" "Well," said Little John, "I suppose I must; but you will have to be more careful, young un. I can't spend all my time making new arrows for you. But there, I want you to shoot so that the captain will be proud of you, and some day you'll have to shoot a deer." "I don't think I should like to shoot a deer," said the boy, shaking his head. "Why not?" They're good to eat." "They look so nice and kind, with their big soft eyes." "Well, a man then." "Oh, no! I shouldn't like to shoot a man." "What not one of the captain's enemies who had come to kill him?" "I don't think I should mind so much then. Look here, Little John, I'd shoot an arrow into his back, to prick him and make him run away." "And so you shall, my lad," cried Little John, and he set to work directly to cut some wood for arrows to refill the boy's quiver; and when those were lost, he made some more, for young Robin was always shooting and losing them; but Little John said it did not matter, for he was going to be a famous marksman, and the big fellow looked as proud of his pupil as could be. But Little John did not stop at teaching young Robin to shoot, for one day the boy found him smoothing and scraping a nice new piece of ash as thick as his little finger, which was not little at all. "You don't know what this is for," said the big fellow. "It looks like a little quarter-staff," said young Robin, "like all the men have." "Well done. Guessed it first time. Now guess who it is for?" "Me," said the boy promptly. And so it was, and what was more, Little John, in the days which followed, taught him how to handle it so as to give blows and guard himself, till the little fellow became as clever and active as could be, making the men roar with laughter when in a bout he managed to strike so quickly that his staff struck leg or arm before his opponent could guard. "Why, you're getting quite a forester, Robin," said the captain, smiling, "and what with your skill with bow and quarter-staff you'll soon be able to hold your own." Robin Hood's words were put to the proof in autumn, for one day when the acorns had swollen to such a size that they could no longer sit in their cups, and came rattling down from the sunny side of the great oak-trees, young Robin was having a glorious ramble. He had filled his satchel with brown hazel nuts, had a good feast of blackberries, and stained his fingers. He had had a long talk to a tame fawn which knew him and came when he whistled, and tempted a couple of squirrels down with some very brown nuts, laying them upon the bark of a fallen tree, and then drawing back a few yards, with the result that the bushy-tailed little animals crept softly down, nearer and nearer, ending by making a rush, seizing the nuts, and darting back to the security of a high branch of a tree. "I shouldn't hurt you," said Robin, as he stood leaning upon his little quarter-staff, watching them nibble away the ends of the nuts to get at the sweet kernel. "If I wanted to I could unsling my bow, string it, and bring you down with an arrow; but I don't want to. Why can't you both be as tame as my fawn?" The squirrels made no answer, but went on nibbling the nuts, and suddenly darted up higher in the tree, while Robin grew so much interested in the movements of the active little creatures that he heard no sound behind him, nor did he awaken to the fact that he was being stalked by some one creeping bare-footed from tree to tree to get within springing distance, till all at once he felt the whole weight of something alighting on his back and driving him forward so that he dropped his quarter-staff and came down on hands and knees. "Got yer, have I, at last?" cried a familiar voice, as he felt his ribs nipped, his assailant having seated himself on his back. "Didn't I tell yer I'd wait, and you was to bring me back a lot to eat?" Young Robin waited for no more, but in his agony of spirit he gave himself a wrench sidewise, dislodging his rider, and made an effort to struggle up again. But his old enemy held fast, and after a sharp struggle Robin stood panting, face to face with the young swineherd, who had him tightly by the doublet with both hands. "You let go," cried young Robin fiercely. "You'll tear my coat." "I means to tear it right off dreckly," said the boy, grinning. "I want a noo un again, and it'll just do. I'm a-going to have them bow and arrows too, and the knife and cap, I'll let you see! Going and hiding away all this time, when I told yer to come back!" "You let me go," panted Robin, looking vainly round for help. "Nay, there aren't no one a-nigh, and I've got yer fast. Why didn't yer come back as I told you?" "I didn't want to," said Robin angrily. "You let me go. I'll call Little John to you." "Call him, and I'll knock his ugly old eye out," cried the boy. "I don't care for no Little Johns. I've got you now, and I'm going to pay you for not coming back before. And I know," he snarled, "you're a thief; that's what you are." "I'm not," cried Robin fiercely, and he made a desperate struggle to get away to where his little quarter-staff lay half hidden amongst the bracken. "You let me go." But his efforts to get free were vain. "Yes, I'll let you go, p'raps, when I've done with you and got all I wants," said the boy, in a husky, satisfied tone, as he seemed to gloat over his victim. "No, I won't; you're a thief, and a deer-stealer, and I shall just take yer to one of the King's keepers." Young Robin set his teeth and made another struggle, but quite in vain, for he was no match in strength for his adversary. "What! Hold still! Wo ho, kicker! Quiet, will yer!" snarled the boy. "If yer don't leave off I'll drag yer through all the worst brambles and pitch yer to my tigs. D'yer hear?" he shouted. Robin paused breathlessly, and stood gazing wildly at his enemy. "Yer thought I was giving yer up, did yer, but I wasn't. I've been watching for yer ever since yer run away. I knowed I should ketch yer some day. Errrr! yer young thief!" He tightened his grip of Robin's shoulders, grinned at him like an angry dog, and gave him a fierce shake, while his victim breathed hard as he pressed his teeth together, and there was the look in his eyes as if he were some newly captured wild creature seeking a way to escape. "Kerm along," snarled the young swineherd. "I dropped my staff just back here, and as soon as I gets it, I'm going to stand over yer while yer strips off all them things; and if yer tries to get away I'll break yer legs, and yer can't run then." Robin drew a breath which sounded like a deep sigh, and ceased his struggling, letting his enemy force him to walk backward among the bracken and nearly fall again and again, till all at once the savage young lout shouted: "Ah, here it is'" and loosening one hand, he was in the act of stooping to pick up the staff he had dropped in leaping upon his victim, who now made a bound which sent the boy face downward on to his staff, while Robin dashed off to where his own quarter-staff lay among the bracken--a spot he had glanced at again and again. He seized it in an instant, and was about to bound away among the trees, but his enemy had recovered himself, and staff in hand, came after him at so terrible a rate that Robin only avoided a swishing blow at his legs by dodging round a tree, which received the stroke. The next moment Robin faced round in the open beyond the tree, and stood on guard as he had been taught. "Ah, would yer?" snarled the young swineherd; "take that then." Whisk went the staff and then crack as it was received by Robin across his own, and then, profiting by Little John's lessons, he brought his own over from the left and delivered a sounding blow on his assailant's head. The swineherd uttered a savage yell as he staggered back, but came fiercely on again, striking with all his might, but so wildly that Robin easily avoided the blow, and brought his own staff down whack, crash, on his enemy's shoulders, producing a couple more yells of pain. From that moment Robin had it all his own way, for he easily guarded himself from the swineherd's fierce strokes and retorted with swinging blows on first one arm, then on the other. Then he brought his staff down with a blow beside his enemy's left leg, then half behind the right, making him dance and limp as he yelled and sought in vain to beat down his active little adversary, who delivered a shower of cleverly directed blows in response to the wild swoops given with the worst of aim. In the heat and excitement Robin had felt no fear. He was on his mettle, and fighting for liberty, to gain which he felt that he must effectually beat his enemy; and thanks to Little John's lessons he thrashed him so well that at the end of five minutes the young swine-herd received a final stroke across the knuckles which made him shriek, drop his staff, and turn to run down a long straight avenue in the forest where the ground was open. Robin in his excitement began to run after him to continue the beating, but the swineherd went too fast, and on the impulse of the moment the victor stopped short, dropping his own staff and unslinging his bow from where it hung. In less time than it takes to tell the bow was strung and an arrow fitted, drawn to the head, and with a twang it was loosed after the flying lad, now a hundred yards away; but as soon as it was shot Robin repented. "It'll kill him," he thought, and his heart seemed to stand still. For the boy's teacher had taught well, and here was the proof. Truly as if a long careful aim had been taken the arrow sped many times faster than the swineherd ran, and Robin's eyes dilated as he saw his adversary give a sudden spring and fall upon his face, uttering a hideous yell. Robin, full of repentance, started off to his enemy's help, but before he had gone many yards the swineherd sprang up and began to run faster than ever, while when Robin reached the spot there lay his arrow, but the lad was gone. "Only pricked him a bit," said Little John, when he heard of the adventure. "Serve the young wretch right. But the quarter-staff. My word, big un, I'd have given something to have been there to hear his bones rattle. Well, I didn't teach you for naught. But look here, if you meet that fellow in the forest again don't you wait for him to begin; you go at him at once." Robin nodded his head, but he never saw the swineherd again. CHAPTER VII Young Robin's father, the Sheriff, suffered very sadly from the loss of his son and his goods, and Robin's aunt came to Nottingham and wept bitterly over the loss of the little boy she loved dearly. For David, the old servant in whose charge Robin had been placed when he was going home, had done what too many weak people do, tried to hide one fault by committing another. Robin was given into his charge to protect and take safely home to his father, and when the attack was made by the outlaw's men, instead of doing anything to protect the little fellow and save him from being injured by Robin Hood's people, he thought only of himself. He threw his charge into the first bushes he came to, and galloped away, hardly stopping till he reached Nottingham town. There the first question the Sheriff asked was, not what had become of the pack mules and the consignment of cloth, but where was Robin, and the false servant said that he had fought hard to save him in the fight, but fought in vain, and that the poor boy was dead. And then months passed and a year had gone by, and people looked solemn and said that it seemed as if the Sheriff would never hold up his head again. But they thought that he should have gathered together a number of fighting men and gone and punished Robin Hood and his outlaws for carrying off that valuable set of loads of cloth. But Robin's father cared nothing for the cloth or the mules; he could only think of the bright happy little fellow whom he loved so well, and whom he wept for in secret at night when there was no one near to see. Robin's aunt when she came and tried to comfort him used to shake her head and wipe her eyes. She said little, only thought a great deal, and she came over again and again to try and comfort her dead sister's husband; but it made no difference, for the Sheriff was a sadly altered man. Then all at once there was a change, and it was at a time when Robin's aunt was over to Nottingham. For one day a man came to the Sheriff's house and wanted him. But the Sheriff would not see him, for he took no interest in anything now, and told his servant that the man must send word what his business was. The servant went out, and came back directly. "He says, sir, that he was taken prisoner by Robin Hood's men a week ago, and that he has just come from the camp under the greenwood tree, and has brought you news, master." The Sheriff started up, trembling, and told his servant to bring the strange man in. It was no beaten and wounded ruffian, but a hale and hearty fellow, who looked bright and happy, and before he could speak and tell his news the Sheriff began to question him. "You have come from the outlaws' camp?" he said with his voice trembling. "Yes, Master Sheriff." "They took you prisoner, and beat and robbed you?" "Oh! no, Master Sheriff; they took me before Robin Hood, and he asked me what I was doing there, and whether I was not afraid to cross his forest, and I up and told him plainly that I wasn't. Then he said how was that when I must have heard what a terrible robber he was." "Yes, yes," cried the Sheriff, "and what did you say." "I said that I had lived about these parts all my life and I never heard that he did a poor man any harm. Then he laughed, and all his people laughed too, and he said I was a merry fellow. 'Give him plenty to eat and drink,' he said, 'for two or three days, and then send him on his way.' Yes, Master Sheriff, that he did, and a fine jolly time I had. Why, I almost felt as if I should like to stay altogether." And all this time the Sheriff was watching the man very keenly, and suddenly he caught him by the arm. [Illustration: The Sheriff was watching the man very keenly, and suddenly caught him by the arm.] "Speak out," he said; "you did not come to tell me only that. What is it you are keeping back? Why don't you speak?" "Because, master," said the man softly, "I was afraid you couldn't bear it, for I was a father once and my son died, and though you never knew me, I knew you, and was sorry when the news came that your little boy was killed. Can you bear to hear good news as well as bad?" The Sheriff was silent for a few minutes, during which he closed his eyes and his lips moved, and he looked so strange that Robin's aunt crossed the room to where he sat, and took hold of his hand, as she whispered loving words. "Yes, yes," he said softly, "I can bear it now. Speak, pray speak, and tell me all." "But you will not be angry with me if I am wrong, Master Sheriff?" "No, no," said Robin's father; "speak out at once." "Well, Master Sheriff, no one would tell me when I asked questions, but there's a little fellow there, dressed all in Lincoln green, like one of Robin Hood's fighting men, with his sword and bugle, and bow and arrows, and somehow I began to think, and then I began to ask, whether he was Robin Hood's son; but those I asked only shook their heads. "That made me think all the more, and one day I managed to follow him but among the trees to where I found him feeding one of the wild deer, which followed him about like a dog." "I waited a bit, and then stepped out to him, and what do you think he did? He strung his bow, fitted an arrow to it before I knew where I was, and drew it to the head as if he was going to shoot me. 'Do you know where Nottingham is?' I said, and he lowered his bow. 'Yes,' he said, 'of course. Do you know my father?' 'Do I know the Sheriff?' I said; 'of course.' 'Are you going there soon?' he cried, and I nodded. 'Then you go to my father,' he cried, 'and tell him to tell aunt that I'm quite well, and that some day I'm coming home." The man stopped, for just then the Sheriff closed his eyes again and said something very softly, which Robin's aunt heard, and she sank upon her knees and covered her face with her hands. Then the Sheriff sprang to his feet, looking quite a different man. "Here," he said to the bringer of the news, and he gave him some gold pieces. "Could you find your way back to the outlaws' camp in the forest?" "Oh! yes, Master Sheriff, that I could, though they did bind a cloth over my face when they brought me away." "And you could lead me and a strong body of fighting men right to the outlaws' camp?" "I could, Master Sheriff," said the man, beginning slowly to lay the gold pieces back one by one upon the table; "but I can't do evil for good." "What?" cried the Sheriff angrily. "They are robbers and outlaws, and every subject of the King has a right to slay them." "May be, Master Sheriff," said the man drily; "but I'm not going to fly at the throat of one who did nothing but good to me. They tell me that Robin Hood's a noble earl who offended the King, and had to fly for his life. What I say is, he's a noble kind-hearted gentleman, and if it was my boy he had there, looking as happy as the day is long, I'd go to him without any fighting men." "How, then?" cried the Sheriff. "Just like a father should, master, and ask him for my boy like a man." "That will do," said the Sheriff. "You can go." The man turned to leave the room, when the Sheriff said sharply: "Stop! You are leaving the gold pieces I gave you." "Yes, I can't take pay to lead anyone to fight against Robin Hood and his men." "Those pieces were for the news you brought me," said the Sheriff. "Yes, take them, for you have behaved like an honest man." But the Sheriff did not take the man's advice, neither did he listen to the appeal of young Robin's aunt. For, as Sheriff of Nottingham, he said to himself that it was his duty to destroy or scatter the band of outlaws who had lived in Sherwood Forest for so long a time. So he gathered a strong body of crossbow-men, and others with spears and swords, besides asking for the help of two gallant knights who came with their esquires mounted and in armour with their men. Somehow Robin Hood knew what was being prepared, and about a week after, when the Sheriff and his great following of about three hundred men were struggling to make their way through the forest, they heard the sound of a horn, and all at once the thick woodland seemed to be alive with archers, who used their bows in such a way that first one, then a dozen, then by fifties, the Sheriff's men began to flee, and in less than an hour they were all crawling back to Nottingham, badly beaten, not a man among them being ready to turn and fight. In another month the Sheriff advanced again with a stronger force, but they were driven back more easily than the first, and the Sheriff was in despair. But a couple of days later he had the man to whom he had given the gold pieces found, and sent him to the outlaws' camp with a letter written upon parchment, in which he ordered Robin Hood, in the King's name, to give up the little prisoner he held there contrary to the law and against his own will. It was many weary anxious days before the messenger came back, but without the little prisoner. "What did he say?" asked the Sheriff. "He said, master, that if you wanted the boy you must go and fetch him." It was the very next day that the Sheriff went into the room where young Robin's aunt was seated, looking very unhappy, and she jumped up from her chair wonderingly on seeing that her brother-in-law was dressed as if for a journey, wearing no sword or dagger, only carrying a long stout walking staff. "Where are you going, dear?" she said. "Where I ought to have gone at first," he said humbly; "into the forest to fetch my boy." "But you could never find your way," she said, sobbing. "Besides, you are the Sheriff, and these men will seize and kill you." "I have someone to show me the way," said the Sheriff gently; "and somehow, though I have persecuted and fought against the people sorely, I feel no fear, for Robin Hood is not the man to slay a broken-hearted father who comes in search of his long-lost boy." CHAPTER VIII The sun was low down in the west, and shining through and under the great oak and beech trees, so that everything seemed to be turned to orange and gold. It was the outlaws' supper time, the sun being their clock in the forest; and the men were gathering together to enjoy their second great meal of the day, the other being breakfast, after having which they always separated to go hunting through the woods to bring in the provisions for the next day. Robin Hood's men, then, were scattered about under the shade of a huge spreading oak tree, waiting for the roast venison, which sent a very pleasant odor from the glowing fire of oak wood, and young Robin was seated on the mossy grass close by the thatched shed which formed the captain's headquarters, where Maid Marian was busy spreading the supper for the little party who ate with Robin Hood himself. Little John was there, lying down, smiling and contented after a hard day's hunting, listening to young Robin, who was displaying the treasures he had brought in that day, and telling his great companion where he had found them. There were flowers for Maid Marian, because she was fond of the purple and yellow loosestrife, and long thick reeds in a bundle. "You can make me some arrows of those," said Robin; "and I've found a young yew tree with a bough quite straight. You must cut that down and dry it to make me a bigger bow. This one is not strong enough." "Very well, big one," said Little John, smiling and stretching out his hand to smooth the boy's curly brown hair. "Anything else for me to do?" "Oh yes, lots of things, only I can't think of them yet. Look here, I found these." The boy took some round prickly husks out of his pocket. "Chestnuts--eating ones." "Yes, I know where you got them," said Little-John, "but they're no good. Look." He tore one of the husks open, and laid bare the rich brown nut; but it was, as he said, good for nothing, there being no hard sweet kernel within, nothing but soft pithy woolly stuff. "No good at all," continued the great forester; "but I'll show you a tree which bears good ones, only the nuts are better if they're left till they drop out of their husks." "And then the pigs get them," said Robin. "Then you must get up before the pigs, and be first. Halloa! What now?" For a horn was blown at a distance, and the men under the great oak tree sprang to their feet, while Robin Hood came out to see what the signal meant. Young Robin, who was now quite accustomed to the foresters' ways, caught up his bow like the rest, and stood looking eagerly in the direction from which the cheery sounding notes of the horn were blown. He had not long to wait, for half a dozen of the merry men in green came marching towards them with a couple of prisoners, each having his hands fastened behind him with a bow-string and a broad bandage tied over his eyes, so that they should not know their way again to the outlaws' stronghold. "Prisoners!" said young Robin. "Poor men, too," grumbled Little John. "Then you'll give them their supper and send them away to-morrow morning," said young Robin. "I suppose so," said Little John, "but I don't know what made our fellows bring them in." "Let's go and see," said young Robin. Little John followed as the boy marched off, bow in hand, to where Robin Hood was standing, waiting to hear what his men had to say about the prisoners they had brought in. And as they drew near the boy saw that one was, a homely poor-looking man with round shoulders, the other, well dressed in sad-colored clothes, and thin and bent. But the boy could see little more for the broad bandage, which nearly covered the prisoner's face and was tied tightly behind over his long, gray hair, while his gray beard hung down low. Young Robin looked pityingly at this prisoner, and a longing came over him to loosen the thong which tied his hands tightly behind him, and take off the bandage so that he could breathe freely, but just then Robin Hood cried: "Well, my lads, whom have we here?" The bowed down gray-haired prisoner rose erect at this, and cried: "Is that Robin Hood who speaks?" Before the outlaw could answer; he was stopped by a cry: from the boy, who threw down his bow and darted to the prisoner's side. "Father!" he cried; and he leaped up, as active now as one of the deer of the forest, to fling his arms about the prisoner's neck. But only for a moment. The next he had dropped to the ground, to look fiercely round at the astonished men, as he drew the dagger which hung from his belt. [Illustration: Robin looked fiercely round at the astonished men, as he drew the dagger which hung from his belt.] "Who dared do this?" he cried, as he reached up to tear the bandage from the face bending over him, and then darted round to begin sawing at the thong which held his father's hands. Little John took a step or two forward to help the boy, but Robin Hood held up his hand to keep him back, and a dead silence fell upon the great group of foresters who had pressed forward, and who eagerly watched the scene before them in the soft, amber sunshine which came slanting through the trees. The task was hard, but the little fellow worked well, and many moments had not elapsed before the prisoner's hands were free, and as if seeing no one but the little forester before him in green, and quite regardless of all around, he dropped upon his knees, clasped the boy to his breast, and softly whispered the words: "Thank God!" Young Robin's arms were tightly round his father's neck by this time, and he was kissing the care-worn face again and again. "They didn't know who you were, father; they didn't know who you were," cried the boy passionately, as if asking his father's pardon for the outrage committed upon him. "No, Rob," said the Sheriff, in a choking voice; "they did not know who I was. But you know your poor old father again." "Know you again!" cried the boy, hanging back, and looking at his father wonderingly. "Why, yes; but what a long time you have been before you came to fetch me." "Yes, yes, my boy; a long, long year of misery and sorrow; but I have found you now, at last." "Oh! I am glad," cried the boy, struggling free, and catching his father's hand to lead him towards where Robin Hood and Marian were standing, wet-eyed, looking on. "This is my father," cried the boy proudly. "This is Robin Hood, the captain, father," he continued, and the Sheriff bowed gravely; "and this is Maid Marian, who has been so good to me." The Sheriff bowed slowly 'and gravely, as if to the greatest lady in the land, and then the boy dragged at his father's hand. "And this is old Little John, father," he cried. "I say, isn't he big!" The Sheriff bowed again, and the great outlaw's face wore such a comic expression of puzzlement that Robin Hood laughed aloud, and completed his great follower's confusion. "He has been so good to me, father," cried young Robin. "I can shoot with bow and arrow now, and sound my horn. Hark!" The boy clapped his horn to his lips and blew a few cheery notes which ran echoing down the forest glades, and the men assembled gave a hearty cheer. "You're welcome to the woodlands, Master Sheriff," said Robin Hood, advancing now with extended hand. "Do not take this as the outlaw's hand, nor extend yours as the Sheriff; but let it be the grasp of two Englishmen, one of whom receives a guest." "I thank you, sir," said the Sheriff slowly. "I can give you nothing but thanks, for after a year of sorrow I find my child is after all alive and well." "And I hope not worse than when accident brought him into our hands. What do you say? Do you find him changed?" "Bigger and stronger," said the Sheriff, drawing the boy closer to him, while the little fellow clung to his hand. "Our woodland life; and I warrant you, Master Sheriff, that he is none the worse, for he is the truest, most gracious little fellow I ever met. Here, Little Namesake, speak out, and let your father know you have been a good boy ever since you came here to stay." Young Robin was silent, and looked from one to the other in a curiously abashed fashion. "Well, boy, why don't you speak?" cried Robin Hood merrily. "I want Master Sheriff to hear that we have not spoiled you. Come, tell him. You have always been a good boy, haven't you?" Young Robin hung his head. "No," he said slowly, with his brow wrinkled up, his head hanging and one foot scraping softly at the mossy grass. "No, not always." Little John burst into a tremendous roar of laughter, and began to stamp about, with the result that young Robin made a dash at him and tried vainly to climb up and clap his hand over the great fellow's lips. "Don't--don't tell," cried the boy. "Ran at me--only yesterday," cried Little John--"and began to thrash me in a passion." "Don't tell tales out of school, Little John," cried Robin Hood, laughing. "There, Rob, you must forgive him; we're none of-us-perfect. Master Sheriff, and if your little fellow had been quite so, I don't think that we should all, to a man here, have loved him half so well. But come, after his confession, I think you will grant one thing, and that is, that in spite of his having spent a year in the outlaws' camp, he is as honest as the day." "Nothing could make my boy Robin tell a lie," said the Sheriff proudly. "But, sir, I have come humbly to you now. Glad even to be your prisoner, so that I might once more see my child." "My prisoner if you had come amongst us with your posse of armed men, sir," said Robin Hood proudly. "As it is, Master Sheriff, you come here alone with your guide, and I bid you welcome to our greenwood home. Fate made me what I am, the Sheriff's enemy, but the gentle visitor's friend. Come, Rob, my boy, show your father where he can take away the travel stains, and then bring him to our humble board." It was the next day that was to be young Robin's last with the outlaws in the merry greenwood, and all were gathered together to bid him farewell, and see him safely with his father on the road; but not as the Sheriff had come, wearily and on foot, for half a dozen of the best mules were forthcoming, and the guests were to ride back on their journey home. Who does not know how hard it is to say good-bye? Young Robin did not till the time had come. He awoke that morning joyful and eager to start, for it was to go back home in company with the father whom he loved; but when the time came he had to learn how tightly so many of his little heartstrings had taken hold of the life under the greenwood tree. Everything about him had grown dear, and there was almost a mule load of treasures and pets of his own collecting that could not be left behind. And when they had been carefully packed in panniers by Little John and one of the men, there was the task of bidding them all good-bye, and then those two words grew harder every time. But he spoke out manfully and well, in spite of a choking sensation, till nearly the last. "For I'm coming back again," he said, "and you'll take care of my pet fawn for me, Little John, and always remember to feed it well. And don't forget the dog and that dormouse we couldn't find, so that I can have it when I come back, and--" _Croak_! What was that? It was a peculiar sound made up in the air by Little John, and that did it, for when young Robin looked up in astonishment, it was to see the great fellow's face all puckered up, and--yes, there were two great tears rolling down his cheeks as he caught the boy in his arms and kissed him. And so it was that when young Robin ran to bid Maid Marian good-bye, he could no longer hold it back. As he clasped his arms about her neck, and kissed her passionately again and again, the sobs came fast, but the word _Good-bye_ would not come at all, and when they rode away, the boy dared not look back for fear the men should see his red and swollen eyes. So he only waved his hat, and kept waving it to the last. But he was to see some of his friends again, for about a year after the Sheriff of Nottingham had the strangest visitors of his life-time at his house, and young Robin enjoyed the task of welcoming them, for as one old history says, Robin Hood was forgiven and restored by the King to his rightful possessions, and then it was that he was gladly welcomed by the Sheriff, who said he was honored by the visit of the nobleman and his lady. But it was nothing to young Robin then that his old friend was an earl, and his lady a countess; they were still Robin Hood and Maid Marian to him, and big Little John, their follower, his old friend and companion, full of memories of his year's happy life in the Merry Greenwood. 
45166	----	HOW ROBIN HOOD ONCE WAS A WAIT A MIRACLE PLAY OR CHRISTMAS MASQUE BY ROWLAND GIBSON HAZARD ACTED AT PEACE DALE ON CHRISTMAS EVE 1910 [Illustration] PRINTED BY S. P. C. PROVIDENCE 1912 COPYRIGHT, 1910 BY R. G. HAZARD _To_ _The Boys and Girls of Peace Dale_-- _the hope of the future_ This little sketch was prepared very hurriedly in order to give scope to the volunteer efforts of certain of the younger members of the community who had undertaken to provide the entertainment for the Christmas celebration of 1910 of the Peace Dale Congregational Sunday School. After looking patiently and long for something which they could act for the entertainment of their fellows, they despaired of finding anything they would like. In their dilemma they appealed to me, saying that their principal desire was to introduce the singing of Christmas carols in some way not too commonplace. The characters were taken by inexperienced actors who, nevertheless, presented the masque in a very genuine and convincing manner. The whole time of action was about thirty-five minutes, including the singing of the Christmas carols. I was urged to amplify the action, in order to somewhat prolong the part played by Robin Hood and his men, but, after some effort in this direction, I gave it up, as the principal merit of the masque seemed to me to be its brevity. Several friends have urged its preservation in print in the hope that it may prove suggestive or useful to others in like predicament. R. G. H. Peace Dale, R. I., July 16, 1912. LIST OF PERSONS ROBIN HOOD LONG JOHN FRIAR TUCK WATT WILL SCARLETT One or two others WAIT (leader) FIDDLER CELLO CLARINET SINGERS--as many as may be WIDOW Eight to twelve children less than fourteen years old SANTA CLAUS COSTUMES Robin Hood--If possible, in a close-fitting green, buttoned to the throat. Long John--In old clothes, with leggings. With a bow and arrows, one arrow stuck in belt. (None of Robin's men show shirts or collars.) Watt--Has a bow. Should be a very short man. Friar Tuck--In a friar's robe, with girdle, holding in his hand a big soup spoon with which he beats time while singing. Will Scarlett--Also with a bow, but no arrows. Waits--Waits dressed poorly, as is the custom. Rather ragged clothes. Widow--With a cap and kerchief and apron. Woollen dress cut full. Children--Dressed in school clothes, as old as may be. Santa Claus--Red coat, white trimming. Red cap, white trimming. White beard. A CHRISTMAS MASQUE How Robin Hood once was a Wait (Curtain rising discloses a wood scene. In center a small house. Snow falls. Robin Hood and his merry men advance from left wings, one singing the XIII Century Rondo)-- King Arthur had three sons, that he had; King Arthur had three sons, that he had; He had three sons of yore, and he kicked them out of door Because they could not sing, that he did. Chorus--the same. (Repeat singing.) Robin--Well, lads, ye've fed full this day, So 'tis well to be gay; * * * * * In spite of the weather Let's merry be together. Yon house stuffed with babes Deserves a kind deed, But we've nothing to give them, Tho 'tis Christmas, as all are agreed. (The Waits enter from right, tuning instruments and show fear of Robin's men, who advance threateningly towards them.) Robin (hectoring)--And who gave ye leave to break the mighty silence of our wood? Wait (deprecatingly)--Softly, Kind Master, we be but simple singers come to joy yon lonely widow with songs of Christmas-tide. Robin--Singers, idle and vain, we'll have ye know 'tis death to enter here without our license. Waits--We be waits, good sir, and have ever license to sing the birth of Christ our Lord, born this day. Robin (scornfully)--And what be waits? Wait (with solemnity)--We wait upon the coming of our Lord, Son of Mary and Heaven's Almighty King. And while we patient wait, we sing. Robin (appeased)--Waits, that's better, and who gave word of this widow and her dozen brats? Wait--My fiddler here is cousin to the widow's dead man. Robin (relenting)--What says't thou, Long John and Watt and Jolly Tuck, how would ye like to join this band of Waits for once and sing like Christians to the widow's brats? Tuck (deep bass)--Ay, 't would be well for once to use the lore I once knew well. I'll go. Long John--I'll go. Watt--I'll go, but I can only buzz. (They advance together towards house grouping towards right, leaving house in full view of audience, who see many children at a lighted window, but not one looking out.) (They sing after more tuning of instruments)-- Good King Wenceslas. 1. Good King Wenceslas looked out On the Feast of Stephen, When the snow lay round about, Deep and crisp, and even; Brightly shone the moon that night, Though the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight, Gathering winter fuel. 2. "Hither, page, and stand by me, If thou know'st, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?" "Sire, he lives a good league hence, Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By Saint Agnes' fountain." 3. "Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, Bring me pine-logs hither; Thou and I will see him dine, When we bear them thither." Page and monarch forth they went, Forth they went together; Through the rude wind's wild lament; And the bitter weather. 4. "Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer." Mark my footsteps, my good page Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter's rage Freeze thy blood less coldly. 5. In his master's steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the saint had printed. Therefore, Christian men, be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing. The First Noël. 1. The first Noël the Angel did say, Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay; In fields where they lay keeping their sheep, On a cold winter's night that was so deep. Chorus. Noël, Noël, Noël, Noël, Born is the King of Israel. 2. They looked up and saw a Star, Shining in the East, beyond them far, And to the earth it gave great light, And so it continued both day and night. Noël, etc. 3. And by the light of that same Star, Three Wisemen came from country far; To seek for a King was their intent, And to follow the Star wherever it went. Noël, etc. 4. This Star drew nigh to the north-west, O'er Bethlehem it took its rest, And there it did both stop and stay, Right over the place where Jesus lay. Noël, etc. 5. Then entered in those Wisemen three, Full reverently upon their knee, And offered there, in His Presence, Their gold, and myrrh, and frankincense. Noël, etc. 6. Then let us all with one accord, Sing praises to our Heavenly Lord, That hath made Heaven and earth of nought, And with His Blood mankind hath bought. Noël, etc. God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen. (Old English Noël.) 1. God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, Remember Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmas Day, To save us all from Satan's power, When we were gone astray; Chorus O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, O tidings of comfort and joy. 2. In Bethlehem, in Jewry, This blessed Babe was born, And laid within a manger, Upon this blessed morn; The which His Mother, Mary, Did nothing take in scorn. O tidings, etc. 3. From God our Heavenly Father, A blessed Angel came; And unto certain Shepherds Brought tidings of the same: How that in Bethlehem was born The Son of God by Name. O tidings, etc. 4. Now to the Lord sing praises, All you within this place, And with true love and brotherhood Each other now embrace; This holy tide of Christmas All other doth deface. O tidings, etc. (At second carol, the children come out with half-eaten apples and oaten cake, to stand listening to the singing. The children mingle with the waits and offer them bites of their apples, etc. The widow comes out with a big steaming pot of mead to thank the waits. Offers pot. Robin's men each try to take first drink. Robin stops quarrel and hands it to Tuck, who drinks hastily, and so burns his mouth.) Widow--Oh! kind gentlemen, bless your hearts for this. It's many a year since I heard the sound of a Christmas carol. It does my old heart good. Bless ye, bless ye. (Descries the fiddler cousin, falls on his shoulder, and makes talk of his family--_sotto voce_.) (Robin's men draw off and sing again)-- King Arthur had three sons, that he had. (A basket lowered from above with Santa Claus in it begins to appear to the audience. No one on stage sees it. Santa Claus reaches out and taps Robin on the head, smartly, with a bit of rope. Knocks off his hat.) Robin (terrified)--Saints preserve us. Who smote me? (Sees balloon. Points to it. All cry out in alarm.) Robin--An air-man; a Miracle! The day of miracles! Santa Claus (intones high tenor voice)--Fear not, except for thy sins. I came to hear; what music was it ye sang?--Nay be not affrighted--I'll e'en stand among ye. So shall ye see I bode no ill. (Alights from his car.) Robin--Canst fly? How else cam'st hither? Truly a Miracle art thou. Santa Claus--No Miracle am I, but the dear Christ's Almoner; who comes this night and every Christmas-tide bearing gifts for all good children and a good gift for all, even Jesus' love and Peace on Earth, good will toward men. But this is a miracle, in truth, for here be Waits joined hands with Robin Hood in songs of praise for Christus' birth. Praise God for this and all good deeds, and by such shall these wild hearts (turns to Robin's men) learn gentle love for all mankind. (Exit. Robin leads his men, exit to right. Waits follow.) Santa Claus--And now, good people all, take note of Music; see how she sways rough men and brings the good that's in us all to turn them into better paths. King Arthur did quite right to those three sons who would not sing. I've brought ye Xmas joys For all good girls and boys. I command ye all to sing In praise of our Lord King; The Prince of Peace and God of Love Who sitteth on the throne above. (Exit in balloon-basket upwards, leaving baskets of presents on stage.) (Audience rises and sings)-- Adeste Fideles. O come, all ye faithful, Joyfully triumphant, To Bethlehem hasten now with glad accord; Lo! in a manger Sits the King of angels; :|| O come, let us adore Him, ||: Christ the Lord. Raise, raise, choirs of angels! Songs of loudest triumph, Thro' heavens' high arches be your praises pour'd; Now to our God be, Glory in the highest; :|| O come, let us adore Him, ||: Christ the Lord. Amen! Lord, we bless Thee, Born for our salvation, O Jesus, forever be Thy Name adored; Word of the Father, Now in flesh appearing; :|| O come, let us adore Him, ||: Christ the Lord. 
46190	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) =_Instructor Literature Series--No. 212_= The Story of Robin Hood [Illustration] By BERTHA E. BUSH Published Jointly By F. A. OWEN PUB. CO., DANSVILLE, N. Y. HALL & McCREARY,--CHICAGO, ILL. INSTRUCTOR LITERATURE SERIES STORIES OF ROBIN HOOD BY _Bertha E. Bush_ [Illustration] PUBLISHED JOINTLY BY F. A. OWEN PUB. CO., DANSVILLE, N. Y. HALL & MCCREARY, CHICAGO, ILL. COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY F. A. OWEN PUBLISHING CO _Robin Hood_ CONTENTS WINNING THE SHERIFF'S GOLDEN ARROW HOW LITTLE JOHN JOINED ROBIN HOOD ALLEN-A-DALE AND FRIAR TUCK ROBIN HOOD AND THE SORROWFUL KNIGHT ROBIN HOOD AND THE KING DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE Stories of Robin Hood "And what of Peter the Ploughman? He was a good friend of mine." "Alack, Peter the Ploughman hath been hanged and his wife and little ones turned out of their home to beg." The father of young Robin Hood with his little son at his side, had met a man from his old home and was eagerly questioning him about the welfare of his old neighbors. But much of the news was sad, for the times were evil in England. The Normans had conquered the country and were the lords and officials in the land, and they cruelly oppressed the common people, who were Saxons. The father said not a word although his face grew very sad, but the boy beside him burst out indignantly. "But why should such a thing be done? Peter the Ploughman was one of the best men I ever knew and his wife was as good and kind as an angel. Why should such a dreadful thing be done to them?" "Because he shot deer in the king's forest. But indeed he had an excuse for breaking the law if ever a man did. His crops had been destroyed by the huntsmen riding through them. The tax collector had taken all that he had, and his children were crying for hunger. He shot the deer that they might have food to eat; but the sheriff caught him and hung him for it. As to the reason why his wife was turned out from her home with her orphan children, the abbot wanted that bit of ground for an extension to his garden, so out the poor folks must go." "It's a shame," cried the boy with flashing eyes. "Such laws as that are wicked laws and ought to be broken. The greedy lords and rich, ease-loving churchmen strip the people bare and go rolling in wealth while the rest of the people are starving." "Hush, boy, hush," said the news-teller warningly. "Our England is indeed cruelly misgoverned, but it is not safe to say so, for the very walls have ears and many have been hanged because their tongues wagged too freely, as well as for shooting the king's deer." "But the king,--the king is good," faltered the boy. He had been taught to love and reverence the king. "The king would be a good king if he would stay at home and govern his people. But he is off at war all the time, and the nobles and officers he appoints grind the people as a miller grinds the wheat between his great millstones. They rob them continually, and the rich are growing richer and more greedy and the poor growing poorer and more miserable all the time." "When I am a man," said the boy, Robin Hood, "I will make the rich give up a portion of their wealth to the poor, and then all will be provided for." It was not strange, perhaps, considering the evils of the times, that this boy, Robin Hood, when he became a man, did do just what he said, and gathered a band of men about him in the forest whose pledged purpose was to despoil the rich of ill-gotten wealth and lend a helping hand to the poor. The Normans called them "highway robbers," but the common people called them "the merry men of greenwood" and loved them, for they were often helped out of trouble by them. Their robbing was certainly wrong according to our standards, but Robin Hood did not think it was wrong. He took from the rich what they had wrung unjustly from the poor to give it back to the poor, and he thought that it was right. Outlaw though he was, he stood ever for justice and fairness as he saw it. He was loyal to the king, though he resisted the unjust exactions made in the king's name. He was loyal to the church and prayed most reverently for himself and his band. It was his pride that he and his men had never harmed a woman, or burned a haystack, or robbed a husbandman, or hurt a parish priest. The Normans did all these things. Compared with their actions, Robin Hood's standards were wonderfully high. He was trying to be a reformer; and though he went about his work in a wrong way, still he did much good. As the quaint old ballad says about him--in queer spelling which I revise, "Christ have mercy on his soul That died on the rood! For he was a good outlaw And did poor men much good." He was brave and kind and merry always, and all the English people--except England's oppressors--loved him with all their hearts and delighted in his adventures. The story of what he did was put into songs and sung at every fireside; and no man was better loved than this outlaw with a price upon his head. Here are a few stories of Robin Hood and his men, and a great many more may be found which are well worth your reading. WINNING THE SHERIFF'S GOLDEN ARROW It was very pleasant in Sherwood Forest to those who did not fear hardship, and Robin Hood and his men came to love every tree that grew and every bird that sang there. They did not mind that they had no houses to live in. They made themselves shelters of bark and logs to keep the rain off, and mostly they stayed in the open. They did not sigh for soft beds or fine tables and furnishings. They put down rushes and spread deer skins over them to lie on, and slept under the stars. They cooked over a great fire built beside a big tree, and they sat and ate on the ground. More than a hundred men were in Robin Hood's band; every one was devoted to him and obeyed his slightest word. They were the best archers, the best wrestlers, the best runners and the best wielders of cudgel and quarter-staff in all the country, and they grew better continually, for they practiced these things every day. Robin Hood was the best archer in all the land. Even the king had heard of his wonderful marksmanship, and even though he knew him an outlaw, he had an admiring and almost kindly feeling for this bold outlaw who shot so marvelously well. But the greedy lords and churchmen who oppressed the people hated Robin Hood; and the sheriff of Nottingham hated him most of all, and wished above all things to hang him on the gallows. He was a cruel, hard man with no kindness in his bosom, and all his spite was turned against Robin Hood, because every time that he tried to catch him, Robin outwitted him. Now he was especially angered, for he had sent a messenger with a warrant to take Robin Hood and the merry Robin had met the messenger and feasted him, and then, while he was asleep after the feast, stolen the very warrant out of his pocket so that he had to go back to the sheriff without man or warrant either. So the sheriff of Nottingham used all his wits to get another plan to take Robin Hood. It was plainly of no use to send men, no matter how stout, with warrants after him. He must be coaxed into their clutches. "I have it," said the sheriff of Nottingham at last, with a very sour look on his grim face. "I'll catch him by craft. I'll proclaim a great archery festival, and get all the best archers in England to come here to shoot. I'll offer for the prize an arrow of beaten gold. That will be sure to fetch Robin Hood and his men here, and then I'll catch them and hang them." Now Robin Hood and his men did come to the archery contest. But they did not come in the suits of Lincoln green that they wore as men of the forest. Each man dressed himself up to seem somebody else. Some appeared as barefoot friars, some as traveling tinkers or tradesmen, some as beggars, and some as rustic peasants. Robin Hood was the hardest to recognize of all. "Don't go, master," his men had begged. "This archery contest is just a trap to catch you. The sheriff of Nottingham and his men will be looking for you and they will know you by your hair and eyes and face and height, even if you wear different clothes. The sheriff has made this festival just to lure you to death. Don't go." But Robin Hood laughed merrily. "Why, as to my yellow hair, I can stain that with walnut stain. As to my eyes, I can cover one of them with a patch and then my face will not be recognized. I would scorn to be afraid, and if an adventure is somewhat dangerous, I like it all the better." So Robin Hood went, clad from top to toe in tattered scarlet, the raggedest beggarman that had ever been seen in Nottingham. The field where the contest was to be held was a splendid sight. Rows and rows of benches had been built on it for the gentlefolk to sit on, and they wore their best clothes and were gayer than birds of paradise. As for the sheriff and his wife, they wore velvet, the sheriff purple and his lady blue. Their rich garments were trimmed with ermine. They wore broad gold chains around their necks, and the sheriff had shoes with wondrously pointed toes that were fastened to his gold-embroidered garters by golden chains. Oh! they were dressed very splendidly, and if their faces had been kind, they would have looked beautiful. But their faces were full of pride and hate. The sheriff was looking everywhere with spiteful glances for Robin Hood, and very cross he was that he did not see Robin there. But Robin was there, though the sheriff did not see him. There he stood in his ragged beggar's garments, not ten feet away from the sheriff. The targets were placed eighty yards from where the archers were to stand. Pace that off, and see what a great distance it is. There were a great number of archers to shoot and each was to have one shot. Then the ten who shot best were to shoot two arrows each; and the three who shot best out of the ten were to shoot three arrows apiece. The one who came nearest to the center of the target was to get a prize. The sheriff looked gloweringly at the ten. "I was sure that Robin Hood would be among them," he said to the man-at-arms at his side. "Could no one of these ten be Robin Hood in disguise?" "No," answered the man-at-arms. "Six of these I know well. They are the best archers in England. There is Gill o' the Red Cap, Diccon Cruikshank, Adam o' the Dell, William o' Leslie, Hubert o' Cloud, and Swithin o'Hertford. Of the four beside, one is too tall and one too short and one not broad-shouldered enough to be Robin Hood. There remains only this ragged beggar, and his hair and beard are much too dark to be Robin Hood's, and beside, he is blind in one eye. Robin Hood is safe in Sherwood Forest." Even as he spoke, the man-at-arms was glad, for he was but a common soldier, and he loved Robin Hood and wished no harm to come to him. One reason why Robin Hood got away from the sheriff so many times was that the common people, even among the sheriff's own men, were friendly to him and helped him all they could. The gatekeepers shut their eyes when Robin Hood went through the gates that they might say they had not seen him enter. Hardly any one would betray him, and many, when they knew of evil being planned against him, sent warning to him. But even the man-at-arms who loved him did not recognize Robin Hood today. The ten made wonderful shots. Not one arrow failed to come within the circles that surrounded the center. But when the three shot, it was more wonderful still. Gill o' the Red Cap's first arrow struck only a finger's breadth from the center, and his second was nearer still. But the beggar's arrow struck in the very center. Adam o' the Dell, who had one more shot, unstrung his bow when he saw it. "Fourscore years and more have I shot shaft, and beaten many competitors, but I can never better that," he said. The prize of the golden arrow belonged to the tattered beggar, but the sheriff's face was very sour as he gave it to him. He tried to induce him to enter his service, promising great wages. "You are the best archer I have ever seen," he said. "I trow you shoot even better than that rascal and coward of a Robin Hood who dared not show his face here today. Will you join my service?" "No, I will not," answered the scarlet-clad stranger, and then the sheriff looked at him so spitefully that he knew it was well to get away. As he walked toward Sherwood Forest, the sheriff's words rankled. "I cannot bear to have even my enemy think that I am a coward," he said to Little John. "I wish there was a way to tell the sheriff that it was Robin Hood that won his golden arrow." And they found a way. That evening the sheriff sat at supper, and though the supper was a fine one, his face was gloomy. "I thought I could catch that rascal Robin Hood by means of this archery contest," he said to his wife, "but he was too much of a coward to show his face here." Just then something came through the window and fell rattling among the dishes on the table. It was a blunted gray goose quill with a bit of writing tied to it. The sheriff unfolded the writing. It told that it was Robin Hood who had won the golden arrow. When the sheriff read it, even his wife thought best to slip away, for he was the crossest man in Nottingham. HOW LITTLE JOHN JOINED ROBIN HOOD This is the story of how Robin gained his right hand man and dearest friend, Little John. Little John was one of the tallest and strongest youths that ever walked through a forest. When Robin Hood first saw him, he was walking in the edge of the forest and came to a narrow bridge across a stream. The bridge was so narrow that but one could go across it at once, and it chanced that Robin Hood stepped upon it from one side just as Little John stepped on the other end. "Go back, and let the better man cross before you," called Robin Hood, not because he cared a bit but rather with a mirthful wish to see what the tall youth would do. "Stand back yourself. I am the better man," cried the stranger. "Let us fight for it," said Robin Hood, who loved a good bout more than his dinner. "With all my heart," answered the stranger. Then Robin cut him a stick of oak to serve as a quarter-staff, for he would have held it a shame to use his bow and arrows when the other had no such weapon, and they met as joyously as two boys wrestling for sport. "The one who can knock the other into the water is the better man," said Robin. Then the fight with the staves began. What a fight it was! They struck again and again, but so skilful was each one in warding off blows that neither could knock the other down. Many hard blows each one took, until there were sore bones and bumps, and black and blue spots in plenty, but neither thought of stopping for that. A whole hour they fought there on the bridge, and neither could get the better of the other, then another hour. At last Robin gave the stranger a terrible whack that made him stagger, but the stranger returned with a crack on the crown that made the blood flow. Robin whacked back at him savagely, but the stranger avoided the blow and gave one to Robin that tumbled him fairly into the water. He lay there looking up and laughing, for Robin Hood never bore any malice. "You have a right sturdy hand with the cudgel. Never have I been beaten before," he laughed. He splashed ashore and seized the stranger's hand. "I like you well," he said. "Now watch, and I will show you something." He put his horn to his lips and blew, and up came two score of Robin Hood's followers, all clothed in Lincoln green, and bearing bows and arrows and swords. "How is this, master?" said the foremost. "You are all bruised and wet to the skin." "Yon sturdy fellow has given me a drubbing and tumbled me into the water," he said. "Then he shall get a ducking and a drubbing himself," said Will Stutely, starting forth angrily, followed by half a dozen, all eager to carry out his threat. But Robin Hood ordered him back. "No," he said, "it was a fair fight, and he won. I would not have you hurt him for anything. But he is a right brave and lusty youth and I would fain have him in our band. Will you join yourself to my men?" he asked of the wondering stranger. "I am Robin Hood, and my band is the finest in all England." Hardly a man in the country but would have trembled at the name. But John Little, the strange youth, was afraid of no man. "If there is any man among you who can shoot a better shaft than I, I will," he said. "Well, I will try," said Robin. He sent Will Stutely to set up a piece of white bark four fingers in breadth on an oak eighty yards away. "Now choose any of our bows and arrows to shoot with," he said. The stranger chose the very stoutest bow. Then he aimed his arrow carefully and sent it down the path and it struck the very center of the mark. All Robin Hood's followers caught their breaths in amaze. "That is a fine shot indeed," said Robin Hood heartily. "No one could better it; but perhaps I may mar it." Then he shot an arrow; and so true and swift it sped that it struck the stranger's arrow and splintered it into pieces. And all who saw it cried out that there never was such shooting before. "Now, will you not come into my band?" said Robin Hood with a smile. "With all my heart," answered the stranger; and from that minute he loved Robin as his dearest friend. "What is your name?" said Will Stutely, taking out a tablet as though he would enroll it. "John Little," answered the stranger youth. "I like not the name," said merry Will. "This fellow is too small to be called John Little. Let us christen him over, Little John." And so they had a christening and great sport; and from that day Little John was Robin's right hand man and second in command over the band. True and faithfully did he serve Robin for many years and loved him better with every year. ALLEN-A-DALE AND FRIAR TUCK This is the story of a merry friar and how he came to belong to Robin Hood's band. But it begins with the story of a sad youth with a harp in his hand, who could sing as sweetly as a thrush but who thought that he would never sing again for his heart was breaking. Robin Hood and his men found him in the forest, lying prone on the ground and sobbing as if he would weep his eyes out. "Get up! Get up!" shouted Will Stutely, poking him with his foot. "I do hate to see a tall young fellow snivelling like a girl of fourteen over a dead bird." But Robin Hood bade the others stand back, and touched the boy kindly. "You are in trouble," he said. "Do not mind what these fellows say. They are rough, but their hearts are kind. Come with me and tell me what is wrong." "Everything is wrong," said Allen-a-Dale miserably, and it was true that things were going very badly with him. For his true love and promised bride had been forced to give him up and promise her hand to a rich old knight who won her father's favor by means of his money. "She will marry the old knight if her father bids her," cried Allen-a-Dale, "for she thinks it right to be an obedient daughter; but I know it will break her heart and she will die." "Now this thing shall not be," cried Little John, starting forward. "Master, can we not prevent such a wrong?" "We will see," answered Robin Hood. "But she is to be married in two days." "Then we will go to the church and see that she is married to you instead of the old knight. But we will need to find a priest who will marry you." "Then I know the very priest," said Will Scarlet. "It is jolly Friar Tuck who lives in Fountain Dale." "Then let us go and get him at once. We have no time to lose," said Robin Hood; and out they started without delay. Little John, Will Scarlet, young David of Doncaster, and Arthur-a-Bland went with him. They wore their best clothes. "For," said Robin Hood, "we must look brave when we go to a wedding." After they had walked a whole morning, they came to the bend in the river beyond which Friar Tuck dwelt. But his cell was across the river and to get to it they would have to wade through. "Well," said Robin Hood, "had I known I would have to wade the river I would not have put on my best clothes." Then he left his men, bidding them listen if his bugle should sound, and went on alone. As soon as he was out of sight of them, he thought he heard voices. There seemed to be two men talking on the river bank below, but the voices were wondrously alike. Robin Hood slipped to the edge and looked over. With his broad back against a willow tree, sat a stout, brawny fellow in the robe of a friar, but no other man was by. He held a great pie in his lap, made of tender, juicy meats, compounded with young onions and other toothsome vegetables, which he munched at sturdily. As he ate he talked, and, listening to him, Robin Hood almost died of laughing. For the merry friar was pretending to be two people. He would offer a piece of the pasty first to his right hand and then to his left, with much politeness, and go through the same actions with a bottle of drink that he had. Robin looked and listened till the pie was all gone and the bottle empty. Then the monk began to urge his imaginary companion to sing. "Now, sweet lad," he said to himself, "canst thou not tune me a song?" And then he answered himself bashfully. "La, I know not. I am but in ill voice this day. Prythee, ask me not: dost thou not hear how I croak like a frog?" Then he spoke again as the first one. "Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet as any bullfinch. Come sing, prythee. I would rather hear thee sing than eat a fair feast." And so it went on till he began singing and that was as two persons, too. The song he sang was a duet between a youth and a maid, and he sung the maiden's part very high and squeaky and the youth's very deep and gruff. It was the funniest thing you can imagine, and when the last chorus was reached Robin Hood could hold in no more but joined in with the singing lustily. Then the friar leaped forth, crying, "What spy have we here?" and from beneath his monk's robe he drew forth a sword as heavy and stout as any that Robin Hood's band carried. "Put up thy sword, friend," called Robin. "Folks that have sung together should not fight." And then he leaped down beside the friar. "Do you know the country round about, good and holy man?" he asked. "Yes, somewhat," answered the friar cautiously. "And do you know a spot called Fountain Dale, and a certain monk who is called the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey?" "Yes, somewhat." "Is it across the river?" asked Robin Hood. "Yes," answered the monk. "Do you know whether this friar is now on the other side of the river or on this side?" asked Robin. "That," answered the friar very deliberately, "is something you will have to find out for yourself." This angered Robin, and indeed it was not at all civil. "Well," he said, "if I must cross the river, I must ask you to carry me across, for you can see that my clothes are such as the water would injure." At first the friar was angry at the request, but soon a different thought seemed to come to him and he laughed. "Well," he said, "if the holy St. Christopher carried pilgrims across the river, perhaps I ought to do so also. Give me your sword that it may not get wet, and I will carry you." So he tucked his own sword and Robin's under his arm, bent his back for Robin to get on it, and waded across the water. He put Robin down very gently on the other bank, but he did not give him back his sword. "Thanks, good father," said Robin. "Give me my sword, and I will away." "Nay, good youth," answered the friar, pointing the sword at Robin. "You see, I got wet crossing the river. It is necessary for me to cross again, but I fear if I got wet once more I might get a crick in my back that would hinder my prayers. I pray thee, carry me back." He had the sword, and there was nothing for Robin to do but to obey. So he carried the friar back, and it was harder than for the friar to carry him. But while they were in the stream he managed to loosen Friar Tuck's sword belt so that when they got to land he snatched it off. Now Robin Hood had the two swords. "Now carry me across again," he said. It is a long story; but the end of it is that Friar Tuck carried Robin Hood half way across the river, and there dumped him into the water "to cool off," as he said. Then Robin fought with him; but, though they fought together with might and main for hours, neither could overcome the other. And so they ceased to fight and became friends; and Friar Tuck willingly consented to go with him and perform the marriage between Allen-a-Dale and his fair Ellen, no matter what a pother it raised. So now Robin Hood and a score of his merry men set out to the wedding which was to be held in Emmet Church. Robin Hood was dressed as a strolling minstrel, and across his shoulders he had slung a harp. Leaving the most of his followers in hiding a little distance from the church, he went in boldly. It was to be a very grand wedding, and the Bishop of Hereford himself was to perform the ceremony. He came with a long train of followers, and as he entered he saw Robin with his harp beside the door. "Now, who are you?" he asked, well pleased, for everybody loved to see a minstrel. "I am a harper from the north country," answered Robin Hood. "I can play such music as never another in all England can do. For there is magic in my harping, and if I play at this wedding, it will insure that the fair bride shall love the man she marries with her whole heart all her life long." "Marry then, let him play," said Sir Stephen, the old bridegroom. He knew that it was her father's will instead of her own wish that made the fair Ellen marry him. But he did not know that she loved another, for her father had concealed it from him. And now the bride's father brought in the bride, and she was the most beautiful maiden they had ever seen. But she was pale and wan and she drooped on her father's arm like a broken lily. "How is this?" cried Robin Hood. "A bride should be like a blushing rose. Maiden, is it of your own free will that you wed with this knight?" "No, no," sobbed fair Ellen. "I wish to wed no one but my own true love, Allen-a-Dale the minstrel." "Then Allen-a-Dale ye shall wed," cried Robin Hood, and set his bugle to his lips and blew. The followers who had entered the church and Friar Tuck came running down the aisles and gathered around him. Then came a scene of confusion. The bishop of Hereford, the prior of Emmet and all his train commanded the people to seize Robin Hood, but they would not do it. The old knight who was the bridegroom sought to draw his sword, but he wore no sword on his wedding day. "At them and slay them," he cried to his men-at-arms. But just at that minute there came running up at double quick the rest of Robin Hood's men, with swords drawn and bows and arrows hanging at their backs. "I will depart," said the bridegroom to the bride's father. "I would not marry your daughter now for all the kingdom of England." He spoke angrily, for he felt that he had been cheated, not knowing that the maiden loved some one else. The prior of Emmet, calling his train, also departed in high displeasure, and the bishop of Hereford would have gone too, but Robin bade him stay. "Now," he said, "we will have a wedding, and fair Ellen shall marry Allen-a-Dale." "Ye cannot." The prior of Emmet turned back to say this. "You have no priest to marry them." "Am I not a priest?" bellowed Friar Tuck, so fiercely that the prior shook in his pointed shoes and made haste to get away. "But the banns have not been published," said the bride's father. "I will publish them," roared Friar Tuck; and the old song says that he cried them three times, the number required by law, and then, lest that should not be enough, he cried them six times more. "But I cannot be married without my father's blessing," sobbed Ellen, for she was ever an obedient daughter. "There, there, don't cry," said Robin Hood gently. "I will get your father's blessing." Then he called to Will Stutely. "Give me the two bags of gold I bade you bring." He strode up to Ellen's father with a bag of gold in each hand. "Here are two hundred golden angels," he said. "If you give your daughter your blessing on this her wedding day, I will give you these as her dower. If you give her not the blessing, she shall be married just the same, but not a cracked farthing shalt thou have." The father looked at the gold and then at Robin Hood. He knew the knight was gone and would not come back. "Well," he said, but not happily, "I will give her my blessing." So the wedding went on; and after it was over they went to Sherwood Forest and held the merriest feast that ever was held in that merry place. And Allen-a-Dale and his bride lived happy all the rest of their lives, and he sang such beautiful songs that his fame went all over England. As for Friar Tuck, he liked Robin Hood and his band so much that he never went back to Fountain Dale but became one of Robin Hood's merry men. ROBIN HOOD AND THE SORROWFUL KNIGHT "We have had no guests for a long time," said Robin Hood one day. "Let us go out and look for some. Little John, you go to the east and I will go to the west, and we will see if we do not find passing a greedy noble, or fat churchman who carries too much of this world's goods with him, and needs to be relieved for the good of the poor." Now when Robin Hood and his men robbed a man--and they never molested any but the rich who had made their wealth by grinding down the poor--they brought him into the forest and made a feast for him. Then, after he had feasted, they told him he must pay his reckoning, and they took his goods or gold that he carried and divided these into three piles. One-third they gave back to him; one-third they kept for themselves; and the other third they distributed to the poor. The rich and grasping shuddered at the very mention of Robin Hood's feasts, but the poor breathed blessings on his name whenever they thought of them. So Little John and his part of the band went to the east; and they were lucky, for they brought in the rich bishop of Hereford with five sumpter mules loaded with goods. But Robin Hood and his half found only a sorrowful knight who sighed as he rode along and seemed too sad to notice anything. Robin Hood laid his hand on his bridle, stopping his horse. "Hold," he said. "I would speak with you." "Now who are you who would stop a peaceful traveler on the king's highway?" asked the knight. "Some call me an honest man and some call me a robber," answered Robin Hood. "At any rate, I and my men have an inn in the forest where we want you to stop and feast. But we let you know that we count upon our guests paying their reckoning." "I take your meaning," answered the knight, "but I am no guest for you, for I have no money. Indeed, I am in great sorrow by reason of this very thing. Having great need of money to save the life of my son, I mortgaged my estate to the prior of Emmet and, though I could raise the money if he would give me more time, he will not give me a day, but means to seize the estate and turn me out a beggar." "How much money did you borrow of him?" asked Robin Hood. "Only four hundred pounds. The estate is worth many times that but he will show no mercy." "Have you no friends who could lend you the money?" asked Robin Hood. "Alas, no," answered the knight. "When I was fortunate I had many friends who crowded around me, but now that I have come to trouble they have all deserted me." "Well, the men who are in trouble always have friends in Sherwood Forest," answered Robin Hood. "Come with me as a free guest and we will find a way to help you." So they went on until they came to the great tree where Friar Tuck and half a dozen others were preparing the feast around a huge fire. And there in the light of the flames sat the bishop of Hereford under guard, with his sumpter mules with their loaded packs tied to the trees around. "Have mercy," he whined. But Robin Hood answered sternly. "What mercy have you ever shown to the poor? Men, open his packs!" So they opened the packs, which were full of rich goods and divided them into three parts. Beside the packs of goods there was a box that held fifteen hundred pounds in gold. Robin Hood took up the portion divided out for the poor and gave it to the sorrowful knight. "Since the churchmen have despoiled you, the churchmen shall help you," he said. "Oh, I thank you," cried the knight, his sorrowful face lighting up for the first time that day. "But I will not take it as a gift but as a loan. I will pay it back to the bishop or to you." The bishop nodded and opened his mouth to say "That is well," but Robin Hood interrupted him shortly. "Pay it to me," he said. "I will help the poor with it. The bishop would but crowd it into his own coffers, and use it to gain more money." So the knight who had been so sorrowful departed with all his troubles cleared away. Sorely disappointed was the prior of Emmet for he had made sure by cheating and craft that the poor knight who had fallen into his clutches could not get the money to redeem his lands anywhere, and he counted them already in his grasp. But he had to give them up; and that is a story too, but we have not room to tell it here. ROBIN HOOD AND THE KING "I wish I could see Robin Hood," said King Richard. "I wish I could see him and his men shoot and wrestle and go through all the feats in which they have such wondrous skill. But if they heard that the king was coming, they would think it was only to arrest them, and they would flee deep into the forest and I should never get a glimpse of them." King Richard spoke kindly, for he was a king who loved all manly sports and those who excelled in them. "I would give a hundred pounds to see Robin Hood and his men in the greenwood," he said. "I'll tell you how you can see him without a doubt," spoke up one of the king's trusty companions with a laugh. "Put on the robes of a fat abbot and ride through Sherwood Forest with the hundred pounds in your pouch, and you will be sure to see him and be feasted by him." "I'll do it," cried bluff King Richard, slapping his knee. "It will be a huge joke." So he and seven of his followers dressed themselves as an abbot and seven black friars and rode out along the highway toward Sherwood Forest. And Robin Hood and his men took them and brought them to the Trystal Tree, and there they searched them and took the pouch of gold. But they gave half the gold back to the king, for it was not their custom to leave any man in need. They were pleased with these travelers because they did not resist nor rail at them. "Now we shall give you a feast that will be worth fifty pounds," said Robin Hood. "I have a good appetite for a feast," said the pretended abbot, "but even more do I desire to see the archery and wrestling and play with the quarter-staff and all those things in which I am told you excel." "You shall see the very best we can do," answered Robin Hood. "But, I pray you, holy father, lay aside your cowl that you may enjoy this sweet evening air." "No," answered the mock abbot. "It may not be, for I and my brothers have vowed not to let our faces be seen during this journey." "Very well, then," said Robin Hood. "I interfere with no man's vows." And he never dreamed that it was the king. They gave them a splendid feast of roasted venison and pheasant and fish and wild fowls, all done to a turn over the roaring fire, and the best of drink. Then they arranged the sports. The target was a garland of leaves and flowers that was hung six score paces distant upon a stake. It was a mark that only the best of archers could hit at all. "Now shoot!" said Robin Hood. "You shall each of you have three shots, and every one who fails to place his arrows within the garland shall forfeit the arrow and receive beside a box on the side of the head as stout as can be given." "Can any one hit inside that little garland at such a distance?" asked the king in amaze. "Look and see," answered Robin Hood proudly. First, David of Doncaster shot, and lodged all three arrows within the garland, while the king looked on, astonished. Then Midge, the miller's son, and he also placed all his arrows inside of the garland. Then Wat the Tinker drew his bow; but he was unlucky, for one of his arrows missed the mark by the breadth of two fingers. "Come here and take your punishment," called Robin Hood. The king supposed that, since he had missed by so little, he would receive but a light tap, but he got a blow that knocked him spinning across the grass, heels over head. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed his comrades, and "O ho!" thought King Richard, "I am glad I am not in this." But he was much impressed with the way Robin Hood's men obeyed him. "They are better to follow his commands than my servants are to follow mine," he thought. The shooting went on, and most of the men shot their arrows within the garland, but a few missed and received tremendous buffets. Last Robin Hood shot. His first shaft split off a piece of the stake on which the garland was hung. His second lodged a scant inch from the first. But the last arrow he shot was feathered faultily, and it swerved to one side, and smote an inch outside of the garland. Then all the company roared with good-natured laughter, for it was seldom indeed that they saw their master miss. "Go and take your punishment, master," said Midge, the miller's son. "I hope it will be as heavy as Wat's." "Well," said Robin Hood, "I will forfeit my arrow to our guest and take my buffet from him." Now the merry Robin was somewhat crafty in this, for, though he did not mind hard knocks at all, he did not like the thought of being sent sprawling before his band. The hands of churchmen were soft, and their strongest blows but feeble, for they did not work nor use their muscles much. But the pretended abbot bared an arm so stout and muscular that it made the yeomen stare. Robin Hood placed himself fairly in front of him and he struck a blow that would have felled an ox. Down went Robin Hood on the ground rolling over and over, and his men fairly shouted with laughter. "Well," said Robin Hood, sitting up, half dazed, "I did not think that there was an arm in England that could strike such a blow. Who are you, man? I'll warrant you are no churchman as you seem." Then Richard threw his cowl, and Robin knew his king. If he had been a disloyal man as well as an outlaw, he would have trembled then. But, though he knelt at the king's feet and signalled all his men to kneel, his voice was not ashamed. "Your majesty," he said, "you have no subjects in all England more loyal to you than I and my merry men. We have done no evil except to certain of the greedy and rich who oppressed your subjects. We crave your pardon if we have done wrong, and we beg for your protection, and swear that we will ever serve you faithfully." Then the king looked down in amazement that an outlaw should speak so. But he knew men, and he knew what people said of Robin Hood. And he knew, too, that he was the best archer in all England and he wanted him in his own train. "I will forgive all your law-breaking," he said, "if you will come with me to my court and serve me there. You shall take Little John and Will Scarlet and Allen-a-Dale, who is the sweetest singer I ever heard; and the rest of your men I will make into royal rangers, since I judge that they can protect Sherwood Forest better than any others." So Robin Hood left the greenwood and went to the king's court and he served King Richard well. But he did not like the confinement of the court and could not abide the gaieties and jealousies of the courtiers. After King Richard died, his brother John took the throne, and he was one of the worst kings that ever ruled England. Then Robin Hood went back to the forest and his merry men gathered around him once more, and again they became outlaws. And there in the forest he lived till he died. DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD Now the manner of Robin Hood's death was in this wise. He had grown to be an old man, and he became ill of a fever. "I will go to my cousin, the prioress of Kirklees, for she hath much knowledge of healing," he said. "I will ask her to bleed me that I may become well." In those days the women had more knowledge of healing than any others, for it was the duty of every mother and daughter to learn as much as she could about it that she might know what to do if her husband or her son were wounded. This cousin of Robin Hood's was greatly indebted to him, for he had got her her good place as prioress. But she loved one of his enemies, and she dealt treacherously with him. She opened a vein in his arm, but she did not close it up again. Then she left him alone in a high room at the very top of the priory to bleed to death. All day long he bled till he was so weak that he could hardly move. But at evening he managed to lift his bugle to his lips and blow. The blast was but feeble, but Little John heard it, for, though the prioress refused to let him in with Robin Hood, he had lingered as close to his dear master as he could get, all day long. The prioress locked the great entry door so that he might not come in, and he seized a huge stone mortar that three men could not lift ordinarily and hurled it against the door, crashing it in. Then he dashed up the winding stairs and none could stay him until he reached the room under the eaves where his master lay. But he saw at a glance that Robin Hood was dying. "Master," he cried, "I will burn the priory down over the heads of these vile nuns whose mistress has done you such dreadful treachery." "No, no," said Robin Hood, with a smile that was feeble but was wondrous sweet. "I have never hurt a woman in my life nor allowed my followers to do it. I could not allow such a thing now." And with almost his last breath he made Little John promise to do no injury to the treacherous nun who had killed him. There are many more stories about Robin Hood. There is not space enough here to put down half of them. I hope you will ask for them at the library and read them all, and some of the quaint old ballads about him too. And I hope, most of all, that every boy who reads them will try to be as kindly and as helpful and as generous and as brave and chivalrous to all woman-kind as Robin Hood was. ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, That lived in Nottinghamshire. As Robin Hood in the forest stood, All under the greenwood tree, There he was aware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be. The youngster was clad in scarlet red, In scarlet fine and gay; And he did frisk it over the plain, And chaunted a roundelay. As Robin Hood next morning stood Amongst the leaves so gay, There did he espy the same young man Come drooping along the way. The scarlet he wore the day before It was clean cast away; And at every step he fetched a sigh "Alas! and a-well-a-day!" Then stepped forth brave Little John, And Midge, the miller's son; Which made the young man bend his bow, When he saw them come. "Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, "What is your will with me?" "You must come before our master straight, Under yon greenwood tree." And when he came bold Robin before, Robin asked him courteously, "Oh, hast thou any money to spare, For my merry men and me?" "I have no money," the young man said, "But five shillings and a ring; And that I have kept this seven long years, To have at my wedding. "Yesterday I should have married a maid, But she was from me ta'en, And chosen to be an old knight's delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain." "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, "Come tell me, without any fail." "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, "My name it is Allen-a-Dale." "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, "In ready gold or fee, To help thee to thy true love again, And deliver her unto thee?" "I have no money," then quoth the young man, "In ready gold nor fee, But I will swear upon a book Thy true servant for to be." "How many miles is it to thy true love? Come tell me without guile." "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, "It is but five little mile." Then Robin he hasted over the plain; He did neither stint nor lin, Until he came unto the church Where Allen should keep his weddin'. "What dost thou here?" the bishop then said, "I prithee now tell unto me." "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, "And the best in the north country." "Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop he said: "That music best pleaseth me." "You shall have no music," said Robin Hood, "Till the bride and bridegroom I see." With that came in a wealthy knight, Which was both grave and old, And after him a finikin lass, Did shine like the glistering gold. "This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, "That you do seem to make here, For since we are come into the church, The bride shall choose her own dear." Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, And blew blasts two or three; When four-and-twenty yeomen bold Came leaping over the lea. And when they came into the churchyard, Marching all in a row, The first man was Allen-a-Dale To give bold Robin his bow. "This is thy true love," Robin he said, "Young Allen, as I hear say; And you shall be married this same time, Before we depart away." "That shall not be," the bishop cried, "For thy word shall not stand; They shall be three times ask'd in the church, As the law is of our land." Robin Hood pull'd off the bishop's coat, And put it upon Little John; "By the faith of my body," then Robin said, "This cloth doth make thee a man." When Little John went into the quire, The people began to laugh; He asked them seven times into church, Lest three times should not be enough. "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, Full dearly he shall buy." And then having ended this merry wedding, The bride looked like a queen; And so they returned to the merry greenwood, Amongst the leaves so green. --_Author Unknown._ INSTRUCTOR LITERATURE SERIES =5c--Supplementary Readers And Classics for All Grades--5c= A series of little books containing material needed for supplementary Reading and Study. =Classified and Graded.= Large type for lower grades. _This list is constantly being added to. If a substantial number of books are to be ordered, or if other titles than those shown here are desired, send for latest list._ =FIRST GRADE= =Fables and Myths= *6 Fairy Stories of the Moon *27 Eleven Fables from �sop *23 More Fables from �sop *29 Indian Myths--_Bush_ *140 Nursery Tales--_Taylor_ *288 Primer from Fableland--_Maguire_ =Nature= *1 Little Plant People--Part I *2 Little Plant People--Part II *30 Story of a Sunbeam--_Miller_ *31 Kitty Mittens and Her Friends =History= *32 Patriotic Stories (Story of the Flag, Story of Washington, etc.) =Literature= *104 Mother Goose Reader *228 First Term Primer--_Maguire_ *230 Rhyme and Jingle Reader for Beginners =SECOND GRADE= =Fables and Myths= *33 Stories from Andersen--_Taylor_ *34 Stories from Grimm--_Taylor_ *36 Little Red Riding Hood--_Reiter_ *37 Jack and the Beanstalk--_Reiter_ *38 Adventures of a Brownie =Nature and Industry= *3 Little Workers (Animal Stories) *39 Little Wood Friends--_Mayne_ *40 Wings and Stings--_Halifax_ *41 Story of Wool--_Mayne_ *42 Bird Stories from the Poets =History and Biography= *43 Story of the Mayflower--_McCabe_ *45 Boyhood of Washington--_Reiter_ *204 Boyhood of Lincoln--_Reiter_ =Literature= *72 Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew--_Craik_ *142 Child's Garden of Verses--_Stevenson_ *206 Picture Study Stories for Little Children *220 Story of the Christ Child *262 Four Little Cotton-Tails--_Smith_ *268 Four Little Cotton Tails in Winter--_Smith_ *269 Four Little Cotton Tails at Play--_Smith_ *270 Four Little Cotton-Tails in Vacation--_Smith_ *290 Fuzz in Japan--A Child-Life Reader =THIRD GRADE= =Fables and Myths= *46 Puss in Boots and Cinderella *47 Greek Myths--_Klingensmith_ *48 Nature Myths--_Metcalf_ *50 Reynard the Fox--_Best_ *102 Thumbelina and Dream Stories *146 Sleeping Beauty and Other Stories 174 Sun Myths--_Reiter_ 175 Norse Legends, I--_Reiter_ 176 Norse Legends, II--_Reiter_ *177 Legends of the Rhineland--_McCabe_ *282 Siegfried, The Lorelei, and Other Rhine Legends--_McCabe_ =Nature and Industry= *49 Buds, Stems and Fruits--_Mayne_ *51 Story of Flax--_Mayne_ *52 Story of Glass--_Hanson_ *53 Adventures of a Little Water Drop--_Mayne_ *133 Aunt Martha's Corner Cupboard--Part I. Story of Tea and the Teacup *135 Little People of the Hills (Dry Air and Dry Soil Plants)--_Chase_ *137 Aunt Martha's Corner Cupboard--Part II. Story of Sugar, Coffee and Salt *138 Aunt Martha's Corner Cupboard--Part III. Story of Rice, Currants and Honey *203 Little Plant People of the Waterways--_Chase_ =History and Biography= *4 Story of Washington--_Reiter_ *7 Story of Longfellow--_McCabe_ *21 Story of the Pilgrims--_Powers_ *44 Famous Early Americans (Smith, Standish, Penn)--_Bush_ *54 Story of Columbus--_McCabe_ 55 Story of Whittier--_McCabe_ 57 Story of Louisa M. Alcott--_Bush_ *59 Story of the Boston Tea Party--_McCabe_ *60 Children of the Northland--_Bush_ *62 Children of the South Lands--I (Florida, Cuba, Puerto Rico) *63 Children of the South Lands--II (Africa, Hawaii, The Philippines)--_McFee_ *64 Child Life in the Colonies--I (New Amsterdam)--_Baker_ *65 Child Life in the Colonies--II (Pennsylvania)--_Baker_ *66 Child Life in the Colonies--III (Virginia) *68 Stories of the Revolution--I (Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys)--_McCabe_ *69 Stories of the Revolution--II (Around Philadelphia)--_McCabe_ *70 Stories of the Revolution--III (Marion, the Swamp Fox)--_McCabe_ *132 Story of Franklin--_Faris_ *164 The Little Brown Baby and Other Babies *165 Gemila, the Child of the Desert, and some of Her Sisters *166 Louise on the Rhine and in Her New Home. (_Nos. 161, 163, 166 are the stories from "Seven Little Sisters" by Jane Andrews_) *167 Famous Artists--I--(Landseer and Bonheur) =Literature= *35 Goody Two Shoes 58 Selections from Alice and Phoebe Cary *67 The Story of Robinson Crusoe *71 Selections from Hiawatha (Five Grades) *227 Our Animal Friends and How to Treat Them *233 Poems Worth Knowing--Book I--Primary =FOURTH GRADE= =Nature and Industry= *75 Story of Coal--_McKane_ *76 Story of Wheat--_Halifax_ *77 Story of Cotton--_Brown_ *134 Conquests of Little Plant People *136 Peeps into Bird Nooks--I--_McFee_ *181 Stories of the Stars--_McFee_ *205 Eyes and No Eyes and The Three Giants =History and Biography= *5 Story of Lincoln--_Reiter_ *56 Indian Children Tales--_Bush_ *78 Stories of the Backwoods *79 A Little New England Viking--_Baker_ *81 Story of De Soto--_Halfield_ *82 Story of Daniel Boone--_Reiter_ *83 Story of Printing--_McCabe_ *84 Story of David Crockett--_Reiter_ 85 Story of Patrick Henry *86 American Inventors--I (Whitney and Fulton)--_Faris_ *87 American Inventors--II (Morse and Edison)--_Faris_ *88 American Naval Heroes (Jones, Perry, Farragut)--_Bush_ 89 Fremont and Kit Carson--_Judd_ *91 Story of Eugene Field--_McCabe_ *178 Story of Lexington and Bunker Hill--_Baker_ *182 Story of Joan of Arc--_McFee_ *207 Famous Artists--II--Reynolds and Murillo *213 Famous Artists--III--Millet *248 Makers of European History =Literature= *90 Fifteen Selections from Longfellow--(Village Blacksmith, Children's Hour, and others) *95 Japanese Myths and Legends 103 Stories from the Old Testament *111 Water Babies (Abridged) *159 Little Lame Prince (Cond.)--_Mulock_ *171 Tolmi of the Treetops--_Grimes_ *172 Labu the Little Lake Dweller--_Grimes_ *173 Tara of the Tents--_Grimes_ *195 Night before Christmas and Other Christmas Poems and Stories (Any Grade) *201 Alice's First Adventures in Wonderland *202 Alice's Further Adventures in Wonderland--_Carroll_ *258 Rolo the Cave Boy--_Grimes_ *257 Kwasa the Cliff Dweller--_Grimes_ =FIFTH GRADE= =Nature and Industry= *92 Animal Life in the Sea--_McFee_ *93 Story of Silk--_Brown_ *94 Story of Sugar--_Reiter_ *96 What We Drink (Tea, Coffee and Cocoa) *139 Peeps into Bird Nooks--II 210 Snowdrops and Crocuses 263 The Sky Family--_Denton_ *280 Making of the World--_Herndon_ *281 Builders of the World--_Herndon_ *283 Stories of Time--_Bush_ =History and Biography= *16 Explorations of the Northwest 80 Story of the Cabots--_McBride_ *97 Story of the Norsemen--_Hanson_ 98 Story of Nathan Hale--_McCabe_ 99 Story of Jefferson--_McCabe_ 100 Story of Bryant--_McFee_ 101 Story of Robert E. Lee--_McKane_ 105 Story of Canada--_McCabe_ *106 Story of Mexico--_McCabe_ *107 Story of Robert Louis Stevenson 110 Story of Hawthorne--_McFee_ 112 Biographical Stories--_Hawthorne_ 141 Story of Grant--_McKane_ *144 Story of Steam--_McCabe_ 145 Story of McKinley--_McBride_ 157 Story of Dickens--_Smith_ *179 Story of the Flag--_Baker_ *185 Story of the First Crusade 190 Story of Father Hennepin 191 Story of LaSalle--_McBride_ *217 Story of Florence Nightingale *28 Story of Peter Cooper--_McFee_ 219 Little Stories Of Discovery--_Halsey_ 232 Story of Shakespeare--_Grames_ *265 Four Little Discoverers in Panama--_Bush_ *287 Life in Colonial Days--_Tillinghast_ =Literature= *8 King of the Golden River--_Ruskin_ *9 The Golden Touch--_Hawthorne_ *61 Story of Sindbad the Sailor *108 History in Verse (Sheridan's Ride, Independence Bell, the Blue and the Gray, etc.) *113 Little Daffydowndilly and Other Stories--_Hawthorne_ *180 Story of Aladdin and of Ali Baba *183 A Dog of Flanders--_De La Ramee_ *184 The Nurnberg Stove--_La Ramee_ *186 Heroes from King Arthur--_Graves_ 194 Whittier's Poems--Selected. *199 Jackanapes--_Ewing_ *200 The Child of Urbino--_La Ramee_ *208 Heroes of Asgard--Selections--_Keary_ *212 Stories from Robin Hood--_Bush_ *234 Poems Worth Knowing--Book II--Intermediate--_Faxon_ 255 Chinese Fables and Stories 277 At the Back of the North Wind, Selection from--_Macdonald._ =SIXTH GRADE= =Nature and Industry= *109 Gifts of the Forests (Rubber, Cinchona, Resins, etc.)--_McFee_ 249 Flowers and Birds of Illinois--_Patterson_ =Agricultural= *271 Animal Husbandry--Horses and Cattle *272 Animal Husbandry--Sheep and Swine =Geography= *114 Great European Cities--I (London and Paris)--_Bush_ *115 Great European Cities--II (Rome and Berlin)--_Bush_ *168 Great European Cities--III (St. Petersburg and Constantinople)--_Bush_ *246 What I Saw in Japan--_Griffis_ *247 The Chinese and Their Country *285 Story of Panama and the Canal--_Nida_ =History and Biography= *73 Four Great Musicians--_Bush_ *74 Four More Great Musicians *116 Old English Heroes (Alfred, Richard the Lion-Hearted, The Black Prince)--_Bush_ *117 Later English Heroes (Cromwell, Wellington, Gladstone)--_Bush_ *160 Heroes of the Revolution *163 Stories of Courage--_Bush_ 187 Lives of Webster and Clay *188 Story of Napoleon--_Bush_ *189 Stories of Heroism--_Bush_ 197 Story of Lafayette--_Bush_ 198 Story of Roger Williams--_Leighton_ *209 Lewis and Clark Expedition *224 Story of William Tell--_Hallock_ 253 Story of the Aeroplane--_Galbreath_ *266 Story of Belgium--_Griffis_ 267 Story of Wheels--_Bush_ *286 Story of Slavery--_Booker T. Washington_ =Stories of the States= 508 Story of Florida--_Bauskett_ 509 Story of Georgia--_Derry_ 511 Story of Illinois--_Smith_ 512 Story of Indiana--_Clem_ 513 Story of Iowa--_McFee_ 515 Story of Kentucky--_Eubank_ 520 Story of Michigan--_Skinner_ 521 Story of Minnesota--_Skinner_ 523 Story of Missouri--_Pierce_ *525 Story of Nebraska--_Mears._ *528 Story of New Jersey--_Hutchinson_ 533 Story of Ohio--_Galbreath_ *536 Story of Pennsylvania--_March_ 540 Story of Tennessee--_Overall_ 542 Story of Utah--_Young_ 546 Story of West Virginia--_Shawkey_ 547 Story of Wisconsin--_Skinner_ =Literature= *10 The Snow Image--_Hawthorne_ *11 Rip Van Winkle--_Irving_ *12 Legend of Sleepy Hollow--_Irving_ *22 Rab and His Friends--_Brown_ *24 Three Golden Apples--_Hawthorne_ [+] *25 The Miraculous Pitcher--_Hawthorne_ [+] *26 The Minotaur--_Hawthorne_ *118 A Tale of the White Hills and Other Stories--_Hawthorne_ *119 Bryant's Thanatopsis, and other Poems *120 Ten Selections from Longfellow--(Paul Revere's Ride, The Skeleton in Armour, and other poems) 121 Selections from Holmes (The Wonderful One Hoss Shay, Old Ironsides, and others) *122 The Pied Piper of Hamelin 161 The Great Carbuncle, Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe, Snowflakes--_Hawthorne_ 162 The Pygmies--_Hawthorne_ *211 The Golden Fleece--_Hawthorne_ *222 Kingsley's Greek Heroes--Part I. The Story of Perseus *223 Kingsley's Greek Heroes--Part II. The Story of Theseus *225 Tennyson's Poems--Selected (For various grades) 229 Responsive Bible Readings--_Zeller_ 264 The Story of Don Quixote--_Bush_ 250 Thrift Stories--_Benj. Franklin and Others_ 278 A Child's Dream of a Star, and other Stories *284 Story of Little Nell--_Dickens_ =SEVENTH GRADE= =Literature= *13 Courtship of Miles Standish *14 Evangeline--_Longfellow_ [+] *15 Snowbound--_Whittier_ [+] *20 The Great Stone Face, Rill from the Town Pump--_Hawthorne_ 123 Selections from Wordsworth (Ode on Immortality, We are Seven, To the Cuckoo, and other poems) 124 Selections from Shelley and Keats 125 Selections from The Merchant of Venice *147 Story of King Arthur, as told by Tennyson--_Hallock_ *149 Man Without a Country, The--_Hale_ [+] *192 Story of Jean Valjean--_Grames_ *193 Selections from the Sketch Book--_Irving_ 196 The Gray Champion--_Hawthorne_ 213 Poems of Thomas Moore--(Selected) 214 More Selections from the Sketch Book--_Irving_ *216 Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare--Selected *231 The Oregon Trail (Condensed from Parkman)--_Grames_ *235 Poems Worth Knowing--Book III--Grammar--_Faxon_ *238 Lamb's Adventures of Ulysses--Part I *239 Lamb's Adventures of Ulysses--Part II *241 Story of the Iliad--_Church_ (Cond.) *242 Story of the �neid--_Church_ (Cond.) *251 Story of Language and Literature--_Heilig_ *252 The Battle of Waterloo--_Hugo_ 254 Story of "The Talisman" (Scott)--_Weekes_ *259 The Last of the Mohicans (abridged) 261 Selected Tales of a Wayside Inn--_Longfellow_ [+] *260 Oliver Twist (abridged)--_Dickens_ =Nature= 226 Mars and Its Mysteries--_Wilson_ 279 True Story of the Man in the Moon--_Wilson_ =EIGHTH GRADE= =Literature= *17 Enoch Arden--_Tennyson_ [+] *18 Vision of Sir Launfal--_Lowell_ [+] *19 Cotter's Saturday Night--_Burns_ [+] *23 The Deserted Village--_Goldsmith_ *126 Rime of the Ancient Mariner [+] *127 Gray's Elegy and Other Poems *128 Speeches of Lincoln 129 Julius Cæsar--Selections 130 Henry the VIII--Selections 131 Macbeth--Selections *142 Scott's Lady of the Lake--Canto I [+] 154 Scott's Lady of the Lake--Canto II [+] 143 Building of the Ship and other Poems--_Longfellow_ 148 Horatius, Ivry, The Armada--_Macaulay_ *150 Bunker Hill Address and Selections from Adams and Jefferson Oration--_Webster_ [+] *151 Gold Bug, The--_Poe_ 153 Prisoner of Chillon and other poems--_Byron_ [+] 155 Rhoecus and Other Poems--_Lowell_ [+] 156 Edgar Allan Poe--Biography and selected poems--_Link_ *158 Washington's Farewell Address and Other Papers [+] 169 Abram Joseph Ryan--Biography and selected poems--_Smith_ 170 Paul H. Hayne--Biography and selected poems--_Link_ 215 Life of Samuel Johnson--_Macaulay_ [+] *221 Sir Roger de Coverley Papers--_Addison_ [+] *236 Poems Worth Knowing--Book IV--Advanced--_Faxon_ 237 Lay of the Last Minstrel--_Scott_. Introduction and Canto I [+] [+] _These have biographical sketch of author, with introduction or explanatory notes._ =Price 5 Cents Each. Postage, 1 cent per copy extra. Order by Number= Twelve or more copies sent =prepaid= at 60 cents per dozen or $5.00 per hundred. *=Limp Cloth Binding.= The titles indicated by (*) are supplied also in limp cloth binding at =10 cents per copy=. EXCELSIOR LITERATURE SERIES =Annotated Classics and Supplementary Readers= 1 =Evangeline.= Biography, introduction, oral and written exercises and notes. =10c= 3 =Courtship of Miles Standish.= Longfellow. With introduction and notes. =10c= 5 =Vision of Sir Launfal.= Lowell. Biography, introduction, notes, outlines. =10c= 7 =Enoch Arden.= Tennyson. Biography, introduction, notes, outlines, questions. =10c= 9 =Great Stone Face.= Hawthorne. Biography, introduction, notes, outlines. =10c= 11 =Browning's Poems.= Selected poems with notes and outlines for study. =10c= 13 =Wordsworth's Poems.= Selected poems with introduction, notes and outlines. =10c= 15 =Sohrab and Rustum.= Arnold. With introduction, notes and outlines. =10c= 17 =The Children's Poet.= Study of Longfellow's poetry for children, with poems. =10c= 19 =A Christmas Carol.= Charles Dickens. Complete with notes. =10c= 21 =Cricket on the Hearth.= Chas. Dickens. Complete with notes. =10c= 23 =Familiar Legends.= McFee. Old tales retold for young people. =10c= 25 =Some Water Birds=. McFee. Description, and stories of, Fourth to Sixth grades. =10c= 27 =Hiawatha.= Introduction and notes. =15c= 29 =Milton's Minor Poems.= Biography, introduction, notes, questions, critical comments and pronouncing vocabulary. =10c= 31 =Idylls of the King.= (Coming of Arthur, Gareth and Lynette, Lancelot and Elaine, Passing of Arthur.) Biography, introduction, notes, questions, critical comments, and pronouncing vocabulary. =15c= 33 =Silas Marner.= Eliot. Biography, notes, questions, critical comments, bibliography, 238 pages. Paper. =20c= 34 Same in cloth binding. =30c= 35 =Lady of the Lake.= Scott. Biography, introduction and extended notes, pronouncing vocabulary. =15c= 37 =Literature of the Bible=--Heilig. =15c= 59 =The Sketch Book= (Selected)--Irving. Biography, introduction and notes. =15c= Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=. Moved advertising from inside front cover to end of book. Page 4, added missing close quote after "miserable all the time." Page 7, changed "walunt" to "walnut." Page 17, changed "the managed" to "he managed." Page 18, moved punctuation inside quotes for "How is this?" Page 24, changed "Sherwod Forest" to "Sherwood Forest" at top of page. Page 27, added missing quote after "better than any others." Page 29, added missing period after "obeyed him." Back cover, added missing period after Dickens in Cricket on the Hearth listing; changed "Familar Legends" to "Familiar Legends." 
28700	----	ROBIN HOOD ILLUSTRATED BY N. C. WYETH [Illustration] DAVID MCKAY, PUBLISHER PHILADELPHIA MCMXVII ILLUSTRATIONS Facing Page ROBIN AND HIS MOTHER GO TO NOTTINGHAM FAIR 18 The road wound in and about the forest, and at noon they came to a part where the trees nigh shut out the sky ROBIN WRESTLES WILL STUTELEY AT GAMEWELL 53 "Catch him by the middle," he shouted. "Now you have him, lording, fairly. Throw him prettily!" And sure enough Stuteley came down ROBIN MEETS MAID MARIAN 116 But Robin, venturing all, drew nigh. He came to the edge of her box, and began to speak ROBIN HOOD AND HIS COMPANIONS LEND AID TO WILL O' TH' GREEN FROM AMBUSH 156 Their arrows flew together, marvellous shots, each finding its prey LITTLE JOHN FIGHTS WITH THE COOK IN THE SHERIFF'S HOUSE 197 At last he made a dart upon Roger and the chase grew furious. Dishes, plates, covers, pots and pans--all that came in the way of them went flying ROBIN HOOD DEFEATS NAT OF NOTTINGHAM AT QUARTER-STAFF 257 The beggar dealt his foe a back-thrust so neatly, so heartily, and so swiftly that Nat was swept off the stage into the crowd as a fly off a table LITTLE JOHN SINGS A SONG AT THE BANQUET 327 That evening, whilst Monceux raged and stormed without, they all sat to a great feast THE PASSING OF ROBIN HOOD 361 Leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of trees ROBIN HOOD AND HIS ADVENTURES CHAPTER I "Well, Robin, on what folly do you employ yourself? Do you cut sticks for our fire o' mornings?" Thus spoke Master Hugh Fitzooth, King's Ranger of the Forest at Locksley, as he entered his house. Robin flushed a little. "These are arrows, sir," he announced, holding one up for inspection. Dame Fitzooth smiled upon the boy as she rose to meet her lord. "What fortune do you bring us to-day, father?" asked she, cheerily. Fitzooth's face was a mask of discontent. "I bring myself, dame," answered he, "neither more nor less." "Surely that is enough for Robin and me!" laughed his wife. "Come, cast off your shoes, and give me your bow and quiver. I have news for you, Hugh, even if you have none for us. George of Gamewell has sent his messenger to-day, and bids me bring Robin to him for the Fair." She hesitated to give the whole truth. "That cannot be," began the Ranger, hastily; then checked himself. "What wind is it that blows our Squire's friendship toward me, I wonder?" he went on. "Do we owe him toll?" "You are not fair to George Montfichet, Hugh--he is an open, honest man, and he is my brother." The dame spoke with spirit, being vexed that her husband should thus slight her item of news. "That Montfichet is of Norman blood is sufficient to turn your thoughts of him as sour as old milk----" "I am as good as all the Montfichets and De Veres hereabout, dame, for all I am but plain Saxon," returned Fitzooth, crossly, "and the day may come when they shall know it. Athelstane the Saxon might make full as good a King, when Henry dies, as Richard of Acquitaine, with his harebrained notions and runagate religion. There would be bobbing of heads and curtseying to us then, if you like. Squire George of Gamewell would be sending messengers for me cap in hand--doubt it not." "For that matter, there is ready welcome for you now at my brother's house," said Mistress Fitzooth, repenting of her sharpness at once. "Montfichet bade us _all_ to Gamewell; but here is his scroll, and you may read it for yourself." She took a scroll from her bosom as she spoke and offered it to her husband. He returned to the open door that he might read it. His brow puckered itself as he strove to decipher the flourished Norman writing. "I have no leisure now for this screed, mother; read it to me later, an you will." His tone was kinder again, for he saw how Robin had been busying himself in these last few moments. "Let us sup, mother. I dare swear we all are hungry after the heat of the day." "I have made and tipped a full score of arrows, sir; will you see them?" asked Robin. "That will I, so soon as I have found the bottom of this pasty. Sit yourselves, mother and Robin, and we'll chatter afterwards." Robin helped his mother to kindle the flax whereby the dim and flickering tapers might be lighted. His fingers were more deft at this business, it would seem, than in the making of arrows. Fitzooth, in the intervals of his eating, took up Robin's arrows one by one and had some shrewd gibe ready for most of them. Of the score only five were allowed to pass; the rest were tossed contemptuously into the black hearth on to the little heap of smouldering fire. "By my heart, Robin, but I shall never make a proper bowman of you! Were ever such shafts fashioned to fit across cord and yew!" "The arrows are pretty enough, Hugh," interposed the dame. "There 'tis!" cried Fitzooth, triumphantly. "The true bowman's hand showeth not in the _prettiness_ of an arrow, mother, but in the straightness and hardness of the wand. Our Robin can fly a shaft right well, I grant you, and I have no question for his skill, but he cannot yet make me an arrow such as I love." "Well, I do think them right handsomely done," said Mistress Fitzooth, unconvinced. "It is not given to everyone to make such arrows as you can, husband; but my Robin has other accomplishments. He can play upon the harp sweetly, and sing you a good song----" Fitzooth must still grumble, however. "I would rather your fingers should bend the bow than pluck at harp-strings, Robin," growled he. "Still, there is time for all things. Read me now our brother's message." Robin, eager to atone for the faults of his arrows, stretched out the paper upon the table, and read aloud the following:-- "From George à Court Montfichet, of the Hall at Gamewell, near Nottingham, Squire of the Hundreds of Sandwell and Sherwood, giving greetings and praying God's blessing on his sister Eleanor and on her husband, Master Hugh Fitzooth, Ranger of the King's Forest at Locksley. Happiness be with you all. I do make you this screed in the desire that you will both of you ride to me at Gamewell, in the light of to-morrow, the fifth day of June, bringing with you our young kinsman Robin. There is a Fair toward at Nottingham for three days of this week, and we are to expect great and astonishing marvels to be performed at it. "Wherefore, seeing that it will doubtless give him satisfaction and some knowledge (for who can witness wonders without being the wiser for them?), fail not to present yourselves as I honestly wish. I also ask that Robin shall stay with me for the space of one year at least, having no son _now_ and being a lonely man. Him will I treat as my own child in all ways, and return him to you in the June of next year. "This I send by the hand of Warrenton, my man-at-arms, who shall bear me your reply. "Given under our hand at Gamewell, the 4th day of June, in the year of grace one thousand one hundred and eighty-eight. "(Signed) MONTFICHET." Robin's clear voice ceased, and silence fell upon them all. Fitzooth guessed that both his son and wife waited anxiously for his decision; yet he had so great a pride that he could not at once agree to the courteous invitation. For himself he had no doubt. Nothing would move Fitzooth to mix with the fine folk of Nottingham whilst his claims to the acres of Broadweald, in Lancashire, went unrecognized. It was an old story, and although, by virtue of his office as Ranger at Locksley, Hugh Fitzooth might very properly claim an honorable position in the county, he swore not to avail himself of it unless he could have a better one. The bar sinister stayed him from Broadweald, so the judges had said, and haughty Fitzooth had perforce to bear with their finding. The king had been much interested in the suit, the estate being a large one, situated in the County Palatine of England, and the matter had caused some stir in the Court. When Fitzooth had failed, Henry, anxious to find favor with his Saxon subjects, had bestowed on him the keeping of a part of the forest of Sherwood, in Nottingham. So Fitzooth, plain "master" now for good and aye, had come to Locksley, a little village at the further side of the forest, and had taken up the easy duties allotted to him. Here he had nursed his pride in loneliness for some years; then had met one day Eleanor Montfichet a-hunting in the woods. He had unbent to her, and she gave him her simple, true heart. Strange pair, thrown together by Fate, in sooth; yet no man could say that this was an unhappy union. Within a year came black-eyed Robin to them, and they worshipped their child. But as time passed, and Hugh's claims were again put aside, his nature began to go sour once more. Now they were lonely, unfriendly folk, with no society other than that of the worthy Clerk of Copmanhurst--a hermit too. He had taught Robin his Latin grace, and had given him a fair knowledge of Norman, Saxon, and the middle tongues. "Say that we all may go to-morrow, father," cried Robin, breaking the silence. "I have never seen Nottingham Fair, sir, and you have promised to take me often." "I cannot leave this place; for there is my work, and robbers are to be found even here. I have to post my foresters each day in their tasks, and see that the deer be not killed and stolen." He paused, and then, noting the disappointment in his son's face, relented. "Yet, since there is the Fair, and I have promised it, Robin, you shall go with your mother to Gamewell, if so be the Friar of Copmanhurst can go also. So get ready your clothes, for I know that you would wish to be at your best in our brother's hall. I will speed you to-morrow so far as Copmanhurst, and will send two hinds to serve you to Nottingham gates." "Warrenton, my brother's man, spoke grievously of the outlaw bands near Gamewell, and told how he had to journey warily," So spoke Mistress Fitzooth, trying yet to bring her husband to say that he too would go. "The Sheriff administers his portion of the forest very abominably then," returned Fitzooth. "We have no fears and whinings here; but I do not doubt that Warrenton chattered with a view to test our courage, or perchance to make more certain of my refusal." "But we _are_ to go, are we not, sir?" Robin was anxious again, for his father's tone had already changed. "I have said it; and there it ends," said Fitzooth, shortly. "If the clerk will make the journey you shall make it too. Further, an the Squire will have you, you shall stay at Gamewell and learn the tricks and prettinesses of Court and town. But look to your bow for use in life, and to your own hands and eyes for help. Kiss me, Robin, and get to bed. Learn all you can; and if Warrenton can show you how to fashion arrows within the year I'll ask no more of brother George of Gamewell." "You shall be proud of me, sir; I swear it. But I will not stay longer than a month; for I am to watch over my mother's garden." "Never will shafts such as yours find quarry, Robin. I think that they would sooner kill the archer than the birds. There, mind not my jesting. Men shall talk of you; and I may live to hear them. Be just always; and be honest." * * * * * The day broke clear and sweet. From Locksley to the borders of Sherwood Forest was but a stone's cast. Robin was in high glee, and had been awake long ere daylight. He had dressed himself in his best doublet, green trunk hose, and pointed shoes, and had strung and unstrung his bow full a score of times. A sumpter mule had been saddled to carry the baggage, for the dame had, at the last moment, discovered a wondrous assortment of fineries and fripperies that most perforce be translated to Gamewell. Robin was carolling like any bird. "Are you glad to be leaving Locksley, my son?" asked Hugh Fitzooth. "Ay, rarely!" "'Tis a dull place, no doubt. And glad to be leaving home too?" "No, sir; only happy at the thought of the Fair. Doubt it not that I shall be returned to you long ere a month is gone." "A year, Robin, a year! Twelve changing months ere you will see me again. I have given my word now. Keep me a place in your heart, Robin." "You have it all now, sir, be sure, and I am not really so glad within as I seem without." "Tut, I am not chiding you. Get you upon your jennet, dame; and, Robin, do you show the way. Roderick and the other shall lead the baggage mule. Have you pikes with you, men, and full sheaths?" "I have brought me a dagger, father," cried Robin, joyfully. So, bravely they set forth from their quiet house at Locksley, and came within the hour to Copmanhurst. Here only were the ruins of the chapel and the clerk's hermitage, a rude stone building of two small rooms. Enclosed with high oaken stakes and well guarded by two gaunt hounds was the humble abode of the anchorite. The clerk came to the verge of his enclosure to greet them, and stood peering above the palisade. "Give you good morrow, father," cried Robin; "get your steed and tie up the dogs. We go to Nottingham this day and you are to come with us!" The monk shook his head. "I may not leave this spot, child, for matters of vanity," he answered, in would-be solemn tones. "Will you not ride with the dame and my son, father?" asked Fitzooth. "George of Gamewell has sent in for Robin, and I wish that you should journey with him, giving him such sage counsel as may fit him for a year's service in the great and worshipful company that he now may meet." "Come with us to-day, father," urged Mistress Fitzooth also. "I have brought a veal pasty and some bread, so that we may not be hungry on the road. Also, there is a flask of wine." "Nay, daughter, I have no thought for the carnal things of life. I will go with you, since the Ranger of Locksley orders it. It is my place to obey him whom the King has put in charge of our greenwood. Bide here whilst I make brief preparation." His eyes had twinkled, though, when the dame had spoken; and one could see that 'twas not on roots and fresh water alone that the clerk had thrived. Full and round were the lines of him under his monkly gown; and his face was red as any harvest moon. Hugh bade farewell briefly to them, while the clerk was tying up his hounds and chattering with them. When the clerk was ready Fitzooth kissed his dame and bade her be firm with their son; then, embracing Robin, ordered him to protect his mother from all mischance. Also he was to bear himself honorably and quietly; and, whilst being courteous to all folk, he was not to give way unduly to anyone who should attempt to browbeat or to cozen him. "Remember always that your father is a proud man; and see, take those arrows of my own making and learn from them how to trim the hazel. You have a steady hand and bold eye; be a craftsman when you return to Locksley, and I will give you control of some part of the forest, under me. Now, farewell--take my greetings to our brother at Gamewell." Then the King's Forester turned on his heel and strode back towards Locksley. Once he paused and faced about to wave his cap to them: then his figure vanished into the green of the trees. A sadness fell upon Robin--unaccountable and perplexing. But the hermit soberly journeyed toward Nottingham, the two men-at-arms, with the sumpter mule, riding in front. The road wound in and about the forest, and at noon they came to a part where the trees nigh shut out the sky. Robin spied out a fine old stag, and his fingers itched to fit one of his new arrows to his bow. "These be all of them King's deer, father?" he asked the friar, thoughtfully. "Every beast within Sherwood, royal or mean, belongs to our King, child." "Do they not say that Henry is away in a foreign land, father?" "Ay, but he will return. His deer are not yet to be slain by your arrows, child. When you are Ranger at Locksley, in your father's stead, who shall then say you nay?" "My father does not shoot the King's deer, except those past their time," answered Robin, quickly. "He tends them, and slays instead any robbers who would maltreat or kill the does. Do you think I could hit yon beast, father? He makes a pretty mark, and my arrow would but prick him?" [Illustration: ROBIN AND HIS MOTHER GO TO NOTTINGHAM FAIR _The road wound in and about the forest, and at noon they came to a part where the trees nigh shut out the sky._] The clerk glanced toward Mistress Fitzooth. "Dame," said he, gravely, "do you not think that here, in this cool shadow, we might well stay our travelling? Surely it is near the hour of noon? And," here he sank his voice to a sly whisper, "it would be well perhaps to let this temptation pass away from before our Robin! Else, I doubt not, the King will be one stag the less in Sherwood." "I like not this dark road, father," began the dame. "We shall surely come to a brighter place. Robin, do you ride near to me, and let your bow be at rest. Warrenton, your uncle's man, told me but yesterday----" Her voice was suddenly drowned in the noise of a horn, wound so shrilly and distantly as to cause them all to start. Then, in a moment, half a score of lusty rascals appeared, springing out of the earth almost. The men-at-arms were seized, and the little cavalcade brought to a rude halt. "Toll, toll!" called out the leader. "Toll must you pay, everyone, ere your journey be continued!" "Forbear," cried Robin, waving his dagger so soon as the man made attempt to take his mother's jennet by the bridle. "Tell me the toll, and the reason for it; and be more mannerly." The man just then spied that great stag which Robin had longed to shoot, bounding away to the left of them. Swiftly he slipped an arrow across his longbow and winged it after the flying beast. "A miss, an easy miss!" called Robin, impatiently. Dropping his dagger, he snatched an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his bow and sent it speeding towards the stag. "Had I but aimed sooner!" murmured Robin, regretfully, when his arrow failed by a yard to reach its quarry; and the clerk held up his hands in pious horror of his words. "The shot was a long one, young master," spoke the robber, and he stooped to pick up Robin's little weapon. "Here is your bodkin--'tis no fault of yours that the arrow was not true." They all laughed right merrily; but Robin was vexed. "Stand away, fellows," said he, "and let us pass on. Else shall you all be whipped." Again the leader of the band spoke. "Toll first, lording; tender it prettily to us, and you shall only tender it once." "I'll tender it not at all," retorted young Fitzooth. "Fie upon you for staying a woman upon the King's highroad! Pretty men, forsooth, to attack in so cowardly a fashion!" "All must buy freedom of the greenwood, master," answered the man, quite civilly. "We, who exact the toll, take no heed of sex. Pay us now, and when you return there shall be no questioning." "A woman should be a safe convoy and free from all toll," argued Robin. "Now here are my two men." "Slaves, master; and they have only your mule and the two pikes. It is not enough." "You will leave us nothing then, it seems," said Dame Fitzooth, in trembling but brave voice. "There is one thing that we all do value, mistress, and I purpose sparing you that. We will do no one of you any bodily harm." "Take my purse, then," sighed Mistress Fitzooth. "There is little enough in it, for we are poor folk." "Ask toll of the Church," cried Robin, staying his mother. "The Church is rich, and has to spare. And afterwards, she can grant absolution to you all." Again the robbers laughed, as the clerk began explaining very volubly to them that they were welcome to all that Mother Church could on this occasion offer. "We know better than to stay a monk for toll," said the robber. "Beside, would your excellence have us commit sacrilege?" "I would have you leave hold of my bridle," answered Robin, very wrathfully. "Pay the toll cheerfully, youngling," cried one of the others, "and be not so wordy in the business. We have other folk to visit; the day is already half gone from Sherwood." "I will shoot with you for the freedom of the forest," said Robin, desperately. "An I lose, then shall you take all but my mother's jennet. She shall be allowed to carry my mother into Gamewell, whilst I remain here, as hostage, for her return." "Let the dame bring back a hundred crowns in each of her hands, then," replied the chief of the robbers. "It is agreed," answered Robin, after one appealing glance towards the dame. "Now help me down from my horse, and let the clerk see fair play. Set us a mark, good father, and pray Heaven to speed my arrows cunningly." The clerk, who had kept himself much in the background, now spoke. "This wager seems to savor of unholiness, friends," said he, solemnly. "Yet, in that it also smacks of manliness, I will even consent to be judge. You, sir, since you are doubtless well acquainted with the part, can speak for distance. Now, I do appoint the trunk of yon birch-tree as first mark in this business." "Speed your arrow, then, lording," laughed the robber, gaily. "'Tis but forty ells away! I will follow you respectfully, never doubt it." Robin bent his bow and trained his eyes upon the birch. Then suddenly came back upon him his father's words: "Remember that I am a proud man, Robin." "I will," muttered Robin, betwixt set teeth, and he aimed with all his heart and soul in it. There came the twang of the bowstring, and the next moment the gooseshaft was flying towards its mark. "A pretty shot, master," said the robber, glancing carelessly towards the arrow, quivering still in the trunk of the birch-tree. "But you have scarce taken the centre of our mark. Let me see if I may not mend your aim." His arrow sang through the summer air, and took root fairly in the middle of the trunk, side by side with Robin's. "You win first round, friend," said the clerk, with seeming reluctance. "Now, listen, both, whilst I make you a better test." He was about to continue, when an interruption occurred one that saved him necessity of further speech. CHAPTER II Suddenly through the greenwood came full four score of the King's Foresters, running towards the robbers, ready to seize them. These were the foresters of Nottingham, roving far afield. The Sheriff of Nottingham had become angered at the impudent robberies of late, and now all of his foresters had spread themselves about Sherwood in the hope of making such a capture of the outlaws as would please their master and bring substantial reward to themselves. On the head of Will o' th' Green, the chief of the band, was set the price of ten golden crowns. But alas! these crowns were still to seek; for Will o' th' Green, at first hint of the danger, had put his horn to his lips and given a long, low call upon it, and next instant not a robber was to be seen. Each man had dropped to his hands and knees as soon as he had reached the bushes; and the foresters might beat and belabor Mother Sherwood in vain, for she would never betray her children. Fitzooth's men-at-arms were glad to be released, and were eager now to give all information against their assailants. One of the fellows swore roundly that the learned clerk had given Will o' th' Green a very plain hint; but this assertion was most properly put aside by all who heard it. Robin gave his story of the business, and then, having thanked the captain of the foresters, would have continued the journey. The clerk was no longer to be denied, however, from his food: and so it came about that presently the four of them were at a meal together under the trees--the captain of the foresters having agreed to join with Robin, the hermit, and Mistress Fitzooth in an attack upon the good wine and pasty which the latter had provided. The foresters returned in twos and threes from their fruitless search, and stood about in little knots discussing the chase. All agreed that the outlaws had some stronghold underground, with many entrances and ways into it; easily to be found by those in the secret, but impossible of passage to persons in pursuit. "Do you go to Gamewell, friends?" asked the captain, after the meal had been finished. When he had been answered yes, he told Mistress Fitzooth that she might have an escort for the rest of the way; since he and his men must travel to Gamewell themselves, to report the encounter to Squire George of Gamewell. Gladly Mistress Fitzooth heard this, and very cheerfully they all started afresh upon the journey. Robin alone was sad; the fact that the robber chief's arrow had flown more near a woodman's mark than his own rankled within his breast. Ah, but a time would come when Master Will o' th' Green should see better archery than he now dreamed of. And Robin should be the master who would teach the lesson. Building such day-dreams, he cantered quietly enough beside his mother's jennet; whilst the clerk and the captain of the foresters chattered amiably together. The dame listened to their gossip, and put in her own word and question; she had an easy mind now and could give herself to talk of Prince John and his impudent rebellion. "So the barons would really make him King?" asked she, round-eyed: "King of all these lands and forests?" "Some of our barons have sworn so much," answered the forester, lightly; "but men speak best with their swords, dame. Have you not heard of young Montfichet's doings? He has undone himself indeed----" "Waldemar Fitzurse is behind it all, and young De Brocy," the clerk interrupted, loudly, giving him a warning glance. The friar pointed to Robin. "'Tis the lad's cousin, and he does not know of Geoffrey Montfichet's outlawry," he whispered. "Some say that the King will establish an assize of arms on his return from France, whereby every knight, freeholder, and burgess must arm himself for England's defense," continued the clerk, easily. "'Tis a pretty notion, and like our King." "There are tales about our Henry, and ballads more than enough," replied the forester, shrugging his shoulders. "Will o' th' Green knows a good one, I am told." At the mention of the outlaw's name Robin pricked up his ears. He asked many questions concerning Master Will; and learned that he had been outlawed by Henry himself for the accidental slaying of a younger brother in a quarrel years since. Before that he had been a dutiful and loyal subject, and there were some who vowed that Master Will was as loyal now as many of Henry's barons. Will shot the King's deer, truly, but only that he might live: the others conspired against their monarch's honor, in order that their own might be increased. The cavalcade came into sight of Gamewell Hall while still at this gossip. The night was falling and lights burned behind the embrasured windows of the castle, for such it was in truth, being embattled and surrounded properly by a moat and heavy walls. The captain wound his horn to such purpose that the bridge was soon lowered, and the whole party began to trot over it into the wide courtyard before the hall. That it was a very magnificent place was apparent, despite the shadows. Before the door of the hall Robin sprang lightly from his horse and ran to help his mother from her saddle with tender care: then moved to give assistance to the clerk. The latter had bundled himself to firm ground, however, and now stood stolidly expectant. Master Montfichet--George of Gamewell, as the country folk called him mostly--had come down to greet his guests, and was waiting upon them ere Robin could turn about. The Squire was an old man, with white hair curling from under a little round cap. He wore long black robes, loose and rather monkish in their fashion. He seemed as unlike his sister as Robin could well imagine, besides being so much more advanced in years. His face was hairless and rather pale; but his eyes shone brightly. There was a very pleasant expression in the lines about his mouth, and his manner was perfect. He embraced Robin with kindliness; and real affection for his sister seemed to underlie his few words of welcome. To the Friar of Copmanhurst he was so courteous and respectful that Robin began to wonder whether he himself had ever properly regarded the clerk in the past. If so great a man should bow to him, what ought Robin to do? Robin remembered that he had often ventured to rally and tease this good-natured master who had taught him his letters. The Squire bade them follow him, so soon as their horses and baggage had been duly given over to the servants and he had heard the forester's complaint against the outlaws. The Squire made little comment, but frowned. At the conclusion of the captain's report, they came into the hall, lighted by a thousand fat tapers. "Sister Nell--do you please dismiss us," said the Squire, in his courtly way, after he had signed to some waiting-maids to take charge of Mistress Fitzooth. "I will lead Robin to his chamber myself, and show him the arrangement we have made for his stay at Gamewell. Supper will be served us here in less than an hour. Father, your apartments shall be near my own. Come with me, also." In the room allotted to him Robin found new and gay clothes laid out upon a fair, white bed, with a little rush mat beside it. A high latticed window looked out upon the court, and there was a bench in the nook, curiously carven and filled with stuffs and naperies the like of which Robin had never seen before. The walls were hung with tapestries, and very fierce and amazing were the pictures embroidered upon them. The ceiling was low and raftered with polished beams. Behind the door was a sword suspended by a leathern belt. "For you, kinsman," the Squire had said, smilingly. Robin lost no time in doffing his green jerkin and hose, and then he washed himself and eagerly essayed his new habiliments. When the sword had been buckled on, our young hero of Locksley felt himself equal to Will o' th' Green or any other gallant in Christendom. He strode along the corridors and found his way back to the great hall. There the Master of Gamewell and his mother awaited him. Mistress Fitzooth's eyes shone approvingly, and Robin slipped his fingers into hers. "I'll build a castle as fine as this, mother mine, one of these days," Robin told her: and he began to ask Master Montfichet questions as to the number of claims-at-law that he must have won in order to hold so splendid a domain. The Squire smilingly told him that the King had given Gamewell to him as a reward for valor in battle many years agone. "Then will I fight for the King," cried Robin, with flashing eyes, "so that I may win my father Broadweald and all the lands of it." "And I will teach you, Robin: be sure of that," said old George Montfichet. "But your sword must be swung for the right King, harkee. Not for rebellious princes will we cry to arms; but for him whom God hath placed over us--Henry the Angevin." "Amen," murmured the clerk, fervently. "Let law and order be respected always." "It may mean much to you, friar," said Montfichet. "Young John has the Priory of York under his hands." "He has not fingers upon Sherwood, and we are free of it!" cried the clerk. Then he hastily corrected himself. "We hermits can have no fear, since we have no wealth. Happy then the man with naught to lose, and who has a contented mind." "I will be free of Sherwood Forest, father, if that boon shall wait upon my archery. Master Will, the robber, swore that if I beat him, sir"--he had turned his bright face to old Gamewell's--"I should go free of the greenwood. And I will win the right." "'Tis scarcely Will's to grant," frowned the Squire; "yet, in a way, he has control of the forest. It is a matter which I will look to, since the Sheriff seems so fearful of him," he added, significantly. CHAPTER III The next day they journeyed quietly into Nottingham, taking only a few retainers with them. The clerk chose to stay at the hall, fearing, as he said, that his eyes would be offended with the vanity of the town. When they had come to the meadows wherein the Fair was held, Robin was overcome with joy at the sight of the wonderments before him. That which most pleased him was the tumbling and wrestling of a company of itinerant players, merry fellows, all in a great flutter of tinsel and noise. They were father and three sons, and while the old man blew vigorously upon some instrument, the three sons amused themselves and the crowd by cutting capers. Again and again did Robin entice Master Montfichet to return to these strollers. It was the wrestling that most moved him, for they put such heart into it as to make the thing seem real. "Give them another penny, sir," requested Robin, with heightened color. "Nay, give them a silver one. Did you ever see the like? The little one has the trick of it, for sure ... I do believe that he will throw the elder in the next bout." "Will you try a turn with me, young master?" asked the little stroller, overhearing these words, "If you can stand twice to me, I'll teach you the trick and more besides." "Nay, nay," said the Squire, hastily. "We have no leisure for such play, Robin. Your mother is waiting for us at yonder booth. Let us go to her." Robin turned away reluctantly. "I do think I could stand twice to him. The grass is dry within the ring, sir--do you think I should hurt my clothes?" Such pleading as this moved the capricious old Master of Gamewell. Although it was scarce a proper thing for one of gentle blood to mix with these commoners, yet the Squire could not forego his own appetite for sport. He turned about to the strollers: "I will give a purse of silver pennies to the one who wins the next bout," said he. "Let any and all be welcome to the ring, and the bout shall be one of three falls. Challenge anyone in Nottingham; I dare swear some lad will be found who shall show you how to grip and throw." The father of the players struck a most pompous attitude and blew three piercing blasts. "Come one, come all!" cried he. "Here be the three great wrestlers from Cumberland, where wrestling is practised by every lad and man! Here are the wrestlers who have beaten all in their own county, and who now seek to overcome other champions! Oyez, oyez! There is a prize of twenty silver pennies to be handed to the winner of the next bout (did you say twenty or thirty pennies, lording?). Come one, come all--the lads from Cumberland challenge you!" "Now let me wrestle for the pence, sir," pleaded Robin, catching hold of the Squire's sleeve. "Why should not I try to win them? They might become the foundation of that fortune which I would have for my father's sake." "Twenty pennies would buy him little of Broadweald, boy," laughed the Squire. "Nor should a Montfichet struggle in the mob for vulgar gain. You are a Montfichet--remember it--on your mother's side. We will see how they fare, these men of Cumberland, against the lads of Nottingham and Sherwood. Here comes one in answer to the challenge." A thin, pale-faced fellow had claimed the purse whilst the Squire had been speaking. "'Tis yours if you can take it," answered the old stroller, as he and his lads cleared the ring. A great crowd of folk gathered about, and Montfichet and Robin were in danger of being jostled into the background. "Stand here beside me, lording," commanded the stroller. "Do you keep back there, impudent dogs! This is the noble who gives the purse. There shall be no purse at all, an you harry us so sorely. Stand back, you and you!" He pushed back the mob with vigorous thrusts. "Now let the best man win." The two lads had stripped to their waists, and were eyeing each other warily. The Nottingham youth, despite his slimness, showed clean and muscular against the swarthy thick-set boy from Cumberland. They suddenly closed in and clutched each other, then swayed uncertainly from side to side. The crowd cheered madly. The competitors for Montfichet's purse were evenly matched in strength: it remained for one of them to throw the other by means of some trick or feint. The stroller tried a simple ruse, and nigh lost his feet in doing it. "You must show us a better attempt than that, Cumberland!" called out someone. Robin, quick-eared to recognize a voice, turned his head instantly, and in time to catch a glimpse of Will o' th' Green, the robber of Sherwood! Seeing Robin's gaze fixed upon him, Master Will deemed it prudent to discreetly withdraw. He nodded boldly to the lad first, however; then moved slowly away. "Hold fast to him, Nottingham, for your credit's sake," he cried, ere disappearing. Meanwhile the wrestlers tugged and strained every nerve. Great beads of perspiration stood out upon their brows. Neither made any use of the many common tricks of wrestling: each perceived in the other no usual foe. Suddenly the Nottingham lad slipped, or seemed to slip, and instantly the other gripped him for a throw. Fatal mistake--'twas but a ruse--and so clear a one as to end the first round. The Nottingham lad recovered adroitly, and now that the other had his arm low about the enemy's body, his equipoise was readily disturbed. The stroller felt himself swiftly thrust downward, and as they both fell together it was he who went undermost. "A Nottingham! A Nottingham!" clamored the crowd, approvingly. Then all prepared themselves for the second round. This, to Robin's surprise, was ended as soon as begun. The Cumberland lad knew of a clever grip, and practised it upon the other immediately, and the Nottingham hero went down heavily. The third bout was a stubborn match, but fortune decided it at length in favor of the stroller. Montfichet handed the purse to the winner without regret. "Spend the money worthily as you have won it, Cumberland," spoke the Squire. "Now, Robin, let us join your mother. She will be weary waiting for us." "And if your stomach sickens for a fight with me, master, here may I be found until Saturday at noon." So said the little tumbler, roguishly. "'Tis a pity that we could not tussle for the purse, eh? but I would have given your ribs a basting." "Now shall I twist his ears for him, Squire?" said Robin. "Nay, boy, let his ears grow longer, as befitteth; then you will have freer play with them. Come with me to see the miracle-play, and be not so ready to answer these rascallions. I begin to think that we should not have gone the round of the shows by ourselves, Master Spitfire. Travelling unattended with you is too dangerous a business." Montfichet smiled despite his chidings. He had already taken a fancy to this high-spirited youth. He walked affectionately, with his hand upon Robin's shoulder, towards the booth where, with her maids, Mistress Fitzooth was waiting for them. "Are you sorry for Nottingham, Robin?" he asked, as they passed by the pale-faced, rueful wrestler. "Then take him this little purse quietly. Tell him it is for consolation, from a friend." Robin gladly performed the task; then, as he returned to the Squire's side, thought to ask instruction on a point which had perplexed him not a little. "Yesterday, sir," he began, "when we were in the greenwood, all men seemed eager to catch the robber chief." "Well, Robin?" "To-day he walks about Nottingham Fair, and no one attempts to tarry him. Why is this, sir? Is the ground sanctuary?" "Have you spied out Will o' th 'Green indeed?" began Montfichet, eagerly. "That were hard to believe, for all he is so audacious." "Truly, sir, I saw him when we were at the wrestling. He peered at me above the caps of the people." "Point him out now to me, Robin, if you can." The Squire became humorously doubtful, and his amusement grew upon him as Robin vainly searched with his bright eyes about the throng. "No Will o' th' Green is here, child; he would be a fish out of water, indeed, in Nottingham town. Dearly would I love to catch him, though." "Yet I did see him, sir, and he knew me. Now here is my mother, who shall tell you how long we talked together yesterday. It is not likely that I would forget his voice." "Well, well, perhaps you are right," said the Squire. "At any rate, we'll keep sharp eyes for the rogue. Have you seen the miracle-play, Sister Nell?" he added now to Mistress Fitzooth. "I have been waiting here for you," answered she, briefly, "Robin, what do you think of it all?" Robin's reply was drowned in the noise of the music made within the tents. It was so dreadful a din that all were fain to move away. "See, mother, here is a wizard; let us go in here!" Robin had spied a dim, mysterious booth, outside of which were triangles and cones and fiery serpents coming forth from a golden pot, with cabalistic signs and figures about the sides of it. Standing there was a tall, aged man, clad in a long red robe and leaning upon a star-capped wand. "Will you have the stars read to you, lording?" he asked, gravely. "Ay, surely!" clamored Robin. "Come, mother mine; come, sir, let us ask him questions of Locksley, and hear what my father may be doing." "Do you think that you will hear truth, child? Well, have your way. Will you join us, Nell--the business is a pleasing one, for these knaves have the tricks of their trade. But harkee, friends, give no real heed to the mummery." The wizard ushered them into his tent. Then he dropped the edge of the canvas over the opening, shrouding them in complete darkness. The Squire began an angry protest, thinking that now was a good chance for any confederate to rob them or cut their pockets: but the wizard, unheeding, struck suddenly upon a small gong. A little blue flame sprang up from a brazier at the far end of the tent. In the strange light one could now see the furniture and appurtenances of this quaint place. They were curious enough, although few in number. A globe, and a small table covered with a black cloth; a bench strewn with papers and parchments; and a skeleton of an ape, terribly deformed, were the chief items of the collection. A curtain concealed part of the tent. Behind the brazier were hanging shelves covered with little bottles and phials. The wizard stretched his wand out towards the dancing blue flame, and it forthwith leaped up into a golden glory. "Approach, Robin, son of Fitzooth the Ranger," commanded the wizard. "Place your hand upon the globe and look down upon this table." He pushed away the black cloth, showing that the center of the table was made of flat green glass. "Look steadily, and tell me what you see." "I see through it the grass of the ground on which we stand," said Robin. "There is naught else." "Look again, Robin of Locksley." Robin strained his eyes in the hope of discovering something of mystery. But the flat glass was clear and disappointing. "Let me take your place, Robin," said Mistress Fitzooth, impatiently. But now the green of the glass began to fade; and it seemed to become opaque and misty. Robin dimly saw in it a sudden miniature picture of a glade in the forest of Sherwood, the trees moving under a south-west wind, and the grasses and flowers bowing together and trembling. It seemed to be summer; the bracken was high and green. A man, clad in doublet and hose of Lincoln green, strode forward into the center of the picture. He was a slim fellow, not over tall, with a likeable face, bearded and bronzed; and a forester, too, if one might judge by the longbow which he carried. He wore no badge nor mark of servitude, however, and walked as a free man. His face, vaguely familiar, wore an expectant look. He turned his glances right and left. A low call sounded from the bushes on his left. Robin could hear it as a sound afar off. The man cautiously moved towards the verge of the glade, and as he did so there came a shower of light laughter from the undergrowth. Pushing aside the bracken came forth two arms; a merry face appeared; then, quick as a flash, upstood a page, gaily clad, with black curly hair and strange eyes. The man opened his arms to the lad, and then Robin saw that 'twas no boy at all. It was a maid, joyous with life, playing such a prank as this that she might bring herself to her true love's side. Robin watched them delightedly. In some way he knew that in this mirrored picture _he_ was concerned to a curious degree; and when a cold cloud passing above the glade took the sun and the light from it Robin felt an intense anxiety. "Can you see aught now, Robin of the Woods?" murmured the soft voice of the wizard, and Robin would have asked him who was the man, if his tongue had been at command. His eyes took all the strength of his brain. They waited furiously for the cloud to pass. When all had become clear again the man was alone. His face was sorrowful, ill, and old. He was fitting an arrow to his bow, and his hand trembled as his fingers drew the string. He drew it slowly, almost wearily, yet with a practised gesture. Robin, watching him, saw the arrow leap forth from the picture. "He is dying and shoots his last arrow--is it not so?" he uttered thickly, striving to understand. While he spoke the vision faded and was gone. CHAPTER IV Robin started back angrily and faced the Squire. He began a confused complaint against the wizard, who had vanished behind the curtain on the left. Master Montfichet shrugged his shoulders indulgently. "Give not so earnest a mind to these mummeries, child. 'Twas all a trick! What did you see? A golden fortune and a happy life?" "I did see a man, sir, dressed all in Lincoln green. He was like unto my father, in a way, and yet was not my father. Also there was a stripling page, who turned into a maid. Very beautiful she was, and I would know her again in any guise." "Ah, Master Robin, have you eyes for the maids already?" "This was so sweet a lady, sir, and in some manner I do think she died. And the man shot an arrow, meaning me to see where it fell, since there would be her grave. That is what I think he meant. But then the picture was gone as quickly as it came." "Sister Nell, do you hear these marvels? Take your place and let us see what the crystal can show to you. Most worthy conjurer of dreams, take up your wand again: we all are waiting impatiently to know what is in store for us!" "These things are true that the glass mirror shows, lording," answered the wizard, reappearing. "The crystal cannot lie." He spoke unwittingly in a natural key. Robin turned round upon him very shrewdly. "Friend wizard," said the youth, half at random, "have you ever played at archery in that greenwood which your glass showed us so prettily?" "Like as not, young master, though I am an old man." "Fie on you, friend!" cried Robin, exulting in a sudden discovery. "Remember that the crystal cannot lie. It tells me now that you and I will meet in rivalry, to shoot together for a strange prize--the freedom of Sherwood!" The wizard hastily drew near and pretended to peer into the glass. "What would you do?" he whispered, fiercely. "I can be generous, Will o' th' Green," spoke back Robin, quite sure now. "Keep your secret, for I will not betray you." At this moment there uprose without the booth a most deafening tumult. Forthwith all ran to the opening of the tent to see what might be amiss; but Master Will, who peeped out first, needed no more than one glance. He gave way to the others very readily and retreated unperceived by the Squire and Mistress Fitzooth to the rear of the tent. Cries of: "A Nottingham! A Nottingham!" rent the air, and added to the clangor of bells and trumpetings. As the Squire and Robin looked forth they beheld a flying crowd of men and women, all running and shouting. Before them fled the stroller and his three sons, capless and terrified. The old man's triangle had been torn from him and was being jangled now by Nottingham fingers. "There is trouble before us. Come, Robin," said Montfichet, as he stepped out, with the lad close at his heels. "What is the tumult and rioting?" cried out the Squire, authoritatively, and he blew twice on a silver whistle which hung at his belt. The strollers rushed at once toward the old man, and faced their enemies resolutely when they had gained his side. They were out of breath, and their story was a confused one. The little tumbler recovered first. After the Squire had left them, he said, the Nottingham lad had returned with full a score of riotous apprentices, all armed with cudgels. They had demanded a fresh trial of skill for the Squire's purse of pennies. "Which was denied us in most vile words, lording," cried out one from the crowd, which had come to a halt and was now formed in an angry sheepish ring about the front of the wizard's tent. "Nay, we refused their request most politely, most noble," said the little stroller. "And then they became vexed, and would have snatched your purse from us. So my brother did stow the pennies quickly into his wallet, and, giving me the purse----" "You flung it full in my face!" roared the Nottingham wrestler, pushing his way to the front, "you little viper, so I snatched at him to give him the whipping he deserved, when----" "I could not see my boy injured, excellence, for but doing his duty as one of Cumberland's sons. So I did push this fellow." "It is enough," said George Gamewell, sharply, and he turned upon the crowd. "Shame on you, citizens," cried he; "I blush for my fellows of Nottingham. Is this how you play an English game: to force your rivals to lose to you any way? Cumberland has won my purse: the test was fairly set, and fairly were we conquered. Surely we can submit with good grace." "'Tis fine for you to talk, old man," answered the lean, sullen apprentice. "But _I_ wrestled with this fellow and do know that he played unfairly in the second bout. Else had I not gone down at the clutch, as all did see." "Insolent!" spoke the Squire, losing all patience; "and it was to _you_ that I gave another purse in consolation! Go your ways ere I cause you to be more soundly whipped than your deserts, which should bring heavy enough punishment, for sure. Come to me, men, here, here!" He raised his voice still louder. "A Montfichet! A Montfichet!" he called; and the Gamewell men who had answered to his first whistling, now lustily threw themselves upon the back of the mob. Instantly all was uproar and confusion, worse than when they first had been startled from the wizard's tent. The Nottingham apprentices struck out savagely with their sticks, hitting friend and foe alike. The burgesses and citizens were not slow to return these blows, and a fierce battle was commenced. The strollers took their part in it with hearty zest now that they had some chance of beating off their foes. Robin and the little tumbler between them tried to force the Squire to stand back, and very valiantly did these two comport themselves. The head and chief of the riot, the Nottingham apprentice, with clenched fists, threatened Montfichet. Robin and the little stroller sprang upon the wretch and bore him to the ground. The three rolled over and over each other, punching and pummelling when and where they might. Robin at last got fairly upon the back of their enemy and clung desperately to him; whilst the stroller essayed to tie the man's hands with his own garters. The riot increased, for all were fighting now in two great parties; townsfolk against apprentices. The din and shouting were appalling. Robin and the little tumbler between them rolled their captive into the wizard's tent. The Squire helped to thrust them all in and entered swiftly himself. Then he pulled down the flap of canvas, hoping that thus they might not be espied. "Now, be silent, on your lives," he began; but the captured apprentice set up an instant shout. "Silence, you knave!" cried Montfichet. "Stifle him, Robin, if need be; take his cloth." He felt for and found the wizard's black cloth. The Squire was quite out of breath. "Where is our wizard friend?" he went on, peering about in the semi-darkness. "Most gentle conjurer, we wish your aid." But Master Will had beaten a prudent retreat through the back of the tent. The canvas was ripped open, letting in a streak of light. They left their prisoner upon the ground, and cautiously drew near the rift. The noise without showed no abatement. The fighting was nearer to the tent, and the bodies of the combatants bumped ever and anon heavily against the yielding canvas. "They will pull down the place about our heads," muttered the Squire. "Hurry, friends." Just then Robin stumbled over the skeleton of the ape, and an idea seized suddenly on his brain, and, picking himself up, he clutched the horrid thing tightly, and turned back with it. Thrusting open the proper entrance of the tent, Robin suddenly rushed forth with his burden, with a great shout. "A Montfichet! A Montfichet! Gamewell to the rescue!" He held the ape aloft and thrust with it at the press. The battle melted away like wax under a hot sun at the touch of those musty bones. Terror and affright seized upon the mob, and everywhere they fell back. Taking advantage of this, the Squire's few men redoubled their efforts, and, encouraged by Robin's and the little stroller's cries, fought their way to him. The tumbler had come bounding to Robin's side and made up in defiant noise that which he lacked in strength of arm. The tide was turned, the other strollers and the Gamewell men came victoriously through the press and formed a ring about the entrance to the wizard's tent. Robin, still brandishing his hideous skeleton, wished to pursue the beaten and flying rabble; but the Squire counselled prudence. "You have done right well, Robin of Locksley, and dearly do I love you for your courage and resource. George Montfichet will never forget this day. Here let us wait until the Sheriff's men come to us. I hear them now, come at last, when all the fighting's done." "What is your name, lording?" asked the little stroller, presently. "Robin Fitzooth." "And mine is Will Stuteley. Shall we be comrades?" "Right willingly, for between us we have won the battle," answered Robin. He had taken a liking to this merry rogue; and gave him his name without fear or doubt. "I like you, Will; you are the second Will that I have met and liked within two days; is there a sign in that?" "A sign that we will be proper friends," replied the stroller. Montfichet called out for Robin to give him an arm. The Squire, now that the danger was over, felt the reaction; and he had strange pains about his breast. "Friends," said Montfichet, faintly, to the wrestlers, "bear us escort so far as the Sheriff's house. It will not be safe for you to stay here now. I would speak with you later, since notice must be taken of this affair. Pray follow us, with mine and my lord Sheriff's men." He spoke with difficulty, and both Robin and Mistress Fitzooth were much perplexed over him. The party moved slowly across the scattered Fair; nor heeded the mutterings and sour looks of the few who, from a distance, eyed them. Nottingham Castle was reached, and admittance was demanded. When the Sheriff heard who was without his gates he came down himself to greet them. He was a small, pompous man, very magnificent in his robes of office, which he was wearing this day in honor of the Fair. In the early morning he had declared it open; and on the last day would bring his daughter to deliver the prizes which would be won at the tourney. Master Monceux, the Sheriff of Nottingham, was mightily put about when told of the rioting. He protested that the rogues who had conspired to bring about this scandal should all be thrust into the stocks for two whole days, and should afterwards be scourged out of the city. He was profuse in his offers of hospitality to his guests; knowing Montfichet to have a powerful influence with the King. And Henry might return to England at any moment. The strollers and the Squire's retainers had been told to find refreshment with the Sheriff's men-at-arms in the buttery. Robin pleaded, however, with the Squire for little Will to be left with them. "I like this impudent fellow," he said, "and he was very willing to help us but a little while since. Let him stay with me and be my squire in the coming tourney." "Have your will, child, if the boy also wills it," Montfichet answered, feeling too ill to oppose anything very strongly just then. He made an effort to hide his condition from them all, and Robin felt his fingers tighten upon his arm. "What is it, dear patron?" Robin asked, anxiously. "Beg me a room of the Sheriff, child, quickly. I do think that my heart is touched with some distemper." Robin ran to the Sheriff. "Sir," said he, "my patron is overcome of the heat and commotion. He prays that you will quietly grant him some private chamber wherein he may rest." "Surely, surely!" said the Sheriff. "Ay, and I will send him a leech--my own man, and a right skilful fellow. Bid your master use this poor house as he would his own." The Sheriff spoke with great affectation. "In the meantime I will see that a proper banquet is served to us within an hour. But who is this fellow plucking at your sleeve? He should be in the kitchen with the rest." "He is my esquire, excellency," returned Robin, with dignity. Mistress Fitzooth had been carried off by the Sheriff's daughter and her maids as soon as they had entered the house, so that Robin alone had the care of Montfichet. With Will Stuteley's assistance they brought the old man safely to the chamber allotted them by the fussy Sheriff. Robin was glad when, at length, they were left to their own devices. "'Tis a goblet of good wine that the lording requires to mend him," said the little stroller. "I'll go and get it, Robin Fitzooth." The wine did certainly bring back the color to the Squire's cheeks. Robin chafed his cold hands and warmed them betwixt his own. Slowly the fit passed away, and George Montfichet felt the life returning to him. "'Twas an ugly touch, young Robin. These escapades are not for old Gamewell, lad; his day has come to twilight. Soon 'twill be night for him and time for sleep." The Squire's voice was sad. He held Robin's hand affectionately, as the latter continued his efforts to bring back warmth to him. "But I will do some proper service for you, child. You shall not find me one to lightly forget. Will you forgive me now? I will return to Gamewell soon as I may and there rest for a few days." "I'll take you, sir. It will be no disappointment to me. I have seen all that I wish of Nottingham Fair." "You shall return for the tourney; and if your father will give you leave, young Cumberland, you shall become my Robin's esquire. No thanks; I am glad to give you such easy happiness. Arm me to the hall, Robin; I am myself again, and surely there is a smell of roasted meats!" "You are a worthy leech, Will," presently whispered Robin. "The wine has worked a marvel. Come, follow us, and forget not that I still will wrestle with you! Ay, and show you some pretty tricks." "Unless I have already learned them!" retorted young Stuteley, laughing. Then, becoming serious, the little stroller suddenly bent his knee. "I'll follow you across the earth and sea, master," he murmured, touching Robin's hand with his lips. He lightly sprang to his feet again, seeing that Montfichet now impatiently awaited them. Together they made their way to the banquet spread in the Sheriff of Nottingham's wide hall. CHAPTER V Squire George of Gamewell rested at his ease in the comfort of his own domain during the next day; and, though he would have Robin go into Nottingham, with his new esquire and Warrenton--Montfichet's own man--young Fitzooth was more than content to stay near to his patron's side. There had been no difficulty in the matter of Master Stuteley's detachment from the other strollers. The old tumbler was shrewd enough to see that his son would considerably better his fortunes by joining them with those of Robin of Locksley. Will was delighted, and wished to commence his duty in Robin's service by instructing his young master at once in the arts of wrestling, single-stick, and quarter-staff. The Squire laughed at their enthusiasm. "Do you leave me, Robin, to the care of your mother: I warrant me I'll come to no harm!" he said. "There are matters on which I would talk with her, and we must be at peace." Montfichet dismissed them. He was quite restored by this time, and settled himself to a serious conversation with his sister. There were subjects which he touched upon only to her--being a secret man in some things, and very cautious. "Having now no son, and being a lonely man," he had written in his letter, and Dame Fitzooth had known from this that unhappy relations still existed between George of Gamewell and Geoffrey Montfichet, his only son. The two men had been for a long time on unfriendly terms, though the Squire latterly had sought honestly to undo that which had been years a-doing. He could not own to himself that the fault was his altogether: but Geoffrey, exiled to London, had been brought back to Gamewell at his father's entreaty. For a time things had gone on in a better direction--then had come Prince John's rebellion. Geoffrey Montfichet was found to have been implicated in it, and had been condemned to death. Only by the Squire's most strenuous endeavors had this sentence been commuted by the King to life punishment. Geoffrey fled to Scotland, whilst the Squire had been exercising himself on his erring son's behalf. It was the last straw, and George Montfichet disinherited his son. The hard-won Manor of Gamewell must pass from the line. Squire George had suddenly perceived a chance to prevent that catastrophe. He had taken greatly to the lad Robin Fitzooth: and this boy was of the true Montfichet blood--why should he not adopt the Montfichet name and become the Montfichet heir? This notion had been simmering in the Squire's mind. It had been born at that moment when Robin had so cared for him and fought for him in Nottingham Fair. "Here, at last," said the Squire, "have I found a son, indeed." Mistress Fitzooth had to listen to her brother's arguments submissively. The dame saw stormy days for her ahead, for well she guessed that Hugh Fitzooth would never agree to what the other in his impetuous way was proposing. She listened and said "yea" and "nay" as the occasion offered: once she mentioned Geoffrey's name, and saw Gamewell's face cloud instantly with anger. "He is no son of mine," said Montfichet, in a hard voice. "Do not speak of him here, sister Nell--nor think me an unforgiving man," he hastened to add, "for God knows that I did humble myself to the ground that I might save his head from the axe of the King's executioner! And he disgraced me by running away to Scotland on the very night that I had gained Henry's pardon for him. Nay; I have no kin with cowards!" "Geoffrey may have some reasonable excuse, brother mine," began the dame, anxious to make peace. Gamewell cut her short. "There can be no excuse for him," he said, harshly. His voice softened when he talked of Robin, for he was concerned to gain his point. "Fitzooth will be difficult in the matter, I do fear me," murmured the dame, perplexed and ill at ease. "He is a Saxon, George, and thinks much of his descent and name. He looks to Robin winning fame for it, as in olden days. I do misdoubt me sorely." "Well, let the lad be known as Robin Fitzooth Montfichet--'tis but tacking on another name to him," said the Squire. "If he lives here, as I shall devise in my will, right soon will he be known as Gamewell, and that only! That fate has befallen me, and one might believe me now as Saxon as your Hugh, Nell." "You are none the worse for't, George," answered the dame, proudly. "Either race is a kingly one." "Saxon or Norman--shall Robin become Montfichet?" asked the Squire, commencing his arguments again. Fate had in store for young Robin, however, very different plans from those tormenting Fitzooth the Ranger and old Squire George of Gamewell Hall. * * * * * The two lads strolled arm-in-arm about the wide court of Gamewell, following Warrenton, in dutiful mood. The old henchman was very proud of the place, and had all the legends of it at his fingers' ends. He told young Robin of hidden treasure and secret passage-ways, and waxed eloquent concerning the tapestries and carvings. The hours went pleasantly enough, for, after the building had been duly shown them, Warrenton took Robin about the gardens and orchards. There was a pleasance, and a "Lady's Bower," wherein, Warrenton affirmed, walked a beautiful lady once in every twelve months, at Hallow-e'en, on the stroke of midnight. The old man then left them. Very shocked was the old retainer to find these merry lads engaged together, later, at wrestling and the quarter-staff, as if they had been equals in birth. When Stuteley had thrown Robin thrice at "touch and hold," within sight of the hall--it was indeed upon the soft grass of the pleasance--Warrenton looked to see old Gamewell thundering forth. When the Squire came not, and Robin nerved himself for yet another tussle, the retainer shrugged his shoulders and even took an interest in the matter. [Illustration: ROBIN WRESTLES WILL STUTELEY AT GAMEWELL _"Catch him by the middle," he shouted. "Now you have him, lording, fairly. Throw him prettily!" And sure enough Stuteley came down._] "Catch him by the middle," he shouted. "Now you have him, lording, fairly. Throw him prettily!" And sure enough Stuteley came down. "Does Master Gamewell play at archery here, Warrenton?" Robin asked, presently, when he and Will were tired of wrestling. "Are they not targets that I see yonder?" The old man's eye lit up with pride. "Squire's as pretty a marksman as any in Nottingham, lording, for all his years!" cried he. "And old Warrenton it was who taught him. Yon target is a fair mark for any shaft from where we stand. Yet I dare swear that Gamewell's lord would never miss the bull in fifty shots at it!" "Have you bow and quiver here?" inquired Robin, eagerly. "Mine I have left in my room." "Cross bow, longbow, or what you will, most noble. All that Gamewell has I am to give you. Such were my master's commands. An your esquire will run to the little hut near by, within the trees, he will find all that we need." "Go, Will. Haste you, and bring me a proper bow," cried Robin, with sparkling eyes. "Now I'll bend the yew and see if I cannot do better than in Sherwood." Master Stuteley, having journeyed to the hut, peeped in and started back with a cry of affright. "The Yellow Woman, Robin!" called he, scampering back to them. "She is in there, and did snatch at me! Let us run, quickly!" "Beshrew me, master, but this is an adventure, for sure! The Yellow One, was it? Then your days are numbered, and we had better be seeking a new esquire," said Warrenton. "Are you afraid, Warrenton?" said Robin, moving involuntarily nearer to him. He glanced from one to the other, undecided whether to believe Will or stand and laugh at his fears. "I have had the distemper, master, and cannot again be hurt. But here she comes, by the Lord! Keep near to me, lording, and shut your eyes tight." Robin was too dazed to heed the old man's advice. He glared in a fascinated way at the figure emerging from the hut. "It is a man," cried Robin, at last, "and listen--he is calling you, Warrenton." The retainer uttered a little sound of astonishment and ran forward. "Sir--sir," he cried, as if in entreaty, to the man approaching: and he made a gesture as though to warn him. The "Yellow Lady" appeared to be in doubt both of Robin and young Stuteley. "Who are these, Warrenton?" called out a low, hushed voice. Warrenton answered not, save with his half-warning, half-commanding sign. But as the stranger drew near, apparently come to a decision, the Squire's man spoke. "It is your cousin, Master Geoffrey, and his esquire. They are here from Locksley." "So, 'tis my kinsman, Robin, who has tried to startle me?" said the stranger, as Robin drew near to him. "Greetings, cousin; here's my hand to you for all that you come to supplant me. Nay! I bear no ill-will. Gamewell has no charms in my eyes compared with those of a life of freedom." "Is it Geoffrey, indeed?" asked young Fitzooth, gazing with both eyes wide. He had looked to see his cousin young as himself, and here was a man before him, bearded and bronzed, of nigh thirty summers. He was clad in sombre clothes, and wore upon his shoulders a great scarlet cape, cut extravagantly in the Norman fashion. Suddenly Robin laughed, heartily and frankly. "Yellow, Will, _yellow_, forsooth? Are you color-blind, friend? Cousin Geoffrey, we had believed you none other than the yellow-clad damsel who walks here at Hallow-e'en. Forgive us the discourtesy, I pray you. Here is my hand and good fellowship in it. I am to relinquish all right to Gamewell ground at the end of a year an I like--such were your father's terms. I do doubt whether I may stay so long as that." He spoke fearlessly. The two cousins embraced each other, and for an instant Geoffrey gave play to his better self; then, next moment, suspicion returned upon him. "I am but come to see you, Warrenton, on a small matter. I must have a horse and armor and a lance, that I may ride at Nottingham in the joustings. I shall be disguised, and will wear my visor down: a hungry wolf prowling unrecognized about his lord's domain." His speech was bitter and his voice harsh. "Kinsman," added he, to Robin, "do you keep still tongue in the business, and tell your squire to be as discreet. I am outlawed in England and have no right in it----" "That is not so, Geoffrey; surely your father will forgive----" "It is in the King's hands, cousin. My father has no voice in it, nor would desire to speak again for me, I trow. I have heard all that he hath already done in my behoof, Warrenton--the item was brought to me circuitously. Now I will keep you no longer: this hut has been and will be my shelter until the horse and arms are brought here to me." "I'll saddle him myself for you, coz: and choose you as stout a lance as Gamewell can provide. Let me help you in this, and be to you always a true friend." "You speak soothly, young Robin, and it may be with sincerity. I'll trust you then." Geoffrey drew him on one side. "See that the trappings and armor be of good steel and furbished with red leather: let the note of them be steel and scarlet. No device upon the shield, if you should think to bring me one; and stay, I would like the sword-hilt and the lance to be bound in red. Thus may you know me, if so be you are at the jousts; but be secret, and trust no other man than Warrenton. I'll wait you here at midnight--have no fear of the yellow ghost, kinsman!" "You'll be as red as she is yellow, cousin," whispered back Robin, with smiling face. "I'll do your behest, and attend you in this pleasance to-night at twelve o' th' clock. My squire can be trusted, I well believe." "Believe in no man until you have tried him, coz," answered Geoffrey. He paused. "Does Master Montfichet keep well in health, kinsman?" he asked. "He is well, now, but has been indisposed.... Yesterday at Nottingham----" "Ay, I heard of the doings there--no matter how," muttered the other, hastily. "Tell me that he is restored again; and that you will keep him from harm always as valiantly as you did then. Does your father still guard the forest at Locksley? 'Tis many years since I have seen Master Fitzooth, but thy mother hath always been kindly disposed to me. Farewell." He nodded to Warrenton, and slipped back to the little hut, and they heard him push the bolts after him. Robin turned to Stuteley. "Will, speak not of this meeting with anyone save Warrenton. I have promised for you." "Right, master; the matter has already passed from my mind. Shall we try our skill at archery? Warrenton can find me a bow, and I'll fetch yours from the hall. Here comes a priest; surely he were good mark for us had we our arrows here! And with him behold a forester of the King--green-clad and carrying a royal longbow. Do you beg it of him, master mine, whilst I seek yours. I go." Young Stuteley hurried across the green, whilst Robin advanced to meet the Clerk of Copmanhurst and the captain of the King's Foresters. They were in earnest converse, and clearly had not spied the gay cloak of Geoffrey Montfichet. Warrenton, with significant gesture to Robin, began a lecture on the making and choosing of arrows, as he walked beside his master's guest. "Are you talking of arrow-making, friend?" asked the forester, overhearing them. "Now I will tell you the true shape and make of such shafts as our Will o' th' Green uses," he struck in. "One bare yard are they in length, and are sealed with red silk, and winged with the feathers of an eagle." "Peacock," corrected the clerk, interposing. "You're wrong, Master Ford, as I will prove. Here is the head of one of Will's bolts, dropped in the greenwood on the day you rescued us from him. I have kept it in my pouch, for 'tis a pretty thing." He laughed all over his jolly face. "Here, Robin, keep it, and learn therefrom how _not_ to make arrows, for vanity is a sin to be avoided and put on one side. The plainer the barb the straighter does it fly, as all true bowmen must admit." He took Robin's hand, soon as the lad had fastened the trophy in his belt. "I have been bidden to you by the Master of Gamewell. He would speak with you, Robin; and I do counsel you to give all heed and weight to his words, and be both prudent and obedient in your answerings to him." They moved together towards the hall, whilst Warrenton and the forester argued still on the matter of winging arrows. CHAPTER VI It was Warrenton who brought Master Geoffrey his red-armored steed and lance, after all; for, although Robin had had a voice in the choosing of the horse, and had helped the retainer to bind the shaft and interlace the cuirass and gyres with riband such as the knight had ordered, events stayed Robin from going out with these appurtenances of war to the Lady's Bower. Young Fitzooth had been commanded to his mother's chamber so soon as he had come out from his converse with the Squire. There befell an anxious interview, Mistress Fitzooth arguing for and against the Squire's project in a breath. Robin was perplexed indeed: his ambition was fired by the Squire's rosy pictures of what he, as a true Montfichet, must adhere to without fail upon assuming the name and mantle of Gamewell. Most of all Robin thought of his father. What would he counsel? "Remain Fitzooth, and fight your own way in the world, boy." That is what he _might_ say. In the end Robin decided to sleep upon the matter. In any case he would not consent to rob Geoffrey of his inheritance; and he told old Gamewell this to his face. "When I am gone you can do what you will with the place, boy," the old man had answered. "I have no son; but, of course, the fees and revenues will be yours. If, for a whim, you beggar yourself, I cannot stay you. But take it whilst I live; and wear Montfichet's shield in the days when my eyes can be rejoiced by so brave a sight, for you will ne'er disgrace our 'scutcheon, I warrant me. Perchance 'tis Geoffrey's sole chance that _you_ should wear the badge of Gamewell. I might choose to bequeath it elsewhere." The lad had checked him then. "Never that, sir," he had said. "Let Gamewell land be ruled, for ever, by Gamewell's proper lord. I pray you to let me take counsel with my mother ere I answer you." "It is what I would suggest myself. Go to her." Then had come the argument with his mother, which had unsettled him more than before. He went down to discuss with Warrenton and Stuteley the means by which they best could bring the horse and arms to Geoffrey, and it soon became evident that no one other than Warrenton dare attempt it, for fear of betraying the son to his still angry father. "Are you sure, Warrenton, that you will perform this business right carefully?" Robin asked, over and over again, until the old servant became vexed. "I am part of the house of Montfichet, lording," snapped Warrenton, at last, "and it is not reasonable to think that I will turn against myself, as it were. Be sure that the horse and his trappings will be safely carried to my second master, Geoffrey, at the hour given. Do you keep the Squire employed in talk; and find excuse to lie in the little room next to his own that you may hear him if he moves." So Robin and Will went back to the hall, and presently the Squire's voice was heard through the arras which covered the north entrance to the apartment. He was in deep converse with the clerk, and entered the hall holding him by the arm. For a moment Robin and Will were unperceived; then the Squire's bright, keen eyes discovered them. "Now to bed, boy!" cried he, dropping his detaining hold of the priest. "'Tis late; and I go myself within a short space. Dismiss your squire, Robin, and bid me good e'en. An early sleeper maketh a sound man." "Did I see you with Warrenton, Robin Fitzooth?" put in the clerk, curiously. "I would fain have some talk with him on the matter of archery. I am told that this old man can draw as pretty a bow as any in Nottingham." "As any in England, I would say," said Gamewell, proudly. "That is, in his day. Now that age is upon Warrenton and his master, cunning in such matters is to seek. Yet he will teach you a few tricks when morning is come. Now kiss me, boy, and keep clear head and ready hand for the joustings and games to-morrow. Good night; God keep thee, Robin." He seemed to take it for granted that Robin would, in the end, consent to become of the house of Gamewell. Already Squire George looked upon him as heir to the hall and its acres; even as slowly did Warrenton, the shrewd and faithful man-at-arms. Truth to tell, the old servant did not regard the prospect with too kind an eye. Young Fitzooth embraced his uncle, and bade him good night with real affection. There was no chance to alter his sleeping-room to one nearer to Gamewell's chamber. When he had reached his chamber, again came the suspicion of Warrenton. Robin unfastened his tunic slowly and thoughtfully. Presently he crossed the floor of his room with decided step. "Will," cried he, softly; and Stuteley, who had chosen his couch across the door of his young master's chamber, sprang up at once in answer. "Do you hold yourself ready, Will, so soon as the house is asleep. We will go out together to the bower; there is a way down to the court from my window. Rest and be still until I warn you." Stuteley replied in a word to him; and, blowing out his taper, Robin returned to his bed and flung himself upon it in patient expectation. The hours passed wearily by, and movement could yet be heard about the hall. The open lattice gave entry to all sound from the court below; and from his window Robin could tell when the tapers in the hall were extinguished. Thrice he got up from his bed, and his stock of patience was slipping from him. At last all was quiet and black in the courtyard of Gamewell. "Will," whispered Robin, opening his door as he spoke, "are you ready?" Stuteley nodded as he entered on pointed toes. "From the window," explained Robin, pushing him towards the lattice. A faint starry radiance illumined the sky, and dim shadows held the angles and nooks of the court below them. A dense ivy clung to and covered the walls of the house. To one of light and agile body it gave fair footing. Robin had hands and feet in it in a moment; and cautiously, adroitly came to the ground, and signalled to Will Stuteley. The little ex-tumbler would have liked to have done tricks and shown his cleverness in the business, had there been time for it: as it was, Will dropped beside Robin lightly and easily, and instantly the two began to cross the court. It was necessary for them to climb over the stables at their left hand. Some dogs, hearing these quiet, stealthy footfalls, began to bay furiously: and both the youths stayed themselves until the beasts went grumbling and suspicious back to the kennels. They then renewed their journey, and, under the better light, made a safe crossing of the stable-roofs. They managed at length to win the gardens, and then raced across the open ground to gain the shelter of the yew-trees bordering the bower. The pleasance, in the soft moonlight, looked ghostly enough: the statues and stone ornaments placed about the place seemed to be instinct with life and to wave signals of horror to Will's starting eyes. At last they approached the hut, and Robin saw in the bright moonlight that the door gaped black at them. There was no sign to betray either Warrenton or Geoffrey to him. Robin entered the hut, dragging the unwilling esquire after him. A draught of chill air puffed in their faces as they entered; and a great owl blundered screamingly out into the night, the rush and noise of it startling Will to a cold ecstasy of terror. He would have plunged madly back to the hall had not Robin held firmly to him. "Be not so foolish, friend," said Fitzooth, crossly. His voice took his father's tone, as always happened when he was angered. They moved thereafter cautiously about the hut, groping before and about them to find something to show that Warrenton had fulfilled his mission. Presently Will stumbled and fell, pulling down Robin atop of him. Robin, putting out his hand to save himself, found that his fingers grasped nothing but air. They were upon the verge of an open trap, in the far corner of the hut; and Stuteley had tripped over the edge of the reversed flap-mouth of this pit. Fitzooth's hand rested at last upon the top rung of a ladder, and slowly the truth came to him. Quickly he drew himself up and whispered the discovery to the other. In an instant, then, their fears were dispelled. Will would have gone down first into the pit had not Robin stayed him. Stuteley was anxious that his young master should come to no harm; and where a danger appeared an earthly one, he was quite willing to bear the brunt of it. It was thought of the Yellow Woman which dried up all the courage in his small, wiry body. Robin carefully descended the ladder and found himself soon upon firm rocky ground. Stuteley was by his side in a flash: and then they both began feeling about them to ascertain the shape and character of this vault. Hardly had they commenced when Robin's quick ears took warning. Sound of a quiet approach was plain. The darkness of the pit was suddenly illumined, and the lads found themselves suddenly faced by the beams of a lanthorn suspended at about a man's height in the air. From the blackness behind the light they heard a voice--Warrenton's! "Save me, masters, but you startled me rarely!" cried he, waving the lanthorn before him to make sure that these were no ghosts in front of him. "I have but this minute left Master Montfichet, having carried his horse to him in safety. He rides into Nottingham to-morrow, unattended. I would that I might be squire to him!" "Did you indeed bring horse and arms down this ladder, Warrenton?" enquired Robin, with his suspicions still upon him. "Truly such a horse should be worth much in Nottingham Fair! I would dearly have loved to see so brave a business----" "Nay, nay, lording," answered Warrenton, with a half-laugh. "See"--and again he waved his light, showing them where the underground passage, for such it was, sloped upward to another and larger trap, now closed. "This way is one of the many secret ones about Gamewell, master: but do you keep the knowledge of it to yourselves, I beg, unless you would wish hurt to our future lord of Gamewell." Warrenton spoke thus with significance, to show Robin that he was not to think Geoffrey's claims to the estate would be passed by. Robin Fitzooth saw that his doubts of Warrenton had been unfair: and he became ashamed of himself for harboring them. "Give me your hand, Warrenton, and help me to climb these steps," said he, openly. "'Tis dark, for all your lamp; and I fain would feel friendly assistance, such as you can give." His tones rang pleasantly on Warrenton's ears, and forthwith a good-fellowship was heralded between them. This was to mean much to the young hero of Locksley in the time to come; for Warrenton's help and tuition were to make Robin Fitzooth something far better than the clever bowman he was already. This night, in a way, saw the beginning of Robin's fortunes and strange, adventurous after-life. The old servant told him quietly as they crept back to Gamewell that this passage-way led from the hut in the pleasance to Sherwood; and that Geoffrey for the time was hiding with the outlaws in the forest. "Our master is to be recognized by us as the Scarlet Knight at Nottingham Fair should one ask of us, lording," Warrenton told him. "He implores us to be discreet as the grave in this matter, for in sooth his life is in the hollow of our hands." The old servant spoke no more. In silence he led them back into Gamewell by the private door through the stables by which he had himself emerged. They regained their apartment, apparently without disturbing the household of Gamewell. Only did one pair of eyes and ears look and listen for them, and observe both their exit and return. It was the Clerk of Copmanhurst's door that stood ajar; his busy mind that employed itself in speculation as to the cause and meaning of this midnight adventure. CHAPTER VII Geoffrey Montfichet's reason for wishing to be known as the Scarlet Knight was no idle whimsey, as the others had guessed. To John's rebellion against his father, Henry of England, the younger Montfichet had given himself body and soul. The Prince had shown him kindness, and now that the rebellion had failed, Geoffrey felt it incumbent upon him to remain with the beaten side, and endeavor to recover the advantage lost to them. To this end he now journeyed through the Midlands in many disguises, trying to stir up the outlaws and robbers of the forests to take up arms with John, under a promise that the Prince (if successful) would grant them amnesty and a goodly share of the spoils sure to fall to them. A spy was to attend at Nottingham Fair to know how matters had progressed with the outlaws of Sherwood; but, since it was too dangerous to attempt an open meeting, Geoffrey had arranged a simple code of signalling, by color. Did he appear as a knight unknown and disinherited, bound on his arms and steed with red trappings, the spy, eyeing him from beside the Sheriff of Nottingham, would know that Will o' th' Green was to be trusted, and would promptly bear the joyful news to his Royal Master. Had sad black been the note, John's man would have guessed that friends were still to seek about Nottingham. Thus we know that Master Will had more reasons than one for appearing as a wizard at Nottingham Fair. He had gone here chiefly to bear a scroll to the Prince's emissary, and to declare fealty to John; but the affair of the tumblers and Robin's discovery of him had warned Master Will not to stay over long in the town, so Geoffrey had to depend upon his plan of appearing as the Scarlet Knight. The morning broke dull and threateningly over Gamewell. Robin and his esquire slept late; but no one offered to disturb their slumbers. The monk knew full well that there was good cause for his pupil's fatigue; and had set himself to discover the true meaning of it. "Boy," said he to Robin, "I pray that you do not think upon Nottingham to-day. There will be a storm and much rain. The mud in the meadows of Nottingham will surely spoil the bravery of the Fair, and show us too plainly how trumpery and vain a matter it is." "For that cause alone will we go, dear friend," retorted Robin. "It will be a lesson to us. With you beside us to point the moral, much benefit shall accrue, for sure. Father," Robin added, "come with us now to the pleasance. There Warrenton is to show me how to notch arrows and pick a courtly bow." "I have no great wisdom in the game, boy; yet readily will I go with you." The three of them went in search of Warrenton; and found him with the captain of the foresters. Dame Fitzooth and the Squire followed later to the pleasance, and there one and all tried conclusions. Robin soon found that Warrenton could teach him much; and he was too anxious to excel in the conduct of the bow to neglect this chance of learning the many secrets of it. "Men shall talk of you"--Fitzooth's own words to him--always rang in his heart whenever he drew the cord and fitted ash across yew. Warrenton took great pleasure in showing Robin some of the tricks in which he was so perfect; and explained them so well that ere an hour had gone the lad had learned and mastered them. "Lording," said the old servant, watching him as he essayed successfully an exercise shown him but a few minutes before. "Lording, I do not doubt that you will carry away with you to-day the Sheriff's prize from the older bowmen of Nottingham! You have a keen eye for it, and your fingers seem comfortable upon the yew--which is the sign and mark of a good archer. Now, bear in mind this golden rule: that the feet are to be placed at true angles, with the line of the mark running, as it were, fairly through the heels: thus," and he took the position, fitted an arrow to his bow, and, scarce looking towards the target, flew his shaft so straightly as to pierce the very center of the bull. "Try now to notch the arrow," said Warrenton, with pardonable pride. Robin shook his head and laughed. "Ay, but you shall make far _better_ than that, lording, an I have the handling of you!" cried Warrenton. "Now take this bow and these arrows which I have chosen; and we will set forth for Nottingham. We have an hour's journey." On the way to Nottingham, Robin's mind was so full of all that had lately happened that he lagged behind the others and at last found himself quite alone. This was where the road curved through the last of the forest about Nottingham. Warrenton and Master Ford of the foresters were at a renewed discussion on longbow against crossbow; and Will Stuteley had become so interested in the matter as to have poked his little horse between the others. Robin trotted his steed to come up with them; then, suddenly spying a brooklet among the trees upon his left hand, found himself mightily athirst. He slipped from off the back of his grey jennet and tethered the beast by the roadside. The brook was fouled near the highroad from the passing of heavy carts and wagons, so Robin pushed down it into the thicker wood. Finding that now the stream ran pure and limpid, Robin flung himself flat among the bracken and rushes, and dipped his face in the cool water. He drank heartily, and lay there for a while in lazy content, hid by the undergrowth and bracken. A whinnying from his jennet warned him at length that he must push on with speed if he intended to rejoin the others ere Nottingham gate was reached. Robin turned himself about, preparatory to rising, then hastily shrank back into the shelter afforded by the ferns. Two men approached noiselessly through the forest. They carried bows and were clad in russet brown. Robin, in that brief glimpse, recognized two of Master Will's free-booting band. The outlaws walked side by side in earnest conversation. Their mutterings were at first unintelligible to Robin; but, by hazard, they paused close to where he lay hid. Young Fitzooth knew that he would have small chance with these fellows should they espy him. Said one, an evil-looking man, with a dirty grizzled beard: "Our Will seems to me, friend Roger, to be of open heart towards this youngling. He has given him the key of the forest at first word, as if the place were free to all. Had _you_ the knowledge of it so soon, Roger? Tell me, lad." He spoke sneeringly and with meaning. Robin strained his ears to distinguish the other's reply. "Friend," said Number Two, at last, and speaking in a smooth, milky sort of way, "friend, I would rather counsel you to adopt a persuasive argument with the Scarlet Knight, should we chance on him. I would have no violence done, an it may be avoided, being a man opposed to lawlessness in heart, as you know. It is my eternal misfortune which has brought me to this life." "Tush! 'tis for murder of an old man at York! I know your story, Roger; seek not to impose upon me." "He was a Jew, dear friend, and did grievously provoke me. But we have a matter in hand. This man has doubtless been sent in to spy upon us. I have no belief in the faith of these Norman nobles. Further, he has upon his head a goodly sum of money, as I well know. Wherefore, if chance should yield him to our hands, it would seem right and proper that we should bind him." "Ay, hard and fast, Roger. You have it." "Bind him with a vow, Micah, but not with ropes and wickedness. Yet should your dagger inadvertently prick him----" "Be sure that it will, Roger. Some inward voice warns me that it will." The other made a sign to the last speaker to speak more quietly. Robin cocked his ears in vain, but he had heard enough to show him that the shadow of a great evil was stalking behind his cousin, and without further thought decided that he must save him. The two villains stood together a plaguey time perfecting their plans, and Robin dared scarcely breathe. Once, when he attempted to wriggle his way through the bracken, at the first sound of movement both men had become utterly silent, showing that they had heard and waited to hear again. "A squirrel, friend," said the one called Roger at last, and Robin took heart again. However, knowing that presently they must espy his jennet tethered by the road, Robin became desperate. He writhed his body snake-like through the ferns until he came to the edge of the brook; then, covered by the noise of the falling water, essayed to creep up the course of the stream. The distance from the road could scarcely have been two hundred ells, but it seemed to Robin more like to a league. He got his feet and legs wet and bemired; and cut his hands over the rocks about the brook. Yet he came nearer and nearer still to the roadway without having given alarm. Robin saw at length the close turf which bordered the road, and spied his little grey horse. Forthwith he rose to his feet and made a bold dash for it. The jennet was untethered and Robin upon its back in a flash; then the lad heard the whizz of an arrow past him. He bent his head down close to the neck of his jennet and whispered a word into its ear. The little mare, shaking herself suddenly to a gallop, understood; and now began a race between bow and beast. These outlaws were no common archers, for sure. Twice did their shafts skim narrowly by Robin and his flying steed; the third time a sudden pricking told the youth that he was struck in the back. He had no time for thought of pain. Everything depended on the beast under him. He pressed his legs softly but firmly against her streaming sides. She was more swift in the end than the cruel arrows. Robin saw the countryside flashing by him through a cloud of dust; saw that Nottingham gate was reached; that a party with surprised faces watched his furious approach. The little mare swayed and rolled as she went, and Robin came to the ground, with the outlaw's arrow still in him. He was conscious that someone ran to him and lifted him tenderly: he perceived dimly, through circling blackness, the anxious face of Stuteley. "Are you hurt, dear master?" he seemed to see, rather than hear, him say. Then Stuteley, Nottingham, and reason fled swiftly together, and the day became as night. CHAPTER VIII When he recovered himself Robin found them binding his shoulder. He smiled up at Warrenton to show that the hurt was little. "Are we too late for the joustings, Will?" he murmured, spying out Stuteley's face of concern. "We are to bring back the golden arrow with us which the Sheriff has offered as prize to the best marksman," answered Warrenton, before the other could speak. "Now, you are to remember all that I have shown you, and shoot in confidence. Now come: the gates of Nottingham are opened, and your wound is neatly bandaged. Here is the arrow plucked from it: keep it for a trophy." "Is it a pretty shaft, Warrenton?" asked Robin, carelessly, as the old servant thrust it into his quiver. "It is one of Will's own, and that suffices." After Master Ford had briefly bidden them farewell, they left their beasts in charge of a fellow inside the gate, bidding him give the little grey jennet all care and attention. Here, also, Robin got himself washed and made tidy for the Fair, and had some meat and drink to restore him. He found that it was to the long Norman cape he wore that he owed his life. The outlaw's arrow had been diverted by the flapping garment, and had only pricked him in the fleshy part of his shoulder. The cape was so ripped, however, as to become ridiculous in its rags, so Robin asked for the loan of a pair of shears, and with them trimmed the cape so ruthlessly in his haste as to make it become more like an old woman's hood. "You have turned Saxon out of Norman very suddenly, master," laughed young Stuteley. It was a full three hours past noon ere they came to the Fair. A great ring had been made in the centre of it, and huge wooden stands had been built about this circle. They were covered finely with cloth of red and gold; and many flags and banners were flying above the tops and about the stands. The blare and discord of trumpets rang out over the noise of the people. A great clamor of voices betokened the arrival of some great man at the front of the chief stand. "The Sheriff has arrived," cried Stuteley, who knew the ways at these affairs. "Hear how the people do cheer him! For sure he must be a man well liked----" "These fellows will applaud anyone who has power and office," said Warrenton, scornfully. "Master Monceux is _not_ beloved of them, for all that. But hasten, or we shall be shut out. Already they are closing the gates." The clouds were heavy and grey, and a few large drops of rain began to patter down. "Look to our bows, Warrenton," cried Robin, in alarm. "Be easy, lording--your bow shall not be at fault if the prize does not fall to your hand. Follow me." They were now at the wicket, and Warrenton produced his authority. Gamewell's name was enough. They were ushered into a small box near by the Sheriff's own, and there awaited events. First came bouts of single-stick and quarter-staff, and Master Will was keen to take part in these contests. Warrenton counselled him to remain in the background, however. "The folk are sure to recognize you, malapert," said he, giving Stuteley his favorite name for him, "and there will be an outcry. Let be, then, and attend to your master." "It would be better, Will, I do think," said Robin. "I have to find out cousin Geoffrey, and warn him against two villains waiting for him without the town." And Robin gave them briefly the history of his adventure. Ere he had ended the story, the Sheriff held up his baton as a sign that the jousting would begin. Two knights rode into the ring through the hastily opened gates, heralded by their esquires--amid the noise of a shrill blast of defiance. They were clad in chain-mail, bound on and about with white riband, and their armor was burnished in a manner most beautiful to behold. Their esquires threw down their gauntlets before the box of Master Monceux, and challenged the world to a trial of strength in these the lists-magnificent of Nottingham town. Two black knights had ridden into the lists in answer to the challenge; and now all clamor was hushed. The Sheriff's daughter, a pale, hard-faced girl, with straw-colored hair and mincing ways, announced in inaudible voice the terms of the contest. The heralds repeated them afterwards in stentorian tones; and the rivals wheeled about, the white knights couching their lances from under the Sheriff's box. The others prepared themselves at the wicket-gate and waited for the signal. This was given, and the four rushed together with a shock like a thunder-clap. These four knights gave good account of themselves. The black knights had been unhorsed, and now they lay helpless in their heavy armor. Once on their feet, they were eager to renew the fray, and were soon again in readiness. At the second tilt they rudely unhorsed the white knights by sheer strength of arm; and all the people shouted themselves hoarse. So the jousting went on; and, after the white knights had eventually won the first round, yellow and red took their places. Robin eagerly scanned the latter, trying to discover which of the two might be Geoffrey. A small, thin-faced man behind the Sheriff was no less eager to discover Montfichet in this favorable apparel; and evidently had sharper eyes than had Robin in piercing disguise. This wizened-faced fellow leaned back with satisfied smile, after one searching glance; then, drawing out his tablets, he wrote on them, and despatched his man in haste to London town. Geoffrey was unhorsed in the second tilting; and lay so long upon the ground that Robin's heart stood still. It was then discovered that this knight was unknown and had no esquire. Thus Robin knew him for his cousin. "Attend him, Will, as you would myself," cried Robin, anxiously, "and see now to his hurt----" "He is but dazed, master, with his fall. It seems that these knights are armored so heavily that once down they cannot of themselves rise up again! Protect me from such war-gear! I'd sooner have my own skin and be able to be spry in it. What say you, old Warrenton?" "Go to, malapert. Get down to him, and be as active with your hands as you are with your tongue." "I go, I go--see how I go!" and Will turned a somersault over him into the ring out of the front of their box. Robin called angrily on him to behave, and the little tumbler ran then to his duties as servant to the unknown Scarlet Knight. Robin's eager eyes roved hither and thither about the gay scene. Opposite him was a small box near to the ground, wherein sat two people only. One was a grave-faced man of courtly mien and handsome apparel: the other seemed to be his child. Towards one of these two persons Robin's glances for ever wandered. The laughing blue eyes of the girl, the queer little toss of her head which she gave in her unheard answers to her sober father, heartily pleased young Fitzooth, and in some way vaguely disturbed his memory. She was of about fifteen summers; and her hair was black as a winter's night--and curled all waywardly around her merry face. Blue were her eyes when the quick fever induced by the tilting rushed in her blood--blue as meadow violets. Then, when the excitement was passed, they fell to a grey wonderment. Twice she encountered Robin's glances; and the second time her eyes shone blue, as if ashamed, and the tint of her warm cheeks deepened. Demurely she turned away her face from him. Young Fitzooth turned to Warrenton: "Can you tell me who these may be who sit alone in yon little box?" he asked, and cautiously pointed them out to the old retainer. Warrenton was stupid, however, and would not see exactly where Robin would have him look. At last, as one making a discovery: "Oh, 'tis Master Fitzwalter you mean, lording? Ay, a right worthy, honest gentleman; and warden of the city gates. Next of importance in Nottingham town is he after Monceux, the Sheriff; and a prettier man in all ways. Now, were he Sheriff, Squire George of Gamewell would oftener be in Nottingham Castle than now, for we like not the Sheriff. The maid with Master Fitzwalter is his only child. She has no mother; and he is both parents to her. Ay, a proper man----" "She is very beautiful, I think," said Robin, speaking his thoughts almost without knowing it. "Yes, yes, a passable wench. But I have no faith in them, lording. They are all as the Yellow One of Gamewell. They smile upon you that they may work their will; and evil comes of their favor, if not death. Now see----" "You are crabbed, indeed, Warrenton; and I'll hear no more. Do you know her name?" "Fitzwalter, lording. Did I not say this was his child?" "Has she no other name?" persisted Robin, patiently. "Oh, ay ... let me see. 'Tis Judith, or Joan, or some such name. Mayhap, 'tis Catherine. I do misremember it, lording: but 'tis surely of no account. The archery is now to begin; and here I would have you give heed----" He recommenced his cautions, warnings, and hints--being anxious that Robin should shine to-day for Gamewell's sake. Robin saw that the jousting was done, and that, after all, the red knights were conquerors. It fell to Geoffrey to ride forward and accept the coveted laurel wreath. Dipping his lance, Geoffrey caused his charger to bend its knees before the regal-looking box: and Master Monceux, after an inflated speech, placed the circlet of bays upon the end of Geoffrey's lance. Then the unknown knight for a brief instant raised his vizor. The lean-faced man near to the Sheriff's right hand exchanged a quick glance of understanding with the knight. The Sheriff nodded to give the knight to understand that he was satisfied. With closed visor the scarlet one then paced his steed slowly and in quiet dignity around the lists, followed dutifully by Stuteley, until they had returned to the Monceux box. Again saluting gracefully, he extended his lance, with the wreath still depending from it, towards the Sheriff, as it seemed. "Does he return the wreath, and wherefore?" asked Robin, in puzzled voice. "To her to whom the wreath is yielded our Sheriff will award the title of Beauty's Queen," explained Warrenton. "'Tis a foolish custom. Master Geoffrey, in this matter of etiquette, knows that the trifle should go to young Mistress Monceux. Otherwise, the Sheriff would have him beaten, no doubt; or injured in some shameful way upon his departure from the lists." "So that is the rule of it, eh, Warrenton?" said Robin. "I would like to choose my own Queen----" "It matters not one jot or tittle to young Master Montfichet. See--the wreath has been duly bestowed and the Sheriff will announce his girl Queen, until the night, of Beauty in all Royal Nottingham. There will be some further mummery when the golden arrow is won. Doubtless, the winner will have to yield it up to Monceux's girl again, on a pretence that all is hers, now she is Queen. So shall my lord the Sheriff keep his prize after all; and be able to offer it again next year----" Robin checked the garrulous old man with a gesture. "Now give me my bow, Warrenton," commanded young Fitzooth, somewhat roughly; "and do you tell me how I am to enter myself in the lists." "Your esquire should announce you," returned the other, respectfully. "See, here he comes----" "The Red Knight would thank you, master, for your courtesies," said Stuteley, approaching Robin. "He will wait for us at Nottingham gate; and prays that you will accept the chargers of the unhorsed knights from him. They are his by right of conquest, as you know." "I will accept them, and thank him for the gift," returned Robin, briefly, guessing that this was the reply that Geoffrey would desire him to make. "Now tell the heralds that Robin of Locksley will enter for the Sheriff's prize. Give no more of my name than that, Will," he added warningly, in a lower voice. Stuteley vanished, and Robin turned again to the lists. The Sheriff's daughter had already been crowned, and sat now in supercilious state in the Sheriff's own seat. Geoffrey had gone, and Fitzwalter's box was empty. "I'll not shoot at all," said Robin, suddenly. "Go, Warrenton, bring back Stuteley to me. I have changed my mind in the matter." "Does your wound fret you, lording?" asked Warrenton, solicitously. "Forgive me that I should have forgot----" "Nay--'tis not that at all. I have no wish to shoot. Fetch Will to me." It was too late. Stuteley had already given in Robin's name to the heralds, and signified that he would shoot first of all. He came into the box even as Warrenton went out for him. Half-angrily, Robin took the bow from the retainer's hands and slung his quiver about him. He strode moodily across the lists to the spot where the other archers had already gathered. When they saw this youngling with his odd little cape preparing himself, they smiled and whispered together. Robin strung his bow and slipped an arrow across it. The crowd became suddenly silent, and this nerved the lad to be himself once more. He forgot his momentary vexation and aimed carefully. His arrow flew surely to the target and struck it full in the middle. "A bull! A bull!" roared Warrenton and Stuteley, together. Robin stepped back. "None so bad a shot, master," said the next archer to him, in a quiet tone. "You have provided yourself now with a truer shaft, I ween?" It was Will o' th' Green, with stained face and horse-hair beard. His eyes challenged Robin's in ironical defiance, as he moved to take his turn. His aim seemed to be made without skill or desire to better Robin's shot; yet his arrow found resting-place side by side with the other. The mob cheered and applauded themselves hoarse; while the markers scored the points evenly to these first two archers. These two stood apart, silent amidst the din. Once Will seemed to be about to speak: then changed his mind. He glanced sidelong at young Stuteley and Warrenton; then hummed a ballad-tune under his breath. The contest went on and the first round came to an end. Out of twenty and three rivals nineteen had scored bulls at this range. The markers gave the signal to the heralds, and these announced the results with loud flourishings. The target was taken down and the range increased. The range of the mark from the archers for the second round was fixed at forty ells--the same distance as had chanced before between Robin and Master Will when in the greenwood together. The outlaw offered to shoot first; but the heralds requested them to keep in the same order as in the preceding round. Robin fitted his arrow quietly and with some confidence to his bow, then sped it unerringly towards the target. "A bull! Another bull to Locksley!" cried out Warrenton, in stentorian tones, and the fickle mob took up the cry: "Locksley! A Locksley!" with gusto. Will aimed with even more unconcern than before. His arrow took the center fairly and squarely, however; and was in reality a better shot than Robin's. The shafts were withdrawn; then the other contestants followed. This round brought down the number of competitors to five. The markers carried back the target to a distance of five-and-fifty ells; and truly the painted circles upon it seemed to be now very small. Robin again took his stand, but with some misgiving. The light was uncertain, and a little fitful wind frolicked across the range in a way very disturbing to a bowman's nerves. His eyes half-anxiously addressed themselves to that box wherein he had spied Mistress Fitzwalter. His heart leaped--she had returned, and her strange gaze was fixed upon him! Robin drew his bow and flew his shaft. Unconsciously he used the arrow plucked from his own shoulder by Warrenton. Again did he gain the center, amid the cries and jubilations of Stuteley and the old retainer. "Now Master Roughbeard, better that!" shouted Warrenton. The outlaw smiled scornfully and made ready. He drew his bow with ease and a pretty grace, and made a little gesture of confidence as his agile fingers released the arrow. It leaped forth rushingly towards the target, and all eyes followed it in its flight. A loud uproar broke forth when the markers gave their score--an inner circle, and not a bull. Master Will made an angry signal of disbelief; and strode forward down the lists to see for himself. It was true: the wind had influenced a pretty shot just to its undoing, and Will had to be content with the hope that the same mischance might come to Robin or any of the other bowmen before the round was ended. The outlaw wished especially to win--that he might have the satisfaction of vexing the Sheriff of Nottingham. Will had intended to send back this prize--a golden arrow--from his stronghold of Sherwood, snapped into twenty pieces, with a letter of truculent defiance wrapped about the scraps. He wished to make it plain to Master Monceux that the free archers of Sherwood were better men than any _he_ might bring against them, and that they despised him very heartily. Now that he saw a likelihood of his being beaten his heart grew hot within him. "Be not too sure of it, stripling," said he, as he returned to Robin's side. "Fortune may mar your next shot, as she has mine----" "'Tis like enough, friend," answered Robin, smiling; "and yet I do hope that the arrow may be won by my hand. This is our second test, Master Will," he added, in a low voice. "Forget it not--the freedom of the greenwood is the reward that I do seek even more than my lord the Sheriff's golden arrow." The outlaw's anger went suddenly from him. "Then I do wish you God-speed, youngling," he said, brightly. "You have in truth beaten me right honestly--for mine was an ill-judged shot." With Will out of it, the contest came to an easy conclusion; and presently the Sheriff's arrow was duly awarded to Robin of Locksley by the markers. The lad came forward shyly to receive the prize. "Master Monceux thinks that you should shoot once more with the second archer," said someone to him, leaning from the Sheriff's box. Looking up, Robin espied the lean-faced man smiling disagreeably down at him. "Let my lord state the terms of this new contest, then," answered Robin, "and the reason for't." "'Tis said that you were over-favored by the wind and by the light." An angry answer was upon the lad's lips: but he checked himself, and with slow dignity turned and went back to where the archers stood grouped together. Soon as he made known to him the difficulty which the Sheriff had raised, Will o' th' Green became furious. "Locksley, have none of this trumpery prize," cried he, in loud anger. "I do deny my right to any share in it, or to a fresh contest. Nor will I shoot again. Let Monceux vex his brain as he may with rules and conditions--they are not for Roughbeard, or for you. We have our own notions of right and justice; and since the Sheriff is loth to part with the prize that he has offered--why, yield it back to him, friend--and take the reward from me that you coupled with it." Other indignant protests were now heard from amongst the onlookers: and the Sheriff saw that he had raised a storm indeed. "Locksley! Robin Locksley!" was shouted noisily round and about; and Warrenton and Stuteley busily fostered the tumult. Master Monceux at last bade the heralds announce that Robin of Locksley had won the golden arrow--since the archer who had made nearest points to him did not desire nor seek a further trial. "Were it necessary, lording," muttered old Warrenton, "I would show you how to notch the arrow of the best archer here about--a merry trick, and one that I learned in Lancashire, where they have little left to learn of archery, for sure." "Nay," put in Roughbeard, loudly, "the arrow is his without need of further parleyings. I do admit myself beaten this day--though on another occasion we will, perchance, reverse our present positions. Take or leave the arrow as you will, Locksley. For my part I would love to prick Monceux with it heartily." "You talk wisely, friend," said Warrenton, approvingly, "and, as for making a match with you, why, that will we to-day. Do you ride with us to Gamewell and there you shall have archery and to spare." "Ay, and a welcome, too!" commenced Robin; then paused suddenly, remembering who Roughbeard really was. Montfichet of Gamewell entertaining Will o' th' Green! The outlaw merely laughed good-humoredly at the lad's confusion. "Go, take the Sheriff's prize; and vex him in some way, if you can, in the accepting of it!" Again Robin walked forward towards the Monceux box; this time with flashing eyes and a resolve in his heart. "Robin of Locksley," said the Sheriff, scarce looking at him, "here is my golden arrow which I have offered as reward to the best bowman in this Fair. You have been accorded the prize; and I do yield it to you with sincere pleasure. Take the bauble now from our daughter's hand, and use the arrow worthily." The heralds blew a brazen blast, and the demoiselle Monceux, with a thin smile, held out to Robin upon a silk cushion the little shining arrow which now was his. Bowing, and on one knee, Robin took up the glittering trophy. "Surely 'tis a plaything more suited to a lady's hair than to an archer," murmured the lean-faced man, who stood close by. Catching Robin's eye, he made a significant sign, as who would say: "Here is the Queen who would adorn it." Robin had that other notion in his mind, however, and saw that now the moment had arrived in which it should be put into execution. Somehow, he contrived to bring himself before the small low box wherein, half-startled, sat the maid Fitzwalter. "Lady," stammered the young archer, bowing to her, "do you please accept this little arrow which I have won. It is a pretty thing; but of small use to me. Maybe you could make some ornament with it----" Then he could go no farther; but dumbly held it out to her. The girl, having seen that her father was not unwilling, stretched out and took the Sheriff's arrow from Robin's shaking hands. "Thanks to you, Robin o' th' Hood," she said, with that roguish little toss of her dark curls; "I'll take the dart, and wear it in memory of Locksley and this day!" Her eyes looked frankly into his for a brief instant; then were hid by her silky lashes. Robin, with bounding heart, walked proudly back to where old Warrenton stood, glowing; and the people thunderingly applauded the archer's choice. "Right well was it done, Locksley!" roared the outlaw, near forgetting himself. "I love you for it." For he saw only that the Sheriff had been slighted, and cries of: "A Locksley!" were renewed again and again. Master Monceux looked furiously at this archer who had taken the prize with only the briefest word of thanks to him: and would have spoken, had not his daughter, with chilling gesture, forbidden it. She gave no outward symptom of the anger stirring within her: she wore her worthless but royal crown of bay, whilst the other toyed thoughtfully with the golden arrow, and wondered who the gallant giver of it might be. Robin, Warrenton, Stuteley, and Roughbeard rode towards the gate of Nottingham on the horses of the defeated knights. They had decided to stay no longer at the Fair: the noisy play and mock-joustings that were to follow the archery had no attraction for them. CHAPTER IX This escort saved Geoffrey from the attack planned upon him by the two treacherous robbers. They spied him out, and followed the small cavalcade throughout the journey, but at a respectful distance, uttering deep threats against the lad who had warned the knight of their evil intent. So, whilst making friends, Robin also made enemies: but none so bad as that cold-faced woman of Nottingham Castle. She had recognized in Robin of Locksley the youth who had come with old Montfichet on the first day of the Fair. Near by Gamewell, Roughbeard called a halt. He had been strangely silent, being over doubtful. "Farewell, friends," said he, doffing his cap to them. "Here our roads do part, for I must go further through the forest." "I, too, have that direction before me, if so be that you are travelling westward," said Geoffrey to him, with well-assumed diffidence, and speaking through his casque. He had known the outlaw at once; but had forborne to show it, scarce dreaming that Robin also had pierced Will's disguise. Robin became busy in his thoughts when he saw his cousin and Roughbeard riding off together like this. That secret way from the hut which led into Sherwood; the two villains who had plotted against Geoffrey--why, all was clear! Geoffrey now was with them of the forest; had been seeking to influence Master Will; no doubt the red trappings upon which he had laid such stress were as a signal to someone. To whom? And to what end? Geoffrey had been cool towards Robin when warned of those scheming against him. "I can protect myself against such rabble, cousin," was all he would say. "But I would thank you for bidding your lad to me in the joustings; it was a matter I had overlooked that one must have an esquire. I'll not forget the courtesy." That was all. He had shrunk back into himself again; and with closed visor had ridden silently beside them. Yet he was not ungrateful; and had begun to like Robin very honestly, only Geoffrey Montfichet must be very sure of his man ere he would unbend to him. It was already nigh on dusk as Robin rode into the court at Gamewell in dreaming abstraction. His thoughts had sprung back again from Geoffrey to the blue-eyed maid: and in cloudlands he saw himself her knight. Wondrous and mighty would be the deeds that he should perform for her dear sake--did she bid him to them. Then he remembered Broadweald, and how he had sworn within himself to set his life to win that, for his father's happiness. Ay: but surely in the winning of Broadweald there might chance smaller prizes, which properly he might yield for a smile from this fair maid? Or again, might not he battle for the two together? "Robin, Robin!" He heard old Montfichet's voice, calling from the shadow of the porch. "Where are you, child? I did not espy you at the bridge. Come here, boy, and let me tell to you something of sorrow. There has befallen a sad mischance to your father at Locksley----" "Sir, sir," cried poor Robin, waking suddenly, "tell me not that he is dead!" He sprang hastily from his grey steed and ran towards the Squire. "No, not that." "Ah, but my heart forewarns me. He has been hurt by some beast? It is the season when the deer are wild." "Master Fitzooth has been attacked by a great stag near by your home. That is all we know of it, child; and I give it you plainly at once, that you may hear the worst. Your mother has already gone to him, with the clerk and a full two score of men. For the captain of the foresters has kindly joined forces with mine own fellows; so that no further harm may befall." "I'll follow her, sir. Give me leave to go." "'Twere wiser to wait till morning, boy. What could you do now? Mayhap we fret ourselves too much, as 'tis. But you shall go, with Warrenton and your esquire, when morning is here. Ay, and I will come too; and we will bring with us the most skilful leech in Nottingham. I have already sent a messenger to him, an hour since, so soon as the dame had gone." "I like not my mother having been sent for, sir. That shows me that the hurt is deadly. To think that I was playing so foolishly at the moment when I might have been of use to him!" So rudely ended Robin's dreaming. In the morning they set out for Locksley; the Squire with the leech, and six mules bearing such delicacies as old Gamewell's generous mind could think upon. Warrenton headed a full score of men, for fear of the outlaws; and they took a litter with them to bring Master Fitzooth to Gamewell. The dame met them at the latch-gate which Robin knew so well. Her face was deathly pale and her mouth quivered as she tried to frame a welcome to them. "Mother!" cried Robin, in anguished voice, running to her; and there was no need for further speech. In that one cry and in the expression of her mute, answering face, the truth was told and understood. No use to fight for Broadweald now; were it his a hundred times over, Robin could never do that with it which he in all his boyhood had planned. Hugh Fitzooth, Ranger of the Forest of Locksley, was dead. * * * * * The good Clerk of Copmanhurst, who had appeared from within the cottage, told the story of Fitzooth's death. Fitzooth had been alone when the huge wild stag had attacked him; was near his death when discovered by two of his men. He had regained consciousness only at the sound of his wife's voice; had kissed her with fainting breath; and, having labored to send Robin a message of love and pride in him, had gradually faded in spirit until the dawn. It was an unhappy ending to a life soured by disappointment; yet somehow this man had managed to win a way into the hearts of many people. The few villagers of Locksley all had their tender word or humble tribute of affection to offer the dame and her sorrowing son; and thus much of the edge of their grief was blunted. Until the interment the priest stayed with them, and so did old Gamewell, who paid all the fees and expenses inevitable in consequence of Fitzooth's decease. Afterward, the Squire would have them go back to Gamewell with him; but Robin had determined to ask for his father's post. This bitter time made the lad into a man suddenly. It was the evening of the day when they had laid Fitzooth to rest in the little churchyard of Locksley that Montfichet returned again to talk of his plan of making Robin his heir. The old man argued reasonably and well; and Robin listened in silence until he was done. Then, "Very generously and indulgently have you talked with us, sir," said Robin, "and sure thing it is that we owe you such debt as I can never hope to pay. Yet I cannot feel that 'twould be a man's part to live an idle life. Surely I should do something, sir, to win the right to wear your name? Moreover, I must not forget that there is another--nay, hear me, sir--thine own son, whose birthright I should be stealing away from him." "Boy," interrupted old Gamewell, on a sudden resolution, "will you share Gamewell with me as Geoffrey's brother, then? If so be this way out of it will meet your objections, I'll sink my prejudice. Geoffrey shall go halves with you." "That were the course nearer to my heart, sir; and yet not all that I would desire. I have no right to talk to you so openly; but the matter is, in a manner, forced upon me." "It is agreed then, Robin?" cried the Squire, eagerly. "And so you will take your mother's olden name and become Montfichet of Gamewell?" "I would rather serve the King _here_ for one year, at least," said Robin, arguing still. "You might think better on't, sir. Let me try my strength or weakness; and find out myself for myself. My father would have wished me to fight my own way in the world." "The lad speaks soothly, Squire," said the clerk, interposing, "and I would counsel you to agree to his notions. Moreover, he has not yet finished his studyings with myself in the Latin tongue." "Leave me young Stuteley and Warrenton, sir, and your blessing, and let me win bread for my mother and myself for twelve months from to-day. Then, if I may, and you wish, I'll come humbly to you." Robin went over to him. "And believe me always as being very grateful, sir. I would that I might not seem obstinate in this." "Have it so, then, Robin. I'll bear your letter to Monceux myself, and rally him about the arrow which you won!" "Will the Sheriff appoint me, then?" asked Robin, a trifle disconcerted. "He will advise the King in the matter. 'Tis but a form. The post of Ranger of Locksley is yours, merely for the asking. Who could gainsay your right to it? Give me the letter; and I will be your messenger. I go to-morrow to Gamewell, and will journey to Nottingham the next day. Now, since I understand that this holy man would wish to see you alone, and I would like to talk with your mother, I'll leave you, boy. Count me always as friend, Robin Fitzooth Montfichet." He added the last word half-enquiringly, half-lovingly; and twinkled to the clerk to see how Robin might take it. But the lad made no reply beyond kissing the old man's fingers very respectfully and tenderly; and with a sigh, old George of Gamewell offered his arm to the dame, who had silently listened throughout the discussion. Left alone, the clerk approached Robin. "Now, boy, what I have to say is soon told. Know then that I have learned of your adventures with the Scarlet Knight; and that he is in league with Will o' th' Green. Further, I have had it whispered to me that he is none other than Geoffrey of Montfichet. It matters not how this knowledge came to me; I do but seek to warn you to tread gently and warily in the days now before you. So far, life has been kind to you, and surely there is no reason why you should not prosper very exceedingly. There is for you a good friend in Gamewell's Squire." "And one also at Copmanhurst, father." "Assuredly, boy. But I am a poor anchorite and one unable to help you, save by friendly counsel. Take heed not to touch Montfichet too nearly in the matter of his son," added he, warningly; "he is a strange man, and will brook no meddling." "I would not see Geoffrey wronged, father, not even by Robin of Locksley," said Robin, vehemently. The clerk smiled at him. "You may coax the Squire, an you will, boy," said he, twinkling; "for I do think that one may achieve more that way than by any other. But be careful not to let him see that you would lead him; and, above all, provoke him not. Montfichet is an obstinate man. His heart prompts him to forgive Geoffrey; and doubtless he could get the ban removed from off the young man's head. But the Squire will not readily forego his oath. So now, rest content that he will share Gamewell with Geoffrey and yourself, and do not let him know that once you did deceive him." "Deceive him, father?" "Did you not go out secretly to meet the Scarlet Knight, boy? And do you not now hide from Gamewell that his son is in hiding with Will o' th' Green? Be prudent and tread no more in this path. Peace be with you, Robin Fitzooth; and discretion also." He bade Robin good night, and set out towards his lonely cell near St. Dunstan's shrine; leaving the other perplexed and distressed at his words. The first clouds on Robin's horizon were appearing. CHAPTER X Squire George left them next morning. He bade Warrenton stay at Locksley, and charged young Stuteley to let him know if the dame or his master should want for aught. Then, having pressed some money upon his sister to meet their necessities, he bade them affectionate farewell. He took Robin's letter to Monceux, and added his own request to it, never doubting that so ordinary a matter as this would be long a-doing. The Rangership of Locksley Woods was Robin's by every right: for the house and garden had been given to Hugh Fitzooth in perpetuity by the King. So at least they all had understood. Master Monceux, lord Sheriff of Nottingham, took the letters and read them with a thin smile; then bore them to his daughter's chamber, and laid them before her. "Truly the enemies of our King are not lacking in audacity," sneered Master Monceux, when Mistress Monceux had mastered the scrolls. "What will you do?" asked she, curiously. "This is the young archer who won my arrow," remarked the Sheriff. "Robin Fitzooth of Locksley. Observe that his father has been killed by one of the King's deer; like as not whilst he was attempting to snare it. His son asks now for the post: this son who shoots with a peacocked arrow to win my prize." "Say you so? Then this boy is of the outlaws of Sherwood?" Her thin lips parted over her white teeth in an evil doubt, as she asked her father: "How do you know that the arrow was winged with a peacock's feather? Did you see it yourself?" "John Ford brought it to me." "Ford is a very untrustworthy knave. I would that some other of the foresters had told you." The Sheriff was vexed at this. "I have no hesitation in the matter, child. But give heed, for now I must either agree to this recommendation of my lord Montfichet, or refuse it because I have already appointed some other to the place. Can you not suggest a man to me?" "Let it be one distasteful both to Montfichet and to this boastful youth," said the demoiselle Monceux, eagerly. "Send Ford, or one of the scullions from our kitchen, that they may know our contempt for them. And bid the young archer to us here; he should be whipped and put in the stocks," she added, vindictively. "Will you reply to those scrolls then, child?" said the Sheriff, glad to be relieved of a task which he did not relish. "Let it be Ford; he is captain of the foresters hereabouts, and has been staying at Gamewell. I hear that young Locksley is not over-fond of him. But be discreet in your scrivening, and say only that which is necessary, child." "I will bring the letters when they are penned, and will read them to you," said his daughter. In due course, then, came the Sheriff's reply to Robin's request. It was couched in arrogant terms, and bade the youth report himself within ten days at Nottingham Castle in order that the question of his appointment to a post in the King's Foresters might be weighed and considered. As for the Rangership of Locksley, that had already been given to one Master John Ford, who would take up the duties so soon as Robin and Mistress Fitzooth could arrange to render him the house at Locksley and all it contained. To this end the Sheriff's messenger was empowered to take stock and inventory of all furniture and belongings and to make note of all things broken or in disrepair, since those would have to be counted against them when they left the place. Robin, not knowing the worse indignities that were to befall did he come to Nottingham, for reply flung the letter into the messenger's face. "Go, take back this answer to your master," flamed the lad. "Locksley is my mother's and my own and not the Sheriff of Nottingham's. Further, tell him that I will administer Locksley Woods, and the men shall obey me even as they did my father: and this is all that I say in answer to your insolent lord." "Take this also, fellow," cried Stuteley, heroically: "that my master's squire will very instantly do battle on his behalf with all enemies at quarter-staff, single-stick, or at wrestling with the hands." "Be sure that you will need practice in all your tricks, friend," snarled the messenger, wrathfully; "Master Monceux will send you enough of pupils and to spare! And I will be glad to have a bout with you." "Now, if you sicken for't," said Will, valiantly; but Robin bade him be still. The messenger went back to Nottingham; and Robin continued to go about the duties of a ranger. On the fifth day after the man's visit, however, one of the Locksley foresters refused to obey young Fitzooth, saying that he had no right to command him. "I have this right, that you shall obey me!" cried Robin, and he bade Warrenton and Stuteley to seize the man and deprive him of his longbow and quiver. Nor would he suffer the forester to become repossessed of them until he had humbly asked pardon. Thereafter, seeing that this youth had a man's determination, the men remained loyal to him. Within ten days came Master Ford himself, at the head of ten fellows, armed with such powers of forcible entry as the Sheriff could grant. Robin received the forester civilly, but told him plainly that Locksley was his and that he would keep it to his death. Master Ford smiled very superior to these brave words. "Death, Master Robin, is a thing a long way off from us both, I do conceive," said he. "Therefore is there small valiance in your prating so lightly of it. This matter is one not between ourselves, howbeit, for the Rangership has come to me through no seeking of mine own. The quarrel, if there be one, is between yourself and Master Monceux; and, in reason, you should let me into possession here, and take your anger to Nottingham." "I speak to the Sheriff in that I speak to you, John Ford," retorted the lad: "and you have had your answer. Take back your men and yourself; be content with the captaincy of the foresters of Sherwood. This part of the forest will be administered, under the King's pleasure, by me." "What if I could show you the King's dismissal of your father?" snarled the other. "If you could show it to me, you would," answered Robin, calmly. "Nevertheless, I will show it to you, insolent," cried Master Ford, losing his temper. "In Nottingham we can play at other games than those you saw at the Fair, Robin o' th' Hood," he went on, furiously, and giving Robin this name out of desire to prick him. To young Robin the epithet recalled a sudden vision of the maid Fitzwalter and her queer little toss of her curls as she had christened him. Ford must have been near to have overheard it. So was there double insult in his words. Robin looked him full in the face, and then turned contemptuously from him. "Play all the games you know, friend," said he: and walked into the house. The forester bit his lip in vexation. He scarce knew how to act. The Sheriff had told him to take forcible possession of the house, but this might only be done now after a sanguinary encounter. For Warrenton, the Squire of Gamewell's man, was there, and had eyed him malevolently, and talk with the Locksley foresters had shown them to be now ranged on Robin's side. After waiting for three hours, Master Ford set about a return into Nottingham, meaning to ask for permission to bring back the Sherwood foresters with him to Locksley. In his return he was met by Will o' th' Green and his men near Copmanhurst, was beaten and robbed of all he had, and sent back in ignominious fashion into Nottingham town--he and all the ten men that the Sheriff had sent with him! Master Ford made a fine story of this for the greedy ears of Mistress Monceux. She had always disliked the maid Fitzwalter; and had now seen a chance to injure her through Robin. Since he had given this girl the arrow which he had denied to her, the Sheriff's daughter, there could be no doubt that strong friendship, at the least, existed between them, so that any blow at Robin must recoil upon Mistress Fitzwalter. Demoiselle Monceux therefore credited largely Master Ford's story. "Go to the hall, and there await my father, Master Ford," said Mistress Monceux, at last. "I will speak again with him when he has returned from Gamewell. He is there now on your behalf, in a way," she added, meaningly. Monceux, knowing that Montfichet would require an explanation of the refusal to instal Robin in his father's place, had set himself out to be beforehand with the Squire. At once he had endeavored to satisfy old Gamewell by telling him the story of the peacocked arrow. "Readily can I unfold that mystery to you," said Montfichet. "Our Robin was pursued by two of the outlaws when on the way to your tourney. 'Tis like enough that he picked up one of their arrows." "When they were in chase of him?" asked the Sheriff, with ready reply. "Well, that is true; and yet, stay--I do mind me that the Clerk of Copmanhurst did speak of some shooting match in which Robin was forced to employ himself with Will o' th' Green, on the day that they journeyed here from Locksley. Then it was that Robin must have become owner of the peacocked arrow. The thing is quite plain to me." "The clerk himself has been suspected of colleaguing with these robbers of the forest, friend Gamewell," whispered the Sheriff, leaning forward towards the Squire. "And they do say that Will was at our tourney--was none other, indeed, than the very Roughbeard from whom young Robin so cleverly did snatch my arrow of gold. Nay, nay, I think the evidence points very strongly against Fitzooth; yet since he is your nephew I have forborne to press my charge against him." "I'll believe no harm of Robin," said the Squire, decisively. "Still you will see there is reason in my refusal of his request," smiled Monceux. And old Gamewell had to agree, although unwillingly. So were the clouds upon Robin's horizon gathering apace. He gravely continued in his duties at Locksley, filling up his leisure with long and frequent practice in archery with Warrenton. A month went by and he had heard no more of Master Ford nor of the Sheriff, and so engrossed did Robin become in his present life and the necessity of making a living for them all that Master Monceux, his summons, and his "appointment" of Ford were forgotten. He killed such of the deer as his father had, under the King's charter, for their own sustenance, and gathered the fruits from the garden at Locksley. There were cows to be milked and sheep to be sheared. The men worked for him without question. There had been no further rebellion since Warrenton and Stuteley had so promptly checked the first sign of it. The Squire had sent twice to them such presents as he knew they would accept, and he made no mention of Master Monceux. Only one matter troubled Robin. Soon would come round the time when the emoluments of the Rangership would be due; and _then_ Robin would have to face the Sheriff and make him pay the moneys. Having stifled any objections Montfichet might have had to his refusal to recognize Robin as Ranger, the Sheriff was quite content to bide his time, knowing that once in Nottingham, Robin would be entirely in his power. Unforeseen events, however, upset these schemes and hastened matters, even while Robin was perfecting himself in the use of the longbow under Warrenton and in the art of wrestling with little lithe Stuteley. The lean-faced man whom he saw at the tourney returned suddenly to Nottingham from London, bearing news to the Sheriff that he was to prepare the town at once for a visit from the young Prince John. Master Simeon Carfax, to give the lean-faced one his full style, bade them arrange for a great tourney to be held in Sherwood itself. "Certes, Prince John may well be King over us in the end," murmured the Sheriff to himself; and he dismissed all thought of Robin and his defiance. The Sheriff had some suspicion that Master Carfax had had more to do with this sudden visit of the erstwhile rebellious Prince than that pinch-nosed gentleman would allow. Further, he saw with some misgiving that between Carfax and his own daughter there was an understanding, and he decided to speak firmly with her; but, as she was still vexed with him for not having dealt with young Fitzooth as promptly as she had designed, the Sheriff thought it wise to wait his opportunity. Meanwhile Robin passed his days equably: and now he could notch Warrenton's shaft at one hundred paces, a feat difficult in the extreme. The old retainer took huge delight in training the lad. "I do hear of a brave business in archery to be done in Sherwood Forest," he said, "and I would have you enter there in the lists, and bear away the Prince's bag of gold, even as you did the Sheriff's arrow." "Tell me of this, Warrenton," cried Robin, interested at once. "Where did you learn this item?" "'Twas told to me a week agone by the Friar of Copmanhurst, a right worthy, pious gentleman," gabbled Warrenton. "It seems that the young Prince is already tired of London ways and the Court of his father the King, and has agreed to come here to us at Nottingham so that he may be more free. He brings with him many of the fine ladies of the Court; and full a hundred score of followers. And they do tell me that some of the barons are with him, Master Fitzurse to wit. Howbeit, 'tis no matter of ours. We have but to remember that he has offered a purse of a hundred pieces to the best bowman in Nottingham town. That purse should be yours, lording." Robin smiled at the old man's emphatic speech. "When is this prize to be offered, Warrenton, and what other marvels are there to be?" The man-at-arms commenced afresh. "There is to be a tourney, held in Sherwood Forest." "Ay; but the archery?" "I have told you that the Prince offers a fine prize. Know also that he brings with him Hubert, the most renowned of all archers: so that he deems the prize already won. The Prince puts a hundred gold pieces into the purse, and Hubert pockets it in advance." "Is he a fair bowman, this Hubert?" "I know but one archer better than he, lording--yourself; and I have seen the finest archery in the world." "You talk heedlessly, Warrenton," said Robin, rebuking him. Yet secretly he was flattered by this sincere belief in him. "I'll go with you to Nottingham--and Stuteley shall stay here, on guard," said Robin. But Stuteley begged most earnestly that he should be allowed to go also, so that Robin came nigh to giving up the plan all together. For he would not consent to leave the dame unprotected. In the end Warrenton himself, with fine self-sacrifice, offered to remain at Locksley. "It will be wisest that you should go unattended, after all, lording," concluded Warrenton. "Enter the lists unknown, unannounced, as though you were some forester. Master Monceux means no good to you, and surely he will be there. So be circumspect; and forget not the things that I have taught you. Beat Hubert if you can, but be not overcome if you should fail. He is a very pretty bowman, and experienced." CHAPTER XI Profiting by a lesson learned from Will o' th' Green, Robin stained his face and bade Stuteley do the same ere starting to the Royal tourney. The morning was overcast and doubtful when the two lads set forth. They had put on foresters' clothes of green cloth, with long tunics and green trunk hose. Their hands and faces were brown as walnut juice could make them; and whilst Robin carried only his best longbow and a good quiver of arrows, young Will had loaded himself with quarter-staff, axe, and pike, all very difficult to carry. Robin bade him leave one or the other of these weapons, and reluctantly the pike was returned to Warrenton. Then merrily they started away through the forest, and came at noon to that glade where Robin had first met Will o' th' Green. Even while Robin wondered whether Will or his men might again demand toll of him, Master Will himself suddenly appeared, and without a word placed his bow across their path. "Greetings to you, Will," said Robin, blithely. "Is it toll of us that you desire?" "Are you dumb, friend?" added Stuteley, impudently, as the outlaw made no immediate reply. Will smiled then. "So old Warrenton has persuaded you to seek the Prince's gold, youngling?" said he, at last. Without waiting an answer, he stepped back and withdrew his bow. "Pass, then, Locksley, and good fortune attend you," he went on. "We may meet again ere the day be done; but it is not sure----" "You will not try for the purse, Will?" cried Robin, as if surprised. "I have no use for it," answered Will, with some egotism, "Nay, fear not, our third trial is yet to come. I did but stay you to speak of your cousin--" He paused, and glanced towards Stuteley. "I am deaf and dumb as you were, friend, a minute agone," spoke the little esquire. "Your cousin, Geoffrey of Montfichet, has gone to France," continued Will, speaking freely so soon as Robin had nodded in confirmation of Stuteley's discretion. "Like as not, Master Geoffrey has not talked with you as to his business with us in this greenwood?" "I know nothing beyond that we did bind my cousin's armor about with red ribbon," replied Robin, uneasily. He remembered the clerk's warning, and a presentiment of coming evil pricked him. "But I am right glad that Geoffrey has encountered no danger, and has given up his schemes with you." "I did not say that he had done that, Locksley," spoke Will, in his gruff way. "Nor do I see why you should fear danger for him when he is in my company." "I meant not that, Will, believe me," said Robin, hastily. "But there are two amongst your band who have little love for my cousin, and are jealous also of you----" And he told him of his adventure in the early part of the day when they last had met. Will listened with a frown. "So they winged you, youngling, and yet for all that you won the Sheriff's arrow? Give me now some token whereby I may know which of my men are traitors." "I should only know their voices, Will," said Robin, regretfully. The outlaw shrugged. "It matters not, after all," he remarked, turning to leave them. "Go your ways, Locksley, and win the purse." "Is there no toll?" enquired Robin, smiling again, "Am I truly free of Sherwood, Will?" "'Twould seem so, Locksley," said the outlaw, briefly. Then, without further ado, he strode away from him. They watched his lithe form disappear. "'Tis sure that our disguise is none too good," sighed Robin, pondering upon the ready way in which the outlaw had recognized him. Soon afterward rain fell and a heavy storm raged amongst the trees. The two youths crept into the hollow of one of the larger oaks to shelter themselves. Whilst waiting there they heard the noise of an approaching cavalcade. It was a body of archers coming from Lincoln to compete for the purse of gold. They cantered past the tree wherein Robin and Stuteley lay hidden, and took no heed of the drenching rain. All were merry with wine and very confident that one amongst them would surely win the prize. The only question was, Which one? "These Nottingham clods!" cried one, scornfully; "I'll dare swear that many of them have already promised the prize to their maids! Nottingham 'gainst Lincoln--'tis possible that they may stand to us for a round. But after that!" "We will spend the money in Nottingham town," shouted another of the trotting bowmen. "For sure the Prince himself could do no handsomer thing. A piece I'll toss to the heralds, and another to you, Staveley, for you are a covetous worm----" The rest of his speech was lost through the one addressed turning violently upon him and thrusting at him with his pike, thus tumbling him into the mire. Stuteley laughed outright at this, and for a moment startled the rest of this worshipful company. Robin, rather vexed at his esquire's want of caution, came with him from out of the hollow of the tree. The Lincolnshire men halted, and Robin asked for a lift to the field where already the tourney was being commenced. "Are you going to the Sherwood tourney, and with a bow?" asked one of the archers, loftily. "What will you shoot there, gipsy boy? There are no targets such as your shafts might reach. But 'tis true that you may learn something of the game, if you should go." "I'll lay a crown wager with you, friends," said Stuteley, vexed to hear Robin called "gipsy," "that my master's shaft will fly more near the center of the mark than will any one of yours. So now." "A crown piece, gipsy! Why, that means twenty crowns for you to find," laughed another of the men, loudly. "Twenty crowns; why, he has not twenty pence," said another. "My man has laid the wager and I will stand to it," said Robin, quietly, "though I do not like such boasting, I promise you. Twenty crowns to twenty crowns--who will hold the stakes? Here is my purse in warrant of my words." "Why, master, I am surely the very man to hold your purse!" called out the lately fallen champion, readily. "Ask any of them here and (if they have love of truth in them) they will say that Much the Miller is a man of men for honesty, sobriety, and the like! 'Tis known throughout Lincoln that never have I given short measure in all my life. Hand me the purse and be easy." "Show me your crown, friend," said Robin, eyeing him. "Now, stirrup me but I have given my last piece to a poor beggar whom we did meet in the wood." "Then I will hold my purse myself, Master Much," cried Robin, putting it quickly back into his bosom. "But have no fear; if you can beat me, I'll add my crown to the Prince's money-bag. We will meet you here, friends," he continued, "beside this very tree, at noon to-morrow, if I should win. If not, I'll yield this purse to the miller ere I leave the tourney, and he shall share it round. Is it agreed?" "I do think that you should pay for your travelling, gipsy, since you are so rich," grunted the first archer. "Here's half my saddle: I'll only ask a silver penny for a seat on it." "I'll take you for nought, gipsy," shouted Much, who really was very tipsy. "You've spoken fair; and I like you! Come, jump up behind me, and hold tight. This horse is one of most wayward character." "Hurry, then," said the leader. "Whilst we chatter here the tourney will be done; and we shall happen on it just as Hubert takes the prize. Forward, friends; quick march!" They rattled off at a smart pace. Robin mounted behind the good-natured Much, and Stuteley upon the captain's horse. The miller told Robin confidentially a full score of times that he, Much, was bound to win the archery contest, being admittedly the first bowman in the world. "Harkee, gipsy," called he at length, over the point of his shoulder to patient Robin behind him, "I'll not take your crown, I swear it! I like you, and I would not rob your sweetheart of a penny piece. Buy ribbons for her, then, with the crown I give you." Robin expressed his thanks very cordially. This fellow seemed an honest-hearted rogue; and 'twas mainly to his furious urging of his steed that they arrived in time for the great event. As it was, all the jousting was done, and most of the nobles had already gone away. The Sheriff was fussily preparing himself to escort the Prince to the castle when the horns blew announcing the arrival of the Lincolnshire bowmen. They had pushed their way clumsily through the array of tents, and now blundered into the lists through the gate. Robin was glad indeed of his stained face and semi-disguise, not being over proud of his companions. He gave Will Stuteley a signal to detach himself from them, and come to his side. The two youths then hastened to the archers' stand. There had been three deaths already as a result of the joustings; and six others were seriously injured; yet the Prince looked far from being satisfied, and his glance strayed for ever to the gate. When the Lincoln men had come noisily trooping in, his face had lit up and his hand had made a half-movement to find the jewelled hilt of his sword. Master Carfax, too, had started to his feet in evident concern. When the heralds announced these new-comers, visible disappointment showed on the faces of the Prince and his followers. Clearly they were eagerly expecting the appearance of other folk; but, quickly recovering himself, John re-found all the old elegance of his manners. He courteously acknowledged the rough greeting of the archers, and sat back smilingly in his box. Master Monceux gave the signal for the archery contest to be begun; and Robin soon saw that the archers against him were men very different from those who had been at Nottingham Fair. When it came to the turn of the Prince's own bowman, Hubert of Normandy--a man slim, conceited, and over-dressed, but nevertheless a very splendid archer--the first shaft flew so cleanly and so swift that it pierced the very middle of the target and stuck out on the other side full half its length. Robin had to shoot immediately after him, and waited a few moments whilst the markers were tugging at the Norman's arrow. A sudden inspiration flashed across the lad's mind; and, advancing a step, he bade them desist. They wonderingly fell back, leaving Hubert's arrow fixed spitefully in the target. One of the heralds cried out that this archer had not yet given in his name, but even as he spoke, Robin's arrow flew hissing from his bow. A silence fell upon the onlookers, and even the smiling Prince leaned forward in his box. Then a great shout went up of amazement and incredulity. The markers and heralds thronged about the target and hid it from the general view until they were impatiently pulled away by some of the Prince's bodyguard. A marvel was seen then by all eyes--Robin's arrow standing stiffly out from the center of the target, with Hubert's wand split down on either side of it flush to the very face of the mark! Robin himself could scarcely credit his own success. He had done the thing before, with Warrenton, once out of a dozen times: and he had essayed it now more out of bravado than aught else. "'Twas a feat worthy of Hubert himself," said the Sheriff, bombastically, to the Prince. He had not recognized Robin. "I have seen Hubert perform just such a trick on many occasions, sir," said Carfax. "This fellow has done no uncommon thing, believe me," he went on. "And after all, he has not bettered Hubert's shot." "That is true," said the Prince, as if thoughtfully. His face showed smiling again. "Let the contest go on: and Hubert shall shoot again with this young trickster." "The heralds say that he has not given in his name, sire," said one of the courtiers. "If that is so, his shooting is of no avail, be it never so good," cried Carfax, triumphantly. "Tell them that the archer is disqualified, my lord," he continued, addressing the Sheriff; "and bid them discover who he may be." Carfax turned again to the Prince, and began a whispered conversation with him. The Prince listened, nodding his head in approval. "Well, Monceux, what do they say?" he asked the Sheriff, languidly, as the other returned. "It seems, sire, that the archer is one who came in with a company of Lincoln bowmen. No one knows him hereabout. I have said that he is disqualified, and now the others will shoot again. But Hubert has now the purse, for sure." "In sooth I do think so," answered the Prince, laughing rather conceitedly. "But Monceux, bid this lad to me forthwith. I would speak with him." The Sheriff went about the task; but Robin had disappeared; for suddenly, amidst the throng, his eyes had encountered those strange grey-blue ones of Mistress Fitzwalter. She was sitting alone in a little box near by the targets. Robin had walked down the lists to see for himself that his shaft had split the Norman's fairly, and in turning away to find Stuteley he had become aware of her shrewd, piercing gaze. She allowed her eyes to rest fully on young Fitzooth's ardent glance for the briefest moment. Then she looked away unconcernedly. But Robin, venturing all, drew nigh. He came to the edge of her box, and began to speak. He had gone so far as "Give you good morrow, lady," when his eyes perceived the Sheriff's little golden arrow fastening her cloak. His mouth became dry at that and his words went back in his throat. The girl, aware of his confusion, brought her gaze back upon him. She smiled. [Illustration: ROBIN MEETS MAID MARIAN _But Robin, venturing all, drew nigh. He came to the edge of her box, and began to speak._] "Is it indeed my young champion?" asked she, rather doubtfully at first, in her low, soft tones. "Is it you who have beaten the Prince's best archer, Robin o' th' Hood?" Her eyes were wells of innocent fun. The way in which she lingered over the last syllables brought Robin still deeper into the deep waters. "It is your servant, madame," was all that he could find to say. "You see then that I wear your gift, Robin," she said, trying to make him at ease. "I have not forgotten----" "Nor I--I shall _never_ forget," cried he, impulsively. "Your eyes are always in my memory: they are beautiful as stars," said he, fervently. "Oh, a gallant Locksley! But there, take my colors, since you will be my knight." She untied a ribbon from her hair, and gave it into his outstretched palm. "And now, farewell; take the Prince's prize, and spend the pennies worthily. Buy your sweetheart some ribbons, but keep that which I have given you." She tossed her curls again, as she added the last word. Robin was beginning a vehement protestation that he had no sweetheart, when Stuteley's voice broke in upon him. "Master, they have disqualified you, and given the prize to Hubert. 'Tis a vile injustice, and I have raised my voice furiously. So, alas! has Master Much the Miller; he is a very worthy gentleman." "What do you say?" asked Mistress Fitzwalter, in amazement. "It is even so, lady, that my lord the Sheriff has ruled my master out of the court, for the reason that he did not give in his name before drawing his bow!" cried Stuteley. "A wicked conspiracy it is, and monstrous unjust! 'Tis thus that these prizes are given; the game's arranged beforehand. Ah, but I know how these Nottingham folk do plot: thrice now have I found them false and treacherous." When Stuteley had begun there were many who were ready to side with him, but his unlucky conclusion turned these possible friends into enemies. Even Mistress Fitzwalter drew back for an instant. "Be silent, Will," said Robin, vexed at once. "It is enough to be juggled out of this prize without your making it worse. I'll go claim it from Monceux and he shall argue it with me." "The Prince is asking for you, friend," said Carfax, suddenly appearing. He touched Robin on the shoulder. As he turned to depart, his gimlet eyes saw how the girl shrank away from them into her box. He looked swiftly at her; then at Robin again. "His Highness graciously condescended to enquire your name and rank," said he, pausing. "Will he give the purse to me, then?" asked Robin, surprised. "Nay, that has already been won by Master Hubert," answered Carfax, as if amused at the question. "You cannot win a prize every day. Master--Locksley." He spoke at a shrewd guess, and saw that his shaft had hit the mark. Mistress Fitzwalter's interest in Robin had given him the clue. "I'll not go to the Prince," said Robin, wrathfully. "Tell him, Master Fetch-and-Take, that I have won this prize in all fairness; and I will shoot with Hubert again, if he needs another beating." "You'll cool your heels in the stocks, Locksley," said Carfax, viciously: "so much is evident. The Sheriff has a quarrel with you already, and 'tis well that you are here to answer Master Ford's complaint. The Prince will send for you in style, since you will not go kindly to him. Bide but a few minutes. I'll not keep you waiting!" He strode off, in heat, followed by Stuteley's scornful gibings. Robin became aware that the people were eyeing them both with none too friendly glances. He felt that he and Will Stuteley were in a difficult position. Escape seemed to be out of the question. "Jump over the ledge of my box, Robin," whispered a sudden small voice, "and so make your way through the door at the back of it. Hasten!" Gratefully Robin did as she bade him; and Stuteley, without waiting for invitation, followed. Mistress Fitzwalter instantly opened the door for them. "Hurry, I pray you," cried she; "I see them coming for you both. The Prince has sent his pikemen----" Robin pushed Will out before him; and, turning, caught her little hand in his. "Thanks, thanks," he muttered, hurriedly, and strove to kiss her fingers. Laughing and blushing, she snatched them away. "Go," she cried, in agitated voice, "and stay not until you reach Locksley. We may meet again--to talk of thanks," she added, seeing that he still hesitated. "Give me at least your name," panted poor Robin, at the door; "not that I shall ever forget you." "I am called Marian," answered she, closing the door ruthlessly upon him--"Marian Fitzwalter.... Go now, I implore you, and may good fortune be with you always." CHAPTER XII So, ingloriously, they returned through the night to Locksley. None offered to stay them in the forest of Sherwood; indeed, Robin might well have disbelieved in the existence of Will o' th' Green and his outlaw band, had he not had such good reason to know otherwise. It was as if Will had silently yielded him that freedom of the forest which he boasted was his to give. Tired and footsore, yet filled with a strange elation, Robin came back to Locksley before dawn, with faithful Stuteley forlornly following him. There were questions to be asked and answered when they arrived; and Warrenton was very indignant when he heard of the Prince's gross favoritism of his archer Hubert. Robin seemed to show too little vexation in the matter, Warrenton thought. The man-at-arms was both perplexed and amazed by the semi-indifference displayed by the youth: here had he, by marvellous skill, won a fine prize, and had seen the same snatched most unfairly from him, and yet was not furiously enraged; but rather amused, as it were. "Surely, surely, you will go back with me to-morrow and demand the purse from the Sheriff?" said Warrenton, in argumentative attitude. "Squire George o' th' Hall shall give us the best of Gamewell to enforce respect to you." "Nay, it matters not so much as that, Warrenton. The money I would like to have had, I'll not deny it; for it would have made me more independent of Master Monceux. But it has not fallen to me, and there it ends." "Well, 'tis well that you are so easy, lording," said Warrenton, scratching his head. "Now tell us whom you saw; and how you contrived to split the Norman's arrow." He had already heard the story: but was very fain to listen to it again. "It is a trick that I taught him, dame," he added, off-handedly, to Mistress Fitzooth. "One that did surprise the Norman too, I'll warrant me. You see, they are so concerned with their crossbows and other fal-lals in France that when good English yew----" "I saw Master Will," said Robin, to check him. Once Warrenton was started on a dissertation on the virtues of the English longbow there was usually no staying him. "He told me that the Scarlet Knight had gone to France." Warrenton looked wise. "That is not worthy of belief, excellence," said he, cunningly. "Prince John is near; and one cannot imagine that Geoffrey of Montfichet----" "Geoffrey of Montfichet?" asked the dame, wonderingly: and then Warrenton saw how he had blundered. "Why, I did not know that you had met your cousin, Robin. When was it, and why do you call him the Scarlet Knight?" "Geoffrey is outlawed, mother mine, and may not appear in Sherwood," answered Robin, temporizing with her. "And the story of our meeting is too long a one for the moment. We are rarely fatigued, and I would gladly get me to bed. Come, Will, rouse yourself. Mother, see that we do not sleep too long. I must go to Gamewell by the day after to-morrow at least; and there is much work between my going and now." He had determined to ask the Squire to move again in the matter of the Rangership for him whilst John was here. Even if the Prince had unduly favored Hubert in the archery contest, it did not necessarily follow that he would be unjust in such a plain business as this. Robin kissed the dame, struggled with a yawn, and got him to rest. He slept uneasily, his dreams being strangely compounded of happiness and grief. * * * * * Within three days Robin started away for Gamewell, taking only Stuteley, as before. He intended to make his return to Locksley ere dusk of the next night. When they were far advanced on their journey they heard sounds of a large company upon the road; and prudently Robin bade Stuteley hide with him in the undergrowth until they should see who these might be. "Maybe 'tis the Sheriff, with Master Ford, coming to seize our home. By watching them unseen we may find a way to bring their schemes to naught. Keep near to me, Will; and scarcely breathe." It was indeed a body of men from Nottingham; and, although the Sheriff was not with them, Master Carfax and a few of the Lincoln bowmen were amongst the company. So also was Ford, the forester. In all, there were about two score of men, and most of them were Sherwood foresters. Robin espied Much the Miller in the tail of the procession, looking very dejected and ill, and decided to risk exposing himself. Standing up in the bracken, he called out boldly: "Hold there, Master Much. Here am I, ready to take your money." "What sprite are you?" answered Much, reining in his steed sharply. "Why! 'tis the gipsy lad, as I live; with his face nicely washed...!" He had recognized Robin by his clothes. "Money, forsooth! Do you know that I have not so much as a groat in my pouch?" "Then must one of the others lend it to you," replied Robin. "Pay me, friends, forthwith. A short reckoning is an easy reckoning. My arrow flew nearer the target than did any of yours." "How do you know that?" said Much. "After you had gone we all did aim again, and very marvellous was my shooting. For sure, I should have had the prize, even as I told you, had not Hubert already made off with it." "Is this so?" asked Robin, doubtfully, looking from one to the other of the Lincoln men. Those in front had now stopped also; and Master Carfax came ambling back to see what had occasioned the delay. So soon as he espied Robin his face took a joyful look. "Here, Master Ford," he called, clapping his hands. "Hither--come hither! Here is your quarry found for you. Now you can fight it out, fair and square, whilst we watch to see fair play!" Ford turned about and glanced at Robin; but he did not like the notion of such a battle. So he affected not to recognize him. "Nay, this is but some vagrant fellow," said he, hesitatingly. "Let us push on, Master Simeon; 'tis near the hour when we are to meet with him whom you know." He added these words in a low voice, and made a gesture indicating the Copmanhurst road. Carfax's face took a diabolical expression. He had begun to answer Ford, when the whole party were suddenly disturbed by the rush of a great herd of Royal deer. These beasts, driven by someone from out of their pastures, came scattering blindly adown the track; and men and horses moved quickly to one side to avoid a devastating collision. After they had passed, Carfax began again. "Form a ring, friends," cried he, coaxingly. "Let neither of these fellows escape. They shall yield us some sport, in any event, whether Ford be right or I." A solitary stag at this instant appeared before them. He stood, as if carved from stone, in the center of the road, at three hundred paces' distance. He was clearly uncertain whether to dash through these his usual enemies, in an attempt to rejoin the herd, or fly backward to that unknown danger which had first startled them all. "'Tis a fine beast," hiccoughed Much. "Now had I a steady hand!" Simeon Carfax interrupted him. "By the Lord Harry, here is the very thing," he said, in whispered excitement. "Now, fellow, you shall prove me right and this forester wrong. I say you are Robin of Locksley, who did split the Norman's arrow at the tourney. Fly a shaft now at yon mark; surely none but such a bowman as yourself might dare hope to reach it." Robin fell into the very palpable trap set for him. Without answering Carfax, he fitted an arrow to his bow, and sent speeding death to the trembling stag. It fell, pierced cleanly to the heart. Robin eyed Ford triumphantly. But Master Carfax now held up his hands in horror. "See what you have done, wicked youth," ejaculated he, as if quite overcome with dismay. "I bade you shoot at yon birch-tree shimmering there to the left of the deer. Did I not say: 'Fly at yon mark'? And now you have killed one of the King's deer." "I do hear that this fellow has slain others about Locksley," said Ford, meanly. "You are right, Master Simeon; he is, in sooth, Robin of Locksley; your eyes are wiser than mine. Seize him, my men." At once the foresters sprang upon Robin and Stuteley, and a fierce battle was commenced. Despite a valiant resistance, Robin and Will Stuteley were soon overcome and bound hard and fast. "You villains," panted Stuteley. "And you, most treacherous," he called to Carfax, "I wish you joy of so contemptible a trick." "All's fair in war, friend," answered Carfax. "Now, Master Ford, fulfil your duty. You know the law; that if one be found killing the King's deer in the Royal Forest of Sherwood, he or she may be summarily hanged when caught upon the nearest tree." "It must be _in flagrante delicto_, Master Simeon," said Ford, uneasy again. "Could there be a plainer case?" cried Carfax, rubbing his hands. "We all did see this fellow shoot the deer. Tis the clearest case; and I do counsel you to deal lawfully in it, Master Ford. Remember that he also is suspected of being an outlaw, in that you saw him once use a peacocked arrow. Although I am but a layman, as it were, friend," he added, meaningly, "yet I do know the law, and shall be forced to quit my conscience with the Prince when I return to Nottingham. Wherefore, seeing that your appointment to Locksley still lacks his confirmation----" "I would rather bring the rogue to Master Monceux, as he did command me," argued Ford, who could not quite brace himself to this. "Besides, we have no leisure at this moment to carry out the law," he went on. "You know that your master the Prince did start us on this journey with two errands upon our shoulders." "One was to deal with Robin of Locksley," said Carfax, snarlingly, and without yielding his point. "To take him to Nottingham, master, I say," put in Much. "I do not think that the Prince meant you to harm him." "Be silent, knave!" snapped the lean-faced man, sharply. "Who gave you the right to question me? Shut your mouth, or I will have you accounted as accomplice with these fellows, and put a noose about your bull-neck also!" "Why, harkee, master," said Much, very wrathful. "This is a game where two can play or more. I do forthwith range myself with the gipsy; and you, Midge," he added, turning to one of his company, "surely you will follow?" "Right instantly," answered the one called Midge, a little ferret of a man. "And I also." "And I, Master Much"--so spoke the remaining Lincoln men. "So are we six, then," said Much. He tumbled off his horse, and the other three of them did the like; and then strode over to where Robin stood. "Release him," said the miller, determinedly; and he promptly knocked two of the foresters sprawling. This was the signal for a general encounter, and all threw themselves very heartily into the mêlée. The miller and his men struggled to release Robin and Stuteley so that these might help in the fray; but the foresters were too many for them. Twice did Much get his hands upon Robin's bonds, only to be plucked violently backward. The men tumbled one upon the other in the fight, pummelling, clutching, and tearing at each other in a wild confusion. They made little noise, all being too desperately in earnest. Ford encouraged his foresters by word and gesture; and Carfax kept himself as far out of it as possible. Presently three of the foresters overpowered the good-natured, still half-tipsy miller, and held him down. Then Master Carfax sprang from his horse and rushed in upon the prostrate miller. Seizing one of the foresters' pikes the lean-faced man foully swung it down upon Much's pate with a sounding thwack. The miller gave a groan and became limp in the hands of his assailants. "Now, surely, that is the meanest of all the mean deeds which you have done!" cried Robin. He tore at his bonds fiercely and vainly--biting at the cord about his wrists with his teeth. Carfax ran to his horse. In an instant he had returned with a cord taken from under his saddle. "I had a notion that this might be useful to me when I set out this morn," he said. "Put it about his neck soon as a noose is fashioned. Now fling the end of it over this branch. Now draw it tight. Steadily, I pray you; be not over-quick. The prisoner has the right to speak a prayer ere he be hanged. Say it then, Robin of Locksley." Robin caught sight at this instant of poor Stuteley's face. He had been knocked down in the fight, and, being bound, had lain where he had fallen. His eyes met Robin's in an anguished glance, and his lips trembled in attempt at speech. Robin strove to smile at him; but his own soul was sick within his body. He felt the cord tighten again about his throat, but even as the world reeled black, Robin heard dully the sound of a horn. In familiar tones it came in upon his fainting brain. Next instant came a jerk at the rope, futile, if infuriated; then, suddenly, contact with a body falling heavily against his own. As he fell he knew that something warm and horrid trickled upon his hands. Then followed a vast confusion of noise: and, in the midst of it, sweet peace. CHAPTER XIII When Robin came to his senses he found himself surrounded by the outlaw band. On this occasion they appeared as friends, however--and welcome ones to boot; for it had been a near matter that Robin's history had been ended by Master Carfax on this day. Now were the tables turned, and very completely. The foresters had been overcome by Will and his outlaws, thanks to the diversion brought about by the Lincoln men. Much was sitting up with a more rueful countenance than he had when Robin had first spied him on this morning; and little sharp-nosed Midge was busy bathing and binding his cracked poll. Some half-score of the foresters, with Master Ford, had escaped along the road towards Locksley: the rest were bound, and their horses confiscated by the outlaws. Master Simeon, with rage and terror depicted plainly upon his countenance, lay writhing at Robin's feet, bound with the very cord with which he had sought to end young Fitzooth's life. His enemies had trussed him across a quarter-staff, and had tied the knots large and tight about him. "Well, Locksley, how now?" asked Will o' th' Green, with gruff kindliness. "Are the vapors passed? Can you twiddle your bow again?" "Not skilfully enough now to take place against you, Will," smiled Robin, recovering himself more and more. "I am atrembling yet. I had thought to see the blue sky no more----" "Ay, my man's arrow was not too soon, Locksley," said Will, gravely. "This fellow's hand was upon the rope, and another moment might have seen you gallows-fruit upon this tree." He paused to bend over a forester lying prone near them, with his face buried in the grass. Robin saw that the man's body was transfixed by an arrow. "He is no more," Will told them, looking up presently; "your aim was a shrewd one, Hal," he went on, addressing himself to one of his band. "Is he indeed _dead_?" asked Robin, in an awestruck voice. "'Twas his life or yours," answered Will o' th' Green, grimly. He turned to his men. "Now, comrades," cried he, "have you searched our prisoners and prepared them? 'Tis well. Are they bound together, then, by the arms, twos and threes, as is appointed in our rules; and is the right leg and left leg of each villain shackled together?... Stand them up, then, with their faces toward Nottingham, and bid them march." "There is yet this one, captain," said one of the men, indicating Carfax. "What shall we do with him?" "Has he been searched closely?" enquired Will. Without waiting a reply, he roughly ran his fingers through Master Carfax's pockets, and unfastened his tunic at the bosom. A parchment dropped out and Will snapped it up. "I come from the Prince," whined Carfax, speaking at last; "and if so be you are Master Will Cloudesley, or Will o' th' Green--as these folks do call you--why, I have a very gracious message for you." The outlaw gave a signal to his men. "Set him upon his feet," he ordered, "and loosen these cords. Now, excellence, speak at your ease." "Believe him not, Master Will," interposed Stuteley, afraid that Carfax was going to turn the tables on them in some treacherous way. "He is a very proper rogue." "Be easy, friend," said Will o' th' Green. "Every one is judged here in fairness. These men," pointing to the shamefaced, miserable foresters, "were caught in the doing of an evil deed, and so were dealt with summarily. But this one did not seem to have a hand in it." "It was he who commanded them, sir," suddenly shrilled the little Lincoln named Midge. "He is, in sooth, a diabolical villain, and did very foully strike our companion here whilst men were holding him." "All testify against you, excellence," said the outlaw, speaking again to Carfax. "What is your story of it? Speak without fear." "This rascal did imprudently waylay us on the road with a demand for money," began Carfax, "and I, riding back at his noise, did recognize him for one Robin Locksley, a notorious fellow who has defied my lord the Sheriff's authority; and has also been suspect of being of your company--which is a thing, saving your presence, Master Cloudesley, that has been poor recommendation in the past. Further, with our own eyes have we seen him shoot and kill one of his Majesty's stags, a most valued beast with sixteen pointed antlers, as you can see. We were but exercising the law upon him, as is appointed.... That is to say, _Master Ford_ was directing his men to carry out the law," said Carfax, with his thin cheeks pale with fear. "I did but counsel prudence, and plead for the youth." "Enough," cried Will, with contempt in his tones. "Now tell me the message which the Prince has sent by so worthy a messenger." "That is for your private ear," said Simeon, cunningly. "You may speak plainly before my comrades," said Will. "Doubtless they are as interested in the Royal words as I myself." "I was to bid you come at once to the City gate, so many of you as would," Carfax said, "there to receive the King's pardon from the hands of our beloved Prince. Indeed, his gracious Highness did well expect to see you before him three days agone, at the tourney." "Dressed about with red ribbons, I trow?" enquired the outlaw, as if helping him. "Indeed yes, Master Cloudesley. You have said it, indeed. Knowledge of your loyalty to us was brought to the Prince by me. By me, good friend," he repeated, insinuatingly. "And now give back to me my parchment--which, being writ in the Latin tongue, is truly no more than a cartel to my lord the Abbot of York--and let us set forth joyfully. For henceforth ye will be as free men, and what is past will be forgotten." "I can read you the scroll, Will," said Robin, quietly. "I have some knowledge of the priestly tongue." The outlaw handed him the scroll, and all waited in silence whilst Robin deciphered it. Carfax snapped his teeth together in vexation at this unexpected turn. "_He_ cannot read the parchment. Is it likely?" he cried. "He will but pretend to read it, and make lies with which to confound me. 'Tis writ in most scholarly Latin, that only few may learn." "There is treachery here for you, Will," spoke Robin, without heeding these outcries. "This is a notification from the Prince to the Abbot of York saying that his emissaries have sounded you and that you are ready with your men to strike for him." "I have said so much," commented Will, "naming three conditions." "They are written herein: first, that a general amnesty is to be granted; second, that the ban of excommunication is to be removed from off you by the Holy Church; and third, that the Prince shall find your men, afterward, honorable employment." "That is so, Locksley. The letter is exact." "So the Prince writes to the Abbot, asking him to promise the second of your conditions, saying that it need be only a promise, for he has not the least intention of holding to a bargain with one so evil as yourself, and that after he has won the throne from Henry his father, matters such as these will be disposed of by his soldiery, if need be." "It is not true," screamed Carfax. "He lies to you, Master Cloudesley, seeking to be revenged on me." "Any clerk can read these lines to you, Will," answered Robin. "The Prince continues praying for the welfare of them all at York, and saying that he has already promised in the Abbot's name that the loan shall be taken off; that the Abbot is to receive and watch narrowly one Geoffrey of Montfichet, who has been exiled for treason, but who now imprudently has returned to work on their behalf in England." "Now do I know that you are reading truly," cried Will, and his brow grew black. "For how could you know that your cousin was concerned in this? You false-hearted knave," he added, turning to Carfax, "false as your false master--your doom is sealed. Tie him up by his heels, and let him hang head downward from this tree whereon he would have hung gallant Locksley. Be speedy, men." At this Simeon Carfax became as one quite demented, and Robin interposed. "Let us not punish the man for his master's fault, Will," cried he. "Deal with him only on the score of my quarrel with him, when I shall say--let him go. For I should always feel shame were we to be as harsh with an enemy as he would be with us. It would show us no better then he." "Take him then, since Locksley will have it so, and tie his legs under the belly of his horse--first setting him face to tail upon it," said Will. "And you, Hal, go and cut me the antlers from off yon poor beast." When this was done he caused his men to attach the horns by means of a cord to Master Carfax's head; then, with his own hand, Will gave the horse a lead towards Nottingham. Then, with a "view halloo," the steed bearing the unfortunate man was started in real earnest; and the foresters sent staggering by after it along the road to Nottingham. When they were out of sight, Robin thanked the outlaw again for all that he had done for them. Will merely shrugged his shoulders, as one who would say: "'Tis a matter not worth breath"; and, giving his men a signal, prepared to return to his own fastnesses. Robin begged them to take the body of the deer, and, with small reluctance, the outlaws accepted the offer. The Lincoln men bade Robin farewell also, saying that they would now go on towards their own homes with a light heart: for, having met the outlaws and found them most agreeable company, they had no more fear of Sherwood. So Robin and little Stuteley, waving farewell to all these strange friends, moved on towards Gamewell, although Robin really had little hope now of coming by the Prince's grace into what seemed to be but his rights. The Sheriff and Simeon Carfax would attend to that, no doubt. A curious dejection settled upon Robin. He had nothing but gloomy thoughts upon him as he trudged towards the Squire's domain. Nor did his spirits rise at his reception by old Gamewell. The Squire appeared almost uneasy with him; and was short in his speech, although once or twice a kindlier light flashed in his bright eyes. "Already he regrets that he should have pressed me to take up the Montfichet name," thought Robin to himself, imagining that herein was the cause of the Squire's distemper. He began to tell Montfichet of their doings and adventures: but had no sooner come to that part of the narrative referring to the Prince's purse than the Squire broke out: "Talk not to me of that man," cried he, vehemently. "He is an unworthy son of a much-tried father. Forsooth, this has become an age of disobedience and unfilial behavior; one has but to look round to find most sons alike. The Fifth Commandment is now without meaning to the younger generation." "I have no father, sir," said poor Robin, half in defense; for Gamewell looked so fiercely at him. "Nor do I seek to keep you to your offer," added he, in his thoughts. "I was not thinking so much of you, boy," replied the Squire; and again a better expression shone briefly in his face. "Give you good night, Robin Locksley--you know your chamber. Sleep well and we will talk together in the morning." * * * * * The morning saw no easement of the Squire's attitude towards Robin; and as soon as breakfast was ended he determined to go without wasting breath upon the errand which had brought him. "For sure, he is repenting of his offer," reasoned Robin. "Perchance already his heart is moved again towards Geoffrey, and who shall be more glad than I to find this so? I'll let the Squire think it comes from me--as in truth it does--this whimsey to prefer the name of Fitzooth to Montfichet!" So bravely, as he was about to leave him, Robin spoke to the old man. "Sir," he said, "I have it in me to speak plain words with you, and I may." "Have no fear, boy. I am one who loves an open mind." Montfichet spoke with meaning. "Well, sir, I would say with reference to that which you once did press upon my mother and myself--that I should take your name and half-fortune with my cousin Geoffrey--that I have thought well upon your kind offer." "There was to be a year go by, Master Fitzooth, ere you should give answer." "In a year or now, sir," said Robin, firmly, "I cannot see that I should accept. I have no quarrel with my cousin, and I will not come between him and your heart--which pleads against yourself on his behalf." Montfichet broke forth then, and Robin learned suddenly what had come between him and this strange, capricious man. "No quarrel with Geoffrey, say you?" he shouted, bringing his fist down with violence upon the oak table. "No, I trow you have not, Robin Fitzooth! But I have a quarrel both with him and you. Know that I have heard the story of your escapade with that mean son of mine, who must come prowling like a thief in the night about the walls of Gamewell. I know the Scarlet Knight's secret, and yours--who did think it brave to deceive and outwit an old man." "Sir, sir!" began Robin, aghast at this storm. "Nay, I will hear no more of it. Treachery and deceit--always they hang about my house. You deceived me, Robin Fitzooth, and cozened my servant Warrenton. So I cast you out of my heart for ever. For the rest of my days I will be sufficient unto myself: after I am gone, the dogs may quarrel above my grave for the bones of Gamewell." He almost pushed Robin from him, and turned brusquely away. Dazed and confounded, Robin faltered rather than walked to reach Stuteley, who stood awaiting him in the courtyard. Without a word, Robin took his hand. "Come, Will; let us go," he muttered, thickly: and with wrathful heart Robin Fitzooth shook the dust of Gamewell from off his feet. Faintly through his mind came memory of the clerk's warning: but it was all of it so unjust! He had never intended to deceive the Squire: all that he had done had been done without thought. After all, what fault had he committed against Montfichet? "'Fore Heaven," said Robin, furiously, "I never will speak with that man again--nor cross the threshold of his house!" So the clouds gathered more and more thickly over the head of Robin Fitzooth. CHAPTER XIV The Demoiselle Marie was behind all this. She had known Geoffrey's plans from her lover, Master Carfax; for Master Carfax had had interviews with those two of Will's band, Roger and Micah, the traitors sworn against Geoffrey. 'Twas all wheel within wheel and plot within plot. Carfax had by nature a face made to show differently on either side of it. Thus he was in service with the Prince; and, whilst knowing the younger Montfichet to be his master's ally, affected outwardly to recognize him as one against whom the hands of all righteous men should be raised. Master Simeon had gone forth with the Prince's message to Will o' th' Green, and with John Ford, in order that he might install that latter worthy at Locksley. Afterward Simeon was to journey to the Priory of York, as we know. Marie Monceux, to complete Robin's undoing, bade her father go to Gamewell and there tell Montfichet how Robin had helped Geoffrey to his scarlet-ribboned horse, giving the Squire the story as it had come through the two false outlaws. Certain proof she sent in a strip of the red cloth which Montfichet well knew to belong only to his house at Gamewell. So suddenly Montfichet's mind was poisoned against Robin; with the result that we have seen. The Squire began now to believe Ford's tale that young Fitzooth was of the outlaw band, and at once withdrew all support of Robin so far as the Rangership of Locksley was concerned. "No doubt," thought the Squire, bitterly, "he is son of his father in discontent and false pride. Fitzooth never was frank with me, and has trained his son to distrust and deceive all men." Truly the Sheriff's daughter was exacting full penalty for Robin's disregard of her at the Nottingham Fair. She had employed her hand also against the maid Fitzwalter, as we shall find later. Robin, in forbidding silence, strode along the road until they neared the shrine of St. Dunstan, when he looked eagerly toward the stout little hut of the clerk, hoping to find his old friend standing at the door of it, with his barking dogs. All was silent, however, and deserted. To Robin's surprise, the gate of the palisade stood wide open; and the door of the hut also. He glanced at Will. "Surely the priest is abroad imprudently, master?" said young Stuteley. "See how he has left his little house--open to the world! He must be of a very trusting nature for sure." "I remember now that the gate was unlatched yesterday," spoke Robin, slowly. "I noticed it then and meant to talk with you on the point, Will. I hope that no evil has befallen the clerk." "'Tis three weeks or more since we have had tidings of him," said Stuteley. "Shall we go in and make search?" They entered the rude dwelling and soon exhausted every hole and corner of it in a vain hunt for some token of the clerk. The kennels at the back were empty and forlorn; and some bread which they found in the hermit's tiny larder was mouldy and very stale. "Let us push on to Locksley, Will; mayhap we shall have better cheer waiting us there!" They trudged on quietly. His master's depression had reached and overcome merry Stuteley. They began unconsciously to walk quickly and more quickly still as they approached Locksley. The day was overcast and very still. Presently Robin, throwing back his head, sniffed the air. "Surely there is a strange smell in these woods, Will? Does it not seem to you that there is a taste of burning grasses in the breeze?" "Master," answered Stuteley, his face suddenly paling at some inner fear, "I do smell fire such as a blazing house would give forth. Well do I know the scent of it; having seen our own home burned last year." "Hurry, hurry, Will; my heart misgives me. Some further disaster is upon us. This is my evil day, I know. Hurry, for the love of me!" They set off at a frenzied scamper through the woods, taking the short footpath which would lead them to the back of the house of Locksley. Robin broke through the trees and undergrowth and hastily scaled the fence that railed off their garden from the wild woods. A dread sight met his starting eyes. Dull brown smoke curled from under the eaves of his home in dense clouds; the windows were gaping rounds from which ever and anon red flames gushed forth; a torrid heat was added to the sickening odor of the doomed homestead. Somebody grasped him by the hand. "Thanks be that you are returned, excellence," spoke a rough voice, with emotion. "This is a sorry welcome." "My mother?" gasped Robin, blankly, and his heart stood still for Warrenton's answer. "Not a hair of her head has been touched. Old Warrenton would not stand here to tell you the sorry tale were it otherwise. But the house must go; 'tis too old and dry a place for mortal hand to save." Stuteley had joined them by this, and the three gazed for a minute in stupefied silence on the flaming destruction of that home so dear to Robin Fitzooth. Warrenton, grimed and righteously angry, began his tale. Yesterday, at dusk, the sound of a winding horn had brought them all anxiously to the garden. "We thought that you had returned with young Stuteley," said the old man-at-arms; "but we found ourselves facing none other than Master Ford the forester, with about six or more of the most insolent of his men. Peremptorily be bade us deliver up this house to him, pulling out a warrant from his bosom and waving it before your mother's face." "Ford, was it?" questioned Robin. Then light broke in upon him. Yesterday, after the battle between Will's band and that of Master Carfax, some of the defeated foresters had fled to the north of Sherwood. "You must bear up, young master," said Warrenton; "the Squire will doubtless build you a new home." "Alas, Warrenton! Master Montfichet has turned against me now," said Robin then, "and against you also. Continue your story, and you shall hear ours when you have done." So Warrenton continued, telling them how John Ford had made an attempt to seize the place: how Warrenton and the few servants had striven to beat him back: and how, after valiant fighting, they had succeeded in keeping them from taking the house at least. The garden they could not retain; but Warrenton, having established himself at one of the upper windows, had so shrewdly flown his arrows, that Ford himself had been wounded and one of his men killed outright. Night had fallen upon them in this way, and the dame thought that it would be a good scheme for one of her maids to now endeavor to slip out and arouse the village to their help. One of the women therefore essayed the journey; but was so clumsy as to attract the enemy's attention. She was seized and made to confess how the house was protected and where it was most likely to fall before a sharp assault. Being a witless wench, she told them truly, and Master Ford then bade her help them collect sticks and leaves in order that they might be able to fire the place as a last resource. Those within had thought that the girl had managed to evade danger, and cheerfully waited for help from the village. A determined attack was commenced at daybreak; and Ford and his men succeeded in gaining possession of the kitchens without loss. Another of the servants was captured, also a second maid-servant was injured by an arrow, so seriously as to die within twenty minutes. Warrenton kept the stairs and barricaded the inner door from the kitchens by putting tables and chairs against it. At length a parley was called, and Ford shouted his conditions through the keyhole. The besieged then learned that the distant village was still unaware of their peril. Ford offered to let them all go forth free, if now they would yield up the house to him. Mistress Fitzooth had a mind to accept, but Warrenton counselled no. After a long argument Ford swore that he would burn the house over their heads if they did not surrender it within an hour; and, going back to the garden, he began to bring in the loose dry pieces of wood and sticks he and his men had collected in the night. At three hours after noon, Ford, having given one more warning to them, had bidden his fellows do the worst. In a few moments the smell of burning filled the house; and Mistress Fitzooth became as one distraught. "We had two women left to us," Warrenton continued, "and a lad, who was worth as much as a man to me. I bade them open the door softly, and rush forth whilst the wretches were employed at their fiendish work in the rear. This we did, and so gained, unperceived, the little shed near by the gate. From a crack in the boards, I could command bowshot of the whole front; and I had given the lad a bow of yours. The two maids, taking your mother's hands, pulled her along under the hedge until they gained the road. Then all three ran furiously toward the village. "We who were left behind had not long to wait. Presently, one came round to the front with a piece of flaming wood and boldly thrust it through the nearest lattice. Him I killed at once with an arrow through the back. They were now but five against us. Presently two others came stealthily from the back: but, seeing their companion dead, ran back hastily. "Master Ford appeared next, and began to look suspiciously about him. His fellow had rolled over in his death-struggles, and so might have been slain from my window in the house-front. Curls of smoke were coming up from under the thatch by now; and Ford, making up his mind, ran out with the others, and flung himself upon the door. "We had left it latched; and so it gave enough of resistance in his blind attack to justify him in believing it was still held from within. It fell inwards, at last, with a crash; and Ford sprang triumphantly across the threshold. His fellows rushed after him, trying now to beat out the fire." Warrenton paused, and all fell again to watching the leaping flames. "Meanwhile I guessed that your mother was safe, and had already alarmed the villagers," continued the old retainer. "So, with a shout, I rushed out upon the villains, with the lad, and pulled the broken door back to its place, shutting them in, that they might enjoy their own fell work in all security. Two of them did attempt escape just since by leaping from out of the window. But my bow was ready strung for them." "Have you killed four men, then, Warrenton?" said Robin, his blood running cold. Then suddenly the full meaning of it flashed upon him. "And Ford?" he cried, with a gesture of horror, "and the two others?" "Nay," said Warrenton, grimly. "I had come round here to see whether they had preference for fire or for my arrows, having left the boy to guard the front. Then I saw you and young Stuteley, and in my chattering I had nigh come to forget them. But there is Master Ford beckoning to us from your own room." A frenzied, dreadful figure had indeed appeared for a brief instant amongst the thick curling smoke. It waved two hopeless hands out towards the falling dusk, and then incontinently vanished. A thin scream sounded in Robin's ears, as a rush of flame mercifully swallowed up this apparition: like as not, 'twas the sound of the fire itself. The end had come, both to the unhappy foresters and Robin's home. With a huge torrent of noise the roof of it crushed in, half stifling the fire. Then the flames seized full mastery; and amid a shower of sparks, the red tongues licked and devoured the last of their prey. * * * * * Robin hastened to find his mother, that he might be relieved of his anxiety and be rid for the moment of the sight of the awful catastrophe of the fire. Warrenton and Stuteley rushed in together, at his command, to try to save the two remaining foresters; but it was a very forlorn hope. Warrenton in his just revenge had pushed things to their extreme limits: Master Ford and all his band had paid the utmost penalty of their failure to overcome this relentless old man. Mistress Fitzooth had secured refuge and was now much calmer. She embraced her son and wept over him in joy at this reunion. Robin could see, however, that she was indeed much overwrought by these troubles. She had not yet recovered from the loss of her husband. They stayed with these poor people, who found room for them somehow, out of sheer charity, for neither Robin nor the dame had any money. It was a bitter business, in sooth: and next day Robin, finding his mother far from well, humbled himself to beg assistance from the Squire. He despatched the letter by Warrenton, and then patiently set himself to wait a reply. Also, he determined to seek an audience with the Prince. His home had been burned, his small patrimony gone: he had now no means of keeping himself and the dame from starvation save by living on another man's bread. The clerk, his one tried friend, was gone--no one knew where. The Prince would surely yield him the right to be Ranger at Locksley in his father's place! The house had been given to dead Hugh Fitzooth by Henry, the King. An uneasy feeling took possession of Robin, for Warrenton had defied and overcome the Sheriff's man when he had been properly empowered to expel mother and son from Locksley, and there were seven dead men, nay eight, to be accounted for--and they were all of them King's Foresters. * * * * * Montfichet answered him by sending a purse of money and a curt letter saying that Mistress Fitzooth was to come to Gamewell, where for the rest of her days she would always find a home. For Robin he could do nothing: already the Sheriff had drawn up a proclamation of outlawry against him, setting the price of a hundred crowns upon him, living or dead. CHAPTER XV Mistress Fitzooth never saw Gamewell or her brother again. Her disorder took a sudden and fatal turn; and within a week Robin found himself doubly an orphan--without home, money, or hope. Only two good friends had he--little Stuteley and staunch Warrenton. The Squire had refused to see the latter and had sent him the reply to Robin's note by one of the servants. Montfichet was angered with Warrenton because he had been deceived by him. Robin laid his mother to rest beside his father. That was as long as he might dare stay in Locksley. Every day he feared to be seized by Master Monceux's myrmidons. Stuteley kept watch on the road through Sherwood by day and Warrenton by night. The morning of the interment brought news of danger. One of the few faithful foresters of Locksley was at his post--the rest, having no master, had disported themselves upon their own various errands--and he heard from a shepherd that a body of soldiers were journeying to Locksley. Full two score and ten of them there were; one, the leader, carrying a warrant for Robin's arrest. The forester hastened to save his young master. The time was short. Robin had scarcely pause to perform the last sad offices above his mother's grave ere he must be flying for his life. His only chance was to take to the woods and hide in them. Warrenton urged him to seek shelter in the thicker forest about Barnesdale, at the north-western end of Sherwood. Whispers gave a story that the higher parts were honeycombed with strange caves; and all the countryside knew that away in Barnesdale were the headquarters and camps of Will o' th' Green. It was the place of all others for shelter; and Stuteley became joyful in the thought of the adventures that must chance to them therein. Warrenton was sober, however, over it. He had a presentiment that the days would be hard and the food scanty and plain. Still 'twas a man's life, after all. They nearly plunged themselves into the hands of the enemy by mistaking their road. So it chanced that Robin spied his old enemy Simeon Carfax and narrowly missed being seen also by him. The three fugitives hid themselves high up in the branches of a tree; and watched with beating hearts their enemies hurrying onward to Locksley. With the band of soldiers, pikemen, and foresters were two whom Robin observed narrowly. Sounds of their talk reached his ears; and, since these two fellows rode somewhat apart from the rest, Robin was able to distinguish their chattering. He had unfailing ear for a voice. These were those traitors in Will's band, the two outlaws whom he had encountered on the day of the joustings at Nottingham Fair. "Roger and Micah," murmured Robin to himself, after listening a while. "Yes, those were the names they used _then_. So, friends, I am forearmed against you, for I will step with heavy foot in your concerns by-and-by--when I do find Master Will o' th' Green! Roger--and Micah--I'll not forget." Soon as they had passed, the three slid quietly to the ground and thereafter betook themselves very cautiously through the wood. Robin determined to find Will soon as he might and lay his case before him. The outlaw would give him refuge, no doubt. The noise of the soldiers passed away in a murmuring discordance, and the three fugitives walked now more boldly towards Barnesdale. Ere sundown they were very heartily tired. They lay themselves down in the long grasses and while two slumbered the third watched. Such foods as dry bread and berries were all that they could command; but there was water in plenty. The evening came, and after it night--and so to break of the next day. Robin would have recommenced the flight soon as they had bathed themselves in a little shallow stream. Ere an hour of daylight was theirs, sounds of hurried approach warned them to be alert. Someone was crashing recklessly through the wood, following their trail clearly. Robin bade Warrenton and little Stuteley hide on either hand whilst he put himself directly in the path of this pursuer. It proved to be none other than that one faithful forester of Locksley who had warned him of the soldiery. Robin welcomed him all the more gladly when he heard that this good fellow meant to throw in his own fortunes with those of his unjustly treated young master. He had news for them, too. It transpired that Master Carfax had several duties in hand--as was his wont. First, he had to seize Robin and bring him, alive or dead, to the Sheriff. Next he was to declare all the Fitzooth property to be confiscated; and, having put seal upon any of it that might be left from the fire, he had to instal as temporary Ranger one of the Sherwood men whom he might think fit and trustworthy. Then a messenger was to be despatched with another parchment to the Abbot of York: writ this time in true Norman tongue. After these things were executed Master Simeon was to turn his men about, and march them determinedly upon the outlaws' stronghold, which was now known to be at Barnesdale, and exterminate the band. A task none so easy, after all! For the satisfactory doing of these small commissions Carfax was to receive one hundred and fifty pieces of gold; and also would be accepted by the Sheriff as a fitting husband for the pale, hard-eyed demoiselle, Marie of Monceux. 'Twas this reward that made Master Simeon desperate and dangerous. The forester, John Berry by name, told Robin further that Carfax had clothed his body in chain-mail, and was carrying a dreadful axe in his belt--with which to avenge the insult put upon him in the matter of the stag's horns. "Let us seek Barnesdale forthwith," said Robin. "I am all agog to warn Will o' th' Green--for he has been a stout friend to me." "Hurry then, master," cried Berry, the forester. "You are not far from the Barnesdale road. In sooth, as I followed your tracks, I wondered how you had come so far within a very short space. You are now within touch of Gamewell." It was true. In the mazy forest they had nearly described a circle, and were now perilously nigh to Gamewell and the squire. An idea came to Robin. He turned to Warrenton. "Could we but find that underground path whereby cousin Geoffrey came and went from the pleasance, old friend," said he, "why--we might play the Yellow Lady to purpose!" "Excellence," replied Warrenton, "I will undertake to bring you to the forest entrance of Master Will's castle within a score of minutes." "Lead us, Warrenton--and I prithee be better guide than you have been so far in this adventure." After taking many by-paths, and through a big tunnel-shaped cave, the path became dry again, and lighter: and soon they saw that the end was near. They emerged presently, tired and dirtied; and found themselves under the bank of a little jumping woodland river--far down in a gorge of rock and brake, studded and overhung with thick trees. It was a wild spot: and only the notes of the birds and the rush of the falling water disturbed it. But ere they had proceeded a quarter of a mile up the bank of the stream a sudden bend in it brought them the harsh noise of desperate and near fighting. Loud shouts and battle-cries sounded on their left; and, running speedily in this direction, our four adventurers chanced upon a strange sight. It was strange by the manner of their view of it; for, having clambered up the bank to the top of the gorge, they saw themselves on the highest edge of a spur of ground--with the low down rocky valley of the river behind, and before them a little narrow plain--as equally below them as was the water they had left. On this plain were a number of men engaged in deadly battle. Round and about were the thick dark woods of Barnesdale. A moment's glance showed Robin that they had arrived too late to help Will o' th' Green by way of warning. The outlaw's foes were upon him, and seemingly had the robber and his band at a disadvantage. The ground descended below the four onlookers so abruptly as to cut them off from the plain. They were near to the battle; and yet altogether remote from it. "Our arrows must do duty for us, then," muttered Robin, grimly, soon as he understood this. "Fit shafts across your bows, friends, and aim with all your hearts in it. Let not those of either side see us. 'Tis thus that our services shall be of most value to Master Will." They dropped to their knees and aimed their arrows carefully. They had full quivers with them, and Warrenton and Robin felt themselves in a manner to be pitted one against the other. The battle raged so furiously below, however, that for a minute these allies were compelled to remain idle--not daring to loose their shafts for fear of slaying friends as well as foes. Sounds of a horn, shrill and impatient, suddenly called the soldiers back to their ranks beside Master Carfax. Robin spied this worthy now; and saw that he bestrode a black horse clumsily--as if armored indeed. Simeon evidently had withdrawn his men from a mêlée for fear that in it he might not be properly protected. He was seen to be issuing orders very peremptorily to the men. Meanwhile the outlaws rallied themselves to their leader's side. They, were sadly decreased in numbers; and, whilst the living thus formed about in battle array, there were many poor fellows of both sides left upon the field who stirred not even to the imperative commands of their commanders. Now was Robin's chance. "Choose your man, each one of you," said he, in a suppressed eagerness; "and soon as the soldiers issue at the charge shoot down upon your mark." Carfax gave an order almost as he spoke. Instantly Robin loosed his bow, and singing death flew from it. He overturned the soldier nearest to Master Simeon, even as Warrenton's shaft struck another dead at once. The forester Berry and little Stuteley added to the confusion--both wounding the same soldier simultaneously. Then Carfax, believing that these arrows came from Will's band, sounded a charge and spurred his horse forward amongst his pikemen. They rushed forward with swinging axe and clanking sword upon the outlaws, who now delivered a sudden stream of shafts. These Robin's band supplemented by shrewder arrows. Seven of the soldiers rolled over as they ran, killed forthwith; and Robin, having pricked Simeon's horse, shot him again in the ear whilst meaning to find his master. The beast plunged wildly into the soldiers, trampling and scattering them. But many managed yet to meet the robbers, and the desperate hand-to-hand fighting was recommenced. Robin bade the others cease. The four of them peered from out of their cover over the crest, and watched breathlessly. Carfax had fallen from his horse and lay floundering on the close grass. Stuteley sped a gooseshaft into his forearm ere Robin could check him. Warrenton drew his master's attention and anger away from his esquire by a quick whisper. "See, lording--quick! Look how some of the enemy do creep about Master Will; they will strike him and his fellows from the rear!" "The two who lead them are not uniformed--like as not they are those treacherous ones whom I have such cause to remember." So muttered Robin, with parted lips, and gasping his words disjointedly. "Smite them, Warrenton," cried he, suddenly and excitedly. "Speedily, instantly--or they will end this fight against us. _Now!_" Their arrows flew together, marvellous shots, each finding its prey. The two wretches threw up their arms as they ran; and, uttering dismal cries, fell upon the earth, and in their death-struggles tore up vain handfuls of the soil. "Follow, follow," called Robin, to his three faithful ones. "Locksley! A Locksley! To the rescue!" [Illustration: ROBIN HOOD AND HIS COMPANIONS LEND AID TO WILL O' TH' GREEN FROM AMBUSH _Their arrows flew together, marvellous shots, each finding its prey._] They tumbled headlong down the slope, shouting vociferously as they came. The soldiers, alarmed and already disheartened, imagined that these eager enemies were but forerunners of a large reinforcement. Hastily they disengaged themselves from the outlaws, and, gathering up Master Carfax, rushed pell-mell with him backward to the woods on the right. Will o' th' Green's few men hurried them with their arrows; and soon as Robin had come down to level ground he fell to streaming his shafts into the rout. He was bruised, begrimed, and cut about his face by the thorns and rocks; yet was so furious against Master Simeon and his myrmidons that these things were not even felt by him. Shouting "Locksley! Locksley!" more and more triumphantly, he ran alone in fierce pursuit. The soldiers disappeared under the trees, and ran even then. Warrenton and the outlaws came on in support of young Robin; and the defeat of Carfax and his men was completed. They were chased through the woods of Barnesdale, which these wild outlaws knew so well. Some were shot with arrows mercifully; others fell under the cruel blows of the outlaws' short axes. A few escaped with Master Carfax back to the Sheriff of Nottingham--not one-third of those who had set out at his command. It was the most desperate of affairs yet betwixt the greenwood men and those representing law and order as conceived by the Sheriff. On either side many were killed--the outlaw band was reduced in numbers, and its leader, Will o' th' Green, was amongst those who were to plot and fight no more in Sherwood. When Robin and the rest of them returned from their long chase, tired with an immense fatigue, they found sad work still before them. Robin tended Will himself, and bound up his many wounds: and sought to beguile him to live--if but to spite Monceux and his wretches. But Will o' th' Green had been pierced too dreadfully by his enemies' darts: he had only strength to drink a little water and say his last words to his men. In the dusk of this day he lay in Robin's arms, wizard no more; and asked that someone should give the call he knew so well--the strange, short signal upon the horn which ever had rallied these men. Then as they, with dejected faces, drew nigh to him, he spoke to them all--bidding them hate the laws and defy them so long as they were unjust and harsh. He counselled them to choose amongst themselves a new leader--one who would be impartial and honest; and the one who could bend the best bow. "Be not robbers to any who are poor and who are good fellows--having only their poverty against them. Be kind to those who help you, but exact toll as heretofore of all who come through the greenwood. The rich to pay in money, and blood--if it be necessary." He added these words with an effort; and his mind wandered in the shadowy fields of death. Robin saw how his fingers twitched, as if they plucked still the cord of his good yew bow. He smoothed back Will's dark hair from off his brow, and put water to the outlaw's lips. Will o' th' Green glanced up at him, and something of his old expression--half-grim, half-smiling--showed that he struggled still to hold hands with life. "For you, Locksley," he muttered, puckering his brows, "there are two roads open. One, to yield thyself to Monceux and the rack--for not even your uncle at Gamewell should save you, even did he so wish; the other--to join with these honest fellows and live a free life. What else is left to you? If you would be as dutiful to the laws as the earth to summer sun, it should not avail you. Your lord the Sheriff is in the hands of his girl--and she listens with willing ear to Master Carfax. Ask not how I know these things. Your cousin is outlawed----" "I shall live in the greenwood, Will," answered Robin, quietly, "with your brave men and you--if so be I may. Have I won now the freedom of the forest?" He showed him the broken peacocked arrow which the Clerk of Copmanhurst had given him. The outlaw held up his right hand and laid it on Robin's bowed head: "Upon you, Robin of Locksley, do I bestow, with this my last breath, full freedom of the forests of England," he said, very loudly. Then he relaxed from his frown to a rare smile. "Learn this sign----" he said, and showed Robin, with feeble fingers, how the greenwood men knew each other in any disguise. It was a simple signal, very easy to know, yet very sure. No one might suppose it given by accident--yet of design it appeared quite innocent. The smile was fading from Will's face as Robin repeated it carefully after him; and even as he spoke again he died. "Farewell--friends all--take this brother into your good company, and make him and those with him right welcome. I pray you to remember and abide by those kindly rules which have always--always----" His speech fell away into meaningless words, and the light left his face. He moved in Robin's arms and sighed. Then, as his body rolled slowly over, and he lay with his back turned to them, they saw that his worst wound was in it--a dastard's blow. So ended the life of Will o' th' Green--or Will of Cloudesley: he of whom many stories have been told in other books. They took him up reverently and buried him in a secret place--so that none to this day can say where he lies. And the outlaws swore an oath of vengeance against him who had so foully slain their chief. Robin guessed wisely that the mortal blow had been given by one of those two traitors in Will's own camp. Had they not been riding with Carfax in the early morn--not as prisoners-of-war--but as informers and spies? * * * * * The next day was passed in burying the dead of both sides. The outlaws accepted Robin without question as one full welcome amongst them; and Warrenton, Stuteley, and John Berry were also given the freedom of the woods and taught the signs and freemasonry of them. The bodies of the soldiers and mercenaries were stripped and heaped together into a pit, and roughly covered with earth and leaves. Then the outlaws betook themselves to their caves to settle who should be chief of the band in Will's place. Whilst they were employed in this difficult business, the Sheriff sent out another and larger body of armed men--obeying the insolent command of his Prince. Fear sat upon the soul of Monceux then: for he did not doubt that another such disaster as that which had chanced to his other men would mean disgrace and the end of his lord-shrievalty. This second company who were captained by Hubert the Archer, with bandaged Carfax second in command, had an easy conquest, however, of Sherwood and Barnesdale--for none challenged them, nor questioned their proceedings in any respect. Nor was there sign left in the woods of Robin or the outlaws--they were vanished so utterly that Carfax conceived them all to have either died of their wounds or fled disconsolate from the neighborhood. In either event this was most excellent news; and, having patrolled the forest and searched it indifferently well, the men-at-arms of Nottingham agreed that peace-loving folk had no more to fear from the wild spirits of Sherwood. They were gone, banished--and the King's forest was now safe of passage to all. Carfax, poking here and there, found the fresh grave of his own fellows, and disturbed it mightily. He bade Hubert disinter them all; and pretended to recognize each one. Here was the arch-rebel Will of Cloudesley--this one was the second man of his band. Here was young Robin Fitzooth, as dead as mutton--and here was his fellow Stuteley. So Master Simeon went on, to his own satisfaction and to Hubert's, who foresaw large rewards to be paid for these poor dishonored bodies. They brought three of them back, with every circumstance of importance. They were shown to the Prince as being the last remains of Will Cloudesley, Robin Fitzooth, and Hall the Outlaw--a well-known marauder in Will's company. Prince John forthwith praised the pikemen and archers, and bade Monceux give them great rewards--a thing which vexed the mean Sheriff much. Then they all rode about and through the forest in a great hunt of the Royal deer, graciously attended by the Prince himself. Monceux was forgiven; and Simeon, having quite recovered all his old self-esteem, was duly betrothed to the demoiselle Marie. A new Ranger was appointed at Locksley; and another house was found for him. No one said him nay. A proclamation against all outlaws and freebooters having been issued and signed with many flourishes by John, he betook his Royal person to York, carrying lean-faced, smiling Carfax with him. Mistress Monceux hid her sorrow and devoted her energies forthwith towards the undoing of the maid Fitzwalter, against whom she yet nursed much spite. The Prince stayed at Gamewell on his way, and patronized indulgently old George Montfichet, although the latter's dislike of his Royal guest was only too thinly veiled. Then John took farewell of Nottingham and Sherwood, making an easy business of it. Monceux had ridden out on this morning to make dutiful obeisance and escort the Prince through Locksley to the borders. Outside the gates of Gamewell John delivered himself to the men-at-arms, retainers, burgesses, and citizens of Nottingham, who had inquisitively followed the Sheriff. "We will not forget your hospitality, friends all," said he, in his slightly swaggering and yet withal effeminate way; "and see, in some measure of return for it, we leave you our Sherwood free from pestilent robbers and evil defiers of the law. When we came to Nottingham there were these and others; but now they are all driven out of our Royal forest--many slain with the arrows of my Hubert, or beaten with the staves of your own fellows. This surely is some sort of gift--see to it that you keep well that which we have secured for you." Then he rode forth amid the cheerings of the crowd, Hubert and his followers scattering largesses as they rode. CHAPTER XVI All through that long winter Robin had lain hidden in the Barnesdale caves with the remains of the band of outlaws which had begun with Will of Cloudesley's advent and nigh ended with his death. At first there had been some quarrelling and jealousy amongst them as to who should be the new captain. There were, with Robin and his three recruits, twenty and two men all told. These had decided upon many tests between themselves in order to settle who should lead; and when there were tests of archery Robin had beaten them all. Yet he had no wish to set himself at their head, having sped his arrows so well more for the reason that a good bowman cannot but aim well when his fingers are upon his weapon. So he had said modestly that they must reckon without him, and that he would gladly obey the man the others should choose. Then there had been fresh bickerings, and they were once nearly discovered by the Sheriff's foresters, who by some means stumbled upon one of their underground passages. The winter brought with it many privations; and they decided at length to leave Barnesdale and go into the county of Lincoln. They made their ragged clothes as much like those of the King's Foresters as they could and then set out. One thing had been agreed on: that they must have some new clothes and induce other bold spirits to join with them: else Sherwood would be lost to them for ever. Robin had quite decided to cast in his lot with these men. He felt that they would be loyal to each other, and he knew that the only traitors which this band had known were now no more. A bitter hatred of the Sheriff; of lying Carfax and of Royalty, as personified by the unjust, indolent Prince, had moulded Robin's character into steel, as it were. Robin had counselled this journey to Lincoln. In the secret caves about Barnesdale, Will of Cloudesley had amassed and stored away much wealth. It was useless to them here in Nottingham; but in Lincoln one of them might go in to the market and buy sufficient Lincoln cloth and needles and thread to fit them all out. Swords might also be obtained; and some shirts of chain-mail, new bows and new arrows. The band started away under cover of a crisp February night, and had come into sight of Lincoln within three days. They had just finished their morning meal of the third day when they were overtaken by a stoutish man whose clothing was of the most remarkable description. He wore a cloak which was so clouted and patched that the first part of it hung about him in a dozen folds. He had on his head three hats, one rammed tightly over the other, so that he cared neither for wind nor rain. On his back was a bag held by a thong of strong leather about his neck. In his right hand was a long crooked stick. The outlaws had naturally hidden themselves at first sound of his footsteps. They watched him go by, and passed jests between themselves concerning him. Stuteley begged that he might be allowed to play a joke upon the fellow. "Go after him by all means, if you will," said Robin; "but be polite, for I have it in my mind that this is a man known to me. I would that I could hear him speak." "Follow me, master, warily, and you shall hear him speak to a purpose!" cried little Stuteley. When the stranger found that someone walked behind him, he quickened his pace. Stuteley called out to him, but he made no reply. "Stand, as I bid you, fellow," cried little Stuteley again, "for you shall tarry and speak to me." "By my troth," said the other, answering him at last, "I have no leisure for talk with you, friend. 'Tis very far to my lodging and the morning grows. Therefore, I will lose my dinner if I do not hasten." "I have had no meat nor bread betwixt my lips this day," retorted Will Stuteley, coming up with him. "And I do not know where I may get any, for if I go to a tavern they will ask me for money, of which I have not one groat, unless you will lend me some until we do meet again?" The clouted man replied very peevishly: "I have no money to lend you, friend; for I have lost the little I had in a foolish wager made at Nottingham. But you are a younger man than I, though you seem to be more lazy; so I can promise you a long fast if you wait until you have money from me." Now, something in the man's tones roused memories in little Stuteley, yet he could not resolve them into shape. The fellow's face was so obscured by the three hats that one could scarcely get a peep at it. "Since we have met this day," said Stuteley, wrathfully, "I will have money of you, even though it be but one penny. Therefore, lay aside your cloak and the bag about your neck; or I will tear it open. And should you offer to make any noise my arrows shall pierce your fat body like unto a cullender." The man laughed discordantly; and again Stuteley thought he recognized him. "Do you think, friend, that I have any fear of your arrows? Stand away or I will beat you into grist." Stuteley bent his bow and set an arrow upon the cord, but not so quickly as to save himself from a mighty thwack from the man's cudgel. The little esquire sprang back, and in doing so dropped both bow and arrow. Nothing dismayed, he drew his sword, and engaged at once with the stranger. Their blows fell about each other's bodies like hail, and Stuteley found that not all his Cumberland tricks could help him with so furious an opponent. His enemy had little skill, but plenty of strength and agility; his stick whirled and twirled, beating down Stuteley's guard time after time. He was, besides, a bigger man and much older. Robin's esquire began to see that he had met a sturdy opponent, and even as this tardy knowledge came into his mind, the stranger gave him a crushing body blow, and he tumbled fairly to the ground. There Stuteley lay, with closed eyes and white face. "'Tis a pity to rest so soon, friend," remarked the stranger, with irony. "Would it not be better to snatch my money from me, and take your ease afterwards in that tavern which you wot of?" Stuteley answered nothing, but lay deadly still. Robin and the rest were too far behind to perceive what had happened. The strange-looking man turned away without bestowing another glance on his little enemy, and soon his quaint figure disappeared over the brow of the next hill. Within a dozen minutes the outlaws came up and discovered poor Will Stuteley lying on the ground, faintly moaning. They bathed his head, but could find no wounds. Robin was much upset, and began to eagerly question his esquire so soon as he showed signs of returning to his wits. "Tell me, little Will, what evil mischance has fallen to you?" asked Robin, with emotion. Stuteley raised his head and looked about him in a dazed manner. "I have been all through the county of Cumberland, master," said he, at last, in a weak voice, "and I have wrestled and fenced with many; yet never since I was a child and under my father's hand have I been so put to it." He shut his eyes again; then opened them viciously. "I encountered with our fellow-traveller and saw no reason to fear such a clown. Yet he has scratched my back so heartily that I do fear it never will be straight again." "Nay, nay, Will. I'll nurse you well, be sure on't," murmured Robin, full of pity and despair. "Dear master, I speak but as I feel," continued Stuteley, half shutting his eyes. "But the rascal has not gone far from us; and were some of you to hasten, doubtless he would be brought to book, and I might see him punished ere I die. Go you, old Warrenton, you are a stubborn fighter; and take John Berry and two of the rest." "I'll e'en fetch him to you myself, malapert," said Warrenton. "He is more deadly than your Lady in Yellow, I promise you," said Stuteley. "Be wary, and let at least six of you surround him." "That would be wasting the time of five of us," answered old Warrenton, in an off-hand way; "I will go alone." "Let someone then prepare bandages for our Warrenton, and take my shirt for them. He will need such service." Warrenton and Berry, with another, ran off at this. Robin saw that Stuteley was not so near his end as he affected to imagine; and made him more comfortable beneath a tree, covered him with a cloak, gave him some drink, and ministered to him considerately. The old man-at-arms fully intended to capture their quarry alone; feeling to be on his mettle, as it were. So he ran as fast as he could before the other two; but not so fast as to catch up with the man he sought. Presently he espied him far down the road; and, knowing a shorter path to Lincoln, whither he judged the man was bound, Warrenton called to the others and they struck away from the road. They made their plans as they walked, and at length cut off the enemy. He did not look so formidable as Stuteley had painted him; and as he drew near they felt this was an easy business. Two of them sprang out upon him, and one, seizing his twisted stick, dragged it violently out of his hands. Warrenton flashed a dagger at his breast, saying sinisterly: "Friend, if you utter any alarm I will be your confessor and hangman. Come back with us forthwith and you may end your fight properly with our companion. He waits greedily for you." "Give me the chance," answered the fellow, valiantly, "and I will fight with you all." Berry and the other outlaw instantly gave him the frog's march backward along the road; but the villain struggled so fiercely that they presently began to tire. "Now grant me my life," said their prisoner, "and I will give you good money to the sum of one hundred pieces. It is all my savings, which I promised to give into the hands of a wicked usurer in Lincoln." "Well," said Berry, pausing, "this is a fair sum, and might heal our companion's wounds very comfortably. Hold him fast, comrades, whilst I go back for his staff. Without that he cannot do much harm." Whilst he was gone the fellow began again. "I am a miller, friends," said he, much more at ease already, "and have but lately returned from doing a good bargain in wheat. Also, I am esteemed a fair archer, and, since I perceive that you are foresters all, this matter will tell with you in my favor. I could draw you a pretty bow had I but the use of my arms." "Nay, master miller, but we would sooner hold you tight, and take your skill for granted," answered the outlaw. Berry came back and stuck the staff into the ground at a little distance. "Now count out your pieces, miller," said Warrenton. There was a keen wind blowing and the miller turned about so as not to face it directly they gave him half-freedom. Warrenton said gruffly to him: "Count, miller; count truly and honestly." "Let me open my bag then," said the rogue. He unfastened it from his neck, and, setting it on the ground, took off his patched cloak. He placed his bag carefully upon it, holding the bag as though it were heavy indeed. Then he crouched down over it and fumbled at the leathern thong. The outlaws had all gathered closely before him as he plunged in his fingers. In the bag were too pecks of fine meal; and as soon as the cunning miller had filled his hands full he suddenly drew them out and dashed the white powder fair into the eager faces of the men about him. Then he snatched up the bag by the two corners and shook out the rest of the meal. It blew in a blinding cloud about Warrenton and the rest, and filled their eyes so utterly as to leave them all three at the miller's mercy. He caught up his stick and began to belabor them soundly. "Since I have dirtied your clothes, friends," cried he, between the blows, "'tis only right that I should dust them for you! Here are my hundred 'pieces'; how like you them?" Each word was accompanied by a tremendous thwack. He fell so heartily into the business as to become unwary. Robin and the rest, hearing the shouting and noise, came speeding down the road, with Stuteley recovered already. They chanced on a strange sight. Berry, old Warrenton, and the outlaw were dancing about in an agony of rage, helpless and blind, and striking vain blows at empty air. The man with the three hats was belaboring them with his staff so thoroughly as to have become a man with no hat at all. They all were tumbled upon the road. "Why all this haste?" roared he, not noticing Robin or the others. "Why will you not tarry for my money? 'Tis strange that no man will wait upon me this day, whilst I am in so generous a mood!" He sprang up and down, whacking them without ceasing. His feet encountered one of his many hats and ruthlessly kicked it aside. "'Tis Much the Miller!" cried Robin, recognizing him by his voice "'Tis the miller who helped to save me in Sherwood. Friend, you have never yet paid me my guinea, and I now do claim it of you." Master Much ceased his occupation. He turned warily about to Robin. So soon as he had looked well at him, he dropped his stick and came over very frankly to him. "So it's the gipsy?" said he, grinning all over his broad face. "And they have neither flayed you nor hanged you yet? And are these fellows with you?" "We are the free men of Sherwood," said Robin, "and were coming to Lincoln to get ourselves new clothes and weapons. Also we had hoped to find other good men and true willing to join with us." Much went up to Stuteley, and craved his pardon very handsomely at this. "Had I but looked at you, friend, I might have known you for the other gipsy, and these fellows for some of those who did save you both from Master Carfax. That is always my way: but never have I been so sorry for't as on this day, for now, through being too hasty, I have lost your good will." "Nay, Master Miller, but that is not so," said Stuteley. Warrenton and Berry at first were inclined to play with the miller as he had with them; but Robin pleaded so well for good fellowship that, after a little, peace was proclaimed. Much, to atone for his misdeeds, undertook to do their business in Lincoln; and set himself busily to work on their behalf. He found them all comfortable and quiet quarters where they might stay unnoticed and unmolested, and Stuteley went with Robin to buy the cloth for their suits. They stayed in and about the old town for nearly three weeks, until all were well equipped. Much asked that he might join with them and bring his friend Midge and a few other merry souls. Robin explained to him that they had rules, which, although few and simple, were strict, and that they had, at present, no especial leader, since all had elected to remain equal and free, observing the same laws and pledged to each other in loyalty unto death. A common bond of independence bound them. "Why, then, master, we are your men," said Much; "for we are all sick to death of the Normans and their high-handed ways, to tell truth; and right gladly will we take service with you." "I am not the first or only man of our company," began Robin, smiling; but hasty Much interrupted him with a great oath. "You shall be my captain, gipsy, I promise you! And captain of us Lincoln men; for you did beat me in archery before the Prince, so I am bound to own you as master. Here's my hand on it; and Midge's too. Come hither, Midge, and swear fealty to Robin of Locksley." Robin recognized Midge for the ferret-faced man who had been with Much at the tourney. Both insisted on paying over to Stuteley the amount of the wager lost by them on that day. The outlaws returned to Sherwood well satisfied; and at Barnesdale went on perfecting their plans and adding to their numbers. The day came at length for them to announce themselves. CHAPTER XVII One bright morning in May a slim, straight youth, slightly bearded, dressed in a green suit, with bow unstrung, and a fresh color blowing on his cheeks, came out of the wood upon the highroad by Copmanhurst. He stood erect, quietly alert, and with his brown eyes watchful of the road. He then moved softly along the road until he came to where but last year the brook had sprawled and scrambled across it. Now a fine stone bridge had been built, at the word of Prince John, who had complained much at having wetted his feet when he had passed by St. Dunstan's shrine eight months agone. The stranger smiled as he looked at the bridge, half sadly, half in reverie. He paused to admire the neat work; then slowly walked over the bridge still thinking deeply. Suddenly he plumped himself right into the arms of a tall, ungainly man, who had crossed from the other side. The youth sprang back; then planted his lithe body exactly in the center of the bridge. "Give way, fellow," roared the other, instantly. "Make room for your betters, or I will throw you into the brook!" The younger man laughed. "I know this little stream right well, friend. Therefore I have no need to make that closer acquaintance of it which you promise." "You may be acquainted and yet make better acquaintance," returned his big opponent, stirring not an inch. "This bridge is too narrow for us both. One must go back." "Go back then, friend, by all means. I will not stay you." "Now will I trounce you right well, stripling," cried the tall man, grasping his cudgel. He made a pass or two with it about the head of the youth. The latter jumped back and fitted an arrow to his bow. "Nay, by my body, but this is ungenerous of you, forester," cried the tall man. "I have only a stick and you have a bow! If we are to fight, surely you might fight fairly." Again the youth laughed brightly. "Nay, by my inches, friend," replied he, "but how can we fight fairly with staves when you are so much the bigger?" "Cut yourself a longer cudgel, friend," retorted the big fellow. The youth threw down his bow, and, opening a knife which hung at his waist, went forthwith towards the nearest bush. He cut himself a stout ash staff and fell to trimming it deftly. When it was complete he came coolly up to his foe. "Make ready, friend," said he, giving his cudgel a twirl. "Now take tune from me. One, two----" "Three!" roared the giant, smiting at him instantly. The fight was a long one, for the youth had such skill and so ready a guard that the other but wasted his anger on him. This "stripling" jumped from one side to the other so lightly and unexpectedly, and parried each thrust so surely, that presently the giant relaxed a little from the fury of his onslaught. Then the youth ran in and gave him such a crack as to make the welkin ring. "By my life, but you can hit hard!" cried the giant, dropping his stick that he might rub his pate. "For so small a man that was a right hearty blow." He picked up his stick again. "Fall to, spitfire. I am ready!" They sparred for a minute longer, and then the giant had his chance. He caught the jumping youth so sound a thwack as to send him flying over the low parapet of the bridge far into the bubbling brook. "How now, spitfire? Have you had enough?" "Marry, that have I," spluttered his antagonist, trying to scramble out of the rushing water. Then he became dizzy again, and fell back with a little cry. The big man vaulted down to his help, and plucked his foe to the bank. There he laid him down on the grassy sward and fell to bathing his brows with handfuls of fresh water till the youth opened his eyes again. "Friend," said the stripling, gravely, sitting up, "you dealt me that blow most skilfully. Tell me your name." "Why," said the giant, a little awkwardly, "as for the blow, 'twas but an under-cut that I know well. My name is John Little Nailor." "You are anything but little, friend," answered the youth, struggling to his feet. "And now I will give you my name also." He put a horn to his lips at this and blew a strange, shrill note. Forthwith the greenwood was alive with men, all dressed in grass-colored clothes like the youth's. They swarmed about him, full two score and ten of them. One of them, a little man, having eyed the stranger askance, gave a signal to the others to seize him; but the youth forbade this. "The fight was a fair one, friends, and the right of this bridge belongs for the moment to Master John Little Nailor. Take your rights, friend," he went on, turning to the giant, "and go upon your way." "In a manner, stripling, you have now the better of this adventure, and yet do forbear," returned Master Nailor. "Wherefore I like you well, and would ask again your name." "Tell him, Will," commanded the youth. The little man, stepping up to the giant impudently, then announced his master. "Know, fellow, that this is none other than a dead man--a wraith, indeed! At least, so saith Master Monceux, the lord Sheriff of Nottingham. This is Robin Fitzooth." "Then I am right sorry that I beat you," answered Master Nailor. "And had I known you at the first your head would now be whole and your body unbruised. By my inches, but I would like to join with you and your company." "Enter our company, then, John Little; and be welcome. The rites are few; but the fee is large: for we shall ask unswerving loyalty of you, and you must give a bond that you will be faithful even unto death." "I give the bond, with all my soul, and on my very life," cried the tall man. "Master," said the little man, who was none other than our friend Stuteley, "surely we cannot consent to welcome this fellow amongst us having such a name? Harkee, John Little," he continued, turning to the giant, "take your new name from me, since you are to be of our brotherhood. I christen you Little John!" At this small jest the merry men laughed long and loud. "Give him a bow and find a full sheath for our friend Little John, Warrenton," said Robin, joyfully. "And hurry, friends, for surely it is the moment when our first new defiance of Master Monceux is to be made? Fall back into the woods speedily; and bide my signal. Little John, we now will try you. Stand out on the bridge path you have just won from me and parley with those who are coming along the road from York. Speak loudly that I may hear what answers you win." He gave a signal, and at once all disappeared even as they had come, swiftly and silently. Warrenton and Stuteley placed themselves low down behind bushes of white thorn. Warrenton, who had given his quiver to Little John, now produced a great bag from under a bush; and took out of it a dozen or more long smocks such as shepherds wear. Hastily Robin and Stuteley attired themselves as hinds, and the old retainer gave them each a crook to hold. He explored again his stores under the bushes, and dragged out a fat buck, freshly killed and ready spitted for the fire. Robin and those of the freemen who were now attired in this simple garb helped to pull the deer to the edge of the road; and, hastily making a fire, they soon had their meat cooking merrily. Little John eyed them askew, but made no offer to question them. He had recognized Robin by a sign which the other had given to him. Meanwhile the noise of a small company nearing them became more evident; and presently seven horsemen turned a bend of the road. Their leader was a stout and haughty looking man clothed in episcopal garments, and so soon as he spied these shepherds he spurred his horse until he came level with them. Then he drew bridle sharply, and addressed himself to Little John. "Who are these, fellow, that make so free with the King's deer?" he asked, mildly, as one who wishes first to believe the best of every man. "These are shepherds, excellence," answered Little John. "Heaven have mercy! They seem more like to be robbers o' th' greenwood at first glance," said the priest. "One must not judge on half-hearing or half-seeing, lording," retorted Little John. "That is true, but I would question you further, good man. Tell me now who has killed this deer, and by what right?" His tones had passed insensibly to an arrogant note. "Give me first your name, excellence, so that I may know I speak where 'tis fitting," said Little John, stubbornly. "This is my lord the Bishop of Hereford, fellow," said one of the guards, fiercely. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, or 'twill surely be bad for you!" Robin now came forward. "My lord," said he, bowing his curly head before the Bishop, "I did hear your questions, and will answer them in all truth. We are but simple shepherds, and tend our flocks year in and year out about the forest of Sherwood, but, this being our holiday, we thought there would be small harm in holding it upon one of the King's deer, since there are so many." "You are saucy fellows, in sooth," cried the Bishop, "and the King shall know of your doings. Quit your roast, and come with me, for I will bring you to the Sheriff of Nottingham forthwith! Seize this knave, men, and bind his hands." "Your pardon, excellence----" "No pardon shall you have of me, rascal!" snapped the stout Bishop. "Seize him, my men!" Robin blew upon his horn a shrill, short note, and at once his freemen sprang out from behind the thorn-bushes and flung themselves on the bishop's guard. The good Bishop found himself a prisoner, and began to crave indulgence of the men he had been so ready to upbraid. "Nay, we will grant you no pardon, by my beard!" said Little John, fiercely. "Lend me that sword, friend," he added, turning to Stuteley, who had taken the weapon from one of the Bishop's guards. "Right skilfully will I make this church to be without a head." "There shall be no shedding of blood," cried Robin, interposing, "where I can stay it. Come, friends, send these fellows unto Nottingham with their legs tied under their horses' bellies. But my lord the Bishop of Hereford shall come with us unto Barnesdale!" The unwilling prelate was dragged away cheek by jowl with the half-cooked venison on the back of his own horse, and Robin and the band brought their guest to Barnesdale. As soon as dusk had passed they lighted a great fire in the center of a little hill-bordered glade, and fell to roasting the deer afresh. Another and fatter beast was set to frizzle upon the other side of the fire; and, as the night was chill, the men gathered close about their savory dinner. The Bishop sniffed the odorous air from his place of captivity; and was nothing loth when they offered to conduct him to this fine repast. Robin bade him take the best place. "For you must know, excellence, that we freemen are all equal in each other's sight in this free land. Therefore we have no one whom we can specially appoint to do the honors such as your station warrants. Take, then, the seat at the head of our feast and give us grace before meat, as the occasion justifies." The Bishop pronounced grace in the Latin tongue hastily; and then settled himself to make the best of his lot. Red wines and ales were produced and poured out, each man having a horn tankard from which to drink. Laughter bubbled among the diners; and the Bishop caught himself smiling at more than one jest. Stuteley filled his beaker with good wine each time the Bishop emptied it; and it was not until near midnight that their guest began to show signs that he wished to leave them. "I wish, mine host," said he, gravely, to Robin, who had soberly drunk but one cup of ale, "that you would now call a reckoning. 'Tis late, and I fear the cost of this entertainment may be more than my poor purse will permit to me." "Why, there," answered Robin, as if perplexed, "this is a matter in which I am in your lordship's hands, for never have I played tavern-keeper till now." "I will take the reckoning, friends," said Little John, interposing. He went into the shade and brought out the bishop's steed, then unfastened from the saddle a small bag. Someone gave him a cloak; and, spreading it upon the ground, Little John began to shake the contents of the Bishop's money-bag upon it. Bright golden pieces tumbled out and glittered in the pale moonlight; while my lord of Hereford watched with wry face. Stuteley and Warrenton counted the gold aloud. "Three hundred and two pennies are there, master," cried Stuteley. "Surely a good sum!" "'Tis strange," said Robin, musingly, "but this is the very sum that I was fain to ask of our guest." "Nay, nay," began the Bishop, hastily, "this is requiting me ill indeed. Did I not deal gently with your venison, which after all is much more the King's venison than yours? Further, I am a poor man." "You are the Bishop of Hereford," said Robin, "and so can well afford to give in charity this very sum. Who does not know of your hard dealings with the poor and ignorant? Have you not amassed your wealth by less open but more cruel robbery than this? Who speaks a good word for you or loves you, for all you are a Bishop? You have put your heels on men's necks; and have been always an oppressor, greedy and without mercy. For all these things we take your money now, to hold it in trust and will administer it properly and in God's name. There is an end of the matter, then, unless you will lead us in a song to show that a better spirit is come unto your body. Or mayhap you would sooner trip a measure?" "Neither the one nor the other will I do," snarled the Bishop. Robin made Stuteley a sign and Will brought his master a harp: whereupon Robin sat himself cross-legged beside the fire and twanged forth a lively tune. Warrenton and most of the men began forthwith to dance; and Stuteley, seizing the Bishop by one hand, commenced to hop up and down. Little John, laughing immoderately, grasped the luckless Bishop by the other hand, and between the two of them my lord of Hereford was forced to cut some queer capers. The moon flung their shadows fantastically upon the sward, and the more their guest struggled the more he was compelled to jump about. Robin put heart into his playing, and laughed with the loudest of them. At last, quite exhausted, the Bishop sank to the ground. Little John seized him then like a sack of wood, and flung him across the back of his horse. Rapidly they led the beast across the uneven ground until the highroad was reached, the whole of the band accompanying them, shouting and jesting noisily. The Bishop of Hereford, more dead than alive, was then tied to his horse and the animal headed for Nottingham. "'Tis the most and the least that we can do for him," said Robin, gleefully. "Give you good night, lording! A fair journey to you! Deliver our respectful homage to Master Monceux and to the rest of law-abiding Nottingham! Come now, Little John, you have borne yourself well this day; and for my part I willingly give the right to be of this worshipful company of free men. What say you, friends all?" The giant was admitted by acclamation, and then all went back noisily into that hiding-place in Barnesdale which had defied both the ferret eyes of lean-faced Simeon Carfax and the Norman archer Hubert. The Sheriff of Nottingham learned next day that Sherwood had not been purged of its toll-collectors, as he had so fondly hoped. CHAPTER XVIII After the adventure with the good Bishop, Robin and his men waited in some trepidation for a sign from Nottingham. However, several weeks passed without any untoward incident. The fourth week after my lord of Hereford's despoilment a quarrel broke out betwixt Stuteley and Little John; and these two hot-headed fellows must needs get from words to blows. In the bouts of fencing and wrestling Little John could hold his own with all; but at quarter-staff Stuteley could, and did, rap the giant's body very shrewdly. After one bout both lost their temper: and Robin had to stay them by ordering Stuteley to cease the play. This was in the forenoon. Later on, chance threw Little John and Stuteley into a fresh dispute. It happened just before dusk; the two of them from different parts of the wood had stalked and run to earth the same stag. Little John had already drawn his bow when Stuteley espied him. At once the little esquire called out that no one had the right to shoot such a deer but Robin of Locksley, his master. Little John scoffed at this, and flew his arrow; but between them they had startled the stag and it bounded away. Little John was furious with Stuteley, and the noise of their quarrelling brought Robin again between them. This time young Robin spoke his mind to Little John, saying that he was sorry that Master John Little Nailor had ever come into their free band. "'Tis not free at all!" cried Little John, raging. "'Tis the most galling of service. Here I may not do this nor that. I'll stay no more in Barnesdale, but try my fortunes with your foes." He flung himself away from them, and when the roll was called that night, the name of Little John evoked no response. Robin was vexed at this, and saw that they must come to some agreement if they would keep the company alive. He talked with Warrenton and Much and some of the others, and they all pressed him to assume the captaincy by right of his skill with the bow. They decided between them to have a full council on the morrow and come to a decision: for without a captain they were as a ship without a rudder. The early morning found Robin walking thoughtfully in the greenwood. He hoped that he might discover Little John returning to them, repentant. He had taken a strange liking to this great giant of a man. As he walked, he drew insensibly toward the highroad; but had not nearly reached it when he came upon a herd of deer feeding peacefully in a glade. Robin got his bow ready. Before he could fit a shaft to it, however, one of the finest beasts fell suddenly, pierced by a clever arrow. Immediately he thought that Little John had indeed returned; and was about to emerge from his hiding-place, when a handsome little page ran gleefully towards the dying buck from the other side of the glade. This was plainly the archer; and Robin, after a swift glance of surprise, moved out upon him. "How dare you shoot the King's beasts, stripling?" asked Robin, very severely. "I have as much right to shoot them as the King himself," answered the page, haughtily, and by no means afraid. "And who are you who dares to question me?" His voice stirred Robin strangely; yet he could fit no memory properly to it. The lad was very handsome, slim, dark-haired, and with regular features. "My name is my own," said Robin to him, "and I do not like your answering of a plain question. Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy, or you will one day be whipped." "Not by you, forester," cried the page, pulling out a little sword. "Put up your hands, or draw your weapon. You shall have such answering now as you can understand." He flourished his point valiantly; and Robin saw nothing for it but to draw also. The page thereupon engaged him quite fiercely; but Robin soon perceived that the lad was no great master of the art of fencing. Still, he played prettily, and to end it Robin allowed himself to be pricked on the hand. "Are you satisfied, fellow?" said the page, seeing the blood rise to the wound. "Ay, honestly," said Robin, "and now, perhaps, you will grant me the privilege of knowing to whom I owe this scratch?" "I am Gilbert of Blois," replied the page, with dignity; and again his voice troubled Robin sorely. He was certain that he had met with it before; but this name was strange to his ears. "What do you in the greenwood at such an hour, good Master Gilbert?" The lad considered his answer, whilst wiping his sword daintily with a pretty kerchief. The action brought a dim confused memory to Robin--a blurred recollection of that scene discovered in the wizard's crystal troubled his thoughts. Meanwhile the little page had condescended to glance upon him. "Forester," said he, somewhat awkwardly, "can you tell me--do you know aught of one Robin o' th' Hood? He is believed to have been killed in the fall o' last year, and truly they brought a body into Nottingham. He was a merry youth." "This is brother to my Marian!" cried Robin, inwardly. "Ay, for sure, 'tis the lad Fitzwalter, and no Gilbert of Bloist Yet Warrenton did not tell me that there was a brother." He replied to the page. "Did not this fellow, this Robin, have other name? Robin o' th' Hood--why, all of them wear their capes and hoods nowadays--how can such a man as I know him whom you seek, to say whether he be dead or alive?" "Forester, he was much like to you; but had no beard, nor was he quite so uncouth as you. I mean no offence. I saw him but twice; but he seemed a lovable fellow. I remember that some called him Robin of Locksley." "I knew him right well," said Robin, in decided tones. "Come with me, Master Gilbert, and you shall hear of him." "He lives, then?" The page's blue eyes glistened happily. "Did your--sister send you, Master Gilbert?" asked Robin, with his heart in his mouth. The boy gave him a puzzled stare. "My sister--who told you that I had a sister?" Then, changing his policy with swift intuition: "Ay, my sister did send me to find the man. Bring me to him." "Follow me, Master Gilbert of Blois," cried Robin. So Marian had remembered him. It was a happy morning, indeed! "This poor stag," began the page, pointing to it. "I wish now that I had not slain it." "'Tis one of the King's deer," observed Robin, grave again, "and you may be hanged for the killing of it. What put so desperate a business into your mind, friend?" "I--to tell truth, had a notion to be made outlaw, like--like unto Master Robin, in short," said the page. "But I did not know that they might hang me for't." He made a grimace. Robin went up to the beast and drew out the boy's arrow. Then he stuck one of his own peacocked shafts into the wound. "Now you are safe, Gilbert," said he, smiling. "Take the arrow, and keep it in your quiver until we can dispose of it. I leave my mark upon the buck--my fellows will find and deal with it." They walked together into Barnesdale, and Robin showed the boy their hiding-place and presented him to the rest. He asked that he might become one of their company, and all agreed. So he took the vow fervently, and was given Little John's place for the nonce. Robin asked them not to mention him by name, wishing to know more of Master Gilbert's plans ere disclosing himself. The boy was full of chatter, and had news for them, too. He gave them the sequel to the Bishop's adventure, and told how my lord of Hereford had come into Nottingham in parlous state--more dead than alive: how he had lain prostrate upon a sick-bed in the Sheriff's house for the best part of three days: how, having briefly recovered, he had made a full statement of his experiences, and had cursed the greenwood men with bell, book, and candle: how he had sworn that he they thought to be dead--Robin of Locksley--was very much alive and full of wickedness. "Master Monceux, whom I have no cause to love," continued Gilbert, in quick speech, "has bidden his archers and men to assemble, and has promised a round sum for the head of each greenwood man, such as I perceive you all to be, and since I am now of your company, friends, I suppose my head is worth as much as Master Robin's or any of yours? Which of you is Robin o' th' Hood? I fain would look upon a man who can recover from death so valiantly." Berry and Much were, both together, preparing to point to Robin, forgetting their promise. Robin gave them a quick glance of warning. "Come, friends, let us to breakfast," he cried, rising. "I am sharp set, and soon we shall be hearing from the Sheriff's men, no doubt. Let us fortify ourselves withal." All that morning went by, however, without further event. The greenwood men became uneasy. All felt that some terrible plot was being hatched against them, and their unrest grew with the day. Had Little John turned traitor? And was he now preparing their enemies? Soon after noon Robin called them together into the biggest of their caves. He offered to disguise himself and go into Nottingham--there to learn the best or worst. Many of them made objection to this, saying that one had no reason to take more risk than another in this free company. Robin persuaded them at last to his own way of thinking, as he had already done before. Unconsciously they were coming to regard him as their head, although any one of them would have fiercely denied this in open council. Robin took a staff, and hurried towards the highroad for the second time that day. He had another reason for making this adventure: the fond hope of seeing Mistress Marian. Her brother--for so he felt sure this young Gilbert must be--had stirred afresh in Robin's heart all his warm love for her. He wondered what he could say to her. Why, he could tell her of Gilbert's escapade! Of course she must be trembling at this very moment for the boy and thinking him in a thousand dangers! It was another duty added to that to which Robin bore towards the company of freemen. He doubled and trebled his pace. Suddenly, as he came upon the road, the sound of a lusty singing struck upon his ears. Robin became aware of a shabby cart and a bushy figure leading a bony horse, and the smell of fresh-killed meat. It was an honest butcher on his way to market in Nottingham. "Give you good day, friend," called Robin to him. "You have a fair load there--what is your price for it?" "Why, truly, beggar, a bigger price than you will pay, I fear," answered the butcher, in the middle of his song. "I will give you four pieces of gold for it," said Robin. The butcher stopped his thin horse at once. "Take the reins then, master," cried he, joyfully; "the cart and all is yours for the sum! Pay it to me, and I will go back into Locksley forthwith." "Do you come from that village, friend?" asked Robin, as he paid over the gold, "and are you not afraid to ride through Sherwood alone?" "You are strange to this country, friend," answered the jolly butcher, "else you would know that now our Sherwood is free as air to all men. The outlaws and wicked ones have all been driven out of it." "Is this indeed so? Truly I am rejoiced at the news. And Locksley--is not the Ranger there now dead, and his house burned? I do misremember his name." "Master Fitzooth is dead and lieth in Locksley ground. Also his son, wild Robin, is no more. He gave himself early to the outlaw band, and was slain. We have a new Ranger at Locksley, one Adam of Kirklees, a worthy man and a generous. I thank you for your gold: now take my load and may fortune befriend you." "God rest you, butcher," answered Robin, laughing, as the other turned on his heel and began his song once more. "Stay--stay--I have a thought," he called out after the butcher. "How can I sell meat in this garb?" The other paused and scratched his head doubtfully. "I'll give you another piece for your clothes, friend," said Robin, persuasively. "Is it a bargain?" "I'll do it for another piece," said the butcher. "Ay, and think myself fortunate. This is a very happy day, for sure. Strip yourself, beggar; and you can hand your purse over to me with the rags if you care to!" Robin laughed again and shook his head. The change was soon effected, and within ten minutes he was leading his spavined horse toward the gates of Nottingham. In the distance he could hear the butcher's loud song losing itself in the forest sounds. He smeared his face with grease and earth and rubbed his hair awry ere daring to enter the city. Boldly he led his shuffling horse to the market and there took up his place. He had no notion of the price to ask, and the folk, finding him so foolish and easy a man, soon began to crowd about the cart. Robin gave as much for a penny as the other butchers did for five or six when his customer was poor. If he seemed to be a prosperous citizen who would buy, Robin had quite another price for him. The butchers about him could not quite understand these novel methods: but they saw with envy that the harebrained fellow was selling all his meat. His loud voice and foolish gestures made them think him some crazy loon who had slipped off with his good man's cart. They entered into conversation with him, and found his witless speech most entertaining. They had all been bidden to a supper in the Sheriff's buttery that night, this being holiday-time; and they begged Robin to join with them, hoping to have no little amusement from him. With a vacant stare he agreed to eat the Sheriff's mutton. All the time he had sharp eyes and long ears; but could find out nothing of the Sheriff's plans, nor happen on sight of Mistress Fitzwalter. When they were sitting down to the supper in Monceux's buttery he perceived towering high amongst the Sheriff's servants the figure of Master Little John. "So, friend, my visit here has not been vain," thought Robin, grimly. "Now we shall see and hear things, no doubt." He settled himself to an attack upon the viands, and played his part with the Sheriff's ale, not forgetting to keep up the attitude of foolishness he had adopted in the market. The laughter grew long and loud, and presently the Sheriff himself came down. He made them a speech and gave a toast. My lord of Hereford, looking very pale and limp, also came into the buttery for a space and made them a Latin grace. Then Monceux told them, with bristling eyebrows, how he had been instructed by the Bishop of Hereford that the pestilent evil bands whose power had once been broken had re-formed in Sherwood. The Sheriff re-stated the reward to be given for the head of any malefactor and disturber of their laws, as ordered by Prince John; and said further that in a few days he was going to despatch his men into and about the forest to satisfy the Bishop. "Whilst I am preparing my fellows, there is a chance for all honest citizens and burgesses to earn a fair sum. My lord of Hereford will add his reward to the man who shall recover his money to him, or part of it; and I will give such man freedom from all taxes and levies," added the Sheriff, importantly. Robin wondered whether Little John had spoken of the company. While he was eyeing darkly the burly figure of Master Nailor, the latter came over to him under a pretence of filling Robin's glass. "By my skin, Locksley," whispered the giant into his startled ear, "this is a foolish adventure! Your head is as good as off your shoulders in this place. Hasten to leave it soon as you can, for fear the Bishop may know you as I have done." Robin only stared in his new half-vacant manner. Little John moved away to another part of the room. Hard questions formed themselves in Robin's mind--how had Little John known him? Stranger still, why did not my lord of Hereford recognize Master John Little Nailor? He had been foremost in the business with the Bishop. Robin recollected, all at once, that when the Bishop had briefly come in to bless the supper, Little John had gone out hurriedly with some dishes. That was it, no doubt; but a mystery still remained. Robin decided to pierce it ere the night was done. Some of the guests were far gone in their cups, already; and Monceux had given over the buttery to the butchers for the night. "I'll stay here then," decided Robin; and, pretending to be suddenly overcome by the strong ale, he tumbled himself down upon the rush-strewn floor. He set up a great snoring, until Little John, taking him by the heels, dragged him through the kitchen into a little larder, and there shut the door on him. "Lie there, nasty pig," cried Little John from outside with disgusted air, for his fellow-servants to note. "Lie there in a clean sty for once; and if you grunt again I will surely souse you under the pump!" At this threat Robin's snores abated somewhat in their violence. "_I_ would drop him into the river forthwith," spoke a harsh voice, startling Robin into fierce astonishment. There was no mistaking those tones: so cruel, so false, so malicious. "Roger and Micah--Micah and Roger." One of these two villains it was of a surety! But Robin had seen them both slain on the day of that battle wherein poor Will of Cloudesley had perished? Trembling with amazement, he cautiously got upon his knees and peeped through the keyhole. In the flagged kitchen, amidst the reek of hot foods and disordered dishes, were two men--one of them Little John. The other was dressed as a cook, and as he turned his face towards the light of the fire Robin knew him for one of the two traitor outlaws. He had changed little. Little John answered his remark over his shoulder: "You would do many a rash thing, Roger, if you could," was all he said; but he spoke in sneering tone. "Ay, marry; and one thing I would do, right instantly, dear gossip," said Roger, busying himself with the dishes. Robin saw that they shone like gold in the ruddy light of the fire. "I would not have _you_ as helpmate in this kitchen had I the ordering of matters. Big hands and heavy hands and thieving hands. Ah, I need not be wizard to know them when I see them!" "You shall feel them, little Roger," said Little John, very angry. And he soundly cuffed the cook about the head. Roger snarlingly drew back and snatched up a dish. Full viciously he flung it at Little John, and after it another and another. [Illustration: LITTLE JOHN FIGHTS WITH THE COOK IN THE SHERIFF'S HOUSE _At last he made a dart upon Roger and the chase grew furious. Dishes, plates, covers, pots and pans--all that came in the way of them went flying._] The first struck the giant's shoulder and fell clattering upon the red tiles. The second dish struck Little John as he recoiled and cut his forehead and head. Blood ran down instantly over his cheek. The third smashed itself against the wall harmlessly. Drawing in his breath, Little John commenced a long chase of his foe, who had raced off to the other side of the table. Neither man spoke, but each eyed the other warily. Anger shone on one face, jealous hate upon the other. They moved round and round the table carefully. There were knives in plenty upon it; and every now and again Roger would seize one and fling it hurriedly at his enemy. Little John ruthlessly followed him, without flinching or abating his set purpose by one jot. At last he made a dart upon Roger and the chase grew furious. Dishes, plates, covers, pots and pans--all that came in the way of them went flying. The noise was awful; then suddenly ceased--for Little John had grasped his prey by the short skirt of his tunic. In another second of time Roger was secured, fluttering, cursing, and green with a sick terror. Little John lifted him up bodily and flung him with all his strength against the wall of the kitchen. He rebounded from the wall to the dresser; and in convulsive agony gripped hold of those utensils near him. All fell, with reverberations of sound, downward with him to the ground. There Roger lay still--save for a slight and hideous twitching of his mouth. Little John opened the door to Robin. "Hasten--hasten away from here, soon as you can. There is danger and death." "And you?" "I shall escape. I have a story for them." Little John suddenly pushed Robin back into the larder. "'Tis too late: be silent on your life." Some servants, alarmed by the din, entered. They found Little John, the new kitchen-drawer, bending in consternation over the lifeless form of the cook. "Run, run," cried he, scarce glancing at them. "Here is Roger the cook suddenly dying. His brain has given way. See how the foam flecks upon his lips. Get me water for him. Or stay, help me carry him to his bed." Little John picked him up tenderly and with a face full of seeming concern. The others, aghast at the mere thought of touching a madman, shrank back. The giant carried the unconscious Roger out of the kitchen. The servants came and busied themselves in restoring the kitchen to order. One of them opened the larder; but Robin had laid himself full length upon the top shelf. So he was not discovered. The night wore on and most of the servants went yawningly to bed. Little John returned, telling the few who remained that the cook was recovered from his fit; but was still delirious and unsafe. "I will bank the fire and sleep here, so that I may be able to go to him," continued Little John, with a kind air. "By my wits, but he did mightily scare me when first the distemper showed in him. He sliced me with the spit. See how my head is cut, and my cheek shows you how his horrid teeth did meet in my flesh." "Did he indeed bite you, Master Nailor?" "By my bones, he bit and tore me like a wild beast. But since I am so big and not fearful of him I will e'en watch him through the night, unless you choose to do service, Mickleham?" Mickleham swore roundly that he would not. "Then get you gone, gossip," said the giant, busying himself with the fire. "'Tis late: and my lord of Hereford has business abroad at an early hour." He bade Robin go back into the buttery and stay there until dawn, there being no chance of escape out of the castle at this hour. "Play your part, Locksley, and avoid the Bishop's eyes--even as have I. We may meet on the morrow." "You have not betrayed us, Little John?" "Roger the cook was to have sold you. Therefore have I quietened him for the nonce. Here's my hand on it, Locksley: that Little John is loyal. But I do not love Stuteley yet." "It will come in time," answered Robin, sleepily. "You are both sound fellows. Give you good night, honest John. I'll sleep none the worse for my pillow." He stretched himself amid the trampled rushes of the buttery, and laid his head upon the prone body of one of the sleeping butchers. Full a dozen of them had fallen into slumber to the Sheriffs rush-bottomed buttery floor. Little John went back to the kitchen and there carefully and silently collected Master Monceux's gold plate. He put it all into a stout sack, tied it up, and waited patiently for dawn. CHAPTER XIX Robin woke from a heavy slumber at daybreak. A faint noise from without the buttery disturbed him. He very quietly rose up, and, picking his way across the room, came to the entrance to the kitchens. He opened one of the doors and found a passage, grey-lit by the first gleam of dawn. At the end of it was the figure of a man. His height revealed him for Little John. Over his shoulders was a short sack. Seeing Robin, he beckoned to him; then whispered his plans. But Robin did not intend to leave Nottingham so soon. "Go, Little John, and take that which is in your sack----" "I shall bring it to you, gossip," spoke Little John, in a muffled voice: "to your haunts in Barnesdale. You shall see who is the better servant--Stuteley or myself. Here have I the Sheriff's plate----" An audacious notion flashed upon Robin. "Take it to our cave in Barnesdale, honest John," said he, swiftly, indicating the sack, "and, harkee; I will follow later with such a guest as never our greenwood has yet carried. Lay out a royal feast and kill one of the fattest bucks. Take my dagger in token to them that I have sent you." "Who will you bring with you, gossip? Not my lord of Hereford?" "I will bring Monceux himself," said Robin, boldly. "Leave the business in my hands. Go now, if you know a safe road from out of this place." "I have a friend at the gate who will ask me no questions," answered Little John, softly. "But you?" "My wit shall lead me out from Nottingham," Robin told him. Little John let himself out by one of the postern doors, and found means to convey the Sheriff's plate through the streets. Afterwards when he reached the gate, he continued to win his passage by pure statesmanship, pretending that he had been sent out at that strange hour to snare young rabbits for his lord's breakfast! Meanwhile, Robin returned to the buttery, and waited for events to shape themselves. Ere long the butchers began yawning and quarrelling betwixt themselves; and Robin artfully persuaded them, by setting one against the other, to a free fight. The servants separated them, and in anger bade them all begone. Robin besought them to let him stay, saying that he wished an audience with my lord the Sheriff. "Out upon you, pestilent fellow!" cried one of the servants. "You scum of the earth! This comes of hobnobbing with such rascals. Go hence quickly, with your fellows, or we will break all your bones." So were they all bustled out into the cold streets, and Robin, in his butcher's smock, went back, as if very crest-fallen, to his empty cart and lean horse. In due season the servants found that the Sheriff's new kitchen-hand was gone, and with him the gold plate. Then they remembered how he had been found with the cook. Roger was plucked out of his bed, with all his bruises and wounds upon him, to give evidence before Monceux, who was in a great fume. All that spite and jealousy might do Roger performed with gusto, and so fixed the blame upon Little John that no one else was even suspected. Roger would have now spoken as to Barnesdale, and betrayed the secret caves to the Sheriff; but he had once before persuaded them to search the cave near Gamewell, with ill results. "Enough of these tales," snarled the Sheriff; "keep them for the Bishop's ears. _I_ am concerned for my plate; and will recover it ere I put forth on any other enterprise." He sent out his archers and men-at-arms, with such an incoherent description of Little John that near all the tall men of Nottingham were brought under arrest. The gate-keeper who had been so foolish as to open to Little John became so fearful of the Sheriff's anger that, when they questioned him, he vowed by all the saints that he had clapped eyes on no such fellow in his life. Monceux, getting more and more enraged, chanced at last upon the butchers. He bade them all to be brought before him. Small comfort did he gather from any, least of all from Robin, who behaved in so foolish a manner before the great man that all who had not believed him crazy before, were now well sure of it. He would persist in talking to the irate lord of his own affairs: how he had just inherited a farm with many head of cattle--such beasts! how he had sold some of them in the market on the previous day for large moneys; how he intended to always sell at Nottingham, since there the people were so rich and generous. "I have full five hundred and ten horned beasts upon my land that I will sell for a just figure," said Robin. "Ay, to him who will pay me in right money will I sell them for twenty pieces. Is that too much to ask, lording?" Monceux, in the midst of his frenzy, suddenly quieted down. This was the idiot butcher of whom people had been chattering. No use to bluster and threaten him. Five hundred and ten fat beasts for twenty pieces! Was ever such a fool? "I'll buy your beasts of you, butcher," said Monceux, "and will give you twice the money you ask." At this Robin was quite overcome, and fell to praising him to the skies. For the moment the missing plate was forgotten. "Drive in your beasts, butcher," said Monceux. "They are but at Gamewell, excellence," said Robin; "not more than a mile beyond it at most. Will you not come and choose your own beasts? The day is fine." The Sheriff dismissed all but Robin, in order that they might settle it quietly. If he did not close upon this bargain straightway it would be lost to him. After some hesitation, "I will go with you, butcher," spoke Master Monceux. After all, what had he to fear? Surely no man, be he ever so wicked and desperate an outlaw, would _dare_ to lay hands upon the Sheriff of Nottingham! Monceux had all along suspected the Bishop of Hereford's story. There were no robbers in Sherwood now--the Bishop had invented the tale in order to cover up some disgraceful carousal, and had bribed his men. It had been a plot by which my lord of Hereford had been able to foist himself and his company upon the Sheriff, and so gain both free lodging in Nottingham and save giving in charity to the poor folk of the town. Thus Master Monceux argued swiftly within himself. "Get ready, butcher, for," he said, briskly, "I will join you in a few minutes." He laid a solemn and dreadful charge upon the captain of his men-at-arms and upon those of his household to find him his plate ere he returned. He swore that their own goods should be seized and sold if they failed him in this matter! Then he affected to be going in secret search himself. So the two of them, without guard, went off together, Robin driving his shambling horse and rickety cart beside the Sheriff's little fat brown pony. They passed through the gate, and Monceux left word there that his archers were to follow him to Gamewell so soon as they had returned from their searching for his plate. Robin was very gay, and kept the Sheriff amused with his foolish chattering. Monceux congratulated himself more and more. They had drawn nigh to Gamewell, and to that little gravel-pit wherein was one of the hidden passages to the Barnesdale caves. Peering irresolute through the tree-trunks far off to their right, Robin spied a herd of deer. They stood and trembled at sight of Robin and the Sheriff, preparing to stampede. Robin guessed that they had been driven by the greenwood men all that day--that perchance Stuteley and the rest were near the beasts, in ambush. Reining in his lean horse, he turned in his cart to call to the Sheriff. "See, excellence, here are my beasts, coming to welcome me! Now choose those which your eyes like and pay me the gold." Monceux saw then that he had been duped, and flew into a terrible passion. Robin cut his reproaches very short, however; and, taking off his butcher's smock, blew on his horn that short, queer signal. The Sheriff turned to fly, but had not travelled a hundred yards ere, hearing an uncomfortable hissing sound, made by an arrow, as it flew just over his head, thought it better to stop. Robin had hidden his bow and quiver in the straw at the bottom of the butcher's cart. He now stood up and sped his shafts all round and about the poor Sheriff. Then Monceux reined up his fat pony and surrendered himself grudgingly, trying to bargain all the while. "If I give you my horse, and a golden penny, will you let me go, butcher?" said he, whiningly. "Did I not treat you well last night, giving you a fair supper and much ale? This is ill requiting my usage of you, butcher." Suddenly he saw himself surrounded by the men of the greenwood, headed by Stuteley. Robin nodded, and in a moment the Sheriff was seized and hurried away to the gravel-pit, and his pony was set galloping in the direction of Nottingham with empty saddle. The greenwood men soon brought their captive through the dangerous passage, having first blindfolded him. Within five hours of his departure from Nottingham my lord the Sheriff found himself in a strange, unknown part of Sherwood, seated amongst two score and ten wild fellows, to a wilder meal of venison, brown bread, and wine. With a shock of surprise he saw that the hot, juicy portion of the King's beast handed to him as his share was smoking fragrantly upon a golden plate. He glanced around from the merry faces of the lawless men to the dishes and plates from which they were eating. All were of gold and very familiar. His rolling eye encountered that of Little John's, coolly helping himself to a second serve. "You rascal! you rogue!" spluttered Monceux. "You scum of the kitchens! Where is my plate? You shall be shred into little pieces for this trick, and you also, false butcher." "Nay, excellence," said a gentle voice near to him, "this is no butcher; but rather Master Robin o' th' Hood, a good yeoman and right Saxon. Some call him Robin of Locksley. Let me fill your goblet, excellence, for you have spilled all the wine." Monceux glared at the speaker, a handsome lad dressed gaily in page's costume. The Sheriff's frown would have frightened most people, but the dark-haired boy only laughed and tossed his head in a queerly fascinating way. The Sheriff, relaxing, held out his goblet, and smiled back upon the page. "Well done, Master Gilbert of Blois!" cried Robin, who sat at the Sheriff's left hand. "Now tell me how you discovered me, and I will love you----" The lad blushed furiously. "I knew you from the first, Robin o' th' Hood," he answered, defiantly. "In truth?" questioned Robin, slily, and with his own suspicions growing. No wonder he had seen nothing of Marian in Nottingham town. "In truth--well, no," submitted the page. "Let me fill your tankard, friend. But very soon I did discover you. Is this the stag that you killed, Robin o' th' Hood?" he added, innocently. Robin nodded; and the Sheriff flashed another look of anger upon him. "Sit you beside me, Gilbert," Robin ordered; "I am very fain to have speech with you." Marian, with her woman's intuition, knew from his tone that she also was discovered. Yet she braved it out. "I will fill all the cups, Robin o' th' Hood," she said, firmly, with an adorable little shake of her black curls; "then will hear your adventures as a Nottingham butcher, which I see you are dying to tell to us." The page skipped lightly from under Robin's threatening hand, and the merry men laughed loud and long. "He calls you Robin o' th' Hood, master!" cried John Berry, roaring like a bull. For some reason this nick-name tickled him mightily. He kept repeating it in all kinds of tones, and those about him began to laugh also. "'Tis a very excellent name," said Robin, a little vexed. "A merry name, a man's name, and a name to my heart! I do adopt it from this day; for is not Robin Fitzooth of Locksley dead? My lord the Sheriff can tell you that he is, for he has burned him. Laugh at it, or like it, friends, which you will. But pledge me in it, for I have paid the reckoning." Little John, Stuteley, and Much rose to their feet together in their hurry to be first. The others were not slow in following them. "Long life to you and happiness, Robin o' th' Hood! Here's fortune's best and confusion to all your enemies! Huzza, Robin o' th' Hood!" The darkening woods echoed it back to them. "Robin o' th' Hood! Robin--Hood!" "You will have to be christened, gossip," said Little John, with an air of importance; "and surely I know the man who will be sponsor. But you spoke just now of a reckoning; and I do see that our guest is become fidgety. Shall I tot up the bill for him?" "Do so, friend." The Sheriff appeared uneasy at this. "I have not my purse with me," he began, apologetically. "How did you purpose paying me for my beasts?" asked Robin. "Why--that is--I have, of course, a small sum about me." "What is that sum, gossip?" questioned Little John, very kindly. "'Tis no more than forty pieces of gold," said Monceux, recollecting that he had named this amount to Robin. "Is that all?" "I have not another penny-piece, good Master Hood," replied the Sheriff. "If that is true, then you shall pay no more than ten pieces of gold for your entertainment, excellence," decreed Robin. "Speak I soothly, men of the greenwood?" "The Sheriff should swear by his patron saint that he will never more molest us," said one of the company, wisely; and this addition was carried unanimously. "So be it, then," cried Little John, approaching Monceux. "Now, swear by your life and your patron saint----" "I will swear it by St. George, who is patron of us all," cried the fat Sheriff, vigorously; and he swore that never again would he disturb or distress them in Sherwood. "Let me catch anyone of you _out_ of it!" thought he to himself. Then he paid them ten pieces of gold; and having done this, rose up to go. It was already full dusk. "Gossip," observed Little John, reprovingly, "you did not hand me your wallet, but took out instead the ten golden pieces. Let me see for myself that thirty remain. Mayhap some evil person has robbed you unbeknown." "Nay--I do not think that," said the Sheriff, quickly; "I take great care of all my belongings----" "Yet you may have been despoiled," persisted Little John; "permit me to satisfy myself and this company that you have had honorable treatment in these happy woods." With a groan Monceux yielded his wallet, and Stuteley counted out the money in it with a loud voice; otherwise the company was silent. "There is another wallet, gossip," said the inexorable Little John, pointing towards the Sheriff's belt. In all they counted out one hundred gold pieces. "We must add another 'nought' to the foot of our bill, excellence," said Robin, gravely. "Be of good heart; what is 'nought' but nothing? Ten pounds and a 'nought' added to it is a most reasonable account for such royal fare. Take then this money which you first gave me; we will keep the wallets." "'Tis monstrous! 'Tis an enormity," bellowed Monceux, flying out. "Already you have stolen my plate, and now would strip me utterly! 'Tis rank villainy, and I promise you all----" "You have promised enough to-night, Sheriff," retorted Robin: "away with him, Stuteley, and go you, too, Little John. Take our guest through the secret path so far as the roadway by Nottingham gate. There he may find his archers waiting for him. Be speedy." They nodded and grasped the struggling Sheriff by either arm. His eyes were speedily bandaged by little Gilbert, and he made an undignified exit. Whilst the rest busied themselves removing the remains of the feast, Robin spoke quietly with the page. "Since Little John has happily returned to us, Master Gilbert," said Robin, "'tis clear that he will want his quarters again. So I must move you." "It matters not, Robin." "You are over young to consort with such wild company, Gilbert," Robin continued; "and so I will take you to a safe asylum, unless, of course, you would sooner return into Nottingham." "I have now no real home in Nottingham," said Marian, frankly. "My father has gone to London to find us a home there. He has been offered a post in the King's household. So soon as he had departed they sent for me to attend at the Sheriff's castle, saying I was to become maid to the demoiselle Marie. This I would not; and so escaped in the early dawn of the day----" "I have a friend at Gamewell," said Robin, diffidently. "In sooth, it is mine own uncle, and he surely would not refuse me in this. Will you go with me, Gilbert, at once? Soon it will be night indeed." "I'll go anywhere with you, Robin," answered the little page. Yet Robin would not affect to recognize Marian, though his heart was thumping in his body. He led her silently, hastily, through the strange passages towards Gamewell, thinking how he should bring a welcome for the maid. "You are not talkative, friend Robin," murmured his companion once. "My heart is too full for speech, Gilbert," said Robin, softly then; and this answer seemed to satisfy Master Gilbert of Blois. Under the night he smiled happily to himself. "Is this your bad hand, Robin?" he asked, presently, "the one that I did wound? Poor fingers! I am sorry now. Can you forgive me, Robin?" CHAPTER XX When they had reached the little hut near by the pleasance, Robin bade her stay. "I now must play Yellow Lady," said he, lightly. "She is the spirit of this grove, and under her guise I can venture near to the house. Lend me your cloak--the color will not matter on so dark a night." "I will not be left alone here," said Marian at this, with great decision. "Not for all the Montfichets in Christendom. I'll go with you." They crossed the pleasance side by side. Lights burned within Gamewell to guide them. "I am not afraid, Robin," announced Master Gilbert of Blois, courageously. "You know I am no coward." "Take my hand then," said Robin; "I like to feel that you are with me." "Yet you have but known me a day," said Marian, trying to peep at him. Her tone was questioning and full of pretty malice. He had a mind then to take her in his arms, but again forebore. "Be silent now," whispered he; "I must proclaim myself. I have scarce knowledge of the servants here, my chief friend being old Warrenton, and he is in the greenwood." "Let us go back there," suggested his companion; "I am willing to risk the wild beasts and the Sheriffs wrath." "'Tis no place for you," said Robin. "Here you will be both safe and comfortable." "I do not like the shape of this house," argued Marian. "I do not feel that I will be happy in it." "It is a home worthy to be your sister's, let alone yours, Master Gilbert. Now be done with your grumbling, for here you shall stay until your father's return." At this she made a grimace, but obeyed him meekly, notwithstanding. As they drew near to the courtyard, Robin bade her follow him cautiously until they had made a full circle of it, and crept round to the front of the hall. By good fortune the bridge was down. Old Gamewell had no fear of the world, it would seem. They might pretend now that they had crossed to the hall from the road. Robin wound his horn suddenly and confidently. The dogs within Gamewell began to bark and growl, and presently they heard sounds of approach. In a moment more the doors were opened and they saw a servant armed with a lanthorn and a stick. "I would have audience with Master Montfichet," said Robin, in a bold voice. "Pray take me to him at once." "Do you come from Nottingham?" asked the man, civilly. "I left there this day," replied Robin. "Follow me," said the servant, briefly. He waited until they were safely inside; then closed the doors carefully. He led them across the court to the inner doors. Here another fellow was in waiting, also carrying a light. "These are travellers from Nottingham, desiring audience of Master Gamewell," observed the first servant. "Your names, gentles?" asked the second. "I am Robin o' th' Hood, and this is Master Gilbert of Blois," said Robin, at once. They were escorted into the great hall, and there, sat beside the open hearth, was old Squire George. He made a pathetic figure. Robin felt his heart go out to him. Yet even when he had satisfied himself in a single glance as to the identity of one of the late-coming guests, Montfichet gave no sign. His was a strange nature, and he could not forgive Robin his innocent deceit. "Sir," said Robin, respectfully, "I do feel shame in coming before you without waiting for your word of welcome. My errand must be my excuse." "'Tis Robin Fitzooth!" said old Montfichet, then. "I was told that you had been killed long since." "Robin Fitzooth is truly dead, sir. Behold in his place Robin o' th' Hood. I come to ask a service at your hands for the memory of this dead man, and in redemption of your promise given to him once in Nottingham." "Ask it, friend." The Squire's tones were kinder. Looking at him, Robin saw that he had aged. There were no longer signs of that fastidious attention to his apparel which had characterized Montfichet of Gamewell. "There is, sir, a maid who, losing her father on a journey to London, hath had great trouble put upon her by the Sheriff. Monceux would persecute her, in short; and she has flown from the city. Now, I would ask an asylum for her here." "She shall be made welcome and given full freedom of Gamewell," answered Montfichet, rising. "I shall rejoice to see her here, in sooth, for my days lack company. When will you bring her to me, Master Robin o' th' Hood, and pray what makes you wear so strange a name?" He spoke quite in his old manner, and half smiled at them. He glanced toward Master Gilbert of Blois. "Is this your little esquire, young Stuteley?" asked he, lifting his brows. "Truly he has grown out of all memory." Robin felt himself to be in an awkward fix. His eyes glanced from one to the other. Marian, at last, took pity on his distress. "Good my lord," said she, with that pretty shake of her dark curls, "I am the maid for whom Master Robin pleads so earnestly. I am Marian Fitzwalter out of her petticoats and into a boy's clothes. I had no other way of flying from Nottingham, so behold me for the nonce as Gilbert of Blois." The Squire listened, and slowly his face relaxed. Anything spirited or daring always appealed to him strongly. "You are a pretty page, I swear, Master Gilbert! Sure it will be hard for you to make fairer maid than man. Welcome either way to Gamewell. I'll keep you safe from Monceux; I have no love for him in any case. You have fasted to-day, no doubt; I'll have supper brought us here." "We have already supped, sir," said Robin, relieved to find this easy way out of a difficult business. He had the hope that Marian would in some way bring about a reconciliation between him and the Squire. "We will sup a second time," said Montfichet. "Ho there! bring us a pasty and a flagon! Hurry, knaves, bring us the best of our larder. Come, Robin, sit here at my right hand, and you, Gilbert, by his side. And so already it has come to this, Robin? Will not the greenwoods seem dull to-morrow?" "Mayhap I might change them for a seat at your table on occasion, sir?" asked Robin. "To see how badly I treat my guest? Is that it? Come when you will, Robin o' th' Hood. Tell me now, why did you choose this name? Another was offered you." "Ask Master Gilbert here, sir--he is responsible for't. And, honestly, I do like the name--'tis uncommon. May I pledge you, sir? Here's to our friendship! May we grow old in it and ripe in it!" "I have no wish, Robin, to grow either old or ripe," said Marian, settling herself. "Let us eat first, and make our speeches afterward. Help me to the pasty before you, and do not chatter so much." Squire George nodded in approval. "Spoken like a man," cried he. "Robin is too full of words to-night. Ay, but I am right glad to see him here, for all that! Fill your glass, kinsman, and the lady's. Nay, look not so distressed at her; up to the top, man, up to the top! This is no time for half-measures." * * * * * In the morning when Robin came blithely from his bed--the first bed that he had known for many months--he found the Squire waiting for him in the hall. His face was grave. "I must speed you, Robin," said he; "I have news that Monceux is abroad, and will attack your company at Barnesdale." Robin had told him all, and the Squire had neither approved nor disapproved. Working in his mind was jealous wonderment that Robin should prefer such a life to that which might have been his at Gamewell. The Squire made no show of this, however. "I will guard Mistress Fitzwalter from all harm, rely upon me. And go, since you must. Here is our Master Gilbert--Gilbert no more. I should scarcely have known her." Marian entered from the other end of the hall. The maids had found her a dress, grey-blue as her eyes. She bloomed like an early rose on this sweet spring morning. "And you are going to leave me, Robin?" she said, mournfully. The Squire had disappeared. Robin, approaching, took her hand. He looked up from it, and saw the golden arrow gleaming in her hair--that arrow which had so strangely marked the beginning of his troubles. Marian smiled, and her eyes invited him. And so these two kissed each other frankly, mouth to mouth. * * * * * A little later Robin was speeding through the forest. His feet were light, and he sang softly to himself as he trod the springy grass. Suddenly a sad song broke upon his ear. 'Twas a doleful song, full of tears; and Robin, in consternation, stopped short. Along the woodland path there came towards him a minstrel carrying a harp and trailing a rope. "Marry, friend, but your harp is out of all harmony!" began Robin. "I do not play upon it," retorted the minstrel. "You sing a sad song," said Robin; "and I, who am happy, am put out of countenance by it. Therefore sing it not until I am far from you." "My heart overflows with sorrow," said the minstrel, "and so I must sing of sadness and of death." "Tell me your sorrow, friend," Robin begged, "and walk with me back upon the road. Like as not I can help you." "I should not speak my grief to you," the minstrel told him, "for you are happy." "One who lives in the greenwood cannot be otherwise," observed Robin. "Come, walk with me, and coil the rope." "I had brought it," said the minstrel, "so that I might hang myself to some old oak, and thus fittingly end the wretched, misfortunate life of Allan-a-Dale." Robin perceived that there was a story to follow. "Walk with me, gossip, and ease your heart in confidence," he said, cheerfully. "I can likely help you. To-day is my lucky day." "Know then, happy stranger, that I have lost my dear, and through no fault of mine own," said Allan-a-Dale, as they walked together. "A wealthy baron has taken my love from me, and will marry her this very day; so I have come into these quiet woods that I may kill myself, for never can I live without my Fennel." "Is that her name? 'Tis very quaint." "'Tis a fitting name, gossip. Fennel means 'Worthy of all praise,' and she is the most worthy of all maids." "Perchance you do not know many maids, friend," said Robin. "Tell me, is she dark-haired, and are her eyes sweet as violets?" "In sooth, her eyes are blue enough, gossip," said Allan; "but her hair is like finespun gold. And she has a little straight nose, and such a tender smile. Marry, when I think upon her many perfections my heart doth leap, to sink again when I mind me that I have lost her." "And why have you lost her, Allan-a-Dale?" "Look you, 'tis this way. The Normans overrun us, and are in such favor that none may say them nay. This baron coveted the land wherein my love dwells; so her brother, who was lord of it, was one day found still and stark--killed whilst hunting, folks say. Thus the maid became heir-at-law, and the baron wooed her, thrusting me aside." "Nay, but surely----" began Robin. "Hear me out, gossip," Allan said. "You think I am light overborne, no doubt; but never should this Norman dog have triumphed had it been man to man. But who can deal with a snake in th' grass? The wretch has poisoned my Fennel against me, and 'tis she who has cast me into despair, while she is to be wedded with mine enemy." "Does she love you, Allan?" "Once she loved me right well. Here is the little ring which she gave me when we were betrothed." "Enough," said Robin, "this wedding shall not be. Can you keep your own counsel? Follow me then; and on your love for Fennel, see nothing of the way in which I lead you. Hasten." He brought the minstrel into Barnesdale woods and to their most secret haunt. Then he summoned the greenwood men and told them first of the Sheriff's plans and then gave out the grievous story of Allan-a Dale. "Where is this marriage to be held?" asked Little John. "In Plympton church," sighed the minstrel. "Then to Plympton we will go, by my beard!" cried the giant, "and Monceux may meanwhile scour Barnesdale for us in vain! Thus virtue is plainly its own reward." "Well planned, indeed, Little John. Fill quivers, friends, and let us go. This shall be a strange marriage-day for your baron, Allan--if the lady be not stubborn. You must move her, if she be cross with you. We will do all other duties." They travelled through one of their many secret ways towards Plympton. The sun shone high in the heavens ere they had come within sight of the small square church. Without the building they espied a guard of ten archers liveried in scarlet and gold. Robin bade the rest to approach under cover of the hedgerows. He then borrowed Allan's cloak and harp, and stepped out boldly towards the church. A few villagers were gathered about the archers; and Robin mingled with these, asking many quaint questions, and giving odd answers to any who asked in turn of him. Hearing the laughter and chattering, the Bishop who was to perform the marriage came to the church door all in his fine robes and looked severely forth. "What is the meaning of this unseemliness?" asked he, in well-known tones. Robin saw that here was my lord of Hereford again! He answered, modestly: "I am a harper, good my lord. Shall I not make a song to fit this happy day?" "Welcome, minstrel, if such you are," said the Bishop. "Music pleases me right well, and you shall sing to us." "I must not tune my harp nor pluck the strings in melody until the bride and bridegroom have come," Robin answered, wisely; "such a thing would bring ill-fortune on us, and on them." "You will not have long to wait," cried the Bishop, "for here they come. Stand on one side, worthy people." He busied himself in welcome of the bridegroom--a grave old man, dressed up very fine. The bride was clothed in white samite, and her hair shone like the sun. Her pretty eyes were dark with weeping; but she walked with a proud air, as women will who feel that they are martyring themselves for their love's sake. She had but two maids with her, roguish girls both. One held up her mistress's gown from the ground; the other carried flowers in plenty. "Now by all the songs I have ever sung, surely never have marriage bells rung for so strange a pair!" cried Robin, boldly. He had stopped them as they were passing into the church. "Lady," he asked, "do you love this man? For if you do not then you are on your way to commit sacrilege." "Stand aside, fool," cried the bridegroom, wrathfully. "Do you love this man?" persisted Robin. "Speak now or never. I am a minstrel, and I know maids' hearts. Many songs have I made in their honor, and never have I found worse things in them than pride or vanity." "I give my hand to him, minstrel, and that is enough," the girl answered at last. She made a movement towards the aisle. "And Allan?" whispered Robin, looking straight into her eyes. At this she gave a little gasp of fear and love, then glanced irresolutely towards the shrivelled baron. "I will _not_ marry you!" she cried, suddenly. Robin laughed and, dropping the harp, clapped his horn to his lips. Even as the archers sprang upon him, the greenwood men appeared. "Mercy me!" called out the Bishop, seeking to escape, "here are those rascal fellows who did maltreat me so in Sherwood." The archers were prisoners everyone, and the baron too, ere my lord of Hereford had done exclaiming. Stuteley and Much pushed Allan-a-Dale forward. "This is the man, good my lord, to whom you shall marry the maid," cried Robin, flourishing his bow, "if she is willing." "Will you marry _me_, dear heart?" pleaded Allan-a-Dale. "I am your true love, and the stories they told to you were all false." "Own to it, baron!" roared Little John, shaking up the unfortunate old man. "Tell her that you did lie in your straggling beard when you said that Allan was untrue." "Ay, ay, I spoke falsely; ay, I own to it. Have done with me, villain." "Spare him, Little John, for the nonce. Now, my lord, marry them for us, for I am ready to sing you my song." "They must be called in church three times by their names; such is the law," the Bishop protested. Robin impatiently plucked the Bishop's loose gown from off his back and threw it over Little John's shoulders. The big fellow thrust himself firmly into it and stood with arms akimbo. "By the faith o' my body," cried Robin, "this cloth makes you a man!" Little John went to the church door, and all began to laugh consumedly at him. Even the maid Fennel forgot her vexations. Seeing that she smiled, Allan opened his arms to her, and she found her way into them. Little John called their names seven times, in case three should not be enough. Then Robin turned to the Bishop and swore that he should marry these two forthwith. The gown was given back to him, and my lord of Hereford commenced the service. He thought it more polite to obey, remembering his last experience with this madcap outlaw. "Who gives this maid in marriage?" asked the Bishop, in due season. "I do," said Robin, "I give her heartily to my good friend, Allan-a-Dale, and he who takes her from him shall buy her dearly." CHAPTER XXI They betook themselves to Barnesdale after the wedding, leaving my lord of Hereford gownless and fuming in the organ-loft of the little church at Plympton. His guard was variously disposed about the sacred edifice: two of the bowmen being locked up in the tiny crypt; three in the belfry, "to ring us a wedding peal," as Robin said, and the others in the vestry or under the choir seats in the chancel. The old baron had been forced to climb a high tree, and had been left in the branches of it feebly railing at them. Then they all came back into Barnesdale, there to make a proper wedding-feast, after which Allan carried off his bride and her maids to his own home in the north, promising stoutly to return to them in due season. The days came and went, and Monceux began to hope fondly that the outlaws had gone out of Sherwood. On the third morning after Allan's marriage the Bishop of Hereford came bursting into Nottingham with the old baron and the humiliated guard. The Sheriff's hopes were shattered under the furious indignation of the baron and my lord of Hereford. It appeared that they had been released from their various positions of confinement during the evening of the marriage-day, and had forthwith hurried to the baron's castle. Thence they had set out for Allan's home in the east of the county, near to Southwell, a pretty place. Arrived there, they had demanded reparation and the maid Fennel, and in order to be able to declare the marriage false, the Bishop had sent in a petition to the Pope whereto Mistress Fennel was led to place her hand in writing. Allan's answer was to tear the petition into little pieces and fling it at the feet of the messenger who had brought it. Whereupon the Bishop had withdrawn and the baron had commenced an attack upon the place. After an hour or so of vain storming, Allan, at the head of a small band of retainers, had issued forth and mightily discomfited the baron and his men, beating them heartily out of the neighborhood of Southwell. These matters, instigated and brought about by one Master Robin o' th' Hood, cried aloud for summary vengeance. The Sheriff doubled and trebled the reward offered for his head, mentioning him above all others who were known to aid and abet him. Little John ranked next in point of infamous merit in the Sheriff's reckoning, for Monceux remembered his golden plate. The people of Nottingham, hearing continually of this pother, fell a-chattering between themselves, and ere a week was out Monceux's reward of a hundred golden pieces for the head of Robin Hood was the one theme of conversation in the city. No one identified him with Robin of Locksley--that brave misguided youth being so entirely dead to their minds--and he was variously named as Hood, Robin Hood, Captain Hood, and Master Robin. A travelling tinker came at length upon the talk of the town. He had been sitting on the bench without the "Sign of the Sixteen Does," dozing and drinking, and at last seeking to do both at once. Mine host stood near by, discussing the eternal Robin. "Folk do say that Master Monceux has sent into Lincoln for more men-at-arms and horses, and that when he has these to hand he will soon scourge Captain Hood from our forest." "Of whom speak you?" asked the tinker, suddenly waking up. "Of this Robin of the Greenwood," said the innkeeper, "but you will never earn the Sheriff's hundred pieces!" Then the tinker arose upon his dignity, and eyed the innkeeper reproachfully. "And why will I not earn the hundred pieces, gossip?" said he, with a deadly calm in his manner. "Where our Sheriff has failed, and a Bishop also, it is not likely that a mere tinker will succeed," mine host answered. "Pay me for your ale, gossip, and go on your way." The tinker approached and laid a heavy hand upon the innkeeper's fat shoulder. "Friend," he said, impressively, "I am one not noted either for dullness or lack of courage. I do perpend that to earn these pieces of which you speak one must perform some worthy business. Tell it to me, and you and Nottingham shall see then what Middle the Tinker thinks on it." At this a great clacking began, so that Master Middle only came to the gist of it in an hour. He valiantly proclaimed his intention, so soon as he _did_ understand, of taking Robin Hood single-handed. "Why send into Lincoln and the shires when Middle the Tinker will do this business for you, gossips? I will go into your Sherwood this very day. Give me the warrant, and I'll read it to Robin to purpose, I promise you!" They pushed him, laughing and jesting between themselves, towards Nottingham Castle, and there thrust him into the hall. "Here is a champion come to take your pieces, Master Monceux," someone called out. "Here is Middle, the pot-valiant," cried another. Master Middle asked for the warrant, and obtained it. Then he sallied forth, accompanied by the customers from the "Sign of the Sixteen Does" as far as the gates of the city. There he made them a long speech and left them. They watched him making determinedly along the white road towards Barnesdale; then returned to their tankards and their talk. Master Middle reached Gamewell without mishap; and the brisk air having revived him much, he gradually came into a placid frame of mind. In this happy condition he encountered presently a comely youth, with a little beard and a friendly tongue. "Give you good-den, gossip," cried the youth. "I hear there is sad news abroad. I fear all is not well with the world." "Since I live in Banbury, good friend," the tinker replied, "I cannot speak for the world. But Banbury is always willing to listen, and learn." "Harkee, then--this is the news I have heard: that in Nottingham town they have put two tinkers in the stocks for drinking too much ale and beer!" "If that is all," said Middle, contemptuously, "your news is not worth a groat; while as for drinking good ale, 'tis not you who would willingly lose your part of it." "By my faith, gossip, you are right!" laughed the youth. "But now give me your news, since mine is worth so little. You who go from town to town, must come by many strange items." "All that I have heard," the tinker said, thinking of the Sheriff's pieces, "is very good. I am in search of an outlaw whom men call Robin Hood. In my wallet I have a warrant to take him wherever I can; and if you can tell me where he is I will make a man of you, friend." "Let me see the warrant," said Robin, for 'twas he, "and if I find it to be right I will take you to him this very day." "That I will not do," cried Middle, readily, "I will trust no man with my warrant; and if you will not help me, gossip, why, pass on and good riddance to you." He began to stride along the road again, and until Robin had called him thrice would not turn about. "If you will come with me to a certain inn on Watling Street, good friend," called Robin, encouragingly, "I'll e'en show you Robin o' th' Hood!" At this, Middle turned his head, and then came back to Robin. "Lead the way, gossip," said he, at length. "I'll walk behind you. I have my stick." Robin made no reply, but started at a good pace. He led the tinker through the forest by many devious ways until they had arrived at a little inn on Watling Street. It was styled the "Falcon," and mine host came willingly to serve these guests. The tinker asked for ale, Robin for wine. They sat at talk for near an hour, Robin explaining much about this Robin o' th' Hood. The tinker drank his ale and listened; then pronounced his plan for taking the outlaw. This made a lengthy history, and was so dry withal that Master Middle must needs fill and empty his tankard many times. In the end he fell asleep. Robin deftly opened his pouch then, took out the warrant, read it, and put it into his own wallet. He called mine host, and, telling him that the tinker would pay the reckoning so soon as he awoke, Robin left the "Falcon" and Master Middle together. Having leisure for the whimsey, Robin bethought him to stay awhile and see what Middle might do, for in a way he had taken Robin's fancy. So Robin hid and waited events. Presently the tinker awoke and called for the landlord. "Gossip," said he to mine host, "I have a grave charge to lay upon you. In this house, whilst I did rest in the thought that you were an honest man and one loving the King, my pouch has been opened and many matters of importance taken from it. I had in it, item, a warrant, granted under the hand and seal of my lord the Sheriff of Nottingham, authorizing the arrest of a notorious rascal, one Robin Hood of Barnesdale. Item, a crust of bread. Item, six single keys, useful withal. Item, twelve silver pennies, the which I have earned this week in fair labor----" "I wonder to hear you speak so of Robin Hood, friend," answered the landlord. "Was he not with you just now? And did he not clink glasses with you in all amity?" "Was Robin o' th' Hood _that_ little bag of bones?" cried Middle, in great vexation. "God-a-mercy, but now I see it all. He has taken my warrant and my pennies! Let me go after him, gossip; be sure that I will bring him back right soon." "There is first the reckoning to be paid, good friend," said the landlord. "Why, I would pay you with all pleasure, had I the means," the tinker replied. "At this moment I have but my stick and my bag of tools. I will leave them with you as hostages." "Give me your leathern coat as well," said mine host, sharply; "the hammer and tools are as naught to me." "It would seem that I am fallen from one thief to another," snapped Middle. "If you will walk with me to the green I'll give you such a crack as shall drive some honesty into your thick skull." "You are wasting your breath and my leisure," the other retorted, contemptuously. "Get you gone after your quarry." Middle thought this to be good advice, and he strode forth from the "Falcon" in a black mood. Ere he had gone half a mile upon the road he perceived Robin demurely walking under the trees a little in front of him. "Ho there! you villain!" shouted Middle. "Stay your steps. I am most desperately in need of you this day!" Robin turned about with a surprised face. "Well met again, tinker," cried he. "Have you found Robin Hood?" "Marry, that have I!" roared Middle, plunging at him. Robin had his sword at his side and tried to draw it; but the tinker was too speedy for him. Middle laid on his blows with so much vigor that for a while he had Robin at his mercy. The greenwood rang with the noise of the fight, for now Robin had plucked out his sword. 'Twas steel against oak; brute force matched against skill. Indignation gave Middle the advantage, and he fought with such fury that Robin's sides began to ache. "Hold your hand, tinker," called Robin, at last. "I cry a boon of you." "I would rather hang you upon this tree ere granting it to you," said Middle, commencing afresh. But Robin had had time to blow his horn in urgent summons of Stuteley and Little John. In a brief space they appeared, with most of the greenwood men at their heels, and Master Middle was seized and disarmed rudely enough. "This rascal tinker had made my bones quite sore," said Robin, ruefully. "Is that your trouble?" said Little John. "Let me discover now if I may not do the like for him." "Not so, Little John," Robin said then. "This was my own quarrel, and I deserved all that this rogue has bestowed on me. He had a warrant for my arrest, which I have stolen from him." "With twelve silver pennies, a crust of bread, and six little keys," remarked Middle, with emphasis. "Here are the keys and the crust, gossip," answered Robin, smilingly. "And here the pennies, turned by me into gold. Here also, if you will, is my hand." "I take it heartily, with the pence!" cried Middle, seizing the slim, frank hand of the outlaw. "By my leathern coat, by my pots and pans, I swear I like you, friend Hood, and will serve you and your men honestly! Do you want a tinker? Nay; but I'll swear you do--who else can mend and grind your swords and patch your pannikins? Will you take me, little man, who can fight so well, and who knows how to play a bold game?" "Marry, I will take you, tinker--if the rest be willing, and you will swear the oath. But it rests not with me, for this is a band of freemen, without a leader." "Not so, Robin," cried Little John, glancing up from close perusal of the Sheriff's warrant. "We have a leader, and you are the man! Master Monceux of Nottingham has ordained it. Herein you are described as Robin o' th' Hood, leader and captain of that band of evil robbers infesting Barnesdale and our forest of Sherwood! The Bishop of Hereford has put his blessing on the Sheriff's choice by excommunicating you. Shall we not accept Monceux's word for it, comrades all?" he added turning round. "He has named a leader for us whom we can trust." It was carried with acclamation, and Robin found himself leader of the greenwood men willy-nilly, for good and all. Warrenton was hugely delighted; and the tinker seemed pleased that he had helped in bringing about so excellent an arrangement. Master Middle swore the oath of allegiance in good set terms, and they all repaired to Barnesdale to call a full council and ratify their choice of captain. CHAPTER XXII Within the next few days came Allan-a-Dale into Barnesdale with his lady and her two maids. Allan had the story to tell of the Bishop's encounter with him and the baron's onslaught upon his house in Southwell. Allan explained that, although he had triumphed over his enemies for the present, tidings had been brought to him that the Bishop was plotting fresh mischief against them at Southwell, and had already excommunicated both Allan-a-Dale and his pretty wife. "In that case you must take up your life with us," said Robin. "The greenwood is the abode of liberty and justice; 'tis _our_ commonwealth, in truth, and a happy enough place to live in even in winter-time. We will find you a cave." "There's Fennel," explained Allan, dubiously; "I do not think that she will like to live in a cave." This presented a difficulty. So Allan went over to where Fennel stood waiting with her maids, and explained things to her. "So long as I am with you, dear heart," answered Fennel, laughing, "I do not care if I live under a tree or in a house. Do that which you think best for us." Therefore, they came into the greenwood, and were found a cave opening from one of the larger passages--a dry and excellent home in these long summer months. In the meantime little Midge had fallen sick, and Much the Miller wept loudly over him as he lay, pale and languid, on a rude couch of dry leaves. All the company sorrowed over this small Lincoln fellow, for he had been a merry companion, and Robin himself sought to bring him back to health with such simple remedies as he knew. "Captain," said Much, with a woebegone countenance, "'tis all useless, our doctoring--I am about to lose the best friend that ever I have known. Can you get a priest to pray beside Midge's bed?" "I did know of a right worthy priest," Robin answered, sorrowfully, "but he has gone from these parts. He would have been just the one to cheer us all." "I have heard tell of a jovial fellow who has but lately come to our parish," said Middle the Tinker. "You must know, comrades, that I was born near to Fountain's Abbey, in York, and that once a year at least I visit my old mother there. Now, I promise you, that never such a frolicsome priest did you know as this one who has come to our priory. He can bend a bow with any man, and sing you a good song." "I would dearly love such a man to minister to me," pleaded poor Midge. "I believe on my soul that he could cast out the fever from my bones. Bring him to me, Much, as you love me." This settled matters forthwith. "I will go to the world's end for you, if there be need," sobbed the honest miller. "Give me leave, captain, to go in search of this worthy friar." "I will go with you, Much, and Little John shall come also," began Robin; but now a fresh difficulty arose. All of them wished to go wherever Robin went; he was their captain, they said, and so must be protected. In the end it was arranged that Stuteley should remain with two score of men in Barnesdale, to guard their caves and keep the Sheriff at bay if occasion arose. (In truth, however, Master Monceux had full hands just now with affairs of state, although the greenwood men did not know of this. The King was grievously ill; and Monceux had gone to London, with the Bishop of Hereford and many of the neighboring barons, under Royal command.) Robin asked Mistress Fennel to give the sick man such nursing as she would to Allan himself; and she sweetly promised that Midge should suffer in no way by his captain's absence. Then Robin, with the rest of the band--fifteen in all--set off for York. It so happened that Master Simeon Carfax was departing from the old town at nigh the same moment, with _his_ face set nodding homewards. Warrenton, Little John, Much the Miller, and Master Middle were of Robin's company. Also there was John Berry, the forester, and that one called Hal, who had been so much at the right hand of poor Will o' th' Green in other days. This little company travelled speedily, and within three days they had brought themselves over the borders into the county of York. Another two days brought them within a league of Fountain's Abbey or Dale, as some folk call it. As they neared the Abbey Robin walked on in front of the rest and held his bow free in his hand. Presently he came to a stream, and heard sounds of a jovial song floating towards him. He hid under a bush and watched alertly. At length, approaching the far bank, Robin espied a knight, clad in chain armor and very merry. He sang, in a lusty voice, a hearty woodland song. "Now by my bones!" thought Robin, puzzled, "but I have heard this song before." He peeped forth again, and saw that the knight filled up the spaces of his song with bites from a great pasty which he held in his hand. His face was turned from Robin. Robin called out suddenly upon him, fitting an arrow to his bow as he did so. "I pray you, Sir Knight, to carry me across this stream," said Robin, covering the stranger with his weapon. "Put down your bow, forester," shouted the knight, "and I will safely carry you across the brook. 'Tis our duty in life to help each other, and I do see that you are a man worthy of some attention." His voice troubled Robin as his song had done; but whilst he was searching his memory to fit a name to this courteous knight the latter had waded across to him. "Jump upon my back, forester, and I'll bring you to shore." He spoke through the bars of his closed visor. Robin had cast down his bow; and now, without thinking, jumped upon the knight's shoulders. The knight carried him safely over the brook. "Now, gossip, you shall carry me over this stream," said the knight, serenely; "one good turn deserves another, as you know." "Nay, but I shall wet my feet," Robin commenced. "No more than I have wetted mine," retorted the other. "Besides, yonder is your bow, and small use are your arrows without it." Robin perceived then that he had been too hasty. He considered for a moment. "Leave your sword behind as I do my bow, Sir Knight," he said, presently, "and I will carry you across the river." The knight laughed and agreed, and Robin took him upon his back. It was all that Robin could do to bring himself and his load to the bank; but at last he managed it. He set the knight down, then seized his bow. "Now, friend, yonder is your sword. I'll e'en crave that you shall carry me on your shoulders once more!" The knight eyed Robin solemnly. "'Tis written in the Scriptures, forester, that we should not be weary in well-doing," he observed, "so for this reason I will do your behest. Get upon my back once more." This time Robin carried his bow and smiled within himself. He found, however, that the knight was holding him very lightly. Just as he had opened his mouth in expostulation, the knight suddenly released his hold of Robin's legs, and shook him into the running water. Then, laughing heartily, he regained the other bank and his broadsword. Robin, with wet skin and spoiled bow, struggled back to the bank wherefrom he had first started out. He began to revile the knight in set terms, and challenged him to fight. "'Tis only fair, forester, that we should go half-way to each other," answered the knight, unconcernedly, "if so be we are able to fight. I will come to the middle of the stream, and if I do not find you there, I shall know you to be afraid." Robin waded out to him with drawn sword; and there in the center of the stream they fought together valiantly for near a quarter of an hour. "I crave a boon of you, Sir Knight," cried Robin, then feeling himself in danger of being drowned. "'Tis yours, forester," spluttered the knight, still holding fast to his manner of courtesy. Forthwith Robin found his horn, and blew it somehow, all wet as it was. "I too claim a boon," cried the knight. "'Tis yours," answered Robin, hearing joyfully the approach of his men. The knight produced a whistle and caused a shrill note to issue forth from it. Even as Warrenton and the rest came leaping to Robin's rescue on one hand, twenty and five great dogs sprang out of the bushes on the opposite bank. Warrenton and his fellows immediately sped a volley of arrows at the yelping beasts; but, jumping and leaping they caught the arrows in their mouths, even as they flew! "I never have seen the like of this in my days!" cried Little John, amazed. "'Tis rank sorcery and witchcraft." "Take off your dogs, friar," cried Middle, who was the least surprised of them all, "else ill will befall both them and you." "He calls you friar," said Robin, astounded; "are you not a knight, in sooth?" "I am but a poor anchorite, a curtal friar," replied the other, pushing out for his side of the river. "By name Friar Tuck of Fountain's Dale. Are these your men, forester?" "This is Robin Hood, come in all amity and peace from Nottingham to bring you to a sick-bedside," the tinker told him. "'Tis a sorry welcome that you accord to him!" "I am Robin Fitzooth," said Robin, having in his turn regained the river-bank. "And surely your name is _not_ Tuck, as you say." The knight then lifted his visor, and Robin gave a cry of joy. It was the merry face of the Clerk of Copmanhurst that beamed upon him from under the mailed cap. "God save you, dear friend, why did you not say 'twas you?" "To tell truth, Robin," answered the clerk, comically, "you scarce gave me pause to eat my pie, let alone announce myself. Do I see Master Hal, and my good friend Warrenton? Wait until I have chained my dogs, and I will give you all such welcome as this place does know." * * * * * They stayed with the worthy friar of Fountain's Dale long enough for them to be all refreshed and rested; then started upon the return journey into Barnesdale with good speed. Friar Tuck--for so we must know him now--said he would go with them gladly, and bring his dogs also, for a year had been sufficient for his liking of Fountain's Abbey. The place was too quiet and deadly; and although he had succeeded to these dumb and faithful friends, he had employed much time in the training of them. Robin bethought him of poor Midge waiting patiently their return, and so allowed no pause. They came back to Barnesdale within three days, having encountered and levied toll upon some rich merchants--penitents bound with presents for the Priory of York. Midge was found to be vastly recovered from his sickness, thanks to the nursing of Mistress Fennel and her maids. He welcomed the friar in his own droll way, begging to be forgiven by Master Tuck for not giving him reason to perform prayers for an outlaw's soul, and offering to be shrived, notwithstanding, if the priest felt aggrieved. Little John, remembering his own words of many days afore, said: "'Tis a pity indeed that the good friar should have made this grievous long journey--all for naught! By my faith, but here is a notion for the use of him and for yourself, Robin. Your name is not your own until Mother Church has put it properly upon you. So therefore let us have a christening, since by good fortune we may not have a burying." "I am the man to fix your new name upon you right bravely," cried Tuck, whistling to his dogs. "Come, we will have such a christening as these woods have ne'er dreamed of. Get me a basin of water and a book." "Nay," said Robin, laughing, "I think that you baptized me heartily enough in the river by Fountain's Dale! 'Twill be fitting, to my mind, if now we have the feast which follows upon all christenings. Bring out of our best, comrades, and let good cheer and the right wine fill our bodies. Afterward we can hold carnival, and the friar shall show how he can use the bow." "Ay, marry, friend," laughed the fat clerk, "and I have learned other things in this year beside that. You are wondering to see me so changed, doubtless, but I must tell you that the life at Fountain's Dale has not been an easy one. I have had to hold mine own against the earls and squires of the borders, who have sought to rob me often enough, thinking that every son of Mother Church must needs be wealthy. So I have learned to use the broadsword and quarter-staff as well as the bow." "Father," exclaimed Hal, "you knew how to play all these very prettily when you were Clerk of Copmanhurst, though then you chose to have folks believe that naught but holiness was in you." "A man should not boast of all there is in him," answered the friar. "But now, since I am found out, you know me for what I am." "I am well content with you, anyway," Robin told him. The worthy friar would not stay altogether with them in Barnesdale. He left his dogs there--save three--and returned to Copmanhurst, when the little hermitage knew him again as master. Each day he would come into Barnesdale, howbeit, to give news to Robin and hear the items that the greenwood men had for him. 'Twas from Friar Tuck that the outlaws learned much as to travellers through Sherwood ere inquiring of them whether they were rich, whether worthy, or whether they were poor and deserving of help rather than taxing. CHAPTER XXIII Master Carfax had by this time arrived in Nottingham, all eager to marry his cold bride. He found, however, that this was a happiness not yet to be, for matters were in a grievous state in the Sheriff's household. My lord of Hereford was very wrath with them all, and had sent Monceux back to his native city with much to think upon. The Bishop had taken the opportunity of laying formal complaint at Court before the King; and his Majesty had told Master Monceux that when he went back to Nottingham it must be to keep the Royal forest free of all evil-doers. Otherwise a new Sheriff would be found for Nottingham, and that right soon. Henry, the King, was near to his own end, and had become very irritable in consequence of his illness. His sons tried his scanty patience sorely with their waywardness and their ingratitude. So Monceux had none too pleasant a reception at Court, and returned therefrom with a heavy heart. Simeon Carfax was therefore despatched into Sherwood to find the tinker, so that Middle might be whipped and put into the stocks for having failed; also Carfax was to secure Robin and the ringleaders at all hazard. To this end Master Simeon was given command of the Sheriff's own men-at-arms, and a great body of citizens from the town wards, each man having the promise of a large reward and freedom thenceforth from all taxes. The news soon came to Robin, and he and his men retired at once into the innermost parts of Barnesdale, and secured their caves by covering the mouths of them with barricades artfully concealed behind green boughs and the like. So Carfax and his fellows searched without avail for near three weeks, only occasionally having evidence of the greenwood men by finding the feet and antlers of the King's deer lying here and there in the forest. The Sheriff's men laid many traps for Robin, but all in vain. Stuteley, being of venturesome mind, must needs attempt all manner of tricks upon this motley company of soldiers. He would dig a pit with Little John and Much, and hide it up with branches and earth, so that Master Carfax might stray into it and haply break his neck. At last Carfax bethought him of a good plot. He had nigh fallen into one of Will Stuteley's pits, but suddenly stayed his men from demolishing it. He planned instead to pretend to be trapped in the pit that very night; and, having hidden his fellows all round about, he walked out boldly at dusk with but three of them, and fell a-talking loudly of his schemes for capturing Robin Hood. He walked carelessly up to the hidden pit and with great outcry fell into it, the others with him running off then as if in deadly alarm. Then Master Carfax began a loud lament, and made such a noise that Stuteley must hear it. Young Will came bounding joyfully to the pit's edge, and, spying Carfax therein, fell into an ecstasy of delight. He railed at Simeon very pleasantly, and made merry at the other's supposed mishap. But presently Carfax blew his horn, and shortly Stuteley found the position reversed. After a desperate struggle he was overpowered and carried off, although not without being seen by another of Robin's men. This man brought Robin the bad news within an hour of Will Stuteley's capture. The greenwood men flung prudence to the winds and sallied forth. They pursued and came up with the rear-guard of the enemy, and a terrible battle was fought. Thirteen of Robin's brave fellows were wounded, five of them so grievously as to die soon afterward of their wounds, and as many of the Nottingham soldiery also were slain. Carfax returned to Nottingham, however--this time in some triumph. His men had beaten back the outlaws, and he had secured the lieutenant of the band, a "desperate villain, next to Robin Hood himself in deeds of violence and disorder." So all agreed; and by dint and hard swearing soon wove a noose to fit Will Stuteley's thin neck. Monceux, in grave satisfaction, ordered that their prisoner should be hanged and quartered, within a week, in the streets of Nottingham, as a warning and example to all wrong-doers. The Sheriff gave a feast to all the soldiery and doubled the reward upon Robin's head. Until _he_ was caught Monceux could but remain uneasy, for Henry of England was a man of his word. Robin was sorely grieved at the loss of Stuteley, and swore that he would save his little squire or die. He went, therefore, to Gamewell to discover from Marian precisely how they had arranged for the hanging of Stuteley, for she was able to go into Nottingham in her page's dress. Marian had learned it all. "First, he will be tortured to tell the secret of your hiding-place, dear heart," she told Robin, in bated breath. "Then he will suffer the full penalty, and will be hanged from a gallows with three other poor wretches. Last of all he is to be quartered, and his body flung to the people." She burst into weeping, and sobbed so grievously that Robin was hard put to it to keep back his own tears. "Did you learn who these others might be?" he asked her, to change her thoughts and to satisfy himself that no other friend was with little Will. "They are the three sons of a poor widow, who lives in the forest. They found the body of one of the deer, and, being very hungry, were carrying it from the forest to their little home. Someone, passing by, accused them of having first killed it, and this quarrel came to the Sheriff's ears. Master Carfax then affected to recognize them as being three greenwood men; and they have been tried summarily and found guilty, and will be hanged together with Will." "I swear that this shall not be," cried Robin, in heat, "since no doubt I am to blame for leaving the slain deer in their way." "It was, I believe, the very stag that I did kill," said Marian, in a troubled voice. "They have been in prison for near a month; and the beast was found without part of the woods," said Marian. "Shall I not go and give myself up in their place? Since I have had this dreadful guilty thought in my mind I have known no moment's peace; but, cowardlike, I do not dare to be honest with myself." "Be of good courage, dear maid," said Robin. "We have killed many of the King's deer since the day I first did meet with Master Gilbert of Blois. For we are hungry every day, prithee, and the beasts are many. Also in this season they are very wild and ferocious--'tis like this one was killed in a battle royal between itself and another stag. But to make all sure, we will rescue the widow's three sons with my Stuteley from the Sheriff's foul clutches." "Go not into danger, dear heart, for my sake," Marian pleaded, and she held him close to her as though she never would let him depart again. * * * * * Robin went back to his men, and they made their plans. Little John was given the second place of command, and it was agreed that upon the morning on which Stuteley and the others were to be hanged the greenwood men should risk all by marching into Nottingham to the rescue. The dawn of this eventful morning broke bright and sunny. Robin was clothed in a gay scarlet dress and his men wore their mantles of Lincoln-green cloth. They were armed with broadswords, and each carried a full quiver of new arrows, fashioned for them during the past winter by the cunning hands of Warrenton. They marched boldly towards Nottingham, leaving Allan-a-Dale with his little dame and six of the outlaws to keep house for them, as it were. When they were within a mile of Nottingham gates, Robin called a halt, and said: "I hold it good, comrades, that we stay here in hiding, and send forth someone to hear the news. There comes upon the road a palmer--see you him near by the gates? Who will go forth and engage him in talk?" "I will," said Midge, at once; "for I am used to deal with holy men." So Midge went out from them, whilst they all hid themselves and waited. When he was close to the palmer, Midge said, amiably: "I pray you, old palmer, tell me if you know where and when these robbers are to die? Doubtless you have passed the very spot?" "That have I, indeed," answered the palmer, sadly, "and 'tis a sorry sight to see. By the Sheriff's castle, out upon the roadway, they have built an angled gallows-tree to bear the four of them at once. They are to die at noon, after the torturing is done. I could not bear the sight; and so have turned my back upon it." The palmer spoke in a muffled voice; and as his hood had been pulled well over his head, Midge could not see what manner of man he might exactly be. He carried his long stick with its little cross at the top; and had sandalled feet, like any monk. Midge noticed idly how small his feet were for a man of his size, but gave no second thought to the matter. "Who will shrive these poor fellows, then, if you have turned your back upon them?" asked Midge, reproachfully. This seemed to present itself as a new idea to the palmer. "Do you think, friend," he enquired, in a troubled way, "that I should undertake the office?" "By Saint Peter and Saint Mary, I do indeed," cried Midge, roundly. "Would you leave them to the empty prayers which the Sheriff's chaplain will pour coldly over them? Nay, in sooth, if your heart be turned to sympathy, surely you are the man to administer this last consolation to these poor fellows." "If it might be permitted I would dearly love to shrive them," said the palmer, still hesitating. "But I am only a poor palmer." "Keep close to me," Midge told him, valiantly, "and you shall shrive these good fellows an it become necessary. That I promise you." He returned to Robin and told him that the execution had been fixed to take place outside Nottingham Castle at noon. "We must hasten then," said Robin. "Go you first, Little John; and we will tread close upon your heels." Little John swam the moat, and sprang upon the warder of the city gates suddenly, whilst he was craning his neck to get a view of the Sheriff's procession of death. The big outlaw seized his victim from behind, and clapped his great hand over his mouth. Very soon the warder was prisoner in the round tower by the gate; and Little John had slipped himself into his uniform. Little John then lowered the bridge quietly, and passed the rest of them into Nottingham. Midge and the palmer came last of all. "Now spread yourselves about into groups of twos and threes," said Robin, "and have your swords ready when you hear my horn. Little John, prithee draw the bridge again, so that none may suspect us; but leave the winch loose, for we may have to use it hastily. Go you first, and Heaven speed thee." Will Stuteley at length came out of the castle surrounded by the Sheriff's guards; and behind him walked dejectedly the widow's three sons. Poor Will looked ghastly pale, and marks of the torturings showed upon his skin. His face was drawn and lined with anguish. Monceux was there, dressed out in his best; and was blowing out his fat cheeks in vast self-importance. Beside the Sheriff was Master Carfax, lean-faced as ever. They were mounted on white horses; and behind them were two score of archers and pikemen. Stuteley, seeing that no help appeared at hand, asked, in a weak voice, that he might have words with the Sheriff. Monceux went up to him and bade him speak out. Stuteley said, in a sad tone: "Sheriff, seeing that I must die to-day, grant me this one boon, that I may not be hanged upon a gallows-tree, but rather that I die with my sword in my hand, fighting you and all your men to the last." The Sheriff laughed coarsely: "Not so, my man; you shall die instead a shameful death, and after you your master, Robin Hood, that false butcher, so soon as I have him fast." "That you will never do," answered Stuteley, with prophecy, in his weak voice. "But unbind my hands, Sheriff, for your soul's sake, and let me meet my end valiantly." "To the gallows with him!" roared Monceux, giving the sign to the executioner; and Stuteley was hustled into the rude cart which was to bear him under the gallows until his neck had been leashed. Then it would be drawn roughly away and the unhappy man would swing out over the tail of it into another world. Two fellows had great knives with them ready to cut him down, and quarter his body whilst life was in it, as the cruel sentence had ordained. "Let me, at the least, shrive this man's soul ere it be hurled into eternity," said the palmer, stepping forward. Monceux's face grew black with rage; and yet he scarcely liked to refuse, for fear it should injure him too much in the eyes of the people. "Perform the duty quickly then, Sir Priest," he snarled; and then rode back to Carfax. "Watch the palmer narrowly," he told him, "and do you secure him afterwards. Methinks he is some ally of these rascal outlaws; and, in any case, we shall do no harm in questioning him." The palmer had hardly begun to string his beads when Little John commenced to elbow a path for himself through the crowd. He roughly thrust the soldiers aside as if they had been so many children, and came up to the edge of the cart. "I pray you, Will, take leave of your true friend here before you die," cried Little John. The palmer had fallen back at his approach; and stood in some hesitancy. In a moment Monceux saw what happened. "Seize that man!" he shouted to his pikemen. "He is that villain who did rob us of our gold plate, who nearly slew Roger, our cook. He is of the band--seize him; and he too shall hang!" "Not so fast, gossip," Little John answered, with an ugly look; "I must needs borrow my friend of you for a while." He had cut Stuteley's bands with two quick strokes of his dagger, and having wrenched a pike from out of one of the soldiers' hands, flung it to little Will. "Now, by my freedom, here's your prayer answered, comrade," cried Little John. "I have found you a weapon--do your best with it!" The soldiers had recovered from their temporary surprise and flung themselves upon the prisoner and his would-be rescuer. Robin, from the back of the Sheriff's bowmen, sounded his horn, and instantly all became confusion and riot. In the mêlée the palmer sought to slip away unnoticed, but was detected by the keen eyes of Carfax. Master Simeon rode round with six of his fellows and caused them to seize the holy man, and bind him fast with leathern thongs. But this small success was more than outweighed by the reverse suffered by Monceux and his men. Taken in assault at the rear, they had no chance with the greenwood men. Robin himself had released the widow's three sons, and they had not been slow in arming themselves. Some of those in the crowd, having secret sympathy with the outlaws and hating the Sheriff heartily for many small injustices, also flung themselves into the fray. The greenwood men cleared the green square before the Sheriff's home by repeated rushes and desperate chargings. Broken heads and cut knees there were in plenty; and lucky the man who escaped with so little as these. Carfax won a place of safety for Master Monceux, and fell back slowly, with him the unwilling palmer, until shelter of the castle gates had been attained. Then the soldiers and pikemen grew very valiant, and shot out clouds of arrows, through the loopholes in the castle towers, upon townsmen and rioters alike. Half a score of men were killed ere this day was ended, amongst them being that very apprentice who had wrestled on the day of Nottingham Fair with little Stuteley, the tumbler, for Squire o' th' Hall's purse. Robin had an arrow through his hand, and nigh broke the shaft in pulling it out. The greenwood men, well satisfied with the day's work, commenced an orderly retreat. Little John lowered the bridge for them, when they reached the city gates, and all fell back into Sherwood in good style. Stuteley had been rescued, and walked joyfully by the side of his master. Next to him was Little John, and near him the widow's three sons. They had already asked for and obtained permission to take up a free life in the woods of Sherwood. Two of the band had been killed by the murderous arrows of the Sheriff's fellows, and most of the outlaws bore wounds of some sort. Yet they were not cast down. Sorrow sat upon them for the loss of those two brave hearts, but for their own hurts they cared naught. The bodies of their comrades were being carried with them into the free and happy woods, and there should find rest. "Tell me, Midge," said Robin, presently, and looking round for him, "what did become of the palmer who was so wishing to be of service to our Stuteley? He seemed a likeable old man, and I would not that we should seem ungrateful." "I much fear me that Monceux's fellows did capture him, the same who bore off thee, Will," said Midge. "But they will scarcely do him hurt, being a holy man." "I have no trust in either of them," Robin answered, vexed, "and I am grievously angry with you, Midge, for keeping this news to yourself. The palmer must be recovered from Monceux, and at once. I will bethink me upon some plan to this end." They walked on in silence. After a while, "I ne'er thought, master," said Stuteley, brokenly, "that I should see these woods again--nor meet Little John, either in quarrel or in friendship, nor see any of your dear faces again." "By my crown, which is the hardest part of me," Little John cried, "I swear that in future you shall meet me how you will, gossip. Here's my hand on it." Thus began the great friendship between these two, which was to last them all their days. Robin was glad enough of it; but the doubtful fate of the palmer still troubled him sorely. If he had known then that bitter truth which he was to learn very shortly he would have ridden back forthwith into Nottingham town, there to end this story at once. Life had, however, many years and queer twists in it yet for Robin Hood of Barnesdale. CHAPTER XXIV The time of Nottingham Fair had come round once more, and again the Sheriff would give a prize. Monceux determined to make the prize a good one, such as might tempt any archer. He hoped thus that Robin might be lured into Nottingham. He smiled to himself in grim satisfaction, and rubbed his hands softly together. To tell truth, he had been expecting Robin any moment during these last ten days, and had wondered why he had not come. The palmer should have proved a bait in himself, so the Sheriff imagined. But Robin only learned on the eve of the Fair the whole truth about that holy man. It was in this way. For ten nights had Robin waited at the trysting place for sight of Marian; and had waited in vain. At last doubt grew into suspicion, and suspicion into fierce terror. Had Marian been abducted by Monceux, and did the Squire fear to tell him? On the night before the Fair he took courage and marched up to the castle entrance, then wound his horn for the bridge to be lowered. Now, if Monceux could but have known, Robin would have been easy prey. He rushed across the bridge soon as it had fallen, clangingly, upon the buttresses. The same old servant met him at the gates, holding it open just a little way so that he might peer forth. Robin pulled his cloak about himself. "I would see Master Montfichet, and at once," he began. "My master is in London," replied the man, eyeing him. "Did he journey alone? Did not Mistress Fitzwalter go with him? When did they go?" Robin's questions came all of a rush. "My master hath been gone near two weeks. He went alone from here. But tell me who you are, clamoring so noisily with your questioning?" "I am Robin Hood," said Robin, in desperation, "and now, for the love of Heaven, give me news of Mistress Fitzwalter." "She left here on the day after my lord's departure." "Hath left Gamewell?" Robin gasped. "How? In what way?" The man sniggered. "To tell truth, excellence, she did leave us in strange guise. I have pondered more than ever upon the ways of women since the day. Mistress would have our maids make her a monk's gown, and I was bid to fashion her a staff such as these palmers carry in their hands. Then with sandalled feet----" "Did she go forth from here upon the day of the rioting in Nottingham, when Stuteley and the others escaped?" "It was upon the morning of that day," the man replied; "and I promise you, we have not seen her since." Robin turned abruptly from him. Next minute he was running blindly under the night towards the city gates. * * * * * The Sheriff's prize had been announced far and wide. For the best archer there was an Arab horse, coal-black and worth a bag of gold, and with the horse there would be a saddle of silver and fine leather. Also a silk purse, worked by the demoiselle Marie, containing a hundred pieces. There were other rewards for the quarter-staff and single-stick, but this year there would be no tourney. It was a fête-day, and folk crowded into Nottingham by all gates. These had been lowered hospitably and were to remain down all day. The stages had been erected for quarter-staff. There was a fellow, one Nat of Nottingham, who was believed to be the finest player at the game for many miles around. Several had tried their skill with Nat, but he had soon knocked every man of them off the stage rudely to the ground. He began boasting then of his prowess, and called them all cowardly and the like. A lame beggar who had pushed himself well to the front of the ring about the stage came in for a share of Nat's abuse. This was a strange-looking fellow, with very dirty ragged clothes upon him, and a black patch over one eye. He wore a beard, pointed and untrimmed, and he listened very calmly to the other's noisy chattering. "Come up here, you dirty villain; and I'll dust your rags for you," cried Nat, flourishing his staff. "If you will use a shorter staff than this, Master Wind-bag," said the beggar, quietly, and showing his stick, "I'll take all the beating _you_ can give me." With scornful laughter Nat accepted this challenge. The beggar took off his ragged coat and limped painfully on to the stage. [Illustration: ROBIN HOOD DEFEATS NAT OF NOTTINGHAM AT QUARTER-STAFF _The beggar dealt his foe a back-thrust so neatly, so heartily, and so swiftly that Nat was swept off the stage into the crowd as a fly off a table._] They fenced for an opening, both playing well. The beggar, for all his limp and one eye, had a pretty notion of the sport, but he had the queerest gait upon him; and as he hobbled round and round the stage under Nat's blows the people laughed continuously. Nat caught him smartly upon the right arm a sounding thwack. The beggar made as if to drop his staff forthright, and Nat lifted himself for another and crushing blow. But the one-eyed man recovered his guard, sprang suddenly on one side, and, as Nat's staff was descending vainly, the beggar dealt his foe a back-thrust so neatly, so heartily, and so swiftly that Nat was swept off the stage into the crowd as a fly off a table. The beggar waited the full time for him to return; and then claimed the prize. The victory of this queer unknown was popular. Nat was a great bully and braggart, and many of them had suffered insult at his hands. Therefore, when the beggar went to fetch his prize from the Sheriff's own hands, there was great cheering and applause. He found Monceux seated in a handsome booth, with his daughter and her maids, near by the archery rings. Here the shooting was in progress. The Sheriff narrowly watched each competitor, and glanced often towards Mistress Monceux. The demoiselle Marie had one of her women sitting near her feet, so that every movement she made might be observed. The Sheriff's daughter signalled "No," and "No" again to her father as the various bowmen took their places. The beggar paused to watch the contest. It seemed to amuse him exceedingly. Master Patch was thus for some minutes close to the Sheriff's tent. His patched eye was turned towards it, and he seemed to be blissfully unaware of the great man's near presence. But he had taken due note, nevertheless, of Master Monceux and his cold daughter, and the maid sitting so forlornly upon the hard ground at the latter's feet. One of the Nottingham men, a tanner by trade, had so far been most successful, and, like Nat, he began to be disdainful of the rest, and to swagger it somewhat each time his turn to shoot came round. "The prize will surely be thine, Arthur-à-Bland," cried Monceux, loudly clapping his hands together after this fellow had made a fair shot. "Indeed, I do not think that Master Hood himself would beat me to-day," admitted Arthur-à-Bland, conceitedly. The beggar heard both remark and answer. "Thou speakest well, gossip," he said, "here in Nottingham town; yet I would venture to advise thee, were this pretty place in Sherwood and the bold Robin within earshot." The archer turned towards him. "What do _you_ know, old Patch-and-Rags, of Robin Hood?" he sneered, angrily. "I know too much of him," answered the beggar. "Once, like you, gossip, I boasted of my skill with the bow--'twas in Sherwood, whilst I was walking with a stranger who had met me very civilly upon the road. Says he: 'If you can hit yon mark I'll know you a better archer than Robin Hood.' So I flew my shaft arrogantly, and 'twas a tidy shot, near two hundred paces. My arrow struck the mark fairly. 'What say you, stranger?' says I. He made for reply such a bowshot as never I have seen before; for, having stepped back a score of yards, he yet was able to speed his arrow so cleverly as to split mine own from end to end. 'Thou art Robin Hood,' I said then, and I had fear upon me." "What then?" asked Arthur-à-Bland, composedly. "For my boasting he gave me a drubbing," the beggar went on, "and for my archery five silver crowns." "Then thou canst bend the bow?" said Arthur. "Will you not attempt my lord Sheriff's prize, old Patch-and-Rags?" "Marry, I would most willingly," cried the beggar, "but for my lame leg and blind eye." "One does not need a leg to shoot arrows, nor yet two eyes. Take aim, gossip, and show us how you played the sport in Sherwood on that day." The archer's tone was mocking; but the beggar only replied that he had already won a prize and was content. Just then one of the Sheriff's guards approached him. "My master would have speech with you, friend," said he. "And so you have met bold Robin Hood?" asked Monceux, so soon as the beggar stood before him. "Well do I know it," the beggar answered, writhing his eye in fiery glance about the Sheriff's tent. "My body is full sore yet from the beating he gave me." "Are you sure 'twas Robin Hood?" "That am I. He is a slim, slight man with long hair, and small, fair beard." "If you could lead me to him, friend, I would reward you well," said the Sheriff, in malicious tones. "I will show the place where we met soon as you will, excellence," replied the beggar. Monceux nodded, and made a sign of dismissal. "I will speak further with you later, friend," he said. The beggar went back to the archer and said that now he would take a shot with him. "I may as well win two prizes as one," he continued, affably, "for the horse will help me carry my pieces." Arthur-à-Bland was greatly incensed at this speech, and took aim with hands that trembled with anger. However, he made a pretty shot, and a round of cheering met his effort. The beggar took the bow which one of the archers held out to him, and fitted his arrow to it with a great show of care. When at last he released the arrow all got ready to laugh and jeer at him. He contrived, however, to surprise them once again, for his arrow was found to be a full inch nearer the middle of the mark than all the others. They shot again and again, and at length Arthur-à-Bland lodged his shaft in the center of the target. "Now mend that shot, Master Patch, an you can," cried he. "Nay, I fear that I must now yield the prize to you, gossip," declared the beggar. "Yet I will even do my best." He aimed with every circumstance of effort, and flew his shaft with a loud sigh. It rose up high in the air as though it must fly altogether wide of the target, and folk had already opened their mouths to laugh, when suddenly it dropped in a graceful curve towards the mark, the steel point struck exactly on the point of the other's arrow, just where it had lodged loosely in the bull, and Master Bland's arrow came tumbling to the ground, leaving the beggar's shaft shaking in the very hole its opponent's arrow had made. This wondrous feat of archery evoked the loudest applause, and had not the Sheriff been so foolish a man, must have awakened suspicion in his breast. But, no--Master Monceux pompously gave over the Arab horse with its saddle, and the purse of gold to the victorious beggar; and then turned to leave the sports. He bade Master Carfax to see that the beggar did not go far away. The Sheriff did not mean to lose his gifts so easily. But the beggar was very willing to keep near to the Sheriff, and asked very humbly that he might be given a place in Monceux's household, instead of taking this horse, which was of small use to one of his trade. "I will accept your offer," said Monceux, "on the understanding that you will take the captaincy of my archers." With such a fellow as this in his household Monceux felt that he would soon lay Robin Hood by the heels. So he strutted to his horse, and was lifted thereon in fine self-satisfaction. His daughter mounted her palfrey, and Carfax led the beast gently, whilst the maids had to hurry over the rough stones as best they might. The beggar gripped his staff and limped along beside the women. His roving eye implored a glance from the grey-blue eyes of the maid who had sat so uncomfortably at her mistress's knee. She moved, with downcast looks, after the rest, and only dared once peep at this strange ragged fellow. His lips moved, making her a signal, then were shut resolutely. * * * * * That night Monceux kept open house and grew noisy in his cups. He swore that Robin Hood was both coward and villain not to have come into Nottingham to take his chance of winning the horse and purse. Even as he spoke an arrow came flying in through one of the narrow windows of the Sheriff's hall, and, curving, fell with a rattle upon the table in front of the startled Monceux. Attached to it was an empty purse, Monceux's own--that one indeed which had that morn held the hundred pieces so comfortably! "Where is that rascal beggar?" cried the Sheriff, suddenly having his doubts. "Where is my maid?" shrilled the demoiselle Marie, rushing in upon her father. "I did not send for her," shouted Monceux, seeing it all. "Haste thee, Simeon, pursue them. They cannot be far away." "Excellence, the Arab steed hath been stolen, and by thy beggar guest," cried one of the servants, running in at the other door. "Even now he has gained the bridge, carrying your new maid a-pillion, mistress. None may hope to catch them on that fleet horse." "They cannot win through the gates. After them, Simeon, as you love me. I never will look on you again if you do not capture Robin Hood and this girl." Mistress Monceux was quite beside herself with fury. "Alas, mistress," said the servant, "the gates of Nottingham stand wide; did not my master order it so but this very morn?" "Silence!" roared Monceux; and, unable to control his rage, he struck the fellow to the ground. "After them, Simeon, and take what men you will." Master Carfax had other duty before him, however, for his gentle lady had relapsed into a screaming hysteria. They slapped her hands and poured wine between her lips, and finally her maids had to cut her laces and put her to bed. CHAPTER XXV Days passed into weeks and weeks into months, and Robin Hood was still to seek. The Sheriff waged an intermittent warfare with him, scoring a few minor successes; then Robin moved himself and his men farther afield. Many of the Nottingham apprentices and other roving spirits joined when they might with Robin and his band. Arthur-à-Bland, the tanner, who had so nearly won the Sheriff's prize, had often in these days envious thoughts for the outlaws in their free life. Anything was better, to his mind, than oak-bark and ditch-water and the smell of half-tanned hides. Also he was ambitious to beat Robin at his own game. By dint of perseverance Arthur had once come very nigh to emulating that masterly feat of archery by which Robin had wrested the purse of gold and the Arab horse from him. Vastly elated at this promise of success, the tanner had flung down his trade and had marched off towards Barnesdale, armed with his bow and a long pike-staff. He strode across the close turf, browning now under an August sun, and was soon far away from the highroad and the small protection it afforded. He espied a herd of deer, and prepared himself to shoot one of them. Just as his bow was bent Robin came out of the bushes on his left hand; and, not noticing the tanner, the young outlaw began to move stealthily round to the windward side of the beasts in order that they might make a fairer mark for his arrows. "What makes you here so like a thief, gossip?" enquired Arthur-à-Bland, arrogantly. "I am a keeper in this forest, and it is my duty to stay you." "Have you any assistants, friend?" Robin asked, scarcely glancing towards him. "For it is not one man alone who will stop me." "Truly, gossip," cried Arthur, "I have no better assistant than this good oak-graff; but he will do all that I want. For your sword and your arrows I care not one straw--if I can get but a knock at your poll you will ask me no further question." Robin unbuckled his belt at this; and, flinging his bow upon the ground, tore down a young sapling that was growing near by. With his dagger he quickly lopped it into shape; and then strode up to the tanner. "Eight foot and a half, and 'twill knock down a calf," sang Arthur, flourishing his staff still more, "and I hope it will knock down you." Robin sparred with him for a little, and then, making a sudden feint, bestowed such a blow on Master Bland that the blood ran down his cheek from his broken pate. But the tanner did not accept this favor without making some return, and soon was giving Robin as good as he gave. The wood rang with the noise of their blows, and the tanner laid on his strokes as if he were beating hides. "Hold your hand," cried Robin, at last. "You have done enough, and I will make you free of these woods." "Why, God-a-mercy," said Arthur, "I may thank my staff for that, good fellow; not you." "Well, well, gossip, let that be as it may. But ere we continue, tell me your name and trade, at the least. I fain would know who 'tis who hath beaten me so well." "I am a tanner, gossip," replied Arthur, jovially now, "and by my soul, if you will come to my pits I will tan your hide for naught." "In sooth you have already done me that service," said Robin, ruefully. "But, harkee, if you will leave your tanpots and come with me, as sure as my name is Robin Hood, you shall not want gold or fee." "If you be Robin Hood," said Arthur, "then I am Arthur-à-Bland; and I have come to live with you and my cousin Little John, in the free woods of Barnesdale. That is, if you will have me." "I have already given you freedom of the woods, and you shall see what welcome Little John can offer," answered Robin. "But tell me, friend, are you not that archer who so nearly won the Sheriff's horse from me in Nottingham town?" The tanner acknowledged himself to be the man, and since Robin put it so handsomely to him he forgot all his hard thoughts about the defeat. They joined hands in friendship and went together to find Little John, who seemed right glad to find his cousin ready to join the band. The day was spent in the usual free and happy manner. And when time for supper came round with the dusk Robin asked Little John for the name and style of their guest at supper this night. "For," said Robin, "you must have got me at least a bishop, a baron, or a knight, or some squire from the north country, to meet our new comrade to-night." "We have no guest, master," answered Little John, regretfully. "Then have I no stomach for my supper," Robin cried. "Go you at once, Little John, and you, Stuteley, and you also, Much, and find us such a guest, worthy of our company, and well able to pay for the pleasure of it." "Where may they find so desirable a man?" asked the little ferret Midge, eagerly. "Go into Watling Street," Robin told them. "At this time o' th' year there are many people passing that way." "May Heaven send us a guest speedily," said Arthur-à-Bland, "for I am growing wondrous hungry." The three outlaws started off at once and in high spirits, the adventure being one much to their liking. They had scarcely watched the great highroad known to all as Watling Street (and which runs from Dover in Kent to Chester town) for many minutes, when they espied a knight riding by in a very forlorn and careless manner. One foot was in the stirrups, the other out; his visor was raised above his eyes, and his face was pinched and woebegone. Little John approached the stranger and bade him stay; for who can judge of a man's wealth by his looks? The outlaw saluted the knight courteously and informed him that his master was fasting, having waited supper for him a full three hours. The knight reined in his sorry steed, and glanced toward his questioner with lack-lustre eye. Little John repeated his speech. "And who is your master?" asked the knight then. "None other than Robin Hood, of Barnesdale," Little John returned, laying his great hand on the knight's bridle. "He bids us speed you to the feast." Seeing the other two, the knight shrugged his shoulders. "'Tis clear that this is an invitation which will brook no refusal," he said. "So I will go with you, friends." When they were returned to Barnesdale, Robin saluted the knight very magnificently; and his horse having been cared for, all sat down to a plentiful supper of venison, pheasants, and various small birds. After partaking liberally of the good cheer, the knight brightened up considerably and declared that he had not enjoyed so good a meal for nigh three weeks; and he vowed that if ever Robin and his comrades should come to his country he would entertain them with an equally worthy and honorable repast. This was not, however, the exact payment which Robin had intended. He thanked the knight, therefore, and reminded him that a yeoman like himself might hardly offer such a supper to a knight as a gift of charity. "I have no money, Master Hood, nevertheless," answered the knight, frankly. "I have so little of this world's goods in sooth that I should be ashamed to offer that which I have." "Money, however little, always finds a welcome from us," said Robin, smiling. "Will you deem me too impertinent, Sir Knight, if I ask what moneys you have?" "I have, of my own, ten silver pennies," said the knight. "Here they are, and I wish they were a hundred times as many." He handed Little John his pouch; and the big fellow soon had knowledge of its contents. It was as the knight said, no more nor less. Robin filled his guest a bumper of wine, and made a sign for Little John to hand back the pouch. "Pledge me, Sir Knight," cried the merry outlaw, "and pledge me heartily, for these be sorry times. I see that your armor is bent and that your clothes are worn. Tell me now, were you a yeoman and made a knight by force? Or have you been bad steward to yourself and wasted your property in lawsuits and the like? Be not bashful with me, we shall not betray your secrets." "I am a Norman knight in my own right; and I have always lived a sober and quiet life," the sorrowful knight replied. "My father, and his father, and his father's father were all knights of the King; but, as is often the case, friend Robin, rich men sometimes find their riches fly away from them. Until within this last year I have contrived by dint of care and labor, to live on the few hundreds of rent and the like which fall to me year by year; but now I have only these ten pennies of silver and my wife and children three." Robin asked how his moneys had gone from him. "I lost them through misfortune and naught else," the knight declared, sighing. "I have a son--a good youth--who, when he was but twenty years of age, could play prettily in jousts and tournaments and other knightly games. He had the ill luck to push his sports too far; and did kill a knight of Lancashire in a battle _à outrance_. To save my boy I had to sell my lands and mortgage my estates; and this not being enough, in the end I have had to borrow money from my lord of Hereford." "A most worthy Bishop," said Robin, ironically; "I know him well." "He seemeth to be a hard man in law," said the knight; "and since I cannot pay him the four hundred pieces he has promised to foreclose his mortgage on our home." "Have you not any friends who would become a surety for you, Sir Knight?" queried Robin, thoughtfully. "None. My friends have fallen away from me in mine adversity as leaves from an autumn tree." "Fill your goblet again, Sir Knight," Robin commanded; and he turned to whisper a word in Marian's ear. She nodded, and beckoned Little John and Much the Miller to her side. "Here is health and prosperity to you, gallant Robin," the knight said, tilting his goblet, "and my best thanks for your cheer. Would that I might make better recompense." The two outlaws, with Mistress Marian, had now consulted the others, and all seemed to be agreed. Warrenton, as treasurer to the band, was sent into one of the inner caves, and presently returned, bearing a bag of gold. He counted it out before the knight; and there were four times one hundred golden pieces. "Take this loan from us, Sir Knight, and pay your debt to the Bishop," Robin told him. "Nay, no thanks; you are but exchanging creditors. Mayhap we shall not be so hard on you as was the Christian Bishop; yet again, we may be harder. Who can say, where human nature is concerned?" Much now appeared, dragging a bale of cloth. "The knight should have a suit worthy of his rank, master, do you not think?" "Measure him twenty ells of it," Robin ordered. "Give him your Arab horse also," whispered Marian; "it is a gift which will come back to you fourfold, for this is a worthy man. My father doth know him well." So the horse was given also, and Robin bade Arthur-à-Bland ride as esquire to the knight; to be good use and to fulfil his first duty as one of the band. The knight was sorrowful no longer. He could scarcely voice his thanks to them; and was nigh overcome when time for his departure came round on the following morning. "God save you, comrades," said he, with deep feeling in his tones, "and give me a grateful heart." "We shall wait for you twelve months from to-day, here in this place," said Robin, smiling cheerfully. "And then you will repay us for the loan of the gold." "I shall return it to you within a year," replied the knight, firmly. "So sure as I am Sir Richard of the Lee, the money shall be returned, with interest beside. Look for me in the early days of March, friends, for then I expect to have good news of my son." "Then, or later, Sir Knight, as you will," said Robin. CHAPTER XXVI The Sheriff having failed to ensnare Robin Hood, and Master Simeon having done so little better, it became clear that a more wise person than either must attempt the business. The demoiselle Marie had recovered from her fit of anger, and announced her intention of showing them both how such an affair should be approached. To this end she employed herself in archery and won some accomplishment in the sport; then she caused Master Fitzwalter's house to be searched thoroughly and any writings of his to be brought to her. Mistress Monceux engaged her fingers next in a pretty schooling, teaching them to hold a pen as awkwardly as might Master Fitzwalter himself. So she produced at last a writing purporting to come from him to Maid Marian, his daughter. She wrote it simply and in few words:-- * * * * * "This to my dear child Marian, from her affectionate father, Henry Fitzwalter, now in the Court of St. James, in London town. I send you all greetings, and am well both in mind and spirit. I pray God that He has kept you as jealously in my long absence from home. This is to tell you, dear heart, that, after all, I shall return to Nottingham, mayhap very soon, and that you are to provide accordingly. I have had tidings of you given to me by my lord Bishop of Hereford, and now send you this by the hand of his man, who returns to Nottingham on other business of my lord's. I pray you to remain closely in Nottingham during my absence. "(Signed) FITZWALTER, Warden of the City Gates. "The twenty-fifth day of August, 1188." The demoiselle Marie had made several attempts before she had succeeded in producing a letter so entirely to her satisfaction; and when she had sealed the above with the Fitzwalter arms and had addressed it, she felt such a glow of pride in it that she could scarce bring herself to part with the missive. At length she bade one of her maids fetch Master Simeon to her. When, all delighted, he stood before her, his love handed him the note. "Take this, dear fool," said she, kindly, "and bring it to the hand of the maid Fitzwalter. She is with the outlaws in Barnesdale, hidden in one of their deeps, no doubt. I care not how you give it to her so long as you are speedy." "I will send it by the hand of Roger, your father's cook. He is well acquainted with their hiding-places." "That would be to spoil my plot at its outset," Marie answered, cuttingly. "Gather your wandering wits, and bethink you of some more likely messenger. Have you not someone in this town who can be trusted?" "I have the very man for it," suddenly cried Carfax. "There is a young knight, one who hath been exiled by the King for plotting with Prince John. He is the only son of our fiery neighbor Montfichet. He hath done secret work for the Prince, and will do it again if he believes that he hath need for it." "You are for ever employed in doubtful business," said Marie, crossly. "I do not like your fiddling with Prince John. You may be sure that Richard will succeed to the throne; and then we shall see where your plottings have brought you." "Richard hath already succeeded," said Carfax, whisperingly. "I had the news but an hour since. Old Henry of Angevin is King no more--he is dead. And Richard, _Coeur de Lion_, as the commoners do call him, hath gone to Palestine, all unknowing that he is King!" "So you think that John may seize the throne?" sneered Marie Monceux, unconvinced. "Let it be, I tell you, Simeon. In any case we must destroy these outlaws of Sherwood or they will destroy us. If they be not exterminated by the end of this year my father will cease to be Sheriff." "May the Lord forbid!" cried Carfax, startled. "Ay, and we shall be poor folk, Simeon, unworthy of you, no doubt. But that is not yet. Take this note, and send it how you will so long as it comes to this girl's hands within two days." Carfax accepted the charge; and went into the lodgings of one who had entered the town within the last few hours--none other, indeed, than Geoffrey de Montfichet, who had brought Master Simeon the startling news of the King's sudden death. Geoffrey perceived that he might openly show himself now if the Sheriff would but ignore the dead King's decree of exile passed upon him. He was sounding Carfax in the matter, and the wily go-between was temporizing in his usual way--trying to make some gain to himself out of one or the other of them. "If you will but carry this letter to Mistress Fitzwalter, who is with thy cousin Robin Fitzooth in Barnesdale, Sir Knight," said Simeon, plausibly, "you will win the gratitude of the Sheriff's daughter, at the least; and she doth rule the roost here, as I can tell you. 'Tis but a letter from Master Fitzwalter to his child." "I know the woods and will take the note," Geoffrey said. "See to it that Monceux does not move against me." "His girl will tie his hands, if need be," grinned Carfax. "Ay, she can drive us all. God speed you, Sir Knight." * * * * * It fell out that whilst Robin was walking alone near the highroad to York, close to that very bridge whereon he had fought with Little John, he perceived a smart stranger dressed in scarlet and silk. Just as Robin espied this gay gentleman and was marvelling at his daring in walking these woods so coolly, unattended by squire or guard, the knight deftly fitted an arrow to his bow, and with a clever shot brought down a fine stag. "Well hit," cried Robin, who could never abstain from admiration of a good bowman. "You have used your bow full well, Sir Knight." The scarlet knight turned towards Robin, and, taking him for some husbandman or hind, called out in high tones, asking how he dared to speak to his betters in that insolent way. "How is one to know one's betters, Sir Knight?" queried Robin, cheerfully. "A noble is not always known by his dress, but rather by his manners and his deeds." "Your insolence shall be well paid for," returned the other, putting by his bow and drawing his sword. Without further argument he approached Robin angrily, and struck at him with meaning. Robin was too quick for him, however, and caught the blow upon the edge of his own trusty blade. After a few passes Robin feinted, and, catching the other unawares, dealt him a thwack with the flat of his blade. The scarlet stranger reeled under the blow. "I find you are not so mean a person as I had thought," observed he, in a series of gasps. "Yet, even now, 'tis not amiss that you should have a lesson." With that the two engaged heartily, and fought for nigh an hour, without either side gaining an advantage. At length he succeeded in pricking Robin on the cheek. "Hast enough, fellow?" "A rest would be welcome," admitted Robin, with a laugh. They called a truce and sat down side by side beneath a tree. The stranger eyed Robin thoughtfully; and Robin glanced back at him, with his suspicions slowly growing to certainty. Presently: "You are he whom they call Robin Hood, I take it," said the stranger, "although I do not know you by such a strange name." "It is my own name," replied the outlaw, "and I am proud of it. Are you not Geoffrey of Gamewell?" "That _was_ my name, cousin, even as yours was once Robin Fitzooth, but now I call myself Will Scarlett. 'Tis a whimsey; but since Geoffrey Montfichet has a bigger price on his head than I can afford to pay, why, I have buried him under a prettier name! But tell me why you are dressed so plainly. On my life, I did not know you when first we met." "A man should have clothes to suit his work, cousin," argued Robin. "And 'tis a wonder to me that you should have been able to kill yon stag with such a wild color upon you. Howbeit, thy arrow was shrewd enough, and I'll say no more than to tell how well pleased I am to have fallen in with you again. Here's my hand in all true affection, cousin Scarlett." "And mine, cousin Hood." They carried the stag between them to Barnesdale; and Robin learned that his cousin had a letter with him for Marian. When Robin heard who had given it to Will Scarlett his suspicions were immediately awakened. "However, let us give Marian the letter, and see what she may think upon it," he observed. "There cannot be much harm in that." Thus did Mistress Monceux succeed admirably in the first part of her scheme. * * * * * Soon as Marian had had her letter she was all agog to go back into Nottingham. She showed the scroll to Robin, and though his heart misgave him he could hardly say her nay. No doubt as to the genuineness of the letter occurred to Marian: she knew her father's peculiarly awkward handwriting too well. Certainly the phrasing of it seemed a little too easy for so plain a man, yet since he had been so long in London he had, of course, acquired Court ways. On the third week in September Marian determined to return to her old home, and take the risk of any treachery. "Allan-a-Dale and Fennel shall go with you, dear heart," said Robin. "Why not? They can appear as your father's guests, and the two maids will help you keep house. Also Warrenton shall go as Allan's man. I can be sure that these faithful ones will guard my pretty love from all harm." "Am I indeed your pretty love?" asked Marian, in foolish happiness; "are you sure that you would not have some other maid--to wit, the demoiselle Marie? She hath an eye for you, as I know--for all she seemeth so much our enemy. Trust a woman for finding out another woman's secret!" Mistress Fennel was not loth to leave the greenwood. In the summer months the life was none too bad a one, but now that September mists and rains were upon Barnesdale, the young wife shivered and complained. "Hereford is the only one we need fear, after all," Allan admitted; "your old baron would never look for us in Nottingham." "And the Bishop is in London," said Marian, showing her letter. "See what my father saith." Therefore Robin and his men were left to their own devices in the matter of cooking and kitchen work soon as September's third week had come and gone. Allan-a-Dale, Warrenton, the two girls and their two maids, all travelled into Nottingham on the best horses that the outlaws could provide, under escort so far as Gamewell. They were secretly watched into the town, that Robin might be sure no one attempted any treachery. It was arranged that Allan should come himself to Gamewell, and seek the Squire's friendship on some near occasion. Then he might tell the old man about Marian and how she had left his roof. Montfichet would not be vexed with her, Marian felt. If he were, she would come herself, and coax him. Also either Allan or Warrenton would find means to send Robin news of the household, and tell him whether Fitzwalter returned as the latter promised. So all safeguards that wit could devise were taken, and Robin, having kissed her little fingers very tenderly, left Marian with her cortège, upon the road by Gamewell, and having satisfied himself that all had gained safe entrance to Nottingham, journeyed back to the caves at Barnesdale with quiet mien. His heart told him to suspect some evil plot--yet where could he find one? Scarlett, his own cousin, had brought the letter, and Marian had recognized the writing. Oh, how dull the caves and the woods seemed without her! Tuck and the miller had employed themselves in cooking them all a royal dinner; and Stuteley tried his best to lighten the gloom. Robin laughed with them, and sought to hide his grief, feeling it to be unmanly. But never had he enjoyed a feast so little in the free woods as this one. Good food and good company he had, but not that salt with which to savor them--a merry heart. CHAPTER XXVII The autumn ripened into winter. Allan found means to send Robin news of them often: Master Fitzwalter had not returned; but had sent another letter saying that he would do so ere long. They all were happy and unmolested in the city. Of the Sheriff and his daughter they had seen nothing. That Warrenton was well, and that they had gotten them a man-cook and other servants. Marian wrote little crabbed messages to him. Brief and ill-spelt as they were, they became Robin's chiefest treasures. Marian forebore making any attempt to see her love, for fear that she might be watched and followed, and so bring about Robin's capture. She fretted sorely at this restraint placed upon her by Allan's more prudent hands. The demoiselle Marie had made a miscalculation. She knew that presently Robin would seek Marian, even in the lion's mouth. _Then_ would come the day of the Sheriff's triumph. The little house of the Fitzwalters was spied upon from within. No one bethought them of this new cook. Had Little John once espied him there would have been a different tale to tell, however. He had offered his services to Warrenton at a small premium, saying that he had lost his last place with being too fond of his bed. He said his name was Roger de Burgh, and that he came of good family. The wages he asked were so small, and he seemed so willing, and had been so frank as to his failing, that Marian bade him take up his quarters forthwith in her father's house. Life passed uneventfully for them in the Fitzwalter household. It was neither happy nor unhappy. Mistress Fennel found it vastly more amusing than the draughty caves of Barnesdale; but then Mistress Fennel had her dear--and Marian had not. She was vaguely disturbed at her father's lengthened absence. Surely he should by now have determined where he would live--Nottingham or London. The months crawled on and Christmas came and went. Marian was still tied to Nottingham streets and Robin to Barnesdale woods. This state of inactivity had told much upon the greenwood men--upon Little John most of all. At last the big fellow fell out with Friar Tuck, and began to grumble at everyone in turn. Robin, in despair, bade him go into Nottingham, to see how the land lay there. "If you must be breaking someone's head, Little John, let it be one of our enemies who shall suffer. But have a care, for your tongue is as long as your body. Choose a cunning disguise therefor." "I will go as a beggar," said Little John, brightening up at the prospect of adventure. "For a beggar may chatter as much as he will--'tis part of his trade." So clad all in rags, and bent double as though with age, Little John went forth from their caves upon a February morning. He supported himself with a stout oak staff, and carried two great bags upon his shoulders. One held his food, and the other was to be refuge for anything of note that he might find left about--such as Sheriff's plate, to wit, or a Bishop's valuables. He encountered four fellows of the like profession near by Nottingham north gate. One was dumb, another blind, the other two halt and lame. "Give you good morrow, brothers," said he, in a gruff voice. "It's my fortune that brings me to you, for I am in sore need of company. What is there a-doing in Nottingham since the bells be ringing a-merrily? Are they hanging a man, or skinning a beggar?" "Neither one nor the other, you crooked churl," replied one of the crippled beggars. "The Sheriff is returned from London with his daughter, and the folk are giving him a welcome, such as you will never have from the city! Stand back, for there is no room for you there. Four of us as it is are too many, and we have come here to settle who shall go on and who turn back." "And how will you settle such a knotty point, gossip?" "Marry, with our sticks," retorted the beggar, threateningly. "But first we will dispose of you;" and he made a fierce blow at Little John. "If it be a fight that your stomachs are yearning for--why, I am the man for you all," Little John said at once, "and I will beat the four of you heartily, whether you be friends or enemies." Then he began to twirl his staff right merrily, and gave the dumb fellow such a crack upon his crown that he began to roar lustily. "Why, I am a doctor, then, since I can cure dumbness," cried the outlaw. "Now let me see whether I can mend your broken leg, gossip," and he cut the first cripple so suddenly across the shins that he dropped his staff and commenced to dance with pain. "Now for your eyes, friend." But the blind one did not wait for the cure. He took to his heels forthwith, running surprisingly straight. The other lame one ran after him full as fast. Little John caught them after a short chase, and dusted their rags thoroughly. "Give you good day, brothers," said he, then, well satisfied. "Now I am going to welcome the Sheriff, and, as you say Nottingham is too small a place for us all, therefore speed you towards Lincoln; 'tis a pretty town and none too far for such strong legs." His flourishing stick spoke even more eloquently. The four of them shuffled away speedily, sore in their minds and bodies. Nottingham was gay indeed. The Sheriff had returned from London, where he had been in order to gain more time for the capture of Robin Hood and his men. His daughter had complete faith in her scheme--it was bound in the end to be successful. "Be patient, and all will be well," she told her father. But Christmas was the end of the time which Prince John had allowed Monceux for Robin's capture. Therefore, both the Sheriff and his daughter had journeyed to Court to see what instructions had been left, and whether they might not get the time extended. They contrived by spending much money in bribes, and in giving grand entertainments, to achieve their ends. King Richard was away in the Holy Land. Prince John was well employed in stirring up the barons to espouse him as King while there was such an opening. There was thus no actual monarch, and none in the Court to care much about the Sheriff or Robin. Those high in authority accepted the Sheriff's bribes, and bade him take till Doomsday. Squire Montfichet, who was, as we know, a staunch supporter of the old order of things, would recognize no other King than Richard. As a matter of fact, the old man had no great love for him, but he was, after all, the true King, and Montfichet threw all his weight into the scale against John. The Saxon nobles were also active, feeling that now was their chance to recover power. So Monceux and the demoiselle saw for themselves that they had nothing to fear from the Court, at any rate. They had stayed and enjoyed themselves in the city, and the Sheriff was able to make himself presently very useful. The Princess of Aragon, one of the Court beauties, had need of an escort to York. She was going there to be married (much against her royal will) to one of the great Saxon notables. This was an arrangement made by the Richard party, in the hopes of winning the Saxons to themselves, as against John, who had already Salisbury, De Bray, and the cunning Fitzurse upon his side. The Sheriff had arrived with his train in great state, just as Little John entered Nottingham. The outlaw came in by the north gate, as Monceux, proud of escorting the pretty Princess, entered by the south. Nottingham was gay with bunting and flags, and the bells were ringing noisily. It was a royal procession, and soon as Little John was able to join with it his bag began to swell rapidly. Many a pocket did his sharp knife slice away from the side of unsuspecting wealthy citizens. Sports were held in the fields, and the beggar had a merry time of it. Towards nightfall his bags were both filled, and he began to think it about time to attend to the commissions which Robin had laid upon him. This was to convey a letter to Marian, and to discover how Allan-a-Dale and his little wife were faring. Little John shuffled with his bags along the narrow streets until he came to the house. He began to cry his wares, calling out that he was ready to change new goods for old ones, that he would buy old clothes and give good money for them. Marian and the rest had, however, gone to see the sights, for there were to be illuminations. Only Roger the cook had been left in charge, and he, having glanced once at the noisy beggar, angrily bade him begone. Little John only shouted the louder, and the cook furiously flung to the casement windows. The beggar passed by the house slowly, still calling "old clothes," as if he had not even noticed the angry cook. Yet Roger's few angry words had awoke sharp recognition in Little John. "By my rags and bags," muttered he, amazed, "this rascal needeth much killing!" The scene in the Sheriff's kitchen arose before him. "This time I will fling you into the river, Master Roger--be sure of it. I wonder what evil hath brought you to this house of all others! If by chance you have harmed any one of them vengeance shall fall upon you swift and deadly." A thin rain had commenced to fall, and so the beggar turned back. The house was dark and silent. The beggar stopped in front of it uncertainly, grumbling under his breath at the driving rain. Just as he was about to move towards the door, the click of its latch warned him to jump back into the shadows of the next house. A white face looked out of the Fitzwalter home, stealthily peering right and left. Little John crept farther into the shadows. The cook came out into the wet road. He seemed to be scared and troubled. After a moment's pause he returned to the house, entered it silently, and Little John heard the latch click once more. "Now, what mischief is in the air?" thought Little John. "Some knavish business doubtless, or my friend Roger would not be in it. By my faith, I do mistrust that man." He went back into the middle of the road with his sacks, and commenced crying his wares afresh. Almost at once Roger opened the door again. "A murrain upon you, noisy rascal," he called; "can you not be still?" "Ay, truly, an it pay me," answered Little John, lurching towards him, as though he were tipsy. "Can I strike a bargain with you, gossip?" "What have you in the sacks, beggar?" "Everything in the world, brother. I have gifts for the rich, presents for the poor." "Have you anything fit for a cook?" asked Roger. "I have a basting spoon and a spit." "I will give you meat and bread--much as you can carry--if you have such a spoon as my kitchen lacks," whispered Roger. Little John dived his hand into a sack, and brought out a silver ladle, which he had stolen from a shop that day. Roger took it eagerly, and his fingers were icy cold. "Put your sacks down by the door, dear gossip," said Roger, after a moment's pause. "_Here_ they will be out of the rain. I must go within to examine this ladle." "Have you not a tankard of ale to give me?" begged Little John, "I am worn with the day." "Enter, friend," Roger said then. "Tread lightly, for fear we disturb my folk." He took Little John into the dark passage. "I'll bring your sacks in for you, whilst you are here," continued Roger, very obligingly; and before the other could say him yea or nay, he had pulled the sacks into the house and had closed the door tightly. It was very dark, and Little John thought it only prudent to keep his fingers on his knife. He heard the cook rustling about near to him, and presently came a faint sound as if one of the sacks had bulged forward and shifted its contents. "Hasten with the ale, good friend," whispered Little John, hoarsely. "I feel mighty drowsy in this close place; soon I shall be asleep." Roger's voice answered him then softly from the end of the narrow hall, and almost at once the cook appeared with a lantern. He came creakingly over the boards, and handed Little John a mug of beer. "Your ladle is of the right sort, dear gossip," he announced, "and I will give you a penny for it." "Twenty silver pennies is my price for the spoon," answered Little John, tossing off the ale at a draught. "Give it to me, brother, or return me my spoon. I do not find your ale to my taste," he added, wiping his mouth. Roger opened the door roughly. "Then begone, ungrateful churl," he cried, forgetting his caution. He tried to push Little John roughly out into the night. "What! would you try to steal my bags?" roared Little John, suddenly snatching hold of Roger by the scruff of his neck. "You villain--you rascally wretch--you withered apple!" He tossed and shook Roger like a rat, and finally flung him into the center of the muddy road. "Help! help!" screamed the cook, at the full pitch of his voice. "Help! a thief, a thief! Help! murder! help!" His cries at once attracted notice. The dull, dead street became instantly alive. With an angry exclamation Little John dashed into the passage, seized up his bags, and fled, stepping upon the writhing body of the cook as he ran. Little John turned the first corner at top speed. Three men rushed at him with drawn swords. He swung his bags right and left and felled two of them. The third he butted with his head, and the man asked no more. Under the wet driving night Little John ran. The bags sadly impeded him, but he would not let them go. He darted down a little court to avoid a dozen clutching hands, and fancied he had now safety. He paused, drawing in his breath with a sob. The race had tried him terribly. The court was all dark, and his pursuers had overshot it; next instant, however, they recovered the scent and were upon him full cry. Little John, snatching his bags, dashed up to the end of the alley. There was a door, which yielded to him. Next instant he had plunged into the open lighted space before Nottingham Castle, into the midst of a shouting throng. The illuminations had not been a success, owing to the rain, but they gave enough light to achieve Little John's undoing. The beggar was seized and his bags were torn from him, just as those other pursuers sprang out through the alley. "He hath robbed a house, and killed a man," shouted the foremost. "Hold him fast and sure." "Nay--I have killed no one," cried the giant, struggling hopelessly and desperately. "Take my bags an you will; I was but bearing them to my master." "Pretty goods to be carrying, indeed," said a voice, as someone turned one bag upside down. On to the hard wet stones rolled a number of things collected by this industrious outlaw--pockets, daggers, purses, knives, pieces of gold, and pennies of silver, a motley company of valuables. "They are my master's," panted Little John, furiously. "Let them be." "See what he hath in the other sack," cried another. "He seemeth to have robbed our butchers also." The sack was opened, and the contents laid bare. A sudden silence fell upon the crowd, a silence of horror and hate. Then a thousand tongues spoke at once, and Little John, frozen cold with loathing, saw under the flickering lamps a dreadful thing. Out of the second sack had fallen the limbless trunk of a dead man, cold and appalling even in this uncertain light. A head, severed through the jugular arteries, rolled at his feet, grinning and ghastly. "'Tis Master Fitzwalter," whispered one, in a lull. "Dead and dishonored----" The clamor became deafening, and Little John felt his senses failing fast. He was beaten and struck at by them all; they tore at him, and cursed him. Their blows and their rage were as nothing beside the thought of that awful thing upon the ground. The crowd and the lamps reeled and swam before the outlaw's eyes and became blurred. But the grim vision of that dreadful body became plainer and plainer to him. It assumed terrible proportions, shutting out all else. CHAPTER XXVIII As the days sped on and nothing was heard of Little John, Robin began to grow more and more anxious. He made up his mind to go himself into Nottingham and there see Marian, and discover and (if need be) rescue his faithful herdsman. All the greenwood men were against him in this, however, and for once had their own way. "Let me go, Master," begged Stuteley; "for my life is of little account compared with yours." "I will go," said Scarlett. "There is no such animus in the Sheriff's mind against me as he hath against the rest of you. I can ask for Master Carfax and he will perforce treat me fairly." "I am not so sure of it," said Robin, significantly; "I would not trust Master Simeon further than a rope would hold him. Still, what you say is fair enough, cousin, and if you will go into the city for us we shall all be grateful. For my part, I would dearly like to accompany you." "Your duty is here," answered Scarlett. "Rely on me. I will find out what hath chanced to Little John, and will also attend Mistress Fitzwalter." Will Scarlett started at once, and bore himself so well that he made sight of Gamewell within two hours. He paused for a moment without his father's house, regarding the old place with half scornful eyes. Then, "What is to be, must be," said Will, to hearten himself. He walked on toward Nottingham meditatively. If he could have met old Gamewell then and there he would have stopped him and asked his forgiveness. 'Twas in the morning, the sweet fresh morn, in the happy woods, wherein birds fluttered and sang tenderly, and the peaceful deer fed placidly on the close grass of the glades. This sylvan picture was disturbed rudely for him. A stag, wild and furious, dashed out suddenly from amongst the trees, scattering the does in terrified alarm. The vicious beast eyed Will in his bright dress, and, lowering its head, charged at him furiously. Will nimbly sprang aside, and having gained shelter of an oak, scrambled hurriedly into its branches. The stag turned about and dashed itself at the tree. "Now am I right glad not to be in your path, gentle friend," murmured Scarlett, trying to fix himself on the branches so that he might be able to draw an arrow. "Sorry indeed would be anyone's plight who should encounter you in this black humor." Scarcely had he spoken when he saw the stag suddenly startle and fix its glances rigidly on the bushes to the left of it. These were parted by a delicate hand, and through the opening appeared the figure of a young girl. She advanced, unconscious alike of Will's horrified gaze and the evil fury of the stag. She saw the beast, standing as if irresolute, there, and held out her hand to it with a pretty gesture, making a little sound with her lips as if to call it to her side. "For the love of God, dear lady----" cried Will. And then the words died on his throat. With a savage snort of rage the beast had rushed at this easy victim, and with a side blow of its antlers had stretched her upon the ground. It now lowered its head, preparing to gore her to death. Already its cruel horns had brushed across her once. A piteous cry rang through the woods. Will set his teeth, and swung himself to the ground noiselessly. Then he quickly dropped to his knee, and was aiming his shaft whilst the stag was making ready for a more deadly effort. Will's arrow struck it with terrific force full in the center of its forehead. The stag fell dead across the body of the fainting maid. Will Scarlett had soon dragged the beast from off the girl, and had picked her up in his strong arms. He bore her swiftly to the side of one of the many brooks in the vale. He dashed cool water upon her face, roughly almost, in his agony of fear that she was already dead, and he could have shed tears of joy to see those poor closed eyelids tremble. He redoubled his efforts; and presently she gave a little gasp: "Where am I, what is't?" "You are here, dear maid, in the forest of Sherwood, and are safe." She opened her eyes then, and sat up. "Methinks that there was danger about me, and death," she said, wonderingly. Then recognition shone in her face, and she incontinently began to bind her fallen hair and tidy her disordered dress. "Is it you, indeed, Master Scarlett?" she asked. "Ay, 'tis I. And, thank Heaven, in time to do you a service." Will's tones were deep and full of feeling. "I am always in your debt, Master Will," she said, pouting, "and now you have me at grievous disadvantage. Tell me where you have been, and why you did leave cousin Richard and France?" "Once I had no safety there," replied Will, with meaning, "neither for myself nor for my heart. As for my leaving Richard's Court, why, foolishly, I would be always where you are." "So you have followed me, then; is that what I am to believe?" The maid smiled. "I will confess, I did know that you were come to London, and I was glad, Will, for I had not too many friends in England, nor have them now, it would seem. But why was there no safety for you in London? And where have you hidden yourself of late?" "There is a price upon my head. I am in exile. You know me as Will Scarlett, but in sooth my name is not so Saxon." "I hate the Saxons," said the maid, pettishly. She had risen to her feet, but still was troubled about her tumbled hair. "I am to be married to one, and so have run away. That is why I am wandering in this stupid wood." "Call it not stupid, it hath brought you to me once more," whispered Will, taking her hands; "and so you do not love this man after all? Is it so? Had I but known!" "Didst leave London because of _that_?" asked she, lightly. "Ay, but men know how to cozen us! I'll not believe a foolish thing, not if you were to tell it me a thousand times." "I'll tell it to you once, sweetheart. I did leave London because I learned that you were to be married to another. Life had no more to teach me than that one thing, and it was enough. For what was left for me to learn? I had loved you and loved you so well, and had loved you in vain." "Had loved, Will? Is thy love so small, then, that it burns out like a candle, within an hour? I had believed----" But Master Scarlett suddenly took this wilful maid to his heart. "I do love you, oh, my dear, with all my body and my life--till the end of ends, in waking and sleeping. And so I pledge my troth." She struggled out of his arms. "I am encumbered with wild beasts at each step," cried she, all rosy and breathless. "One would kill me for blind rage, the other for love. Oh, I do not know which to fear the most. There, you may kiss my hand, Will, and I will take you for my man, since it seems that I am to be married whether I will or no. But _you_ must carry the tidings to my Saxon in York, and, beshrew me, I hope he will not take it too hardly, for your sake." "And yours also." Scarlett was holding her again. "I like you well enough to be sorry if he should hurt you," said this teasing little Princess. She looked up at him, and then dropped her lashes. "Do you _truly_ love me, Will? For truly do I love you." And so the Princess of Aragon elected to marry Geoffrey of Montfichet, notwithstanding the politic choice of husband made for her by the wise old men in London town. They walked on together towards Nottingham, quietly, and in deep content with the world. They encountered a stately little cavalcade near by the gates of the city, and knew themselves observed ere they could hope to avoid them. Putting a bold face on it, the lovers stood on one side, to permit this company to pass them. An old man, richly dressed, came first, followed at a respectful distance by six horsemen. The Princess watched them in happy indifference. Her frank glance roved from one to the other of the would-be steadfast faces before her. She turned her head to gaze again at the absorbed old man who led the company. Then she checked herself in a little exclamation; and hastily averted her face. It was too late, the old fellow had been roused from his apathy. He reined in his grey horse, and asked over his shoulder: "Who are these, Jacquelaine?" The esquire so addressed at once rode forward, but before he could speak his master had discovered an answer for himself. He had fixed fierce eyes upon Master Scarlett, and made a scornful gesture. "So 'tis you, Geoffrey, daring death now for the sake of some country wench? Ay, but you will end upon the gallows, for sure." "I shall not ask you to pray at my bedside," retorted Scarlett, bitterly. The Princess suddenly whipped round. "Who are you, Sir Churl, to talk of gallows and the like to us? Hast come from a hanging thyself? There is one a foot in Nottingham, I mind me." It was now the turn of the old knight to exclaim. "Princess, _you_?" gasped he, in sheer amaze. He tumbled from his horse to the ground, and with old-fashioned courtesy knelt before her. She put out her hand for him to kiss. "Rise, Master Montfichet, I pray you, 'tis not your place to kneel to me," she said, with her little Court smile. The other horsemen had dismounted and now stood apart from the trio. The Princess was the first to speak, so soon as the old Squire had risen. "Master Montfichet and Will Scarlett, pray let me make you known to each other," she said, prettily. "This is Squire George of Gamewell, a good friend and honest adviser to me, although I do not always listen to him as I should," she laughed, easily. "_This_ is Master Will Scarlett, whom I have known both in France and now again in England. He hath but now saved me from a dreadful death." She paused; then added quickly and a little nervously: "My life is his, in short, Master Montfichet, and so--and so I have given it to him. We are to be married, and live in the greenwood. Therefore, you are not to speak slightingly of Master Scarlett in my presence." Consternation, astonishment and gratification struggled together mightily in the Squire's breast. "Geoffrey, you!" he said again. "But this is beyond belief." "Therefore believe it," spoke the Princess, lightly; "for _that_ will show you to be no common man." "Sir," said Geoffrey, kneeling before his father, "I pray you forgive both my rash words just now and all my seeming ingratitude. I am very fain to be friends again with you, and I do swear to be more dutiful in the years to come. Will you take my hand?" "Ay, freely as it is offered. God save us; but who am I to be stubborn of will, in the face of these miracles?" "Do the miracles work happiness for you, Master Montfichet?" enquired the maid, archly. "Ay, marry. But the King will never consent to this business, be sure of it. _You_ marrying my son--a commoner!" "Your son?" It was now the Princess's turn to be amazed. But soon the matter was explained to her. "So, Will, you have begun by deceiving me; a bad beginning." "I was trying to tell you, dear heart, when we made this encounter. Was I not saying that my father lived near by here? Did I not tell you that he was a Norman----" "There, there, do not fret your dear self. I will marry you, whether you be Will Scarlett or Geoffrey of Montfichet. It is yourself I need, after all." "Take my steed and ride with us to Gamewell. There, at least, I must keep thee, Princess, until the King hath given his sanction to this marriage. _You_ to rule over Gamewell? In sooth I will be a joyful man upon that day." "And I," murmured Master Scarlett. So they turned back towards Gamewell, and only when they were in sight of it did Scarlett remember poor Little John. Then he stopped short, reining in the horse which one of the knights had lent to him. The Princess had accepted loan of the esquire Jacquelaine's palfrey. Will soon had told them this errand which he had come so near to forgetting altogether. "If this be the man they call John Little Nailor," said the Princess, sorrowfully, "why, he is in perilous plight. You have but just ridden through Nottingham, I take it, Master Montfichet, and have some of its news?" "They do not seem yet to know of your adventurings, Princess." "No, surely; for what is a woman, missing or to hand, when there is red murder abroad? This poor fellow, whom I do believe to be innocent, was accused of theft by a rascally cook, and was pursued. 'Twas the night of our return. They chased him from pillar to post, and presently caught him close to the castle. He had two bags with him." "'Tis Little John, then," cried Scarlett; "I saw him go out with the sacks across his back." "In one of them they found many things that other folk had strangely lost," said the Princess, with a little grimace. "In the other there was the dead, dishonored body of a good citizen foully done to death." Her listeners stared in their amazement. "It is a Master Fitzwalter who hath been so cruelly murdered," continued the Princess, her color coming and going. "This Little John swears that the cook did kill his master; and whilst he, Little John, was resting in Fitzwalter's house this rascal fellow must have changed the sacks." "Fitzwalter, the warden of the gates? I knew him well. Why, he left us but three weeks since to travel to Nottingham. It seems that he had sent a messenger to his girl there that she was to follow him, but either his letter miscarried or the maid would not. So poor Fitzwalter, busy as he was, must needs return to meet his death." "Who is this cook?" asked Scarlett. "An evil character, he hath altogether. Once he was of an outlaw robber band, headed here in these very woods under one Will of Cloudesley." "Tell me, is he called Roger de Burgh?" asked Will. "That is his name," answered the Princess, surprised; "do you know aught of him?" "I know much evil of him," replied her lover; and then he told them how this very Roger had planned to take his (Will's) life, and how Robin had saved him. The Squire nodded. "I remember," said he, slowly. "Ay, Robin was always a good lad. This news of yours will stagger him, for he is betrothed to Mistress Fitzwalter, daughter of him who hath so dreadfully met his end." "The two of them were arraigned, I must tell you," went on the Princess, "and both were to be racked. But they did not put it too hardly upon Master Roger, as I have reason to know, wherefore he was able to maintain his innocence; whilst the other, in his bitter anguish, made confession of a crime which he did never commit." "And they are hanging him whilst I stand idly here," cried Scarlett, turning to horse. "I must leave you, sweet; forgive me. Here is a man's life in the balance." "What would you, Will?" she asked, fearfully. "The hanging is fixed for the Thursday in next week." "Before then he shall be free," said Will Scarlett, firmly. "Farewell, dear heart. Wait for me here at Gamewell; my father will be good host to you, I know." "The maid Fitzwalter was lodging with us when I was called to London," the Squire began. "She is now in Nottingham, sir. It is a story which I will tell you later. Now give me farewell, and your blessing." "God's blessing be in you, Geoffrey, my son," said the Squire. It was the first time for many years that he had called Geoffrey by that name. "And take all my heart with you, Will." The voice of this little Princess was husky; and a sob sounded in her throat. "Be cautious, and return soon to me." She watched his swift retreating figure as he sped towards Nottingham, there to argue it with Master Carfax. CHAPTER XXIX The day after Scarlett's departure found Robin in frantic mood. Two emissaries had he sent out to gain news of Marian, and neither had returned. He had had now no direct tidings of her for nigh on three months. Little John's silence, too, disturbed him. Robin determined that he would see Marian, at least, this day, or die in the attempt. So, notwithstanding all that the rest could urge, their leader started away on foot towards the city. He walked quickly, and his mind was so filled with dreadful thoughts that he exercised little of his usual care. Emerging suddenly upon the high road, he plunged almost into the arms of his enemy, the Lord Bishop of Hereford. It was too late for Robin to retreat, and he was too far away for him to wind his horn in the hope of rousing his men. The Bishop rode at the head of a goodly company and had already espied him. About a mile away, near by the roadside, was a little tumble-down cottage. Robin remembered it and saw his only chance of safety. At once he doubled back through the underwood, much to the surprise of the Bishop, who thought he had truly disappeared by magic. In a few minutes Robin had come to the little cottage. The owner of the place, a little crabbed old woman, rose up with a cry of alarm. "'Tis I, Robin Hood; where are your three sons?" "They are with you, Robin. Well do you know that. Do they not owe life to you?" "Help now repay the debt," said Robin, in a breath. "The Bishop will soon be without, and he has many men." "I will save you, Robin," cried the old woman, bustlingly. "We will change raiment, and you shall go forth as the poor lone woman of this cot. Go without and strip yourself speedily; and throw me your clothes through the doorway." Robin was in the garden and had slipped out of his Lincoln green in a moment. He clad himself with equal celerity in the old woman's rags, as she flung them out to him one by one. The Bishop perceived an old decrepit woman hobbling across the road, as he with his company came hastening down it. He bade one of his fellows to stay her, and ask if she had seen such and such a man. The soldier gave her a full and vivid description of Robin Hood. The old woman, thus rudely prevented from gathering her sticks--already she had a little handful of them--answered that there _was_ a man within her cottage; and that she would be right glad if my lord Bishop would cause him to be driven out of it. "In sooth, my good gentlemen, he is none other than that vagabond Robin Hood," piped she. "Enough!" cried the Bishop, triumphantly. "Enter the cottage, men; beat down the door, if need be. A purse of gold pieces is already offered for the capture of Robin Hood, and I will give a hundred beside!" The old woman was released, and went on gathering twigs for her fire. Little by little she edged towards the forest, and while the Bishop's men were beating down her cottage door she vanished between the trees. Then she began to run, with surprising quickness, towards Barnesdale. Stuteley encountered her presently, and was at first prepared to treat her in rough fashion. "Hold your hand, sweet Will," cried Robin, "it is I, your master. Summon our fellows, and return with me speedily. My lord of Hereford is come again to Sherwood." When Will had done laughing he blew his horn. "Why, mistress," said he, turning his grinning face to Robin as though seized with a notion, "is not this the day when the knight Sir Richard of the Lee--he to whom you gave Arthur-à-Bland--swore he would return to pay us our moneys?" "'Tis near the time, in sooth," admitted Robin. "Then surely he hath sent the Bishop to us, not being able to come himself?" argued Will. "We will see if the Bishop is carrying four hundred gold pennies with him. If it be so, then I am right, indeed." * * * * * The Bishop, for all his bold words, had not yet nerved himself to give the necessary command of death against the person of Robin Hood. Since he would not come out of the cottage, the door must be beaten down. When this had been done the Bishop's men had peeped in. "He is here, hiding," they cried, exultingly. "Shall we slay him with our pikes?" "Nay, keep watch upon and guard this cottage against all comers. Go, one of you, to Nottingham, with all speed, and bring the Sheriff to us, with many men. Say that I bid him here to settle matters with Robin Hood." The good Bishop of Hereford did not intend to give this villain a single chance. Were he brought out into the open, he might, by some magic, contrive an escape. Lying in this hut under the pikes of the Bishop's men he was safe, and if the worst came to the worst might readily be slain. The messenger detached from his escort had not carried the Bishop's message to the Sheriff very far ere his master would have wished to change it. In a moment, whilst my lord of Hereford was complacently gloating over his capture--whilst indeed he was himself peering into the dark cottage in order to catechise his prisoner--there appeared on the high road the shabby figure of that very old woman who had innocently helped to set the trap. She called out in a strident voice to the soldiers about her dwelling. "Stand by, lazy rascals," cried she, "stand away from my gates. What are you doing on my ground?" "Madam," answered the Bishop, turning round to her, "these are my men, and I have given them the order to guard this cottage." "God-a-mercy!" swore the beldame, harshly. "Things have come to a pass in sooth when our homes may be treated like common jails. Take away this robber and your fellows from my house on the instant, or I will curse you all in eating and drinking and sleeping." "Not so fast, mother," argued the Bishop, smiling easily at her simulated rage. "All this has been done by my orders, and is therefore in law." The old woman clapped her hands impatiently. At the signal the greenwood men sprang out on all sides of the cottage. The Bishop saw himself and his men-at-arms trapped; but he determined to make a fight for it. "If one of you but stir an inch towards me, rascals," he cried, spitefully, "it shall be to sound the death of your master Robin Hood. My men have him here under their pikes, and I will command them to kill him forthwith. Further, he shall be killed an you do not at once disperse." Then Robin stepped out before his men. He flung off the old crone's cap which he had worn so cleverly. "Come, kill me, then, lord," he called, cheerfully. "Here am I, waiting for your pikes and their pokes. Hasten to make sure business of it, for I am in no gentle humor." The old woman, who, in the garb of Robin Hood, had been lying silent and still so long within the cottage, jumped up then quite nimbly. In all the bald absurdity of her disguise she came to the door of the cottage and looked forth. "Give you good-den, my lord Bishop," piped she; "and what make _you_ at so humble a door as this? Do you come to bless me and give me alms?" "Ay, marry, that does he!" said Stuteley, coming forward. "To you, mother, and to us also. You must know that my lord bears with him a bag of four hundred pieces from Sir Richard of the Lee, who did borrow this money from us to lend it to my lord." "Now, by all the saints----" began the Bishop. "They are watching you, brother," said Stuteley, impudently, "so be wary in your speech. Give into my hand the four hundred pieces which you took from the knight I have named. You cannot deny that you _did_ take them from him in the June of last year?" "The knight owed them to me, villain," said the Bishop, furiously. He saw that his men were outnumbered, and that all the outlaws had drawn bows aimed against them and him. A word not to the liking of these desperate fellows would loosen fifty horrid shafts upon him. "Sir Richard did owe them to me," he repeated, omitting the epithet. "Hark now to that!" said Robin, still in his disguise. "Listen to it, friends, for ye all were witnesses that Sir Richard swore to me that the Bishop had robbed him, and sought to rob him more. Did not you, in honest truth, lend the knight four hundred pieces, my lord?" "I did not lend him that precise amount," admitted the Bishop. "Four hundred pieces included also the interest of the sum I gave." "Ho! you gave?" Robin snapped up the word. "You gave it, my lord?" "I will not bandy words with you, you false villain," shouted the Bishop, suddenly losing control of himself. "Why do you not charge them, men? Take the word from me, and hew these fellows down as they stand." "They will be well advised to remain as they are," spoke Robin. "See now how we command you all!" He took a bow and arrow out of Much's hands, and sped a shaft so truly towards the purpling Bishop that his mitred cap was sent spinning from off his bald head. My lord turned green and yellow. He had thought himself dead almost. "Take my money, rascals," he quavered, feebly; and Stuteley approached him, cap in hand. "Tied to the saddle of my palfrey you will find my all," murmured the Bishop, sighing deeply. Stuteley took a well-filled bag from under my lord's empty saddle. He spread his cloak upon the road and counted out four hundred pieces into it. "The interest, master?" asked Will, twinkling to Robin. "Pay that to this old woman who hath befriended and saved me; and give her, further, two hundred of the pieces on thy cloak," commanded Robin. "We will share with her, even as she hath already shared with me this day." The outlaws then withdrew, taking with them the old woman and the Bishop's gold. They left him in no great humor; but forebore to provoke him further. This adventure had, however, banished all hope of Robin making his projected journey into Nottingham. He had perforce to return to the caves at Barnesdale, to get changed again into a more befitting dress. The day was old when he was ready to go out once more; and at Stuteley's entreaty Robin consented to wait until the morning. The Bishop lost no time in making Nottingham. He and his men were so ashamed of having been overcome so easily by the greenwood men that they had perforce to magnify Robin's band and its prowess twenty-fold. Amongst the many knights who had followed, hopelessly, in the Princess's train was one whose attentions had ever been very noxious to her. This was a coarse, over-fed, over-confident Norman, brutally skilful in the games at tourneys and ruthless in battles _à outrance_. His name was Guy of Gisborne, and he hailed from the borders of Lancashire. To him had fallen the rich fat acres of Broadweald, that place for which poor Hugh Fitzooth had wrestled vainly for so long. He had persecuted her unavailingly--'twas through a scene with him that Scarlett had come so much into the maid's favor. Sir Guy had followed her to Nottingham, meaning to steal her from the Sheriff at first chance. "No Saxon churl shall hope to carry off this prize from me," thought Sir Guy. "Her beauty pleaseth me, and her fortune will help mine own. Therefore, I will follow her meekly until we come nearer to my own land. Then, perhaps, one night pompous Monceux may find her flown. He will be blamed; and none need know whither the little bird has gone and by whom she hath been trapped." Sir Guy of Gisborne found another in the field with him; the Princess had not waited for him to steal her. The little bird had flown ere Sir Guy's trap had been set. So the Bishop of Hereford found both the Sheriff and Sir Guy in evil humor. My lord told his story, raging against Robin; the Sheriff had his complaint--directed against the Princess in general and no man in particular. "Depend on it, Monceux, this rascal hath stolen away your charge," said the Bishop, in order to stir the Sheriff to greater lengths against Robin. "How can you sit here so idly, first losing your gold plate to him and then your gold? Now, with one blow goeth this Princess who was most solemnly committed to your charge, and with her your good name. For, without doubt, this matter will cost you your office." Monceux was overcome with terror; his eyes started out from his head. "I did hear them speak of some girl betwixt themselves, now that I think on it," continued the Bishop, artfully, noting the effect he had made. "'This woman shall share with us'--ay, those were Robin's very words. The Princess hath been stolen by him." "She last was seen walking towards the woods, 'tis true," murmured the unhappy Sheriff. "But, truly, I am not to blame in this plaguey business." "I will encounter the villain for you, Sheriff," said Sir Guy, with a cunning glance. "And if I do rid you of him, will you swear to stand by me in another matter?" "Surely, surely." "Your word on it, then--here in my lord's holy presence," Sir Guy went on. "This girl hath been told by a council of wiseacres that she must marry some Saxon noble. But her heart is given to another--to myself, in short. Swear that you both will help me to win her, and I will take her from your merry Robin and kill him afterward." They both promised readily that they would do all that he could ask--if only he would kill Robin Hood outright. The Bishop had great influence at Court, and Sir Guy intended that he should smooth matters for him after the abduction of the Princess. The Sheriff was to hold fast to any story that might be necessary, and to swear to the little Princess that Sir Guy of Gisborne was the very Saxon whom she had been ordered to marry. "All this is settled between us," observed the knight, comfortably. "Give me a number of men, all of them good archers, and put them at my sole command. I will go forth to-morrow in a disguise such as will deceive even your wonderful Robin." "We will hold over the hanging and flaying of the other rascal until his master can dance beside him," cried the Sheriff, conceiving Robin to be already caught. CHAPTER XXX Robin started out early in the day towards the city. This time nothing should stay him from entering it--and finding Marian. The demoiselle Marie's plan would surely have succeeded on this day, for Robin was careless of all things but the hope of seeing his dear. Sir Guy of Gisborne was there, however, as Robin's good angel, as we are to see, although Sir Guy had, in truth, no very merciful feelings towards the outlaw. Robin perceived upon the highroad a very strange figure coming towards him. It seemed to be a three-legged monster at first sight, but on coming nearer one might see that 'twas really a poorly clad man, who for a freak had covered up his rags with a capul-hide, nothing more nor less than the sun-dried skin of a horse, complete with head and tail and mane. The skin of the horse's head made a helmet for the man; and the tail gave him the three-legged appearance. "Good morrow, gossip," said Robin, cheerily; "by my bow and by my arrows, I could believe you to be a good archer--you have the shape of one." The man took no offence at this greeting, but told Robin that he had lost his way and was anxious to find it again. "By my faith, I could have believed that you had lost your wits," thought Robin, laughing quietly to himself. "What is your business, friend?" he asked, aloud; "you are dressed in strange clothes and yet seem by your speech to be of gentle blood." "And who are you, forester, to ask me who I am?" "I am one of the King's rangers," replied Robin; "and 'tis my part to look after the King's deer and save them from the wicked arrows of Robin Hood." "Do you know Robin Hood?" asked the man, shrewdly eyeing him. "That do I; and last night I heard that he would be coming alone in a certain part of this wood to meet a maid." "Is that so indeed?" cried the man, eagerly. "'Tis very truth," answered Robin. "And I, knowing this, am going to take him, and carry off both the girl and the reward upon his head." "Tell me, friend, is this girl a little creature, royal looking and very beautiful?" "Marry, she appeared to me a very Princess," cried Robin, with enthusiasm. "We are well met," remarked the yeoman, presently, and speaking as if come to a decision. "Now I will tell you, friend, that I am in search of Robin Hood myself, and will help you to take him. I am Sir Guy of Gisborne, and can make your fortune for you." "And I am Robin Hood, so, prithee, make it quickly for me!" cried Robin, imprudently. Sir Guy was not taken so much aback as Robin had hoped. Quickly he drew his sword from underneath the capul-hide, and he smote at Robin full and foul. Robin parried the thrust with his own true blade, and soon they were at a fierce contest. They fought by the wayside for a long while in a deadly anger, only the sharp clashing of their blades breaking the silence. Then Robin stumbled over the projecting root of a tree; and Sir Guy, who was quick and heavy with his weapon, wounded Robin in his side. The outlaw recovered himself adroitly; and, full of sudden rage, stabbed at the knight under and across his guard. The capul-hide hindered Sir Guy in his attempt at a parry--the horse head fell across his eyes. Next instant Sir Guy of Gisborne went staggering backward with a deep groan, Robin's sword through his throat. "You did bring this upon yourself," muttered Robin, eyeing the body of the knight in vain regret. "Yet you did fall bravely, and in fair fight. You shall be buried honorably." He dragged the body into the bushes; and, having taken off the horse hide, slipped it upon himself. He then perceived that, hanging from the dead man's belt, there was a little silver whistle. "What may this be?" thought Robin. Sir Guy, clothed in old and ragged dress, looked to be a plain yeoman, slain in defence of his life, or mayhap a forester. Pulling the hide well over himself Robin put the little whistle to his lips and blew it shrilly. Instantly, far off to the right of him, sounded an answering note, and again from behind him there was reply. In about four or five minutes twenty of the Sheriff's best archers came running through the wood to Robin's side. "Didst signal for us, lording?" asked the leader of them, approaching Robin. "Ay, see him! I have encountered and slain one of your robber fellows for ye," answered Robin, simulating Sir Guy's voice and manner. "I would have you take up his body upon your shoulders and bear him along this little path, wherefrom he sprang upon me." The archers obeyed him immediately, "Do you follow us, lording?" they asked. "I will lead ye," cried Robin, waving his red sword truculently, "Follow me speedily." Thus he led them after him through the secret paths into Barnesdale, and there blew his horn so suddenly that Stuteley and his fellows were upon the Sheriff's men ere they might drop Sir Guy's dead body to the earth. Robin bade his men disarm the archers, and tie such of them as would not prove amenable. Thus the Sheriff was robbed of his best archers; for these fellows, finding the greenwood men to be of such friendly mind, soon joined in with them. "This is well done, in sooth," said Robin, gently, to himself. "A good day's work; and Monceux will have cause to regret his share in it. Yet am I no nearer Nottingham after all, tho' I have twice sworn that naught should stay me. Stuteley," added he, aloud, calling his squire to his side, "see you that this dead knight be buried with all respect; he fought me well and fairly." "It shall be done, master," answered Will Stuteley; "you may be easy about it. But I would have you listen to the talk of these archers--they have grave news of our comrade Little John. It seems that the Sheriff hath seized him for the killing of thy maid's father, and will presently have him dreadfully hanged and burned." Robin uttered an exclamation of horror. Soon the terrible story was told him, and his brain reeled under the shock of it. All that night he paced the woods until the dawn, then fell incontinently into a deep and heavy slumber. "Disturb him not nor let him take action until I do return," said the comfortable Friar Tuck, in business-like manner. "I know how his distemper will play upon him, and how he will bring us all to grief if he attempts the city again. Now I may go in and out as I will, being a curtal friar and not now remembered in these parts. I will visit the Sheriff and ask for leave to confess Master Little John. Then I will come back to you with the best news I may." * * * * * Geoffrey of Montfichet had ridden into Nottingham on the day before Sir Guy had left it. Carfax had known where the Princess might be found all the while his master, with the Bishop, was busy persuading the Knight of Gisborne that the maid was with Robin. One might be sure, however, that neither Monceux nor Carfax gave out any hint of this knowledge, for to do that would have stayed Sir Guy in his praiseworthy attempt upon the bold outlaw. Geoffrey--Master Scarlett--had found difficult work before him, but he intended to save Little John. He was convinced that the cook had slain Fitzwalter, most likely at the command of some other person interested in the death. Who might this be? Who had profited by the death of so unassuming a man as the late city warden? Carfax treated Scarlett with scant ceremony. The lean-faced fellow devoured the item that the Princess of Aragon was safe at Gamewell, but gave nothing in return. Scarlett had been left to cool his heels in the great hall of Nottingham Castle for near an hour afterward, whilst Simeon Carfax was closeted with the Sheriff. They were having a tidying of the rooms in honor of the Bishop's visit. Whilst Scarlett impatiently waited the good pleasure of Master Carfax the maids were busy carrying many things to and fro; fresh rushes to strew my lord's rooms, candles and tapers, silks and cloths, and brown ewers of water. All the rubbish and sweepings of the floors were borne out in great baskets to the courtyard. One of the maids, a plump, roguish, lazy wench, would only carry her basket so far as the hearth of the hall. A fire was there, why not use it? Also she could ogle and throw sidelong looks at Master Scarlett, who, for his beard and thirty-five grave years, was none so bad a man. This girl was throwing into the open hearth a lot of ends of silk and combings from her mistress's room. She tossed the rubbish on the fire, at the same time eyeing Master Scarlett. Then, finding that he would not notice her, she poutingly returned with her basket upon a fresh journey. Scarlett came over to the fire to pick up some of the burning scraps. They were drifting over the hearth into the room dangerously, thanks to the maid's carelessness. He found in his hand a half-burned piece of parchment, which still fizzled and crackled in quaint malicious fashion. Upon the parchment was an awkward writing, and some of the words showed up very black under the heat. Half idly, Scarlett tried to make sense of them: "This ... dear child Marian, ... her affectionate father ... Court of ... in London town." So far did Master Scarlett read before suddenly the beginnings of the truth flashed upon him. This was the very letter which he had borne to Marian. How had it come into the castle? By what strange magic? Could Marian have carried it here herself? He remembered that she had given it to Robin, and that he had put it into his bosom. "Mistress, you seem indeed to be very busy this day," said Master Scarlett, affably, to the girl next time she appeared. "Do you prepare me a chamber, for it seems that I am to wait here for a week at least." "I am tidying my mistress's room, and have had hard work I promise you," replied the girl, impudently. "Mayhap you will give me a help whilst you wait, Sir Taciturn? This is the fifth basket of rubbish I have borne from the demoiselle Marie's little cupboard." "I will readily help you if you will help me," said Scarlett, pleasantly. "Canst tell me who wrote this little paper? The writing seemeth familiar to mine eyes." "'Tis a piece of my lady's jesting," said the girl, after a glance at the parchment. "'Twas written in imitation of Master Fitzwalter's hand after we had searched his house last year. Ah, poor man, who would have then imagined so hard a fate for him?" She sighed prodigiously, and rolled her eyes. "Tell me the story of this murder, mistress, I pray you." She was not loth to fall a-chattering, and she told Scarlett all she knew of it. From the rambling history he discovered another strange fact, that Roger de Burgh had been cook in the Sheriff's household before he had gone to the Fitzwalter house. Slowly he began to see that the letter he had so blithely put into Marian's hand was a forgery, done by the clever fingers of the demoiselle Marie. "So," thought he, swiftly, "Mistress Fitzwalter was persuaded to return to this place in order that Robin Hood might visit her secretly. The house was watched by a spy from the Sheriff's own kitchen. Soon as Robin came, this spy was to give warning; or, if matters pressed, kill him. But after many months of waiting, _Fitzwalter_ came instead." His quick mind, used to the intrigues and plots of a capricious Court, had unravelled the mystery. Yet how could he act upon this knowledge in the midst of the enemy's camp? If the Sheriff could stoop already to such foul business as this, to what further lengths would he not go? Dismissing himself through the girl, Scarlett strode out of the castle. The air seemed fresher and more wholesome without. He enquired and found his way to the house of grief, and there asked audience with its little heart-broken mistress. * * * * * Whilst Scarlett was plotting and inventing a hundred schemes to save Little John, a poor wandering priest appeared one evening before the gates of Nottingham Castle. Most humbly he begged a little bread and a drink of water; and, having received these, he blessed the place and all within it. "You should not bless _all_ within this castle, Sir Priest," the Sheriff told him. Monceux had pompously administered to the man's simple wants with his own hands. "There is a villain in our cells who hath done wicked murder." The ragged friar asked who that might be; and when he had heard, said that at the least he would confess this poor misguided fellow and so deliver his soul from everlasting punishment. The Sheriff was rather doubtful, but seeing that the priest had no weapon upon him, he gave a sign that he should be admitted to Little John's cell. There the friar found the big outlaw very dejected. "Give you good cheer, brother," said the friar, gently; "I have come to pray with you." "What assistance can your prayers be to me?" asked Little John, sharply; "I am to be hanged to-morrow morn, and all your prayers will scarce alter that." "Anger is a great sin," replied the priest. "I have no sins against God," said Little John; "I have always endeavored to live easily and justly." Then the friar came up close to him, and whispered something in his ear. The outlaw's expression altered at once. "By the Sheriff's rope," muttered he, quite in his old manner, "but I swear that if thou canst get me a weapon----" "Here is a little dagger," said Friar Tuck, pulling it out from under his gown. "'Tis small, but to-morrow it may be of use. I can do no more now; but be ready for us to-morrow, when the last moments are come. Robin Hood will not easily let you die, be sure of it." The friar, after he had left the prison, ran all the way to Barnesdale, under the stars. CHAPTER XXXI It was hardly dawn when a strong guard of soldiers was drawn up without Nottingham Castle, and the prisoner was dragged forth from his cell. Monceux had wisely come to the conclusion that Sir Guy of Gisborne had also failed, and he saw no reason to delay Little John's execution. Early as was the hour, yet both the Sheriff and the Bishop of Hereford were present. The space before the castle was thronged with people. Beside the prisoner walked the castle chaplain. The crowd swayed and roared, and a small disturbance broke out on the right of the Sheriff. At once the soldiers hurried to quell it. As the prisoner neared the gallows, the crowd so bore upon the cart in which he stood upright that progress for a few minutes was out of all question. Another disturbance broke out in the rear of the procession. Next instant the prisoner was seen to have free hands. He stooped and sliced the cords about his feet, and, releasing himself, all at once he sprang out of the cart. Then was an uproar indeed. The soldiers had strict orders that the episode of Stuteley's escape was not to be repeated. But whilst they exerted themselves desperately a sudden hail of arrows fell upon them from the sky, as it were. Robin Hood's horn was heard blowing merrily, and the Sheriff saw the huge mob of people break up into billows of contending portions under his very eyes. "Lock the gates of the city," screamed Carfax, at this juncture. "We have them trapped at last." Little John was free and had seized an axe. Much and Middle had brought bags of meal with them, and both repeated the miller's old trick of flinging the white meal into the eyes of the enemy. Robin had broken up his band into small parties, and all were engaged simultaneously. In less time than it takes to tell, the space without the castle was turned to pandemonium. Again and again Robin's horn sounded, calling them together, and slowly but surely his small parties formed up into a whole, beating their way through the crowd with their swords and axes. So soon as they were together, with Little John safely in the middle of them, they fell to their bows and sped a cloud of arrows amongst the Sheriff's men. Then they turned to retreat, and fell back so suddenly that they had made good start ere Monceux had divined their intent. They sped towards the north gate, that one being nearest to Barnesdale. Crafty Carfax had forestalled them, however. The north gate was closed hard and fast, and the bridge drawn. The outlaws doubled on their track and charged at their pursuers with lowered pikes and waving axes. The crowd before them yielded sullenly and allowed them passage. "To the west gate, Robin, hasten," cried a shrill voice. "'Tis more easily opened than the rest, and the bridge is down--someone hath smashed the winch." Robin's heart leaped in his body--'twas the voice of Gilbert of Blois! "Marian," breathed he, overcome with terror for her, "oh, my dearest!" "Follow, follow!" she cried, with flashing eyes; "there is not a moment to be lost." Robin saw that it was a matter of life or death now in any case. "To the west gate!" he called, "Locksley! a Locksley!" It was the old battle cry, and only a few of them remembered it. Yet it served and served well. The greenwood men formed up into close ranks, and all followed the little page, shouting lustily, "Locksley! a Locksley!" In the rush and hurry Robin saw that Scarlett was there, and Warrenton and Allan-a-Dale. And with the little page ran another, a fair-haired boy, with strangely familiar face. "'Tis Fennel," whispered Allan, at Robin's side. "She would not be left." He spoke as they ran, with the enemy now in full pursuit of them. Every now and again the outlaws turned and sped a hail of arrows into the mob behind them. The west bridge was gained, and Scarlett had dispossessed the warder of his keys in a moment. He unlocked the gates and flung them wide open. The two boys--for so they seemed--raced through and over the broken bridge, and Allan followed next. The outlaws were soon free of the town, and once more in their own element, but Little John must needs go back to cover the retreat with Stuteley. Carfax and the Sheriff were close at hand with their men, furious and determined. Even as the last of Robin's men gained and fell over the bridge, Little John was wounded seriously by a shaft from Simeon Carfax's bow. His cry brought Robin back to his side. In a moment Robin's arms were about him. "Lean on my shoulder, dear heart," cried Robin, and sure 'twas a ludicrous sight to see this stripling seeking to hold up the great form of Little John. They ran along in this way, and the outlaws formed a bodyguard about them. Allan and those in front had fired the dry furze and grasses, and the smoke began to roll heavily against the faces of the soldiers. This gave the greenwood men a small advantage, and they gained the open country; but not for long did the honors of this day rest on one side or the other. The Sheriff and his fellows broke through the fire; and then it was seen that some of them were mounted on fleet horses. Little John begged to be left behind; and again did Robin try to rally him. Onward they ran; and presently found themselves approaching a hill, thickly wooded about the base. They gained cover of these trees, and turned at bay. Hidden behind tree-trunks they sent forth a death volume of peacock-shafts to the Sheriff. Master Carfax was seen to fall, and with him six of the horsemen. The soldiers halted and prepared their crossbows. A volley of their arrows crashed and splintered the trees, whilst Carfax rose up stiffly to give fresh orders. A duello commenced of longbow against crossbow; and as the freebooters could deliver near a dozen shafts to each bolt, they more than held their own. When a bolt _did_ strike, however, death was instant. A man was shot near to Marian, and fell with his head shattered and ghastly. She gave a little scream, and put her hands over her eyes. Robin bade her keep near to him--"Behind me, sweetheart," cried he, feverishly, "that naught may hurt you save through me." So they fought for near an hour; and then the greenwood men saw that reinforcements were coming to their enemies. Robin's horn gave once more the order for retreat. Slowly they fell back through the woods and up the rising ground. "Alas, alas!" cried poor Mistress Fennel, wringing her hands in utter forgetfulness that now she was dressed as a man. "We are undone! Here come others to meet us, with pikes and many men!" Robin saw that upon the hill-top there was a grey castle. From its open gate there poured out a motley crowd of men armed rudely with pikes and with staves. They rushed downward to intercept the outlaws as it seemed, and Robin thought that, in truth, he and his merry men were trapped at last. But--oh, joyful sight!--foremost among those coming from the castle was the once mournful knight Sir Richard of the Lee. He was smiling now and very excited. "A Hood! a Hood!" he cried. "To the rescue. A Hood!" Never was there more welcome sight and hearing than this. Without a word the outlaws raced up to meet their timely friends, and gained shelter of the castle, whilst Sir Richard kept the Sheriff and his fellows at bay. Then, when all were safely across the little drawbridge, the knight gave the word, and fell back upon his stronghold also. The bridge was drawn and the gates clashed together, almost in the frantic, hideous face of Master Simeon, upon whose features showed streaks of blood from his wound and rage commingled. * * * * * The knight stationed his men about the walls. Soon appeared Monceux beneath them alone, and demanding speech. He commanded the knight to deliver up Robin and his men upon pain of assault and burning of the castle with fire. Sir Richard replied briefly. "Show me your warrant, Sir Malapert, and I will consider it," he said, from within the gates. And Master Monceux had no warrant with him. "My word is enough for you, Richard of the Lee," roared he, furiously. "Am I not Sheriff of Nottingham?" "You cannot be the Sheriff of Nottingham, good man," answered the knight, getting ready to close the wicket, "for he is Master Monceux, and is busy escorting the Princess of Aragon towards York. Go to and mend your manners, rascal, and call away these ruffians with you." Then Sir Richard snapped to the wicket gate, and returned to Robin. "Well met, bold Robin," he cried, taking him by both hands. "Well met, indeed. I had intended to ride forth this very day to your home in the woods, to pay you your moneys with my thanks added thereto; but you have happily saved me and mine the journey. Welcome to my castle, recovered to me by your generosity." [Illustration: LITTLE JOHN SINGS A SONG AT THE BANQUET _That evening, whilst Monceux raged and stormed without, they all sat to a great feast._ [** "D.McK." (the illustrator?), below and to the left of the illustration, is probably a part of the illustration. The c is underlined and superscripted. The period after the K is not evident.]] Sir Richard presented his wife to Robin, and his son, who had but just returned from the Holy Land. The knight told him how the last few months had been most prosperous with him, instead of going so badly as he had feared; and explained that now, from one source and another, he was as rich as of yore. "So when we have feasted I will take you to my treasury, and there count you out thy money and its interest faithfully. Yet in ridding myself of this debt I do not free my life of the obligation." "You need say no more, Sir Richard," interposed Robin. "'Tis we who owe _all_ to you. As for your debt, why, it hath been repaid me already by my lord of Hereford. Is it not so, Stuteley?" The little esquire protested solemnly that the Bishop had paid it to them as conscience-money. "Then I will pay it again," cried the knight, cheerfully, "sooner than be outdone by a Bishop in the matter of honesty; and I have a few presents for you, but these I will show you later." Robin thanked him gratefully, and, taking him on one side, told how boy's clothes were covering Mistress Marian and Dame Fennel at this instant. Would the knight's wife take charge of them, and find them some apparel as would ease one of them at least from most uneasy feelings? That evening, whilst Monceux raged and stormed without, they all sat to a great feast. Little John was already so much recovered of his wound as to sing them a song, whilst Robin made sweet accompaniment upon a harp. The knight showed Robin presently his treasury, and again implored him to take the four hundred pieces of gold, if he would take no interest. But his guest was firm: "Keep the money, for it is your own. I have but made the Bishop return to you that which he had first stolen from your hands." Sir Richard again expressed his thanks, and now led them to his armory. Therein Robin saw, placed apart, a hundred strong bows with fine waxen silk strings, and a hundred sheaves of arrows. Every shaft was an ell long, and dressed with peacock's feathers and notched with silver. Beside them were a hundred suits of red and white livery, finely made and stitched. "These are the poor presents we have made for you, Robin," said Sir Richard. "Take them from us, with ten thousand times their weight in gratitude." One of the knight's own men came forward to give a sheaf of the arrows into Robin's hand, and, behold, it was Arthur-à-Bland! CHAPTER XXXII A searching rain continued all that night. They well expected to find the Sheriff and his army encamped against them on the morrow. Strangely enough, the morning showed the countryside quiet and peaceful as of old. Monceux and his fellows, if there, were well hid indeed--nothing might be seen of them. From the castle battlements, afar off, mysterious under grey opaque morning, lay Nottingham. The old town seemed to be yet asleep; but there was plenty of movement within its gates for all that. A messenger had come out hastily to Monceux, even while he and Carfax had been perfecting details of the siege which they intended to apply to the knight's castle. This man brought the Sheriff news of such moment as to cause him to give up the hope of catching Robin without another effort. My lord of Hereford had had the news from York--he had sped it to Monceux: "The King is abroad; take care of thyself." That was the item even as it had come in to Prince John from his cousin Philip of France: "The King is abroad." Richard of England, the Lion Heart, he whom all thought to be safely out of the country--some said in a foreign prison, others that he was fighting the paynims in the Holy Land. In any case, he had returned, and now all such as the Sheriff and the Bishop of Hereford must put their houses in order, and say, once and for all, that they would be loyal and faithful and plot no more with fickle princes behind their true King's back. Sir Richard of the Lee, whose son had so lately come home to his father's castle, could, an he had liked, have explained much to them. He knew that the King was in England; for had he not but a few hours since, parted from him with a pardon in his hand and happiness in his heart? * * * * * Friar Tuck, having been forced to run all night in order that he might be able to bring the news as to Little John in to Robin, had compensated himself for the loss of his repose by lying abed the better part of the next day. Stirring things were going forward in the old city of Nottingham, as we know; but only at dusk, when all was over and Robin and them all were safely lodged in Sir Richard's stronghold, did the worthy friar open his little wicket gate and remember him of his fasting dogs. He fed them and passed the remaining hours of day in putting them through their tricks; then, feeling that he had well earned a good meal, the friar took out some sumptuous fare from his larder and arranged it conveniently upon the small wooden bench in his cell. He then lit a taper, as the night was at hand, bolted and barred his door, and drew his seat close to the promising board. He uprolled his eyes, and had commenced a Latin grace, when suddenly came interruption unpleasant and alarming. One of his dogs began to bark, deeply and resentfully. The others followed him in the same note, changing the calm stillness of the night into discordant, frenzied clamor. "Now, who, in the name of all the saints, cometh here?" exclaimed Tuck, wrathfully, proceeding to bundle his supper back into the small larder. "May perdition and all the furies grant that he may evermore know the pangs of an empty stomach!" His pious wishes were rudely interrupted by a loud knocking upon the door of his hermitage. "Open, open!" cried a strident voice. "I have no means of helping you, poor traveller," roared the friar. "Go your way into Gamewell, 'tis but a few miles hence upon a straight road." "I will not stir another yard," said the voice, determinedly; "open your door, or I will batter it down with the hilt of my sword." The priest then, with anger glowing in his eyes, unbarred the door, and flung it open. Before him stood the figure of a knight, clad in black armor and with vizor down. The Black Knight strode into the friar's cell without waiting for invitation. "Have you no supper, brother?" asked the knight, curtly. "I must beg a bed of you this night, and fain would refresh my body ere I sleep." "I have naught but half of mine own supper to offer you," replied Tuck; "a little dry bread and a pitcher of water." "Methinks I can smell better fare than that, brother;" and the Black Knight offered to look into the larder. This was more than Tuck could bear, so he caught up his staff and flung himself before his guest in a threatening attitude. "Why, then, if you _will_," cried the knight, and he struck the priest smartly with the flat of his sword. The friar put down his staff. "Now," said he, with meaning, "since you have struck me we will play this game to a fair finish. Wherefore, if you are a true knight, give me your pledge that you will fight me on to-morrow morn with quarter-staff until one of us shall cry 'Enough.'" "With all my soul," cried the knight, readily. "And will give more knocks than ever you have given your dogs." "One gives and takes," retorted Tuck, sententiously; "put up your sword and help me to lay supper, for I am passing hungry." They spread the supper table between them, and once again the friar sat down hopefully. He spoke his grace with unction, and was surprised to hear his guest echo the Latin words after him. The knight unlaced his helm and took it off. He appeared as a bronzed and bearded man, stern-looking and handsome. They then attacked the venison pasty right valiantly, and pledged each other in a cup of wine. The good food and comfort warmed them both, and soon they were at a gossip, cheerful and astounding. So they passed the time until the hour grew late; and both fell asleep together, almost in their places, by the despoiled supper table. In the morning they breakfasted on the remains, and then they washed their faces in the jumping brook. The knight told the priest that he had left his companions at Locksley on the previous evening. He asked so many questions as to Robin Hood and his men that the priest had to fence very skilfully. If the knight had been in a hurry before he seemed now to have changed his mind. He said that he would wait for his companions, if the priest could bear with him, and Friar Tuck, having taken a great liking to this genial traveller, made no complaint. "I must presently journey forth to visit a poor man who lieth on a sick bed," said the friar, thinking of Robin. "Mayhap we may travel together?" suggested the knight. "I am going, so soon as friends have found me, into Gamewell." "I go into Barnesdale," said Tuck, quickly, "which is in quite another direction." At last the knight said he must go on, with or without his fellows, and he took up his sword. The friar then got out two quarter-staves, full nine feet long. Without a word he handed one to the knight. He took it, and eyed the friar whimsically; then, seeing no sign of relenting in him, shrugged his shoulders. He put off his helm again, and both going out to the little glade by the ruined shrine of St. Dunstan, they prepared for a bout with the staves. For all his plumpness Tuck was no mean opponent at the game. He skipped and flourished about and around the knight in a surprising way; and gave him at last such a crack upon his crown as made the tears start. Then the Black Knight struck in mighty wrath, and soon the blows of their staves were making the welkin ring. So busy they were as to give no heed of the approach of a goodly company of men. It was Sir Richard of the Lee, with his son and retinue, journeying in a roundabout way in order to throw Monceux off the scent, and so give Robin a chance to reach his stronghold in Barnesdale. Both knights paused in amazement to see this furious combat. At last the Black Knight brought down his staff with a noise like felling timber upon the shoulder of the priest. Tuck staggered, and dropped his staff. "Enough, enough," he cried; then fell in a heap upon the wet grass. The knight flung away his staff and ran to help him. He lifted up the priest's head and put it on his knee. Glancing up, he espied them all staring at him. "Run, one of you, and bring me some water." Sir Richard of the Lee started when he heard that voice. He turned to his son, but already the young man had doffed his helm and was filling it with water from the brook. He brought it quickly to the Black Knight, and, offering it, kneeled before him in deepest respect and affection. "I thank you, child," spoke the Black Knight, graciously. "See, this good fellow hath but swooned and already doth revive. Are these your men, and this the father who gave his all for you?" Sir Richard drew nearer and kneeled as his son had done, whilst the servitors looked on in strange fear. "Arise, honest man," said the Black Knight, with feeling, "I know your story, and have pardoned your son. What can I give to you to show you how we esteem a man just and faithful, even in adversity?" "Sire," faltered Sir Richard, rising and standing with bared head before him. "If I might ask aught of you I would crave amnesty for myself and for my men. You will hear ere long how we have befriended one Robin Hood, an outlaw of these woods. Through his generous help I was able to disencumber my estates, and yesterday, seeing him hard pressed, I opened my hall to him." "I will hear the story," the Black Knight said, briefly, "and then I will judge." He turned to Tuck, who now was sitting up, and gazing about him in bewildered fashion. "Take my hand, brother; let me help you to your feet." "Tell me," said the friar, leaning on the knight, after he had risen, "was that a bolt from the sky which just now did strike me down?" "I do fear it was this staff, brother," answered the other, smiling, "with my poor arm to guide it. 'Twas an ill-requital for your hospitality, and I ask your forgiveness." "So small a thing as man's forgiveness of man," spoke Tuck, sententiously, "I freely accord to you." He peeped at Sir Richard, and recognized him at once as the knight of the woeful visage. He made no sign of this knowledge, however. "Are these your companions, Sir Knight, of whom you did tell me last night?" he asked, indicating the others with a wide gesture. "Why, yes, and no, brother," replied the knight, whimsically. "They are not my companions in a sense, and yet I do purpose to make them such forthwith. But come, 'tis time for me to be stirring an I would make an end of my quest. I will be frank with you, brother. I seek Robin Hood, and had hoped that he might be attending you to-day in this very place." The friar put up his hands with an exclamation of horror. "I am a lover of peace, Sir Knight, and do not consort with such as these." "Nay, I think no harm of Master Hood," the knight hastened to say, "but I much yearn to see and speak with him." "If that be all, and you will come with me," said Tuck, scenting a good prey for Robin, "I will undertake to show you where these villains say their nightly Mass. I could not live long in this wood without knowing somewhat of Master Hood, be sure; and matters of religion have perforce my most earnest attention." "I will go with you, brother," said the Black Knight. The friar led the three to his cell. "Bid all the men return to your castle," the Black Knight commanded, loudly, "save four of those most to be trusted." Under his breath he bade Sir Richard tell his fellows to pretend to disperse, and to follow stealthily after their master soon as an hour was gone. Friar Tuck had produced some old monkish gowns from under a bench. He bade the seven of them put them on, the three knights and the four chosen men. "We will attend the Mass as brothers of my order, which is Dominican, as you may see," explained Tuck, easily. "You, Sir Knight of the iron wrist, shall wear this dress, which was an abbot's once. I would we had a horse for you; it would be more seemly, and less like to rouse suspicion." Sir Richard said that there were horses with his men in plenty; and one was readily obtained for the Black Knight's use. The little cavalcade set out for Barnesdale, the friar joyfully leading the way. The servitors affected to return to Sir Richard's castle, but hid themselves in the bushes instead. After going deeper and deeper into the forest they came at last to a part of Watling Street, and there was Robin Hood with a score of his men. He was watching the road for Monceux, having a notion that the Sheriff would try now to take them in the rear. Recognizing Tuck at once, Robin walked boldly up to them. "By your leave, brothers," cried he, taking hold of the bridle of the knight's horse and stopping him, "we are poor yeomen of the forest, and have no means of support, thanks to the tyranny and injustice of the Norman nobles in this land. But you abbots and churchmen have both fine churches and rents, and plenty of gold without. Wherefore, for charity's sake, give us a little of your spending money." "We are poor monks, good Master Hood," cried Tuck, in a wheedling tone; "I pray you do not stay us. We are journeying with all speed to a monastery in Fountain's Dale, which we hear hath been deserted by its owners." "I can tell you much concerning this very place," said Robin. "Give me alms, and I will open my lips to purpose." The pretended abbot spoke now. "I have been journeying, good Master Hood, with the King," said he, in full deep voice, "and I have spent the greater part of my moneys. Fifty golden pieces is all that I have with me." "It is the very sum I would ask of thee, Sir Abbot," said Robin, cheerily. He took the gold which the other freely offered, and divided it into two even sums. One half he gave to those with him, bidding them take it to the treasury, the other he returned to the knight. "For thy courtesy, Sir Abbot, keep this gold for thine own spending. 'Tis like that you will journey with the King again, and need it." "I will tell you now," said the pretended abbot, "for I see that you are truly Robin Hood, although so small a man, that Richard of the Lion Heart is returned to England, and hath bid me seek you out. He hath heard much of you, and bids you, through me, to come into Nottingham and there partake of his hospitality." Robin laughed heartily. "That is where we may not venture, Sir Abbot, since we value our skins. But where is your authority?" The knight produced the King's seal from under his abbot's gown. Robin looked at it, and fell at once upon his knees. "I love a true man," cried he, "and by all hearing my King is such an one. Now that he is come to take sovereignty over us we may hope for justice, even in Nottingham town. I thank you for your tidings, Sir Abbot; and for the love I have of valor and all true kingly virtues, I bid you and your fellows to sup freely with us under my trystal tree." He then offered to lead them into Barnesdale; and the pretended monks, after a short discussion, agreed to accept his offer. They soon were come before the caves of Barnesdale, and were presented to those of the band already there. Presently Robin blew two blasts upon his horn, and the rest of the greenwood men made their appearance. All were dressed in their new livery, and carried new bows in their left hands. Each one knelt for a moment before Robin, as leader of them, ere taking his place. A handsome, dark-haired page stood at Robin's right hand, to hold his cup for him and pour him wine. The signal was given, Robin graciously placed the abbot in the place of honor; and under the cool fresh evening, bright still with the aftermath of the day, the banquet was begun. The Black Knight was struck with astonishment. "By all the saints," thought he, "this is a wondrous sight. There is more obedience shown to this outlaw man than my fellows have shown to me." CHAPTER XXXIII After supper Robin signalled to his men to bend their bows. The knight was startled, for he thought they intended to choose him for their target. He was quickly undeceived, however, for two arrows were set up as butts for these archers. The knight marvelled indeed to see so small a mark given in this waning light. A garland of leaves was balanced on the top of each arrow, and Robin laid down the rules. Whoever failed to speed his shaft through this garland--and it was to be done without knocking it off the arrow--was to yield up his own shaft to Robin, and receive also buffet from the hand of Friar Tuck. "Master," said Stuteley, "that may not be, for the good friar is not yet come to confess us this day." He winked his eyes at Robin, well knowing that the friar sat near to the other monks. "Doubtless he will be here ere the game be ended," replied Robin, smiling. "I prithee commence soon as I clap my hands." Little John, limping, Stuteley and old Warrenton each flew their arrows truly through the garlands, as did many of the rest. Poor Midge and Arthur-à-Bland were not so fortunate, for though both came near to doing it, the garlands unkindly fell off an instant after their shafts had flown through them. "Where is the friar?" cried Robin, affecting to peer into the distance, already blue-grey with twilight. "Surely he is late to-night." Then Tuck could bear it no longer, but stood up in his place. "Come near to me, thou villainous archers," he roared, "and I will buffet you right well." "Ah, brother, what are you saying?" cried the knight, anxiously. "Surely you forget our vows and our cloth." "I forget neither the one nor the other," returned Tuck. "But I would be no true man did I submit to watch quietly such bungling as these fellows have done. Come hither, Midge." "You know them--you are of this company?" continued the knight, as if in alarm. "I am very proud to be of it, brother," said the friar. "I crave a boon," the knight then said, turning to Robin. "This is a little man who will receive the buffets; and though I seem a priest, yet am I willing to take the blow instead." "If you would care to have a buffet from me," the friar cried, "you are most welcome. For though my arm is sore still from our play of this morn, I warrant me there is still some strength left in it;" and he rolled up his sleeve. "Take, then, the first blow," said the knight, "and I promise you I will return it you with interest." A smile lit up the face of the jolly friar. He turned up the sleeve of his cassock still further, and smote the false abbot such a blow as would have felled an ox. "Thou hittest well, brother," the knight remarked, coolly. The friar was amazed to see him withstand such a blow, and so was Robin. "Now, 'tis my turn," the knight said; and, baring his arm, he dealt Tuck such a blow as to send him flat upon his back. There was a general laugh at this; but the exertion had caused the abbot's cowl to slip away from his head. The strong face and light beard of the Black Knight showed plainly to them all. "Alas, your majesty," cried Sir Richard of the Lee, springing up; "you have betrayed yourself." "It is the King!" cried Scarlett, in sheer surprise; and reverently he knelt before the Black Knight. Robin glanced questioningly towards the greenwood men; then knelt himself beside Scarlett. At once the whole company fell upon their knees also. "My lord King," said Robin, in hushed voice, "I crave mercy for my men and for myself. We have not chosen this life from any wickedness, but rather have come to it perforce." The King towered amongst them. "Swear," cried he, in clear, loud voice. "Swear that you will forsake your wild ways, Robin Fitzooth, and will come with your men into my Court, and be good and faithful subjects from this night, and I will give you all the pardon that you crave." "We will come into your Court and into your service, sire," answered Robin, gratefully, "nor ask anything better in this world than that." The King bade them rise and continue their sports. "Night is come and I must ask a lodging of you--even as your chaplain gave me of his hospitality yester e'en," he said, comfortably. "And tell me, Robin, where is your Marian? What laggard in love are you to be here without her?" "Nay, sire," said the little page, coming forward, "Robin is no laggard, nor am I far to seek. He is a very valiant, honorable man, and should indeed be a knight of this realm, if all men had their deserts." Richard smiled then, and bent his haughty head to kiss the little hand she had extended to him. "Thou speakest truth, lady," he answered. "And I had not forgotten how the fair lands of Broadweald once were in Hugh Fitzooth's honest keeping. It may be that they will return to his son one day, for folks tell me that Guy of Gisborne is no more." He turned to Scarlett. "And you are Master Geoffrey of Montfichet," said he, fixing his keen eyes on the other's face, "son of my father's friend, George Montfichet of Gamewell? And prithee, Master Geoffrey, what have you done with my little cousin, Aimée of Aragon?" Scarlett confusedly explained that she was safe in his father's hall at Gamewell. "It seemeth, then, that you also have stolen from our Sheriff at Nottingham, Master Scarlett?" Richard observed, quizzing him. "Surely all men's hands are against Monceux!" "Even as all men's hands are against venomous reptiles and the like," observed the friar, nodding his head. He had recovered from the buffet which Richard's hand had dealt, and had seated himself conveniently to watch the scene. He was truly the one least put about by it. The King eyed him, and smiled to note his quiet self-possession. "What can I find for you, brother?" he asked, indulgently. "Some fat living, where there are no wicked to chastise, and where the work is easy and well endowed?" "I only wish for peace in this life," replied the friar. "Mine is a simple nature, and I care not for the gewgaws and shams of Court. Give me a good meal and a cup of the right brew, health, and enough for the day, and I ask no more either of my God or of my King." Richard sighed. "You ask the greatest thing in the world, brother--contentment. It is not mine to give or to deny. Yet if I can help you to find that wondrous jewel, I will do it right heartily." He glanced curiously from one to the other of the greenwood men. "Which of you is called Allan-a-Dale?" he asked; and when Allan had come forward, "So," said Richard, half sternly, "you are the man who stole a bride from her man at my church doors of Plympton. What have you to say in excuse of this wickedness?" "Only that I loved her, sire, and that she loved me," said Allan. "Your Norman baron would have forced her to wed with him, desiring her lands." "Which since hath been forfeited by my lord of Hereford," said Richard, quickly. "I know your story, Allan. Take back your lands and hers from me this night, and live in peace and loyalty upon them with your dame. Fennel, she is called, is't not so? 'Tis a pretty name." "I thank you humbly, sire," said Allan-a-Dale, joyfully. "And Fennel shall thank you for herself. She will do it far better than I, be sure of it." "Where is your dame?" said the King, looking about and half expecting to find her clad like Marian in boy's attire. "She also is at Gamewell," said Sir Richard, hastily. "We left her there this morning when on our way to Copmanhurst. The Princess will take her into her train, and protect both Mistress Fennel and her lord." "Our Princess will need a protector for her own self, I am thinking," said the King, thoughtfully. "Come hither, Scarlett, and kneel before me!" Geoffrey wonderingly did so. "Arise, Geoffrey Earl of Nottingham," cried Richard, striking his shoulder with the flat of his sword; "take back your freedom from my hands, and be no more ashamed to attend our Court disguised and in false pretence. From this moment you have the overlordship of this forest for your father's sake and mine, and you are worthy to ask the hand of any woman in this realm." It was impossible not to perceive the King's gracious meaning, although Geoffrey could scarce believe in his good fortune. He thanked his King in a voice full of gratitude and affection. "You did say that the Princess of Aragon might need a protector, sire," he added, trembling at his own audacity. "Will you grant me permission to be her champion and defy the world?" "'Tis what I had promised for you, my lord of Nottingham," said Richard, quietly, "and best reason for your knight-hood! Watch well over her, and guard her from herself--if need be." For Much the Miller, for Middle the Tinker, for Little John, Stuteley and old Warrenton the King had kindly words. He knew them all, it seemed; and they marvelled more and more amongst themselves to hear how he was aware of all their histories. There was no adventurer, no man of them whom he did not know by name and fame, at least; and this King proved so gracious and royal a man that all of them loved him forthwith and dubbed him in their hearts a right worthy monarch. They built a great fire, having now no more fear of Monceux or Hereford, or any one of them. The Sheriff would hold his office from Will Scarlett's hands from now! The archers from Nottingham who had been held as prisoners were at once released, and the King signalled for Sir Richard's followers to appear. This they did with a rush, and Robin saw then how the King had held them all truly in his hand, for these fellows, and even Sir Richard of the Lee, their master, would have had to obey him had he ordered them to engage the greenwood men in sudden combat. As it was, all were merry and boon companions. Laughter and song floated upward as the jumping flames of the camp fire they had built. The friar sang them the song which Robin had heard so often, and Robin himself played upon the harp. Night came and they slept--King of England and his subjects together, in all joy and happiness. The fire burned low, and deep Sherwood watched over them--forest mother of them all. * * * * * Next morning the King asked if they had any spare liveries of the scarlet and white. "For," said he, "'tis only fair that I should lead you into the city of Nottingham clad as you are yourselves, since now you are my bodyguard." So Nottingham awoke to find a great company of men approaching it. Foremost came a number of archers dressed all in bright liveries and carrying their bows unslung in token of peace. Behind them marched a motley host--the servitors of Sir Richard and of old George of Gamewell, and last of all the Sheriff's own archers. Monceux came out to meet them with Master Simeon, whilst my lord of Hereford watched furtively from the city walls. The chief of the approaching host rode forward, and his stern, dark face was plain to see. "'Tis the King!" cried Carfax, who knew Richard well. "Now may our tongues be politic and say the right words." "Go to meet him, Simeon," whispered the Sheriff, all in a flutter of fear and hope. "'Tis like that he hath encountered Sir Richard of the Lee, and so will know his story of things. Be prudent, be humble." But Richard waved Carfax haughtily aside. "I will speak with your master, fellow," he said, harshly. Carfax shrank cringingly to one side, and Monceux dismounted from his milk-white horse to meet his King. "Greetings and welcome, sire, from this your faithful city," began Monceux, very hurriedly. "The joyful tidings of your return were brought to me two days agone, and at once I did prepare for your coming." "With a-hanging to wit, and murderous attack upon the castle of this faithful knight," said Richard. "A welcome not much to our mind, Sheriff." "Sire, when the hanging was going forward I did not then know you were so near," explained Monceux, making matters worse. "And, for the matter of that, 'twas for foul murder that I would have hanged the villain, who did escape through your knight's evil practices. Thereby I do accuse Sir Richard of offending against the laws." "Enough, Master Monceux," interrupted the King, contemptuously. "The murder was not done by the man whose life you did seek so earnestly to end. The killing of Fitzwalter, my warden of these gates, was due to the foul hands of your own cook, Roger de Burgh. As you have stomach for a hanging, see to it that this fellow be brought to book. Know you this writing?" And Richard showed him the parchment which Will Scarlett had found in the hearth of the hall at Nottingham Castle. Monceux turned green and white, and gasped for air. "I had no hand in this dreadful business, sire, I swear it," he gurgled. "We did conspire between us to entice the maid Fitzwalter into Nottingham, I confess, hoping that Robin Hood, the outlaw, would come to visit her, and we might so trap him. He hath been the author of this mischief, I promise you, and is a villainous wretch. If Roger killed Master Fitzwalter, 'twas done in the belief that he was engaged with Hood." "As I thought," muttered the new Earl of Nottingham, under his breath. "Therefore," said Richard, slowly, "you, Monceux, knew all along that Little John was not guilty, and yet did seek to hang him." "Sire, he stole my plate also, and had been excommunicated by my lord of Hereford." "Take Roger and hang him speedily," cried the King, to end it. "And bring me to the Bishop. Stay!" he called to the quickly retreating Sheriff; "ere you go, Monceux, learn that from henceforward you must look for patronage from this my lord of Nottingham," he added, with a gesture. "He will be your master, and you will hold the feof of Nottingham Castle at his hands." "Will Scarlett--Master Geoffrey of Montfichet--you?" gasped Monceux. "Even I, Master Sheriff," replied the man of many names. "Know also, Monceux," added Richard, indicating Robin and his men, "these are my archers and especial guards. From now the ban of excommunication must be removed." The Bishop had come down from the walls and had drawn nigh. "Fetch me book and candle, Carfax," said he, "and I will remove the ban." "You will be wise to do so, my lord," the King said, significantly. The Bishop deemed it prudent to give no particular heed to his sire's tone. At once he proceeded to take off the ban of excommunication he had so hastily pronounced upon Robin Hood and the rest of his merry men. "Now, Robin, take payment for your entertainment of me in the woods," the King said, in a voice that would brook no denial. Robin drew near and kneeled before him, doubtfully. "Rise, Robin of Huntingdon, first Earl of the shire!" cried Richard, tapping him with the point of his blade. "Take rank amongst my knights, and learn that thy King recognizeth above the other neither Saxon nor Norman of his subjects--all to me are English; and I love the man who is brave and who dealeth fairly as he may with his fellow men. You have kept the spirit of liberty alive in this my land, and I hold no anger against you because you have been impatient under wrong." His proud voice was silent; while Robin Earl of Huntingdon seized his King's hand to his lips and kissed it in a wonderment of gratitude. CHAPTER XXXIV It was the wedding-day of four happy people. The day was bright, the sky blue, and Sherwood had taken upon itself early summer raiment. The old church of Nottingham was already crowded to excess. The newly banded guard of Royal bowmen, gay in their scarlet and white livery, were formed up in two straight lines from the church door to the lych gate. So soon as the weddings were over all would go back to a great feast, given at Gamewell Hall, in honor of the day. Then afterward the two couples would go with the king into London, to be followed within seven days by the rest of the Royal guard. Richard meant to employ these fellows shrewdly and test their loyalty. Not for reasons of sentiment only had he forgiven Robin and his men. The hour was reached, and at once a small company was seen issuing forth from Nottingham Castle. Against his will Master Monceux had given use of the castle to the two bridegrooms--the newly made Earls of Nottingham and Huntingdon. With Robin and Geoffrey were, firstly, old George of Gamewell, proud above all others in knowing that he had now a son who would ensure honor to the race of Montfichet all their days. The Squire was happy and radiant. He walked between them, and turned his head ever and again in laughing speech with Sir Richard of the Lee and his heir. Stuteley and Little John were next, the long and short of it; and after them the jovial Friar of Copmanhurst. Arthur-à-Bland, with a gold chain about his neck, given him by the knight Sir Richard, walked with Middle the Tinker on his left and Much the Miller on his right. Close behind trotted the small complaisant Midge, dressed up very fine in a livery of purple doublet and green hose. They came to the lych gate, and the crowd jostled itself in its admiration. As they walked, rather consciously, up the narrow path between the smiling ranks of their fellows the crowd cheered them radiantly. "A Hood! A Montfichet!" was called and called again. Some maids from the opposite windows threw them kisses and waved pretty kerchiefs in their honor. Within the church, waiting for them soberly at the chancel steps, was my lord of Hereford, dressed out in his finest and richest robes, and beside him Friar Tuck. For Robin Hood and Will Scarlett the Bishop had enmity and contempt, but towards the Earls of Huntingdon and Nottingham this time-serving man could only profess an abundance of respect. The brides were to be escorted from Gamewell by no other person than the King himself. He was to give them both in marriage, and had promised them jewels and to spare when they were come to Court. Loud cheering and noise from the mob without the church told of their approach. The people were wild with joy at having their King amongst them like this. Citizens, burgesses, apprentices were all in their best, their wives and their sweethearts all dressed out in splendid attire. As the King jumped down from his horse before the lych gate, and held out his strong hand to help the brides from off their milk-white mares, the whole place became alive with excitement and rapture. Little maids, with baskets of violets and primroses, flung their offerings prettily under the feet of the two beauteous blushing brides, who leaned so timidly upon the King's proud arms. At last the service was begun and both couples were well nigh wed. The Bishop had spoken the Latin service impressively and with unction. In the first row stood Monceux, in all the pomp of his shrievalty, with his councilmen and aldermen. Master Simeon, with face leaner than ever and inturning eyes, glared impotently at the chief actors in this historic scene. Alone missing from it was the cold, colorless beauty of the demoiselle Marie. She had taken herself to her room this morn, and had sworn never to leave it again. But now that the double marriage was nearly made she suddenly appeared, thrusting her way rudely through the gathered crowd at the church door. She was wild-eyed, dishevelled, her dress fastened all awry. Folks looked once at her, and then exchanged glances between themselves. "Stay this mockery of marriage, my lord," she cried, fiercely facing the Bishop. She had elbowed a path for herself to the chancel steps. "I do forbid the marrying of these two." She pointed a trembling finger from Robin to Marian. "This woman is blood-guilty, and Holy Church may not countenance her." She shrilled, desperately, "'Twas she who foully killed Master Fitzwalter, her own father, and I have proof of it!" "'Tis false!" roared Robin, then beside himself. "You viper--you mean-souled spy! Is no crime too great for you?" "There is no need for defence," spoke the King; "the charge is too wild and foolish an one. Seize this woman, some of you, and take her without. I will deal with her later." He imperiously signed to his guards, and at once the demoiselle was gripped harshly by both arms. "Be gentle with her," pleaded Marian; "she is distraught, and hath not command upon herself. I beg of you, sire, to forgive this; I have no quarrel with Mistress Monceux." The demoiselle had suddenly become quiet under the fierce hands of Much and Little John. She allowed them to thrust her ignominiously forth. At the door of the church she turned once as though to renew her preposterous charges, but contented herself merely with a single glance towards them of malignant hate. Then she was gone; and people stirred themselves uneasily, as folks do when having been within touch of the plague. The Sheriff had stared with protruding eyes of horror and dismay upon his daughter. When he saw that she was gone, that the dreadful episode was done, he gasped hurriedly and sat down. His mind became confused, his vision obscured as by a cloud. The service was finished. Robin and Marian, Geoffrey and Aimée (no longer of Aragon) were joined together for the rest of their lives. The Bishop pronounced a blessing; and forgetting himself utterly in the emotion of the moment, spoke fervently and with purpose. The King kissed the brides, and after him their husbands kissed them also. Then all signed their names in the church books, and the trumpeters and heralds made music for them. They returned through the streets of Nottingham, gay now with flags and merry with a joyful populace. Loud cheerings rent the air, and people showered flowers and blessings upon them. Before the happy couples ran six of the greenwood men, loyal subjects now, flinging largesse upon the people right and left from out of well-filled bags. All the treasure that they had accumulated in their caves at Barnesdale the King's bowmen freely distributed this day. All were happy--the nightmare of unjust dealings, of Norman oppression, of laws for the poor and none for the rich, was ended. The King had said it, and the King had already made good the promise in his words. Afterward, at Gamewell, Richard conferred upon Montfichet full rank as Baron of the Realm, with power to speak and vote in the Upper Court of Appeal, the highest rank in the land, next to the King himself. Sir Richard of the Lee and his son became members of the Star Chamber, with grants of land in perpetuity. Turning to Marian, the King wished her every joy that she could wish herself, and gave to her the lands of Broadweald in Lancashire to hold in her own right for ever. "Thus you shall have wealth to share with your Robin; and I counsel you both to make good use of your days. My subjects who are loyal to me shall have no cause to regret it. I will give you, Aimée, the Castle of Acquitaine, which I held under my father's grant until his death. You know how fair a spot it is, and how sweet the sky of France! Help her to administer her riches, Geoffrey, wisely and well; and be you all ready when I shall call upon you. Now God save you all. Amen." EPILOGUE In all sincerity there should be no more of this tale, seeing that we have found ourselves at last come from beginning to end of Robin's quarrelings with the Sheriff. Most histories end, and end properly, with just such a marriage as we have seen. Yet, to tell the truth, however strange and distressful, is the business of a good historian; and so it must be written that in the end of it sad days came again for Robin Hood. For five years he lived in peace and prosperity, a faithful, loyal subject, having two sons born to him in his home in Broadweald. Then came the plague, raging and furious, and claimed amongst many victims Marian Countess of Huntingdon. For a time Robin was as one distraught. He had no joy left to him. He was as one without energy or hope; a miser robbed of his gold, suddenly and cruelly. He gave his two boys into the charge of Geoffrey of Nottingham, and went on a journey to London, there to beg of the King that he might find him active employment, instead of being but one of a guard of honor, as he and his men had so truly become. Richard had already gone to France, and John was acting as Regent of England in his absence. "Go, shoot some more of my brother's deer," sneered the Prince, having heard Robin impatiently. "Doubtless if you do but slay enough of them he will make you Privy Councillor at the least when he returns." This great insult fired Robin's blood; he had been in a strange distemper ever since the fatal day of his beloved's death. He answered the disdainful Prince scornfully; and John, growing white with anger, bade his guards to seize upon him. Faithful Stuteley helped his master to win freedom from the prison into which he had been flung; and, with the majority of his men, Robin returned to the greenwood life. The King's guard was broken up, for the King had no need of it, nor never would again. Legends are told of Robin's scorned defiance of the laws, but they are intangible and unauthentic. It is a sure thing, howbeit, that he did not revert to Sherwood and Barnesdale as some aver, but rather took up his quarters near Haddon Hall, in Derbyshire. There is a curious pile of stones and rocks shown to this day as the ruins of Robin's Castle, where the bold outlaw is believed to have lived and defied his enemies for a year at least. Two stones stand higher than the others. These are supposed to be the seats in the hall of this vanished stronghold whereon Robin and Little John sat delivering judgment on matters of forest law. Another chronicle gives these stones as being the scene of a wondrous leap done by Robin, to show his men that strength and will were his yet. "Robin Hood's stride," folks say. One thing is sure--that Prince John did not easily forgive or forget him. After many attempts made upon them at Haddon--some desperate enough in all conscience, Robin and his men were allowed to be at peace. In one of these encounters Robin was sorely wounded; and none but Little John knew of it. The wound was in Robin's breast, and looked but a small place. It bled little, yet would not heal; and slowly became inflamed in wider circles. Inwardly it burned him as with a consuming fire, his strength was sapped out from him and his eyes began to lose their shrewdness. No longer could he split an arrow at forty paces, as in olden days. At last he took Little John on one side. "Dear heart," said he, "I do not feel able to shoot another arrow, and soon the rest will know I am stricken sore. I have it in me to return to London and there give myself to the Prince. Mayhap if I did this he would give you all amnesty here." "Sooner would I see you dead than you should do such a thing," cried Little John; "I swear it by my soul and by my body! Now listen, dear master, and I will tell you that I have heard of a wondrous cure for thee. An old beggar came this morn through the woods, and, strangely, when he spied me, asked if there was not one amongst us ill and hopeless." "This beggar--where is he?" "He waits below," said Little John, hurriedly. "I bethought me to talk with Stuteley on the matter. The beggar told me that the Abbess of Kirklees had stayed him as he was travelling past her Priory: 'Go to Haddon, brother, and there you will find Robin Hood sick unto death. Say that in the woods near by there is one who is practising magic upon him, having made a little image of Robin Hood. At each change of the moon this rascal doth stick a needle into the waxen heart of this image, and so doth Robin slowly die. Tell him that the name of the man is Simeon Carfax.'" "Ay, by my soul, but I thought as much. What villainy! What foul villainy! Get me a horse, John, and one each for thyself and Stuteley." The beggar had gone when they went to the hall. None had offered to stay him. "Let us go quietly, swiftly," said Robin, "for I feel that my hours are short." They rode all through the day and night, and came upon the Priory in early dawn--a quaint, strange building, surrounded by heavy trees. The journey and fierce excitement told upon Robin. His wound was beating red-hot irons into his heart; hardly could they get him from his horse to the gate of Kirklees. Stuteley rang the bell loudly, and anon the door was opened by a woman shrouded in black. She spoke in a cold low voice. "Is this Robin Earl of Huntingdon?" asked she. "I pray God that it may be true, for at this moment the wizard is meditating his very death." "Tell us where this miscreant doth make his sorcery, good mother," cried Stuteley and Little John together, "and not all the magic in the world shall save him from our swords!" "Go out yonder to the left, where ye will find a little stream; near by it is a tree blasted by Heaven's fires. Under the tree is the man Carfax[A]--I have watched and known him for many days. Go quickly, and I will tend your master. See, already he swoons--the hour is very nigh!" [Footnote A: Carfax was then actually in France, acting against Richard.] The two men gave Robin into her keeping, with a fury of impatience; then, with brandished swords, ran swiftly in search of the wizard. Robin had swooned, and lay a dead weight in the arms of the Prioress. With amazing strength and tenderness she lifted his slight body and bore it to a little room, near to the entrance of the Priory. She laid the unconscious man upon a couch, then hastily bared his right arm. She paused an instant to throw back her hood; then taking the scissors of her chatelaine, suddenly and resolutely gashed the great artery in his arm. He gave a cry of pain and started up. "Be still, be still," she muttered, soothing him. "The pain is naught, it will cure thee--lie back and sleep--sleep." "Who are you?" he asked, feebly, and with swimming eyes. Then blackness came upon him again, and he fell back upon the couch. Out of the night of pain the cold face of the demoiselle Marie smiled mockingly at him! She raised herself and softly withdrew. As she locked the door upon him she smiled thinly, wickedly. "So, Robin--at last, Robin," she murmured, "I am avenged." Two hours later Little John returned. Behind him was Stuteley, anxious and ashamed. They had found a man in the woods, and had killed him instantly, in their blind rage, only to discover then that he was but a yeoman, and not him whom they sought. "I did hear my master's horn, mother," cried Little John, when the Prioress had opened the wicket to them. "Three blasts it gave." [Illustration: THE PASSING OF ROBIN HOOD _Leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of trees._] "'Twas the wind in the trees," said she, serenely. "He sleeps." She prepared to close the wicket quietly. "Disturb him not." But Little John was alarmed and began to fear a trap. With his sword he hewed and hacked at the stout oak door, whilst Stuteley sought to prise it open. When it yielded they rushed in upon a sorry scene. Robin lay by the window in a pool of blood, his face very white. "A boon, a boon!" cried Little John, with the tears streaming from his eyes. "Let me slay this wretch and burn her body in the ruins of this place." His master answered him with a voice from the grave: "'Twas always my part never to hurt a woman, John. I will not let you do so now. Look to my wishes, both of you. Marian's grave--it is to be kept well and honorably. And my two sons--but Geoffrey will care for them. For me, dear hearts, bury me near by, in some quiet grave. I could not bear another journey." They sought to lift him up. "Give me my bow," said Robin, suddenly, "and a good true shaft." He took them from Stuteley's shaking hands, and, leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of the trees. A swift remembrance lit up the dying man's face. "Ah, well," he cried, "Will o' th' Green--you knew! Marian, my heart ... and that day when first we met, beside the fallen deer! And she is gone, and my last arrow is flown.... It is the end, Will----" He fell back into Little John's arms. "Bury me, gossips," he murmured, faintly, "where my arrow hath fallen. There lay a green sod under my head and another beneath my feet, and let my bow be at my side." His voice became presently silent, as though something had snapped within him. His head dropped gently upon Little John's shoulder. "He sleeps," whispered Stuteley, again and again, trying to make himself believe it was so. "He is asleep, Little John--let us lay him quietly upon his bed." So died Robin Fitzooth, first Earl of Huntingdon, under treacherous hands. Near by Kirklees Abbey they laid to his last rest this bravest of all brave men--the most fearless champion of freedom that the land had ever known. Robin Hood is dead, and no man can say truly where his grave may be. At the least it but holds his bones. His name lives in our ballads, our history, our hearts--so long as the English tongue is known. 
10148	----	THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD by Howard Pyle PREFACE FROM THE AUTHOR TO THE READER You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap to the leaves and go no farther than this, for I tell you plainly that if you go farther you will be scandalized by seeing good, sober folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors and motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to them. Here is a stout, lusty fellow with a quick temper, yet none so ill for all that, who goes by the name of Henry II. Here is a fair, gentle lady before whom all the others bow and call her Queen Eleanor. Here is a fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in rich robes of a clerical kind, that all the good folk call my Lord Bishop of Hereford. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and a grim look--the worshipful, the Sheriff of Nottingham. And here, above all, is a great, tall, merry fellow that roams the greenwood and joins in homely sports, and sits beside the Sheriff at merry feast, which same beareth the name of the proudest of the Plantagenets--Richard of the Lion's Heart. Beside these are a whole host of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies, lasses, landlords, beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd strands of certain old ballads (snipped and clipped and tied together again in a score of knots) which draw these jocund fellows here and there, singing as they go. Here you will find a hundred dull, sober, jogging places, all tricked out with flowers and what not, till no one would know them in their fanciful dress. And here is a country bearing a well-known name, wherein no chill mists press upon our spirits, and no rain falls but what rolls off our backs like April showers off the backs of sleek drakes; where flowers bloom forever and birds are always singing; where every fellow hath a merry catch as he travels the roads, and ale and beer and wine (such as muddle no wits) flow like water in a brook. This country is not Fairyland. What is it? 'Tis the land of Fancy, and is of that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it--whisk!--you clap the leaves of this book together and 'tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm done. And now I lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man's-land. Will you come with me, sweet Reader? I thank you. Give me your hand. CONTENTS How Robin Hood Came To Be An Outlaw Robin Hood And The Tinker The Shooting Match At Nottingham Town Will Stutely Rescued By His Companions Robin Hood Turns Butcher Little John Goes To Nottingham Fair How Little John Lived At The Sheriff's Little John And The Tanner Of Blyth Robin Hood And Will Scarlet The Adventure With Midge, The Miller's Son Robin Hood And Allan A Dale Robin Hood Seeks The Curtal Friar Robin Hood Compasses A Marriage Robin Hood Aids A Sorrowful Knight How Sir Richard Of The Lea Paid His Debts Little John Turns Barefoot Friar Robin Hood Turns Beggar Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen Eleanor The Chase Of Robin Hood Robin Hood And Guy Of Gisbourne King Richard Comes To Sherwood Forest Epilogue PROLOGUE Giving an account of Robin Hood and his adventure with the King's Foresters. Also telling how his band gathered around him, and of the merry adventure that gained him his good right hand man, the famous Little John. How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw IN MERRY ENGLAND in the time of old, when good King Henry the Second ruled the land, there lived within the green glades of Sherwood Forest, near Nottingham Town, a famous outlaw whose name was Robin Hood. No archer ever lived that could speed a gray goose shaft with such skill and cunning as his, nor were there ever such yeomen as the sevenscore merry men that roamed with him through the greenwood shades. Right merrily they dwelled within the depths of Sherwood Forest, suffering neither care nor want, but passing the time in merry games of archery or bouts of cudgel play, living upon the King's venison, washed down with draughts of ale of October brewing. Not only Robin himself but all the band were outlaws and dwelled apart from other men, yet they were beloved by the country people round about, for no one ever came to jolly Robin for help in time of need and went away again with an empty fist. And now I will tell how it came about that Robin Hood fell afoul of the law. When Robin was a youth of eighteen, stout of sinew and bold of heart, the Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a shooting match and offered a prize of a butt of ale to whosoever should shoot the best shaft in Nottinghamshire. "Now," quoth Robin, "will I go too, for fain would I draw a string for the bright eyes of my lass and a butt of good October brewing." So up he got and took his good stout yew bow and a score or more of broad clothyard arrows, and started off from Locksley Town through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham. It was at the dawn of day in the merry Maytime, when hedgerows are green and flowers bedeck the meadows; daisies pied and yellow cuckoo buds and fair primroses all along the briery hedges; when apple buds blossom and sweet birds sing, the lark at dawn of day, the throstle cock and cuckoo; when lads and lasses look upon each other with sweet thoughts; when busy housewives spread their linen to bleach upon the bright green grass. Sweet was the greenwood as he walked along its paths, and bright the green and rustling leaves, amid which the little birds sang with might and main: and blithely Robin whistled as he trudged along, thinking of Maid Marian and her bright eyes, for at such times a youth's thoughts are wont to turn pleasantly upon the lass that he loves the best. As thus he walked along with a brisk step and a merry whistle, he came suddenly upon some foresters seated beneath a great oak tree. Fifteen there were in all, making themselves merry with feasting and drinking as they sat around a huge pasty, to which each man helped himself, thrusting his hands into the pie, and washing down that which they ate with great horns of ale which they drew all foaming from a barrel that stood nigh. Each man was clad in Lincoln green, and a fine show they made, seated upon the sward beneath that fair, spreading tree. Then one of them, with his mouth full, called out to Robin, "Hulloa, where goest thou, little lad, with thy one-penny bow and thy farthing shafts?" Then Robin grew angry, for no stripling likes to be taunted with his green years. "Now," quoth he, "my bow and eke mine arrows are as good as shine; and moreover, I go to the shooting match at Nottingham Town, which same has been proclaimed by our good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; there I will shoot with other stout yeomen, for a prize has been offered of a fine butt of ale." Then one who held a horn of ale in his hand said, "Ho! listen to the lad! Why, boy, thy mother's milk is yet scarce dry upon thy lips, and yet thou pratest of standing up with good stout men at Nottingham butts, thou who art scarce able to draw one string of a two-stone bow." "I'll hold the best of you twenty marks," quoth bold Robin, "that I hit the clout at threescore rods, by the good help of Our Lady fair." At this all laughed aloud, and one said, "Well boasted, thou fair infant, well boasted! And well thou knowest that no target is nigh to make good thy wager." And another cried, "He will be taking ale with his milk next." At this Robin grew right mad. "Hark ye," said he, "yonder, at the glade's end, I see a herd of deer, even more than threescore rods distant. I'll hold you twenty marks that, by leave of Our Lady, I cause the best hart among them to die." "Now done!" cried he who had spoken first. "And here are twenty marks. I wager that thou causest no beast to die, with or without the aid of Our Lady." Then Robin took his good yew bow in his hand, and placing the tip at his instep, he strung it right deftly; then he nocked a broad clothyard arrow and, raising the bow, drew the gray goose feather to his ear; the next moment the bowstring rang and the arrow sped down the glade as a sparrowhawk skims in a northern wind. High leaped the noblest hart of all the herd, only to fall dead, reddening the green path with his heart's blood. "Ha!" cried Robin, "how likest thou that shot, good fellow? I wot the wager were mine, an it were three hundred pounds." Then all the foresters were filled with rage, and he who had spoken the first and had lost the wager was more angry than all. "Nay," cried he, "the wager is none of thine, and get thee gone, straightway, or, by all the saints of heaven, I'll baste thy sides until thou wilt ne'er be able to walk again." "Knowest thou not," said another, "that thou hast killed the King's deer, and, by the laws of our gracious lord and sovereign King Harry, thine ears should be shaven close to thy head?" "Catch him!" cried a third. "Nay," said a fourth, "let him e'en go because of his tender years." Never a word said Robin Hood, but he looked at the foresters with a grim face; then, turning on his heel, strode away from them down the forest glade. But his heart was bitterly angry, for his blood was hot and youthful and prone to boil. Now, well would it have been for him who had first spoken had he left Robin Hood alone; but his anger was hot, both because the youth had gotten the better of him and because of the deep draughts of ale that he had been quaffing. So, of a sudden, without any warning, he sprang to his feet, and seized upon his bow and fitted it to a shaft. "Ay," cried he, "and I'll hurry thee anon." And he sent the arrow whistling after Robin. It was well for Robin Hood that that same forester's head was spinning with ale, or else he would never have taken another step. As it was, the arrow whistled within three inches of his head. Then he turned around and quickly drew his own bow, and sent an arrow back in return. "Ye said I was no archer," cried he aloud, "but say so now again!" The shaft flew straight; the archer fell forward with a cry, and lay on his face upon the ground, his arrows rattling about him from out of his quiver, the gray goose shaft wet with his; heart's blood. Then, before the others could gather their wits about them, Robin Hood was gone into the depths of the greenwood. Some started after him, but not with much heart, for each feared to suffer the death of his fellow; so presently they all came and lifted the dead man up and bore him away to Nottingham Town. Meanwhile Robin Hood ran through the greenwood. Gone was all the joy and brightness from everything, for his heart was sick within him, and it was borne in upon his soul that he had slain a man. "Alas!" cried he, "thou hast found me an archer that will make thy wife to wring! I would that thou hadst ne'er said one word to me, or that I had never passed thy way, or e'en that my right forefinger had been stricken off ere that this had happened! In haste I smote, but grieve I sore at leisure!" And then, even in his trouble, he remembered the old saw that "What is done is done; and the egg cracked cannot be cured." And so he came to dwell in the greenwood that was to be his home for many a year to come, never again to see the happy days with the lads and lasses of sweet Locksley Town; for he was outlawed, not only because he had killed a man, but also because he had poached upon the King's deer, and two hundred pounds were set upon his head, as a reward for whoever would bring him to the court of the King. Now the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would bring this knave Robin Hood to justice, and for two reasons: first, because he wanted the two hundred pounds, and next, because the forester that Robin Hood had killed was of kin to him. But Robin Hood lay hidden in Sherwood Forest for one year, and in that time there gathered around him many others like himself, cast out from other folk for this cause and for that. Some had shot deer in hungry wintertime, when they could get no other food, and had been seen in the act by the foresters, but had escaped, thus saving their ears; some had been turned out of their inheritance, that their farms might be added to the King's lands in Sherwood Forest; some had been despoiled by a great baron or a rich abbot or a powerful esquire--all, for one cause or another, had come to Sherwood to escape wrong and oppression. So, in all that year, fivescore or more good stout yeomen gathered about Robin Hood, and chose him to be their leader and chief. Then they vowed that even as they themselves had been despoiled they would despoil their oppressors, whether baron, abbot, knight, or squire, and that from each they would take that which had been wrung from the poor by unjust taxes, or land rents, or in wrongful fines. But to the poor folk they would give a helping hand in need and trouble, and would return to them that which had been unjustly taken from them. Besides this, they swore never to harm a child nor to wrong a woman, be she maid, wife, or widow; so that, after a while, when the people began to find that no harm was meant to them, but that money or food came in time of want to many a poor family, they came to praise Robin and his merry men, and to tell many tales of him and of his doings in Sherwood Forest, for they felt him to be one of themselves. Up rose Robin Hood one merry morn when all the birds were singing blithely among the leaves, and up rose all his merry men, each fellow washing his head and hands in the cold brown brook that leaped laughing from stone to stone. Then said Robin, "For fourteen days have we seen no sport, so now I will go abroad to seek adventures forthwith. But tarry ye, my merry men all, here in the greenwood; only see that ye mind well my call. Three blasts upon the bugle horn I will blow in my hour of need; then come quickly, for I shall want your aid." So saying, he strode away through the leafy forest glades until he had come to the verge of Sherwood. There he wandered for a long time, through highway and byway, through dingly dell and forest skirts. Now he met a fair buxom lass in a shady lane, and each gave the other a merry word and passed their way; now he saw a fair lady upon an ambling pad, to whom he doffed his cap, and who bowed sedately in return to the fair youth; now he saw a fat monk on a pannier-laden ass; now a gallant knight, with spear and shield and armor that flashed brightly in the sunlight; now a page clad in crimson; and now a stout burgher from good Nottingham Town, pacing along with serious footsteps; all these sights he saw, but adventure found he none. At last he took a road by the forest skirts, a bypath that dipped toward a broad, pebbly stream spanned by a narrow bridge made of a log of wood. As he drew nigh this bridge he saw a tall stranger coming from the other side. Thereupon Robin quickened his pace, as did the stranger likewise, each thinking to cross first. "Now stand thou back," quoth Robin, "and let the better man cross first." "Nay," answered the stranger, "then stand back shine own self, for the better man, I wet, am I." "That will we presently see," quoth Robin, "and meanwhile stand thou where thou art, or else, by the bright brow of Saint AElfrida, I will show thee right good Nottingham play with a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs." "Now," quoth the stranger, "I will tan thy hide till it be as many colors as a beggar's cloak, if thou darest so much as touch a string of that same bow that thou holdest in thy hands." "Thou pratest like an ass," said Robin, "for I could send this shaft clean through thy proud heart before a curtal friar could say grace over a roast goose at Michaelmastide." "And thou pratest like a coward," answered the stranger, "for thou standest there with a good yew bow to shoot at my heart, while I have nought in my hand but a plain blackthorn staff wherewith to meet thee." "Now," quoth Robin, "by the faith of my heart, never have I had a coward's name in all my life before. I will lay by my trusty bow and eke my arrows, and if thou darest abide my coming, I will go and cut a cudgel to test thy manhood withal." "Ay, marry, that will I abide thy coming, and joyously, too," quoth the stranger; whereupon he leaned sturdily upon his staff to await Robin. Then Robin Hood stepped quickly to the coverside and cut a good staff of ground oak, straight, without new, and six feet in length, and came back trimming away the tender stems from it, while the stranger waited for him, leaning upon his staff, and whistling as he gazed round about. Robin observed him furtively as he trimmed his staff, measuring him from top to toe from out the corner of his eye, and thought that he had never seen a lustier or a stouter man. Tall was Robin, but taller was the stranger by a head and a neck, for he was seven feet in height. Broad was Robin across the shoulders, but broader was the stranger by twice the breadth of a palm, while he measured at least an ell around the waist. "Nevertheless," said Robin to himself, "I will baste thy hide right merrily, my good fellow"; then, aloud, "Lo, here is my good staff, lusty and tough. Now wait my coming, an thou darest, and meet me an thou fearest not. Then we will fight until one or the other of us tumble into the stream by dint of blows." "Marry, that meeteth my whole heart!" cried the stranger, twirling his staff above his head, betwixt his fingers and thumb, until it whistled again. Never did the Knights of Arthur's Round Table meet in a stouter fight than did these two. In a moment Robin stepped quickly upon the bridge where the stranger stood; first he made a feint, and then delivered a blow at the stranger's head that, had it met its mark, would have tumbled him speedily into the water. But the stranger turned the blow right deftly and in return gave one as stout, which Robin also turned as the stranger had done. So they stood, each in his place, neither moving a finger's-breadth back, for one good hour, and many blows were given and received by each in that time, till here and there were sore bones and bumps, yet neither thought of crying "Enough," nor seemed likely to fall from off the bridge. Now and then they stopped to rest, and each thought that he never had seen in all his life before such a hand at quarterstaff. At last Robin gave the stranger a blow upon the ribs that made his jacket smoke like a damp straw thatch in the sun. So shrewd was the stroke that the stranger came within a hair's-breadth of falling off the bridge, but he regained himself right quickly and, by a dexterous blow, gave Robin a crack on the crown that caused the blood to flow. Then Robin grew mad with anger and smote with all his might at the other. But the stranger warded the blow and once again thwacked Robin, and this time so fairly that he fell heels over head into the water, as the queen pin falls in a game of bowls. "And where art thou now, my good lad?" shouted the stranger, roaring with laughter. "Oh, in the flood and floating adown with the tide," cried Robin, nor could he forbear laughing himself at his sorry plight. Then, gaining his feet, he waded to the bank, the little fish speeding hither and thither, all frightened at his splashing. "Give me thy hand," cried he, when he had reached the bank. "I must needs own thou art a brave and a sturdy soul and, withal, a good stout stroke with the cudgels. By this and by that, my head hummeth like to a hive of bees on a hot June day." Then he clapped his horn to his lips and winded a blast that went echoing sweetly down the forest paths. "Ay, marry," quoth he again, "thou art a tall lad, and eke a brave one, for ne'er, I bow, is there a man betwixt here and Canterbury Town could do the like to me that thou hast done." "And thou," quoth the stranger, laughing, "takest thy cudgeling like a brave heart and a stout yeoman." But now the distant twigs and branches rustled with the coming of men, and suddenly a score or two of good stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, burst from out the covert, with merry Will Stutely at their head. "Good master," cried Will, "how is this? Truly thou art all wet from head to foot, and that to the very skin." "Why, marry," answered jolly Robin, "yon stout fellow hath tumbled me neck and crop into the water and hath given me a drubbing beside." "Then shall he not go without a ducking and eke a drubbing himself!" cried Will Stutely. "Have at him, lads!" Then Will and a score of yeomen leaped upon the stranger, but though they sprang quickly they found him ready and felt him strike right and left with his stout staff, so that, though he went down with press of numbers, some of them rubbed cracked crowns before he was overcome. "Nay, forbear!" cried Robin, laughing until his sore sides ached again. "He is a right good man and true, and no harm shall befall him. Now hark ye, good youth, wilt thou stay with me and be one of my band? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have each year, beside forty marks in fee, and share with us whatsoever good shall befall us. Thou shalt eat sweet venison and quaff the stoutest ale, and mine own good right-hand man shalt thou be, for never did I see such a cudgel player in all my life before. Speak! Wilt thou be one of my good merry men?" "That know I not," quoth the stranger surlily, for he was angry at being so tumbled about. "If ye handle yew bow and apple shaft no better than ye do oaken cudgel, I wot ye are not fit to be called yeomen in my country; but if there be any man here that can shoot a better shaft than I, then will I bethink me of joining with you." "Now by my faith," said Robin, "thou art a right saucy varlet, sirrah; yet I will stoop to thee as I never stooped to man before. Good Stutely, cut thou a fair white piece of bark four fingers in breadth, and set it fourscore yards distant on yonder oak. Now, stranger, hit that fairly with a gray goose shaft and call thyself an archer." "Ay, marry, that will I," answered he. "Give me a good stout bow and a fair broad arrow, and if I hit it not, strip me and beat me blue with bowstrings." Then he chose the stoutest bow among them all, next to Robin's own, and a straight gray goose shaft, well-feathered and smooth, and stepping to the mark--while all the band, sitting or lying upon the greensward, watched to see him shoot--he drew the arrow to his cheek and loosed the shaft right deftly, sending it so straight down the path that it clove the mark in the very center. "Aha!" cried he, "mend thou that if thou canst"; while even the yeomen clapped their hands at so fair a shot. "That is a keen shot indeed," quoth Robin. "Mend it I cannot, but mar it I may, perhaps." Then taking up his own good stout bow and nocking an arrow with care, he shot with his very greatest skill. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it lit fairly upon the stranger's shaft and split it into splinters. Then all the yeomen leaped to their feet and shouted for joy that their master had shot so well. "Now by the lusty yew bow of good Saint Withold," cried the stranger, "that is a shot indeed, and never saw I the like in all my life before! Now truly will I be thy man henceforth and for aye. Good Adam Bell[1] was a fair shot, but never shot he so!" [1] Adam Bell, Clym o' the Clough, and William of Cloudesly were three noted north-country bowmen whose names have been celebrated in many ballads of the olden time. "Then have I gained a right good man this day," quoth jolly Robin. "What name goest thou by, good fellow?" "Men call me John Little whence I came," answered the stranger. Then Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up. "Nay, fair little stranger," said he, "I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise. Little art thou indeed, and small of bone and sinew, therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather." Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry. "An thou make a jest of me," quoth he to Will Stutely, "thou wilt have sore bones and little pay, and that in short season." "Nay, good friend," said Robin Hood, "bottle thine anger, for the name fitteth thee well. Little John shall thou be called henceforth, and Little John shall it be. So come, my merry men, we will prepare a christening feast for this fair infant." So turning their backs upon the stream, they plunged into the forest once more, through which they traced their steps till they reached the spot where they dwelled in the depths of the woodland. There had they built huts of bark and branches of trees, and made couches of sweet rushes spread over with skins of fallow deer. Here stood a great oak tree with branches spreading broadly around, beneath which was a seat of green moss where Robin Hood was wont to sit at feast and at merrymaking with his stout men about him. Here they found the rest of the band, some of whom had come in with a brace of fat does. Then they all built great fires and after a time roasted the does and broached a barrel of humming ale. Then when the feast was ready they all sat down, but Robin placed Little John at his right hand, for he was henceforth to be the second in the band. Then when the feast was done Will Stutely spoke up. "It is now time, I ween, to christen our bonny babe, is it not so, merry boys?" And "Aye! Aye!" cried all, laughing till the woods echoed with their mirth. "Then seven sponsors shall we have," quoth Will Stutely, and hunting among all the band, he chose the seven stoutest men of them all. "Now by Saint Dunstan," cried Little John, springing to his feet, "more than one of you shall rue it an you lay finger upon me." But without a word they all ran upon him at once, seizing him by his legs and arms and holding him tightly in spite of his struggles, and they bore him forth while all stood around to see the sport. Then one came forward who had been chosen to play the priest because he had a bald crown, and in his hand he carried a brimming pot of ale. "Now, who bringeth this babe?" asked he right soberly. "That do I," answered Will Stutely. "And what name callest thou him?" "Little John call I him." "Now Little John," quoth the mock priest, "thou hast not lived heretofore, but only got thee along through the world, but henceforth thou wilt live indeed. When thou livedst not thou wast called John Little, but now that thou dost live indeed, Little John shalt thou be called, so christen I thee." And at these last words he emptied the pot of ale upon Little John's head. Then all shouted with laughter as they saw the good brown ale stream over Little John's beard and trickle from his nose and chin, while his eyes blinked with the smart of it. At first he was of a mind to be angry but found he could not, because the others were so merry; so he, too, laughed with the rest. Then Robin took this sweet, pretty babe, clothed him all anew from top to toe in Lincoln green, and gave him a good stout bow, and so made him a member of the merry band. And thus it was that Robin Hood became outlawed; thus a band of merry companions gathered about him, and thus he gained his right-hand man, Little John; and so the prologue ends. And now I will tell how the Sheriff of Nottingham three times sought to take Robin Hood, and how he failed each time. PART FIRST Telling how the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he would deal dole to Robing Hood. Also, how he made three trials thereat, but missed each time by a good bow's length. Robin Hood and the Tinker NOW IT WAS TOLD BEFORE how two hundred pounds were set upon Robin Hood's head, and how the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would seize Robin, both because he would fain have the two hundred pounds and because the slain man was a kinsman of his own. Now the Sheriff did not yet know what a force Robin had about him in Sherwood, but thought that he might serve a warrant for his arrest as he could upon any other man that had broken the laws; therefore he offered fourscore golden angels to anyone who would serve this warrant. But men of Nottingham Town knew more of Robin Hood and his doings than the Sheriff did, and many laughed to think of serving a warrant upon the bold outlaw, knowing well that all they would get for such service would be cracked crowns; so that no one came forward to take the matter in hand. Thus a fortnight passed, in which time none came forward to do the Sheriff's business. Then said he, "A right good reward have I offered to whosoever would serve my warrant upon Robin Hood, and I marvel that no one has come to undertake the task." Then one of his men who was near him said, "Good master, thou wottest not the force that Robin Hood has about him and how little he cares for warrant of king or sheriff. Truly, no one likes to go on this service, for fear of cracked crowns and broken bones." "Then I hold all Nottingham men to be cowards," said the Sheriff. "And let me see the man in all Nottinghamshire that dare disobey the warrant of our sovereign lord King Harry, for, by the shrine of Saint Edmund, I will hang him forty cubits high! But if no man in Nottingham dare win fourscore angels, I will send elsewhere, for there should be men of mettle somewhere in this land." Then he called up a messenger in whom he placed great trust, and bade him saddle his horse and make ready to go to Lincoln Town to see whether he could find anyone there that would do his bidding and win the reward. So that same morning the messenger started forth upon his errand. Bright shone the sun upon the dusty highway that led from Nottingham to Lincoln, stretching away all white over hill and dale. Dusty was the highway and dusty the throat of the messenger, so that his heart was glad when he saw before him the Sign of the Blue Boar Inn, when somewhat more than half his journey was done. The inn looked fair to his eyes, and the shade of the oak trees that stood around it seemed cool and pleasant, so he alighted from his horse to rest himself for a time, calling for a pot of ale to refresh his thirsty throat. There he saw a party of right jovial fellows seated beneath the spreading oak that shaded the greensward in front of the door. There was a tinker, two barefoot friars, and a party of six of the King's foresters all clad in Lincoln green, and all of them were quaffing humming ale and singing merry ballads of the good old times. Loud laughed the foresters, as jests were bandied about between the singing, and louder laughed the friars, for they were lusty men with beards that curled like the wool of black rams; but loudest of all laughed the Tinker, and he sang more sweetly than any of the rest. His bag and his hammer hung upon a twig of the oak tree, and near by leaned his good stout cudgel, as thick as his wrist and knotted at the end. "Come," cried one of the foresters to the tired messenger, "come join us for this shot. Ho, landlord! Bring a fresh pot of ale for each man." The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good. "Now what news bearest thou so fast?" quoth one, "and whither ridest thou today?" The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly; besides, the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in an easy corner of the inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway and the hostess stood with her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his budget of news with great comfort. He told all from the very first: how Robin Hood had slain the forester, and how he had hidden in the greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived therein, all against the law, God wot, slaying His Majesty's deer and levying toll on fat abbot, knight, and esquire, so that none dare travel even on broad Watling Street or the Fosse Way for fear of him; how that the Sheriff had a mind to serve the King's warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he mind warrant of either king or sheriff, for he was far from being a law- abiding man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham Town to serve this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones, and how that he, the messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to find of what mettle the Lincoln men might be. "Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town," said the jolly Tinker, "and no one nigh Nottingham--nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark-- can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o' the Mill, and by mine own name and that's Wat o' the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother's son, and that's myself, will I, even I, Wat o' the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys?" "Now art thou the man for my farthing," cried the messenger. "And back thou goest with me to Nottingham Town." "Nay," quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Go I with no man gin it be not with mine own free will." "Nay, nay," said the messenger, "no man is there in Nottinghamshire could make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow." "Ay, that be I brave," said the Tinker. "Ay, marry," said the messenger, "thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do." "Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag and hammer, and my cudgel. Ay, let' me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether he will not mind the King's warrant." So, after having paid their score, the messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham again. One bright morning soon after this time, Robin Hood started off to Nottingham Town to find what was a-doing there, walking merrily along the roadside where the grass was sweet with daisies, his eyes wandering and his thoughts also. His bugle horn hung at his hip and his bow and arrows at his back, while in his hand he bore a good stout oaken staff, which he twirled with his fingers as he strolled along. As thus he walked down a shady lane he saw a tinker coming, trolling a merry song as he drew nigh. On his back hung his bag and his hammer, and in his hand he carried a right stout crabstaff full six feet long, and thus sang he: "_In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives ear till buck be killed, And little lads with pipes of corn Sit keeping beasts afield_--" "Halloa, good friend!" cried Robin. "I WENT TO GATHER STRAWBERRIES--" "Halloa!" cried Robin again. "BY WOODS AND GROVES FULL FAIR--" "Halloa! Art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!" "And who art thou dost so boldly check a fair song?" quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. "Halloa, shine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be no good friend it were ill for thee." "And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?" quoth Robin. "I come from Banbury," answered the Tinker. "Alas!" quoth Robin, "I hear there is sad news this merry morn." "Ha! Is it indeed so?" cried the Tinker eagerly. "Prythee tell it speedily, for I am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings." "Well then," quoth Robin, "list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself up bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two tinkers are in the stocks for drinking ale and beer!" "Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog," quoth the Tinker, "for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is indeed, gin there be two stout fellows in the stocks." "Nay," said Robin, "thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in the stocks, for the others do roam the country at large." "Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan," cried the Tinker, "I have a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part." Loud laughed Robin and cried, "Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why, thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest--and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks--I will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire." "Now by my faith," said the Tinker, "thou art a right good fellow in spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen." "Tell me thy news, good friend, I prythee," quoth Robin as they trudged along together, "for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat." "Now I love thee as my brother, my bully blade," said the Tinker, "else I would not tell thee my news; for sly am I, man, and I have in hand a grave undertaking that doth call for all my wits, for I come to seek a bold outlaw that men, hereabouts, call Robin Hood. Within my pouch I have a warrant, all fairly written out on parchment, forsooth, with a great red seal for to make it lawful. Could I but meet this same Robin Hood I would serve it upon his dainty body, and if he minded it not I would beat him till every one of his ribs would cry Amen. But thou livest hereabouts, mayhap thou knowest Robin Hood thyself, good fellow." "Ay, marry, that I do somewhat," quoth Robin, "and I have seen him this very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch." "Let him but try!" cried the Tinker. "Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I would I had him here now, man to man!" And he made his heavy cudgel to spin again. "But what manner of man is he, lad? "Much like myself," said Robin, laughing, "and in height and build and age nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too." "Nay," quoth the Tinker, "thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a great bearded man. Nottingham men feared him so." "Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art," said Robin. "But men do call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff." "That may be," said the Tinker right sturdily, "but I am more deft than he, for did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town? But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to him? Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the warrant upon the knave's body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou showest me him." "Ay, that will I," quoth Robin, "but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no." "That will I not do, even to mine own brother," answered the Tinker. "No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow's own body." "So be it," quoth Robin. "And thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it. But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October." No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue Boar. None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such humming ale; nor, in wintertime, when the north wind howled and snow drifted around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar. At such times might be found a goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth, bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs[Small sour apples] bobbed in bowls of ale upon the hearthstone. Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was filled with snow. As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band were the best of customers and paid their scores without having them chalked up behind the door. So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before. "Bide thou here," quoth Robin to the Tinker, "while I go and see that mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth." So saying, he went within and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them. "By Our Lady," said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, "yon same Withold of Tamworth--a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know--breweth the most humming ale that e'er passed the lips of Wat o' the Crabstaff." "Drink, man, drink," cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. "Ho, landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my jolly blade." "Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow," quoth the Tinker, "for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song, and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while." Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called "The Marriage of Sir Gawaine," which you may some time read yourself, in stout English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble tale of noble knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the Tinker came to the last verse his tongue began to trip and his head to spin, because of the strong waters mixed with the ale. First his tongue tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then his head wagged from side to side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never would waken again. Then Robin Hood laughed aloud and quickly took the warrant from out the Tinker's pouch with his deft fingers. "Sly art thou, Tinker," quoth he, "but not yet, I bow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief Robin Hood." Then he called the host to him and said, "Here, good man, are ten broad shillings for the entertainment thou hast given us this day. See that thou takest good care of thy fair guest there, and when he wakes thou mayst again charge him ten shillings also, and if he hath it not, thou mayst take his bag and hammer, and even his coat, in payment. Thus do I punish those that come into the greenwood to deal dole to me. As for thine own self, never knew I landlord yet that would not charge twice an he could." At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw, "Teach a magpie to suck eggs." The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows grew long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up, then he looked down, then he looked east, then he looked west, for he was gathering his wits together, like barley straws blown apart by the wind. First he thought of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he thought of his stout crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then of his warrant, and of the fourscore angels he was to gain for serving it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his hand into his pouch, but not a scrap nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to his feet in a rage. "Ho, landlord!" cried he, "whither hath that knave gone that was with me but now?" "What knave meaneth Your Worship?" quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water. "I saw no knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with Your Worship, but I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass him by and know him not." "Now, how should I, that ne'er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?" "Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin Hood, which same--" "Now, by'r Lady!" cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, "thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave's pate for thee!" Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would smite him where he stood. "Nay," cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, "how knew I that thou knewest him not?" "Well and truly thankful mayst thou be," quoth the Tinker, "that I be a patient man and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne'er cheat customer again. But as for this same knave Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him, and if I do not score his knave's pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me woman." So saying, he gathered himself together to depart. "Nay," quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, "thou goest not till thou hast paid me my score." "But did not he pay thee?" "Not so much as one farthing; and ten good shillings' worth of ale have ye drunk this day. Nay, I say, thou goest not away without paying me, else shall our good Sheriff know of it." "But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow," quoth the Tinker. "'Good fellow' not me," said the landlord. "Good fellow am I not when it cometh to lose ten shillings! Pay me that thou owest me in broad money, or else leave thy coat and bag and hammer; yet, I wot they are not worth ten shillings, and I shall lose thereby. Nay, an thou stirrest, I have a great dog within and I will loose him upon thee. Maken, open thou the door and let forth Brian if this fellow stirs one step." "Nay," quoth the Tinker--for, by roaming the country, he had learned what dogs were--"take thou what thou wilt have, and let me depart in peace, and may a murrain go with thee. But oh, landlord! An I catch yon scurvy varlet, I swear he shall pay full with usury for that he hath had!" So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed when he had fairly gone. "Robin and I stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly," quoth the landlord. Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke: "Halloa, my sweet bird," said he, laughing merrily, "how likest thou thine ale? Wilt not sing to me another song?" The Tinker said nothing at first but stood looking at Robin with a grim face. "Now," quoth he at last, "I am right glad I have met thee, and if I do not rattle thy bones within thy hide this day, I give thee leave to put thy foot upon my neck." "With all my heart," cried merry Robin. "Rattle my bones, an thou canst." So saying, he gripped his staff and threw himself upon his guard. Then the Tinker spat upon his hands and, grasping his staff, came straight at the other. He struck two or three blows, but soon found that he had met his match, for Robin warded and parried all of them, and, before the Tinker thought, he gave him a rap upon the ribs in return. At this Robin laughed aloud, and the Tinker grew more angry than ever, and smote again with all his might and main. Again Robin warded two of the strokes, but at the third, his staff broke beneath the mighty blows of the Tinker. "Now, ill betide thee, traitor staff," cried Robin, as it fell from his hands; "a foul stick art thou to serve me thus in mine hour of need." "Now yield thee," quoth the Tinker, "for thou art my captive; and if thou do not, I will beat thy pate to a pudding." To this Robin Hood made no answer, but, clapping his horn to his lips, he blew three blasts, loud and clear. "Ay," quoth the Tinker, "blow thou mayest, but go thou must with me to Nottingham Town, for the Sheriff would fain see thee there. Now wilt thou yield thee, or shall I have to break thy pretty head?" "An I must drink sour ale, I must," quoth Robin, "but never have I yielded me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now. Ho, my merry men! Come quickly!" Then from out the forest leaped Little John and six stout yeomen clad in Lincoln green. "How now, good master," cried Little John, "what need hast thou that thou dost wind thy horn so loudly?" "There stands a tinker," quoth Robin, "that would fain take me to Nottingham, there to hang upon the gallows tree." "Then shall he himself hang forthwith," cried Little John, and he and the others made at the Tinker, to seize him. "Nay, touch him not," said Robin, "for a right stout man is he. A metal man he is by trade, and a mettled man by nature; moreover, he doth sing a lovely ballad. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my merry men all? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have a year, besides forty marks in fee; thou shalt share all with us and lead a right merry life in the greenwood; for cares have we not, and misfortune cometh not upon us within the sweet shades of Sherwood, where we shoot the dun deer and feed upon venison and sweet oaten cakes, and curds and honey. Wilt thou come with me?" "Ay, marry, will I join with you all," quoth the Tinker, "for I love a merry life, and I love thee, good master, though thou didst thwack my ribs and cheat me into the bargain. Fain am I to own thou art both a stouter and a slyer man than I; so I will obey thee and be thine own true servant." So all turned their steps to the forest depths, where the Tinker was to live henceforth. For many a day he sang ballads to the band, until the famous Allan a Dale joined them, before whose sweet voice all others seemed as harsh as a raven's; but of him we will learn hereafter. The Shooting Match at Nottingham Town THEN THE SHERIFF was very wroth because of this failure to take jolly Robin, for it came to his ears, as ill news always does, that the people laughed at him and made a jest of his thinking to serve a warrant upon such a one as the bold outlaw. And a man hates nothing so much as being made a jest of; so he said: "Our gracious lord and sovereign King himself shall know of this, and how his laws are perverted and despised by this band of rebel outlaws. As for yon traitor Tinker, him will I hang, if I catch him, upon the very highest gallows tree in all Nottinghamshire." Then he bade all his servants and retainers to make ready to go to London Town, to see and speak with the King. At this there was bustling at the Sheriff's castle, and men ran hither and thither upon this business and upon that, while the forge fires of Nottingham glowed red far into the night like twinkling stars, for all the smiths of the town were busy making or mending armor for the Sheriff's troop of escort. For two days this labor lasted, then, on the third, all was ready for the journey. So forth they started in the bright sunlight, from Nottingham Town to Fosse Way and thence to Watling Street; and so they journeyed for two days, until they saw at last the spires and towers of great London Town; and many folks stopped, as they journeyed along, and gazed at the show they made riding along the highways with their flashing armor and gay plumes and trappings. In London King Henry and his fair Queen Eleanor held their court, gay with ladies in silks and satins and velvets and cloth of gold, and also brave knights and gallant courtiers. Thither came the Sheriff and was shown into the King's presence. "A boon, a boon," quoth he, as he knelt upon the ground. "Now what wouldst thou have?" said the King. "Let us hear what may be thy desires." "O good my Lord and Sovereign," spake the Sheriff, "in Sherwood Forest in our own good shire of Nottingham, liveth a bold outlaw whose name is Robin Hood." "In good sooth," said the King, "his doings have reached even our own royal ears. He is a saucy, rebellious varlet, yet, I am fain to own, a right merry soul withal." "But hearken, O my most gracious Sovereign," said the Sheriff. "I sent a warrant to him with thine own royal seal attached, by a right lusty knave, but he beat the messenger and stole the warrant. And he killeth thy deer and robbeth thine own liege subjects even upon the great highways." "Why, how now," quoth the King wrathfully. "What wouldst thou have me do? Comest thou not to me with a great array of men-at-arms and retainers, and yet art not able to take a single band of lusty knaves without armor on breast, in thine own county! What wouldst thou have me do? Art thou not my Sheriff? Are not my laws in force in Nottinghamshire? Canst thou not take thine own course against those that break the laws or do any injury to thee or thine? Go, get thee gone, and think well; devise some plan of thine own, but trouble me no further. But look well to it, Master Sheriff, for I will have my laws obeyed by all men within my kingdom, and if thou art not able to enforce them thou art no sheriff for me. So look well to thyself, I say, or ill may befall thee as well as all the thieving knaves in Nottinghamshire. When the flood cometh it sweepeth away grain as well as chaff." Then the Sheriff turned away with a sore and troubled heart, and sadly he rued his fine show of retainers, for he saw that the King was angry because he had so many men about him and yet could not enforce the laws. So, as they all rode slowly back to Nottingham, the Sheriff was thoughtful and full of care. Not a word did he speak to anyone, and no one of his men spoke to him, but all the time he was busy devising some plan to take Robin Hood. "Aha!" cried he suddenly, smiting his hand upon his thigh "I have it now! Ride on, my merry men all, and let us get back to Nottingham Town as speedily as we may. And mark well my words: before a fortnight is passed, that evil knave Robin Hood will be safely clapped into Nottingham gaol." But what was the Sheriff's plan? As a usurer takes each one of a bag of silver angels, feeling each coin to find whether it be clipped or not, so the Sheriff, as all rode slowly and sadly back toward Nottingham, took up thought after thought in turn, feeling around the edges of each but finding in every one some flaw. At last he thought of the daring soul of jolly Robin and how, as he the Sheriff knew, he often came even within the walls of Nottingham. "Now," thought the Sheriff, "could I but persuade Robin nigh to Nottingham Town so that I could find him, I warrant I would lay hands upon him so stoutly that he would never get away again." Then of a sudden it came to him like a flash that were he to proclaim a great shooting match and offer some grand prize, Robin Hood might be overpersuaded by his spirit to come to the butts; and it was this thought which caused him to cry "Aha!" and smite his palm upon his thigh. So, as soon as he had returned safely to Nottingham, he sent messengers north and south, and east and west, to proclaim through town, hamlet, and countryside, this grand shooting match, and everyone was bidden that could draw a longbow, and the prize was to be an arrow of pure beaten gold. When Robin Hood first heard the news of this he was in Lincoln Town, and hastening back to Sherwood Forest he soon called all his merry men about him and spoke to them thus: "Now hearken, my merry men all, to the news that I have brought from Lincoln Town today. Our friend the Sheriff of Nottingham hath proclaimed a shooting match, and hath sent messengers to tell of it through all the countryside, and the prize is to be a bright golden arrow. Now I fain would have one of us win it, both because of the fairness of the prize and because our sweet friend the Sheriff hath offered it. So we will take our bows and shafts and go there to shoot, for I know right well that merriment will be a-going. What say ye, lads?" Then young David of Doncaster spoke up and said, "Now listen, I pray thee, good master, unto what I say. I have come straight from our friend Eadom o' the Blue Boar, and there I heard the full news of this same match. But, master, I know from him, and he got it from the Sheriff's man Ralph o' the Scar, that this same knavish Sheriff hath but laid a trap for thee in this shooting match and wishes nothing so much as to see thee there. So go not, good master, for I know right well he doth seek to beguile thee, but stay within the greenwood lest we all meet dole and woe." "Now," quoth Robin, "thou art a wise lad and keepest thine ears open and thy mouth shut, as becometh a wise and crafty woodsman. But shall we let it be said that the Sheriff of Nottingham did cow bold Robin Hood and sevenscore as fair archers as are in all merry England? Nay, good David, what thou tellest me maketh me to desire the prize even more than I else should do. But what sayeth our good gossip Swanthold? Is it not 'A hasty man burneth his mouth, and the fool that keepeth his eyes shut falleth into the pit'? Thus he says, truly, therefore we must meet guile with guile. Now some of you clothe yourselves as curtal friars, and some as rustic peasants, and some as tinkers, or as beggars, but see that each man taketh a good bow or broadsword, in case need should arise. As for myself, I will shoot for this same golden arrow, and should I win it, we will hang it to the branches of our good greenwood tree for the joy of all the band. How like you the plan, my merry men all?" Then "Good, good!" cried all the band right heartily. A fair sight was Nottingham Town on the day of the shooting match. All along upon the green meadow beneath the town wall stretched a row of benches, one above the other, which were for knight and lady, squire and dame, and rich burghers and their wives; for none but those of rank and quality were to sit there. At the end of the range, near the target, was a raised seat bedecked with ribbons and scarfs and garlands of flowers, for the Sheriff of Nottingham and his dame. The range was twoscore paces broad. At one end stood the target, at the other a tent of striped canvas, from the pole of which fluttered many-colored flags and streamers. In this booth were casks of ale, free to be broached by any of the archers who might wish to quench their thirst. Across the range from where the seats for the better folk were raised was a railing to keep the poorer people from crowding in front of the target. Already, while it was early, the benches were beginning to fill with people of quality, who kept constantly arriving in little carts or upon palfreys that curveted gaily to the merry tinkle of silver bells at bridle reins. With these came also the poorer folk, who sat or lay upon the green grass near the railing that kept them from off the range. In the great tent the archers were gathering by twos and threes; some talking loudly of the fair shots each man had made in his day; some looking well to their bows, drawing a string betwixt the fingers to see that there was no fray upon it, or inspecting arrows, shutting one eye and peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and true, for neither bow nor shaft should fail at such a time and for such a prize. And never was such a company of yeomen as were gathered at Nottingham Town that day, for the very best archers of merry England had come to this shooting match. There was Gill o' the Red Cap, the Sheriff's own head archer, and Diccon Cruikshank of Lincoln Town, and Adam o' the Dell, a man of Tamworth, of threescore years and more, yet hale and lusty still, who in his time had shot in the famous match at Woodstock, and had there beaten that renowned archer, Clym o' the Clough. And many more famous men of the longbow were there, whose names have been handed down to us in goodly ballads of the olden time. But now all the benches were filled with guests, lord and lady, burgher and dame, when at last the Sheriff himself came with his lady, he riding with stately mien upon his milk-white horse and she upon her brown filly. Upon his head he wore a purple velvet cap, and purple velvet was his robe, all trimmed about with rich ermine; his jerkin and hose were of sea-green silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the pointed toes fastened to his garters with golden chains. A golden chain hung about his neck, and at his collar was a great carbuncle set in red gold. His lady was dressed in blue velvet, all trimmed with swan's down. So they made a gallant sight as they rode along side by side, and all the people shouted from where they crowded across the space from the gentlefolk; so the Sheriff and his lady came to their place, where men-at-arms, with hauberk and spear, stood about, waiting for them. Then when the Sheriff and his dame had sat down, he bade his herald wind upon his silver horn; who thereupon sounded three blasts that came echoing cheerily back from the gray walls of Nottingham. Then the archers stepped forth to their places, while all the folks shouted with a mighty voice, each man calling upon his favorite yeoman. "Red Cap!" cried some; "Cruikshank!" cried others; "Hey for William o' Leslie!" shouted others yet again; while ladies waved silken scarfs to urge each yeoman to do his best. Then the herald stood forth and loudly proclaimed the rules of the game as follows: "Shoot each man from yon mark, which is sevenscore yards and ten from the target. One arrow shooteth each man first, and from all the archers shall the ten that shooteth the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Two arrows shooteth each man of these ten, then shall the three that shoot the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Three arrows shooteth each man of those three, and to him that shooteth the fairest shafts shall the prize be given." Then the Sheriff leaned forward, looking keenly among the press of archers to find whether Robin Hood was among them; but no one was there clad in Lincoln green, such as was worn by Robin and his band. "Nevertheless," said the Sheriff to himself, "he may still be there, and I miss him among the crowd of other men. But let me see when but ten men shoot, for I wot he will be among the ten, or I know him not." And now the archers shot, each man in turn, and the good folk never saw such archery as was done that day. Six arrows were within the clout, four within the black, and only two smote the outer ring; so that when the last arrow sped and struck the target, all the people shouted aloud, for it was noble shooting. And now but ten men were left of all those that had shot before, and of these ten, six were famous throughout the land, and most of the folk gathered there knew them. These six men were Gilbert o' the Red Cap, Adam o' the Dell, Diccon Cruikshank, William o' Leslie, Hubert o' Cloud, and Swithin o' Hertford. Two others were yeomen of merry Yorkshire, another was a tall stranger in blue, who said he came from London Town, and the last was a tattered stranger in scarlet, who wore a patch over one eye. "Now," quoth the Sheriff to a man-at-arms who stood near him, "seest thou Robin Hood among those ten?" "Nay, that do I not, Your Worship," answered the man. "Six of them I know right well. Of those Yorkshire yeomen, one is too tall and the other too short for that bold knave. Robin's beard is as yellow as gold, while yon tattered beggar in scarlet hath a beard of brown, besides being blind of one eye. As for the stranger in blue, Robin's shoulders, I ween, are three inches broader than his." "Then," quoth the Sheriff, smiting his thigh angrily, "yon knave is a coward as well as a rogue, and dares not show his face among good men and true." Then, after they had rested a short time, those ten stout men stepped forth to shoot again. Each man shot two arrows, and as they shot, not a word was spoken, but all the crowd watched with scarce a breath of sound; but when the last had shot his arrow another great shout arose, while many cast their caps aloft for joy of such marvelous shooting. "Now by our gracious Lady fair," quoth old Sir Amyas o' the Dell, who, bowed with fourscore years and more, sat near the Sheriff, "ne'er saw I such archery in all my life before, yet have I seen the best hands at the longbow for threescore years and more." And now but three men were left of all those that had shot before. One was Gill o' the Red Cap, one the tattered stranger in scarlet, and one Adam o' the Dell of Tamworth Town. Then all the people called aloud, some crying, "Ho for Gilbert o' the Red Cap!" and some, "Hey for stout Adam o' Tamworth!" But not a single man in the crowd called upon the stranger in scarlet. "Now, shoot thou well, Gilbert," cried the Sheriff, "and if thine be the best shaft, fivescore broad silver pennies will I give to thee beside the prize." "Truly I will do my best," quoth Gilbert right sturdily. "A man cannot do aught but his best, but that will I strive to do this day." So saying, he drew forth a fair smooth arrow with a broad feather and fitted it deftly to the string, then drawing his bow with care he sped the shaft. Straight flew the arrow and lit fairly in the clout, a finger's-breadth from the center. "A Gilbert, a Gilbert!" shouted all the crowd; and, "Now, by my faith," cried the Sheriff, smiting his hands together, "that is a shrewd shot." Then the tattered stranger stepped forth, and all the people laughed as they saw a yellow patch that showed beneath his arm when he raised his elbow to shoot, and also to see him aim with but one eye. He drew the good yew bow quickly, and quickly loosed a shaft; so short was the time that no man could draw a breath betwixt the drawing and the shooting; yet his arrow lodged nearer the center than the other by twice the length of a barleycorn. "Now by all the saints in Paradise!" cried the Sheriff, "that is a lovely shaft in very truth!" Then Adam o' the Dell shot, carefully and cautiously, and his arrow lodged close beside the stranger's. Then after a short space they all three shot again, and once more each arrow lodged within the clout, but this time Adam o' the Dell's was farthest from the center, and again the tattered stranger's shot was the best. Then, after another time of rest, they all shot for the third time. This time Gilbert took great heed to his aim, keenly measuring the distance and shooting with shrewdest care. Straight flew the arrow, and all shouted till the very flags that waved in the breeze shook with the sound, and the rooks and daws flew clamoring about the roofs of the old gray tower, for the shaft had lodged close beside the spot that marked the very center. "Well done, Gilbert!" cried the Sheriff right joyously. "Fain am I to believe the prize is thine, and right fairly won. Now, thou ragged knave, let me see thee shoot a better shaft than that." Nought spake the stranger but took his place, while all was hushed, and no one spoke or even seemed to breathe, so great was the silence for wonder what he would do. Meanwhile, also, quite still stood the stranger, holding his bow in his hand, while one could count five; then he drew his trusty yew, holding it drawn but a moment, then loosed the string. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it smote a gray goose feather from off Gilbert's shaft, which fell fluttering through the sunlit air as the stranger's arrow lodged close beside his of the Red Cap, and in the very center. No one spoke a word for a while and no one shouted, but each man looked into his neighbor's face amazedly. "Nay," quoth old Adam o' the Dell presently, drawing a long breath and shaking his head as he spoke, "twoscore years and more have I shot shaft, and maybe not all times bad, but I shoot no more this day, for no man can match with yon stranger, whosoe'er he may be." Then he thrust his shaft into his quiver, rattling, and unstrung his bow without another word. Then the Sheriff came down from his dais and drew near, in all his silks and velvets, to where the tattered stranger stood leaning upon his stout bow, while the good folk crowded around to see the man who shot so wondrously well. "Here, good fellow," quoth the Sheriff, "take thou the prize, and well and fairly hast thou won it, I bow. What may be thy name, and whence comest thou?" "Men do call me Jock o' Teviotdale, and thence am I come," said the stranger. "Then, by Our Lady, Jock, thou art the fairest archer that e'er mine eyes beheld, and if thou wilt join my service I will clothe thee with a better coat than that thou hast upon thy back; thou shalt eat and drink of the best, and at every Christmastide fourscore marks shall be thy wage. I trow thou drawest better bow than that same coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my service?" "Nay, that will I not," quoth the stranger roughly. "I will be mine own, and no man in all merry England shall be my master." "Then get thee gone, and a murrain seize thee!" cried the Sheriff, and his voice trembled with anger. "And by my faith and troth, I have a good part of a mind to have thee beaten for thine insolence!" Then he turned upon his heel and strode away. It was a right motley company that gathered about the noble greenwood tree in Sherwood's depths that same day. A score and more of barefoot friars were there, and some that looked like tinkers, and some that seemed to be sturdy beggars and rustic hinds; and seated upon a mossy couch was one all clad in tattered scarlet, with a patch over one eye; and in his hand he held the golden arrow that was the prize of the great shooting match. Then, amidst a noise of talking and laughter, he took the patch from off his eye and stripped away the scarlet rags from off his body and showed himself all clothed in fair Lincoln green; and quoth he, "Easy come these things away, but walnut stain cometh not so speedily from yellow hair." Then all laughed louder than before, for it was Robin Hood himself that had won the prize from the Sheriff's very hands. Then all sat down to the woodland feast and talked among themselves of the merry jest that had been played upon the Sheriff, and of the adventures that had befallen each member of the band in his disguise. But when the feast was done, Robin Hood took Little John apart and said, "Truly am I vexed in my blood, for I heard the Sheriff say today, 'Thou shootest better than that coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day.' I would fain let him know who it was who won the golden arrow from out his hand, and also that I am no coward such as he takes me to be." Then Little John said, "Good master, take thou me and Will Stutely, and we will send yon fat Sheriff news of all this by a messenger such as he doth not expect." That day the Sheriff sat at meat in the great hall of his house at Nottingham Town. Long tables stood down the hall, at which sat men-at- arms and household servants and good stout villains,[Bond-servants.] in all fourscore and more. There they talked of the day's shooting as they ate their meat and quaffed their ale. The Sheriff sat at the head of the table upon a raised seat under a canopy, and beside him sat his dame. "By my troth," said he, "I did reckon full roundly that that knave Robin Hood would be at the game today. I did not think that he was such a coward. But who could that saucy knave be who answered me to my beard so bravely? I wonder that I did not have him beaten; but there was something about him that spoke of other things than rags and tatters." Then, even as he finished speaking, something fell rattling among the dishes on the table, while those that sat near started up wondering what it might be. After a while one of the men-at-arms gathered courage enough to pick it up and bring it to the Sheriff. Then everyone saw that it was a blunted gray goose shaft, with a fine scroll, about the thickness of a goose quill, tied near to its head. The Sheriff opened the scroll and glanced at it, while the veins upon his forehead swelled and his cheeks grew ruddy with rage as he read, for this was what he saw: "_Now Heaven bless Thy Grace this day Say all in sweet Sherwood For thou didst give the prize away To merry Robin Hood_." "Whence came this?" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice. "Even through the window, Your Worship," quoth the man who had handed the shaft to him. Will Stutely Rescued by His Companions NOW WHEN THE SHERIFF found that neither law nor guile could overcome Robin Hood, he was much perplexed, and said to himself, "Fool that I am! Had I not told our King of Robin Hood, I would not have gotten myself into such a coil; but now I must either take him captive or have wrath visited upon my head from his most gracious Majesty. I have tried law, and I have tried guile, and I have failed in both; so I will try what may be done with might." Thus communing within himself, he called his constables together and told them what was in his mind. "Now take ye each four men, all armed in proof," said he, "and get ye gone to the forest, at different points, and lie in wait for this same Robin Hood. But if any constable finds too many men against him, let him sound a horn, and then let each band within hearing come with all speed and join the party that calls them. Thus, I think, shall we take this green-clad knave. Furthermore, to him that first meeteth with Robin Hood shall one hundred pounds of silver money be given, if he be brought to me dead or alive; and to him that meeteth with any of his band shall twoscore pounds be given, if such be brought to me dead or alive. So, be ye bold and be ye crafty." So thus they went in threescore companies of five to Sherwood Forest, to take Robin Hood, each constable wishing that he might be the one to find the bold outlaw, or at least one of his band. For seven days and nights they hunted through the forest glades, but never saw so much as a single man in Lincoln green; for tidings of all this had been brought to Robin Hood by trusty Eadom o' the Blue Boar. When he first heard the news, Robin said, "If the Sheriff dare send force to meet force, woe will it be for him and many a better man besides, for blood will flow and there will be great trouble for all. But fain would I shun blood and battle, and fain would I not deal sorrow to womenfolk and wives because good stout yeomen lose their lives. Once I slew a man, and never do I wish to slay a man again, for it is bitter for the soul to think thereon. So now we will abide silently in Sherwood Forest, so that it may be well for all, but should we be forced to defend ourselves, or any of our band, then let each man draw bow and brand with might and main." At this speech many of the band shook their heads, and said to themselves, "Now the Sheriff will think that we are cowards, and folk will scoff throughout the countryside, saying that we fear to meet these men." But they said nothing aloud, swallowing their words and doing as Robin bade them. Thus they hid in the depths of Sherwood Forest for seven days and seven nights and never showed their faces abroad in all that time; but early in the morning of the eighth day Robin Hood called the band together and said, "Now who will go and find what the Sheriff's men are at by this time? For I know right well they will not bide forever within Sherwood shades." At this a great shout arose, and each man waved his bow aloft and cried that he might be the one to go. Then Robin Hood's heart was proud when he looked around on his stout, brave fellows, and he said, "Brave and true are ye all, my merry men, and a right stout band of good fellows are ye, but ye cannot all go, so I will choose one from among you, and it shall be good Will Stutely, for he is as sly as e'er an old dog fox in Sherwood Forest." Then Will Stutely leaped high aloft and laughed loudly, clapping his hands for pure joy that he should have been chosen from among them all. "Now thanks, good master," quoth he, "and if I bring not news of those knaves to thee, call me no more thy sly Will Stutely." Then he clad himself in a friar's gown, and underneath the robe he hung a good broadsword in such a place that he could easily lay hands upon it. Thus clad, he set forth upon his quest, until he came to the verge of the forest, and so to the highway. He saw two bands of the Sheriff's men, yet he turned neither to the right nor the left, but only drew his cowl the closer over his face, folding his hands as if in meditation. So at last he came to the Sign of the Blue Boar. "For," quoth he to himself, "our good friend Eadom will tell me all the news." At the Sign of the Blue Boar he found a band of the Sheriffs men drinking right lustily; so, without speaking to anyone, he sat down upon a distant bench, his staff in his hand, and his head bowed forward as though he were meditating. Thus he sat waiting until he might see the landlord apart, and Eadom did not know him, but thought him to be some poor tired friar, so he let him sit without saying a word to him or molesting him, though he liked not the cloth. "For," said he to himself, "it is a hard heart that kicks the lame dog from off the sill." As Stutely sat thus, there came a great house cat and rubbed against his knee, raising his robe a palm's-breadth high. Stutely pushed his robe quickly down again, but the constable who commanded the Sheriffs men saw what had passed, and saw also fair Lincoln green beneath the friar's robe. He said nothing at the time, but communed within himself in this wise: "Yon is no friar of orders gray, and also, I wot, no honest yeoman goeth about in priest's garb, nor doth a thief go so for nought. Now I think in good sooth that is one of Robin Hood's own men." So, presently, he said aloud, "O holy father, wilt thou not take a good pot of March beer to slake thy thirsty soul withal?" But Stutely shook his head silently, for he said to himself, "Maybe there be those here who know my voice." Then the constable said again, "Whither goest thou, holy friar, upon this hot summer's day?" "I go a pilgrim to Canterbury Town," answered Will Stutely, speaking gruffly, so that none might know his voice. Then the constable said, for the third time, "Now tell me, holy father, do pilgrims to Canterbury wear good Lincoln green beneath their robes? Ha! By my faith, I take thee to be some lusty thief, and perhaps one of Robin Hood's own band! Now, by Our Lady's grace, if thou movest hand or foot, I will run thee through the body with my sword!" Then he flashed forth his bright sword and leaped upon Will Stutely, thinking he would take him unaware; but Stutely had his own sword tightly held in his hand, beneath his robe, so he drew it forth before the constable came upon him. Then the stout constable struck a mighty blow; but he struck no more in all that fight, for Stutely, parrying the blow right deftly, smote the constable back again with all his might. Then he would have escaped, but could not, for the other, all dizzy with the wound and with the flowing blood, seized him by the knees with his arms even as he reeled and fell. Then the others rushed upon him, and Stutely struck again at another of the Sheriff's men, but the steel cap glanced the blow, and though the blade bit deep, it did not kill. Meanwhile, the constable, fainting as he was, drew Stutely downward, and the others, seeing the yeoman hampered so, rushed upon him again, and one smote him a blow upon the crown so that the blood ran down his face and blinded him. Then, staggering, he fell, and all sprang upon him, though he struggled so manfully that they could hardly hold him fast. Then they bound him with stout hempen cords so that he could not move either hand or foot, and thus they overcame him. Robin Hood stood under the greenwood tree, thinking of Will Stutely and how he might be faring, when suddenly he saw two of his stout yeomen come running down the forest path, and betwixt them ran buxom Maken of the Blue Boar. Then Robin's heart fell, for he knew they were the bearers of ill tidings. "Will Stutely hath been taken," cried they, when they had come to where he stood. "And is it thou that hast brought such doleful news?" said Robin to the lass. "Ay, marry, for I saw it all," cried she, panting as the hare pants when it has escaped the hounds, "and I fear he is wounded sore, for one smote him main shrewdly i' the crown. They have bound him and taken him to Nottingham Town, and ere I left the Blue Boar I heard that he should be hanged tomorrow day." "He shall not be hanged tomorrow day," cried Robin; "or, if he be, full many a one shall gnaw the sod, and many shall have cause to cry Alack-a- day!" Then he clapped his horn to his lips and blew three blasts right loudly, and presently his good yeomen came running through the greenwood until sevenscore bold blades were gathered around him. "Now hark you all!" cried Robin. "Our dear companion Will Stutely hath been taken by that vile Sheriff's men, therefore doth it behoove us to take bow and brand in hand to bring him off again; for I wot that we ought to risk life and limb for him, as he hath risked life and limb for us. Is it not so, my merry men all?" Then all cried, "Ay!" with a great voice. So the next day they all wended their way from Sherwood Forest, but by different paths, for it behooved them to be very crafty; so the band separated into parties of twos and threes, which were all to meet again in a tangled dell that lay near to Nottingham Town. Then, when they had all gathered together at the place of meeting, Robin spoke to them thus: "Now we will lie here in ambush until we can get news, for it doth behoove us to be cunning and wary if we would bring our friend Will Stutely off from the Sheriff's clutches." So they lay hidden a long time, until the sun stood high in the sky. The day was warm and the dusty road was bare of travelers, except an aged palmer who walked slowly along the highroad that led close beside the gray castle wall of Nottingham Town. When Robin saw that no other wayfarer was within sight, he called young David of Doncaster, who was a shrewd man for his years, and said to him, "Now get thee forth, young David, and speak to yonder palmer that walks beside the town wall, for he hath come but now from Nottingham Town, and may tell thee news of good Stutely, perchance." So David strode forth, and when he came up to the pilgrim, he saluted him and said, "Good morrow, holy father, and canst thou tell me when Will Stutely will be hanged upon the gallows tree? I fain would not miss the sight, for I have come from afar to see so sturdy a rogue hanged." "Now, out upon thee, young man," cried the Palmer, "that thou shouldst speak so when a good stout man is to be hanged for nothing but guarding his own life!" And he struck his staff upon the ground in anger. "Alas, say I, that this thing should be! For even this day, toward evening, when the sun falleth low, he shall be hanged, fourscore rods from the great town gate of Nottingham, where three roads meet; for there the Sheriff sweareth he shall die as a warning to all outlaws in Nottinghamshire. But yet, I say again, Alas! For, though Robin Hood and his band may be outlaws, yet he taketh only from the rich and the strong and the dishonest man, while there is not a poor widow nor a peasant with many children, nigh to Sherwood, but has barley flour enough all the year long through him. It grieves my heart to see one as gallant as this Stutely die, for I have been a good Saxon yeoman in my day, ere I turned palmer, and well I know a stout hand and one that smiteth shrewdly at a cruel Norman or a proud abbot with fat moneybags. Had good Stutely's master but known how his man was compassed about with perils, perchance he might send succor to bring him out of the hand of his enemies. "Ay, marry, that is true," cried the young man. "If Robin and his men be nigh this place, I wot right well they will strive to bring him forth from his peril. But fare thee well, thou good old man, and believe me, if Will Stutely die, he shall be right well avenged." Then he turned and strode rapidly away; but the Palmer looked after him, muttering, "I wot that youth is no country hind that hath come to see a good man die. Well, well, perchance Robin Hood is not so far away but that there will be stout doings this day." So he went upon his way, muttering to himself. When David of Doncaster told Robin Hood what the Palmer had said to him, Robin called the band around him and spoke to them thus: "Now let us get straightway into Nottingham Town and mix ourselves with the people there; but keep ye one another in sight, pressing as near the prisoner and his guards as ye can, when they come outside the walls. Strike no man without need, for I would fain avoid bloodshed, but if ye do strike, strike hard, and see that there be no need to strike again. Then keep all together until we come again to Sherwood, and let no man leave his fellows." The sun was low in the western sky when a bugle note sounded from the castle wall. Then all was bustle in Nottingham Town and crowds filled the streets, for all knew that the famous Will Stutely was to be hanged that day. Presently the castle gates opened wide and a great array of men-at-arms came forth with noise and clatter, the Sheriff, all clad in shining mail of linked chain, riding at their head. In the midst of all the guard, in a cart, with a halter about his neck, rode Will Stutely. His face was pale with his wound and with loss of blood, like the moon in broad daylight, and his fair hair was clotted in points upon his forehead, where the blood had hardened. When he came forth from the castle he looked up and he looked down, but though he saw some faces that showed pity and some that showed friendliness, he saw none that he knew. Then his heart sank within him like a plummet of lead, but nevertheless he spoke up boldly. "Give a sword into my hand, Sir Sheriff," said he, "and wounded man though I be, I will fight thee and all thy men till life and strength be gone." "Nay, thou naughty varlet," quoth the Sheriff, turning his head and looking right grimly upon Will Stutely, "thou shalt have no sword but shall die a mean death, as beseemeth a vile thief like thee." "Then do but untie my hands and I will fight thee and thy men with no weapon but only my naked fists. I crave no weapon, but let me not be meanly hanged this day." Then the Sheriff laughed aloud. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is thy proud stomach quailing? Shrive thyself, thou vile knave, for I mean that thou shalt hang this day, and that where three roads meet, so that all men shall see thee hang, for carrion crows and daws to peck at." "O thou dastard heart!" cried Will Stutely, gnashing his teeth at the Sheriff. "Thou coward hind! If ever my good master meet thee thou shalt pay dearly for this day's work! He doth scorn thee, and so do all brave hearts. Knowest thou not that thou and thy name are jests upon the lips of every brave yeoman? Such a one as thou art, thou wretched craven, will never be able to subdue bold Robin Hood." "Ha!" cried the Sheriff in a rage, "is it even so? Am I a jest with thy master, as thou callest him? Now I will make a jest of thee and a sorry jest withal, for I will quarter thee limb from limb, after thou art hanged." Then he spurred his horse forward and said no more to Stutely. At last they came to the great town gate, through which Stutely saw the fair country beyond, with hills and dales all clothed in verdure, and far away the dusky line of Sherwood's skirts. Then when he saw the slanting sunlight lying on field and fallow, shining redly here and there on cot and farmhouse, and when he heard the sweet birds singing their vespers, and the sheep bleating upon the hillside, and beheld the swallows flying in the bright air, there came a great fullness to his heart so that all things blurred to his sight through salt tears, and he bowed his head lest the folk should think him unmanly when they saw the tears in his eyes. Thus he kept his head bowed till they had passed through the gate and were outside the walls of the town. But when he looked up again he felt his heart leap within him and then stand still for pure joy, for he saw the face of one of his own dear companions of merry Sherwood; then glancing quickly around he saw well-known faces upon all sides of him, crowding closely upon the men-at-arms who were guarding him. Then of a sudden the blood sprang to his cheeks, for he saw for a moment his own good master in the press and, seeing him, knew that Robin Hood and all his band were there. Yet betwixt him and them was a line of men-at-arms. "Now, stand back!" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice, for the crowd pressed around on all sides. "What mean ye, varlets, that ye push upon us so? Stand back, I say!" Then came a bustle and a noise, and one strove to push between the men- at-arms so as to reach the cart, and Stutely saw that it was Little John that made all that stir. "Now stand thou back!" cried one of the men-at-arms whom Little John pushed with his elbows. "Now stand thou back thine own self," quoth Little John, and straightway smote the man a buffet beside his head that felled him as a butcher fells an ox, and then he leaped to the cart where Stutely sat. "I pray thee take leave of thy friends ere thou diest, Will," quoth he, "or maybe I will die with thee if thou must die, for I could never have better company." Then with one stroke he cut the bonds that bound the other's arms and legs, and Stutely leaped straightway from the cart. "Now as I live," cried the Sheriff, "yon varlet I know right well is a sturdy rebel! Take him, I bid you all, and let him not go!" So saying, he spurred his horse upon Little John, and rising in his stirrups smote with might and main, but Little John ducked quickly underneath the horse's belly and the blow whistled harmlessly over his head. "Nay, good Sir Sheriff," cried he, leaping up again when the blow had passed, "I must e'en borrow thy most worshipful sword." Thereupon he twitched the weapon deftly from out the Sheriff's hand, "Here, Stutely," he cried, "the Sheriff hath lent thee his sword! Back to back with me, man, and defend thyself, for help is nigh!" "Down with them!" bellowed the Sheriff in a voice like an angry bull; and he spurred his horse upon the two who now stood back to back, forgetting in his rage that he had no weapon with which to defend himself. "Stand back, Sheriff!" cried Little John; and even as he spoke, a bugle horn sounded shrilly and a clothyard shaft whistled within an inch of the Sheriff's head. Then came a swaying hither and thither, and oaths, cries, and groans, and clashing of steel, and swords flashed in the setting sun, and a score of arrows whistled through the air. And some cried, "Help, help!" and some, "A rescue, a rescue!" "Treason!" cried the Sheriff in a loud voice. "Bear back! Bear back! Else we be all dead men!" Thereupon he reined his horse backward through the thickest of the crowd. Now Robin Hood and his band might have slain half of the Sheriff's men had they desired to do so, but they let them push out of the press and get them gone, only sending a bunch of arrows after them to hurry them in their flight. "Oh stay!" shouted Will Stutely after the Sheriff. "Thou wilt never catch bold Robin Hood if thou dost not stand to meet him face to face." But the Sheriff, bowing along his horse's back, made no answer but only spurred the faster. Then Will Stutely turned to Little John and looked him in the face till the tears ran down from his eyes and he wept aloud; and kissing his friend's cheeks, "O Little John!" quoth he, "mine own true friend, and he that I love better than man or woman in all the world beside! Little did I reckon to see thy face this day, or to meet thee this side Paradise." Little John could make no answer, but wept also. Then Robin Hood gathered his band together in a close rank, with Will Stutely in the midst, and thus they moved slowly away toward Sherwood, and were gone, as a storm cloud moves away from the spot where a tempest has swept the land. But they left ten of the Sheriff's men lying along the ground wounded--some more, some less--yet no one knew who smote them down. Thus the Sheriff of Nottingham tried thrice to take Robin Hood and failed each time; and the last time he was frightened, for he felt how near he had come to losing his life; so he said, "These men fear neither God nor man, nor king nor king's officers. I would sooner lose mine office than my life, so I will trouble them no more." So he kept close within his castle for many a day and dared not show his face outside of his own household, and all the time he was gloomy and would speak to no one, for he was ashamed of what had happened that day. Robin Hood Turns Butcher NOW AFTER all these things had happened, and it became known to Robin Hood how the Sheriff had tried three times to make him captive, he said to himself, "If I have the chance, I will make our worshipful Sheriff pay right well for that which he hath done to me. Maybe I may bring him some time into Sherwood Forest and have him to a right merry feast with us." For when Robin Hood caught a baron or a squire, or a fat abbot or bishop, he brought them to the greenwood tree and feasted them before he lightened their purses. But in the meantime Robin Hood and his band lived quietly in Sherwood Forest, without showing their faces abroad, for Robin knew that it would not be wise for him to be seen in the neighborhood of Nottingham, those in authority being very wroth with him. But though they did not go abroad, they lived a merry life within the woodlands, spending the days in shooting at garlands hung upon a willow wand at the end of the glade, the leafy aisles ringing with merry jests and laughter: for whoever missed the garland was given a sound buffet, which, if delivered by Little John, never failed to topple over the unfortunate yeoman. Then they had bouts of wrestling and of cudgel play, so that every day they gained in skill and strength. Thus they dwelled for nearly a year, and in that time Robin Hood often turned over in his mind many means of making an even score with the Sheriff. At last he began to fret at his confinement; so one day he took up his stout cudgel and set forth to seek adventure, strolling blithely along until he came to the edge of Sherwood. There, as he rambled along the sunlit road, he met a lusty young butcher driving a fine mare and riding in a stout new cart, all hung about with meat. Merrily whistled the Butcher as he jogged along, for he was going to the market, and the day was fresh and sweet, making his heart blithe within him. "Good morrow to thee, jolly fellow," quoth Robin, "thou seemest happy this merry morn." "Ay, that am I," quoth the jolly Butcher, "and why should I not be so? Am I not hale in wind and limb? Have I not the bonniest lass in all Nottinghamshire? And lastly, am I not to be married to her on Thursday next in sweet Locksley Town?" "Ha," said Robin, "comest thou from Locksley Town? Well do I know that fair place for miles about, and well do I know each hedgerow and gentle pebbly stream, and even all the bright little fishes therein, for there I was born and bred. Now, where goest thou with thy meat, my fair friend?" "I go to the market at Nottingham Town to sell my beef and my mutton," answered the Butcher. "But who art thou that comest from Locksley Town?" "A yeoman am I, and men do call me Robin Hood." "Now, by Our Lady's grace," cried the Butcher, "well do I know thy name, and many a time have I heard thy deeds both sung and spoken of. But Heaven forbid that thou shouldst take aught of me! An honest man am I, and have wronged neither man nor maid; so trouble me not, good master, as I have never troubled thee." "Nay, Heaven forbid, indeed," quoth Robin, "that I should take from such as thee, jolly fellow! Not so much as one farthing would I take from thee, for I love a fair Saxon face like thine right well--more especially when it cometh from Locksley Town, and most especially when the man that owneth it is to marry a bonny lass on Thursday next. But come, tell me for what price thou wilt sell me all of thy meat and thy horse and cart." "At four marks do I value meat, cart, and mare," quoth the Butcher, "but if I do not sell all my meat I will not have four marks in value." Then Robin Hood plucked the purse from his girdle, and quoth he, "Here in this purse are six marks. Now, I would fain be a butcher for the day and sell my meat in Nottingham Town. Wilt thou close a bargain with me and take six marks for thine outfit?" "Now may the blessings of all the saints fall on thine honest head!" cried the Butcher right joyfully, as he leaped down from his cart and took the purse that Robin held out to him. "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing loudly, "many do like me and wish me well, but few call me honest. Now get thee gone back to thy lass, and give her a sweet kiss from me." So saying, he donned the Butcher's apron, and, climbing into the cart, he took the reins in his hand and drove off through the forest to Nottingham Town. When he came to Nottingham, he entered that part of the market where butchers stood, and took up his inn[Stand for selling] in the best place he could find. Next, he opened his stall and spread his meat upon the bench, then, taking his cleaver and steel and clattering them together, he trolled aloud in merry tones: "Now come, ye lasses, and eke ye dames, And buy your meat from me; For three pennyworths of meat I sell For the charge of one penny. "Lamb have I that hath fed upon nought But the dainty dames pied, And the violet sweet, and the daffodil That grow fair streams beside. "And beef have I from the heathery words, And mutton from dales all green, And veal as white as a maiden's brow, With its mother's milk, I ween. "Then come, ye lasses, and eke ye dames, Come, buy your meat from me, For three pennyworths of meat I sell For the charge of one penny." Thus he sang blithely, while all who stood near listened amazedly. Then, when he had finished, he clattered the steel and cleaver still more loudly, shouting lustily, "Now, who'll buy? Who'll buy? Four fixed prices have I. Three pennyworths of meat I sell to a fat friar or priest for sixpence, for I want not their custom; stout aldermen I charge threepence, for it doth not matter to me whether they buy or not; to buxom dames I sell three pennyworths of meat for one penny for I like their custom well; but to the bonny lass that hath a liking for a good tight butcher I charge nought but one fair kiss, for I like her custom the best of all." Then all began to stare and wonder and crowd around, laughing, for never was such selling heard of in all Nottingham Town; but when they came to buy they found it as he had said, for he gave goodwife or dame as much meat for one penny as they could buy elsewhere for three, and when a widow or a poor woman came to him, he gave her flesh for nothing; but when a merry lass came and gave him a kiss, he charged not one penny for his meat; and many such came to his stall, for his eyes were as blue as the skies of June, and he laughed merrily, giving to each full measure. Thus he sold his meat so fast that no butcher that stood near him could sell anything. Then they began to talk among themselves, and some said, "This must be some thief who has stolen cart, horse, and meat"; but others said, "Nay, when did ye ever see a thief who parted with his goods so freely and merrily? This must be some prodigal who hath sold his father's land, and would fain live merrily while the money lasts." And these latter being the greater number, the others came round, one by one to their way of thinking. Then some of the butchers came to him to make his acquaintance. "Come, brother," quoth one who was the head of them all, "we be all of one trade, so wilt thou go dine with us? For this day the Sheriff hath asked all the Butcher Guild to feast with him at the Guild Hall. There will be stout fare and much to drink, and that thou likest, or I much mistake thee." "Now, beshrew his heart," quoth jolly Robin, "that would deny a butcher. And, moreover, I will go dine with you all, my sweet lads, and that as fast as I can hie." Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he closed his stall and went with them to the great Guild Hall. There the Sheriff had already come in state, and with him many butchers. When Robin and those that were with him came in, all laughing at some merry jest he had been telling them, those that were near the Sheriff whispered to him, "Yon is a right mad blade, for he hath sold more meat for one penny this day than we could sell for three, and to whatsoever merry lass gave him a kiss he gave meat for nought." And others said, "He is some prodigal that hath sold his land for silver and gold, and meaneth to spend all right merrily." Then the Sheriff called Robin to him, not knowing him in his butcher's dress, and made him sit close to him on his right hand; for he loved a rich young prodigal--especially when he thought that he might lighten that prodigal's pockets into his own most worshipful purse. So he made much of Robin, and laughed and talked with him more than with any of the others. At last the dinner was ready to be served and the Sheriff bade Robin say grace, so Robin stood up and said, "Now Heaven bless us all and eke good meat and good sack within this house, and may all butchers be and remain as honest men as I am." At this all laughed, the Sheriff loudest of all, for he said to himself, "Surely this is indeed some prodigal, and perchance I may empty his purse of some of the money that the fool throweth about so freely." Then he spake aloud to Robin, saying, "Thou art a jolly young blade, and I love thee mightily"; and he smote Robin upon the shoulder. Then Robin laughed loudly too. "Yea," quoth he, "I know thou dost love a jolly blade, for didst thou not have jolly Robin Hood at thy shooting match and didst thou not gladly give him a bright golden arrow for his own?" At this the Sheriff looked grave and all the guild of butchers too, so that none laughed but Robin, only some winked slyly at each other. "Come, fill us some sack!" cried Robin. "Let us e'er be merry while we may, for man is but dust, and he hath but a span to live here till the worm getteth him, as our good gossip Swanthold sayeth; so let life be merry while it lasts, say I. Nay, never look down i' the mouth, Sir Sheriff. Who knowest but that thou mayest catch Robin Hood yet, if thou drinkest less good sack and Malmsey, and bringest down the fat about thy paunch and the dust from out thy brain. Be merry, man." Then the Sheriff laughed again, but not as though he liked the jest, while the butchers said, one to another, "Before Heaven, never have we seen such a mad rollicking blade. Mayhap, though, he will make the Sheriff mad." "How now, brothers," cried Robin, "be merry! nay, never count over your farthings, for by this and by that I will pay this shot myself, e'en though it cost two hundred pounds. So let no man draw up his lip, nor thrust his forefinger into his purse, for I swear that neither butcher nor Sheriff shall pay one penny for this feast." "Now thou art a right merry soul," quoth the Sheriff, "and I wot thou must have many a head of horned beasts and many an acre of land, that thou dost spend thy money so freely." "Ay, that have I," quoth Robin, laughing loudly again, "five hundred and more horned beasts have I and my brothers, and none of them have we been able to sell, else I might not have turned butcher. As for my land, I have never asked my steward how many acres I have." At this the Sheriff's eyes twinkled, and he chuckled to himself. "Nay, good youth," quoth he, "if thou canst not sell thy cattle, it may be I will find a man that will lift them from thy hands; perhaps that man may be myself, for I love a merry youth and would help such a one along the path of life. Now how much dost thou want for thy horned cattle?" "Well," quoth Robin, "they are worth at least five hundred pounds." "Nay," answered the Sheriff slowly, and as if he were thinking within himself, "well do I love thee, and fain would I help thee along, but five hundred pounds in money is a good round sum; besides I have it not by me. Yet I will give thee three hundred pounds for them all, and that in good hard silver and gold." "Now thou old miser!" quoth Robin, "well thou knowest that so many horned cattle are worth seven hundred pounds and more, and even that is but small for them, and yet thou, with thy gray hairs and one foot in the grave, wouldst trade upon the folly of a wild youth." At this the Sheriff looked grimly at Robin. "Nay," quoth Robin, "look not on me as though thou hadst sour beer in thy mouth, man. I will take thine offer, for I and my brothers do need the money. We lead a merry life, and no one leads a merry life for a farthing, so I will close the bargain with thee. But mind that thou bringest a good three hundred pounds with thee, for I trust not one that driveth so shrewd a bargain." "I will bring the money," said the Sheriff. "But what is thy name, good youth?" "Men call me Robert o' Locksley," quoth bold Robin. "Then, good Robert o' Locksley," quoth the Sheriff, "I will come this day to see thy horned beasts. But first my clerk shall draw up a paper in which thou shalt be bound to the sale, for thou gettest not my money without I get thy beasts in return." Then Robin Hood laughed again. "So be it," he said, smiting his palm upon the Sheriff's hand. "Truly my brothers will be thankful to thee for thy money." Thus the bargain was closed, but many of the butchers talked among themselves of the Sheriff, saying that it was but a scurvy trick to beguile a poor spendthrift youth in this way. The afternoon had come when the Sheriff mounted his horse and joined Robin Hood, who stood outside the gateway of the paved court waiting for him, for he had sold his horse and cart to a trader for two marks. Then they set forth upon their way, the Sheriff riding upon his horse and Robin running beside him. Thus they left Nottingham Town and traveled forward along the dusty highway, laughing and jesting together as though they had been old friends. But all the time the Sheriff said within himself, "Thy jest to me of Robin Hood shall cost thee dear, good fellow, even four hundred pounds, thou fool." For he thought he would make at least that much by his bargain. So they journeyed onward till they came within the verge of Sherwood Forest, when presently the Sheriff looked up and down and to the right and to the left of him, and then grew quiet and ceased his laughter. "Now," quoth he, "may Heaven and its saints preserve us this day from a rogue men call Robin Hood." Then Robin laughed aloud. "Nay," said he, "thou mayst set thy mind at rest, for well do I know Robin Hood and well do I know that thou art in no more danger from him this day than thou art from me." At this the Sheriff looked askance at Robin, saying to himself, "I like not that thou seemest so well acquainted with this bold outlaw, and I wish that I were well out of Sherwood Forest." But still they traveled deeper into the forest shades, and the deeper they went, the more quiet grew the Sheriff. At last they came to where the road took a sudden bend, and before them a herd of dun deer went tripping across the path. Then Robin Hood came close to the Sheriff and pointing his finger, he said, "These are my horned beasts, good Master Sheriff. How dost thou like them? Are they not fat and fair to see?" At this the Sheriff drew rein quickly. "Now fellow," quoth he, "I would I were well out of this forest, for I like not thy company. Go thou thine own path, good friend, and let me but go mine." But Robin only laughed and caught the Sheriff's bridle rein. "Nay," cried he, "stay awhile, for I would thou shouldst see my brothers, who own these fair horned beasts with me." So saying, he clapped his bugle to his mouth and winded three merry notes, and presently up the path came leaping fivescore good stout yeomen with Little John at their head. "What wouldst thou have, good master?" quoth Little John. "Why," answered Robin, "dost thou not see that I have brought goodly company to feast with us today? Fye, for shame! Do you not see our good and worshipful master, the Sheriff of Nottingham? Take thou his bridle, Little John, for he has honored us today by coming to feast with us." Then all doffed their hats humbly, without smiling or seeming to be in jest, while Little John took the bridle rein and led the palfrey still deeper into the forest, all marching in order, with Robin Hood walking beside the Sheriff, hat in hand. All this time the Sheriff said never a word but only looked about him like one suddenly awakened from sleep; but when he found himself going within the very depths of Sherwood his heart sank within him, for he thought, "Surely my three hundred pounds will be taken from me, even if they take not my life itself, for I have plotted against their lives more than once." But all seemed humble and meek and not a word was said of danger, either to life or money. So at last they came to that part of Sherwood Forest where a noble oak spread its branches wide, and beneath it was a seat all made of moss, on which Robin sat down, placing the Sheriff at his right hand. "Now busk ye, my merry men all," quoth he, "and bring forth the best we have, both of meat and wine, for his worship the Sheriff hath feasted me in Nottingham Guild Hall today, and I would not have him go back empty." All this time nothing had been said of the Sheriff's money, so presently he began to pluck up heart. "For," said he to himself, "maybe Robin Hood hath forgotten all about it." Then, while beyond in the forest bright fires crackled and savory smells of sweetly roasting venison and fat capons filled the glade, and brown pasties warmed beside the blaze, did Robin Hood entertain the Sheriff right royally. First, several couples stood forth at quarterstaff, and so shrewd were they at the game, and so quickly did they give stroke and parry, that the Sheriff, who loved to watch all lusty sports of the kind, clapped his hands, forgetting where he was, and crying aloud, "Well struck! Well struck, thou fellow with the black beard!" little knowing that the man he called upon was the Tinker that tried to serve his warrant upon Robin Hood. Then several yeomen came forward and spread cloths upon the green grass, and placed a royal feast; while others still broached barrels of sack and Malmsey and good stout ale, and set them in jars upon the cloth, with drinking horns about them. Then all sat down and feasted and drank merrily together until the sun was low and the half-moon glimmered with a pale light betwixt the leaves of the trees overhead. Then the Sheriff arose and said, "I thank you all, good yeomen, for the merry entertainment ye have given me this day. Right courteously have ye used me, showing therein that ye have much respect for our glorious King and his deputy in brave Nottinghamshire. But the shadows grow long, and I must away before darkness comes, lest I lose myself within the forest." Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose also, and Robin said to the Sheriff, "If thou must go, worshipful sir, go thou must; but thou hast forgotten one thing." "Nay, I forgot nought," said the Sheriff; yet all the same his heart sank within him. "But I say thou hast forgot something," quoth Robin. "We keep a merry inn here in the greenwood, but whoever becometh our guest must pay his reckoning." Then the Sheriff laughed, but the laugh was hollow. "Well, jolly boys," quoth he, "we have had a merry time together today, and even if ye had not asked me, I would have given you a score of pounds for the sweet entertainment I have had." "Nay," quoth Robin seriously, "it would ill beseem us to treat Your Worship so meanly. By my faith, Sir Sheriff, I would be ashamed to show my face if I did not reckon the King's deputy at three hundred pounds. Is it not so, my merry men all?" Then "Ay!" cried all, in a loud voice. "Three hundred devils!" roared the Sheriff. "Think ye that your beggarly feast was worth three pounds, let alone three hundred?" "Nay," quoth Robin gravely. "Speak not so roundly, Your Worship. I do love thee for the sweet feast thou hast given me this day in merry Nottingham Town; but there be those here who love thee not so much. If thou wilt look down the cloth thou wilt see Will Stutely, in whose eyes thou hast no great favor; then two other stout fellows are there here that thou knowest not, that were wounded in a brawl nigh Nottingham Town, some time ago--thou wottest when; one of them was sore hurt in one arm, yet he hath got the use of it again. Good Sheriff, be advised by me; pay thy score without more ado, or maybe it may fare ill with thee." As he spoke the Sheriff's ruddy cheeks grew pale, and he said nothing more but looked upon the ground and gnawed his nether lip. Then slowly he drew forth his fat purse and threw it upon the cloth in front of him. "Now take the purse, Little John," quoth Robin Hood, "and see that the reckoning be right. We would not doubt our Sheriff, but he might not like it if he should find he had not paid his full score." Then Little John counted the money and found that the bag held three hundred pounds in silver and gold. But to the Sheriff it seemed as if every clink of the bright money was a drop of blood from his veins. And when he saw it all counted out in a heap of silver and gold, filling a wooden platter, he turned away and silently mounted his horse. "Never have we had so worshipful a guest before!" quoth Robin, "and, as the day waxeth late, I will send one of my young men to guide thee out of the forest depths." "Nay, Heaven forbid!" cried the Sheriff hastily. "I can find mine own way, good man, without aid." "Then I will put thee on the right track mine own self," quoth Robin, and, taking the Sheriff's horse by the bridle rein, he led him into the main forest path. Then, before he let him go, he said, "Now, fare thee well, good Sheriff, and when next thou thinkest to despoil some poor prodigal, remember thy feast in Sherwood Forest. 'Ne'er buy a horse, good friend, without first looking into its mouth,' as our good gaffer Swanthold says. And so, once more, fare thee well." Then he clapped his hand to the horse's back, and off went nag and Sheriff through the forest glades. Then bitterly the Sheriff rued the day that first he meddled with Robin Hood, for all men laughed at him and many ballads were sung by folk throughout the country, of how the Sheriff went to shear and came home shorn to the very quick. For thus men sometimes overreach themselves through greed and guile. Little John Goes to Nottingham Fair SPRING HAD GONE since the Sheriff's feast in Sherwood, and summer also, and the mellow month of October had come. All the air was cool and fresh; the harvests were gathered home, the young birds were full fledged, the hops were plucked, and apples were ripe. But though time had so smoothed things over that men no longer talked of the horned beasts that the Sheriff wished to buy, he was still sore about the matter and could not bear to hear Robin Hood's name spoken in his presence. With October had come the time for holding the great Fair which was celebrated every five years at Nottingham Town, to which folk came from far and near throughout the country. At such times archery was always the main sport of the day, for the Nottinghamshire yeomen were the best hand at the longbow in all merry England, but this year the Sheriff hesitated a long time before he issued proclamation of the Fair, fearing lest Robin Hood and his band might come to it. At first he had a great part of a mind not to proclaim the Fair, but second thought told him that men would laugh at him and say among themselves that he was afraid of Robin Hood, so he put that thought by. At last he fixed in his mind that he would offer such a prize as they would not care to shoot for. At such times it had been the custom to offer a half score of marks or a tun of ale, so this year he proclaimed that a prize of two fat steers should be given to the best bowman. When Robin Hood heard what had been proclaimed he was vexed, and said, "Now beshrew this Sheriff that he should offer such a prize that none but shepherd hinds will care to shoot for it! I would have loved nothing better than to have had another bout at merry Nottingham Town, but if I should win this prize nought would it pleasure or profit me." Then up spoke Little John: "Nay, but hearken, good master," said he, "only today Will Stutely, young David of Doncaster, and I were at the Sign of the Blue Boar, and there we heard all the news of this merry Fair, and also that the Sheriff hath offered this prize, that we of Sherwood might not care to come to the Fair; so, good master, if thou wilt, I would fain go and strive to win even this poor thing among the stout yeomen who will shoot at Nottingham Town." "Nay, Little John," quoth Robin, "thou art a sound stout fellow, yet thou lackest the cunning that good Stutely hath, and I would not have harm befall thee for all Nottinghamshire. Nevertheless, if thou wilt go, take some disguise lest there be those there who may know thee." "So be it, good master," quoth Little John, "yet all the disguise that I wish is a good suit of scarlet instead of this of Lincoln green. I will draw the cowl of my jacket about my head so that it will hide my brown hair and beard, and then, I trust, no one will know me." "It is much against my will," said Robin Hood, "ne'ertheless, if thou dost wish it, get thee gone, but bear thyself seemingly, Little John, for thou art mine own right-hand man and I could ill bear to have harm befall thee." So Little John clad himself all in scarlet and started off to the Fair at Nottingham Town. Right merry were these Fair days at Nottingham, when the green before the great town gate was dotted with booths standing in rows, with tents of many-colored canvas, hung about with streamers and garlands of flowers, and the folk came from all the countryside, both gentle and common. In some booths there was dancing to merry music, in others flowed ale and beer, and in others yet again sweet cakes and barley sugar were sold; and sport was going outside the booths also, where some minstrel sang ballads of the olden time, playing a second upon the harp, or where the wrestlers struggled with one another within the sawdust ring, but the people gathered most of all around a raised platform where stout fellows played at quarterstaff. So Little John came to the Fair. All scarlet were his hose and jerkin, and scarlet was his cowled cap, with a scarlet feather stuck in the side of it. Over his shoulders was slung a stout bow of yew, and across his back hung a quiver of good round arrows. Many turned to look after such a stout, tall fellow, for his shoulders were broader by a palm's-breadth than any that were there, and he stood a head taller than all the other men. The lasses, also, looked at him askance, thinking they had never seen a lustier youth. First of all he went to the booth where stout ale was sold and, standing aloft on a bench, he called to all that were near to come and drink with him. "Hey, sweet lads!" cried he "who will drink ale with a stout yeoman? Come, all! Come, all! Let us be merry, for the day is sweet and the ale is tingling. Come hither, good yeoman, and thou, and thou; for not a farthing shall one of you pay. Nay, turn hither, thou lusty beggar, and thou jolly tinker, for all shall be merry with me." Thus he shouted, and all crowded around, laughing, while the brown ale flowed; and they called Little John a brave fellow, each swearing that he loved him as his own brother; for when one has entertainment with nothing to pay, one loves the man that gives it to one. Then he strolled to the platform where they were at cudgel play, for he loved a bout at quarterstaff as he loved meat and drink; and here befell an adventure that was sung in ballads throughout the mid-country for many a day. One fellow there was that cracked crowns of everyone who threw cap into the ring. This was Eric o' Lincoln, of great renown, whose name had been sung in ballads throughout the countryside. When Little John reached the stand he found none fighting, but only bold Eric walking up and down the platform, swinging his staff and shouting lustily, "Now, who will come and strike a stroke for the lass he loves the best, with a good Lincolnshire yeoman? How now, lads? Step up! Step up! Or else the lasses' eyes are not bright hereabouts, or the blood of Nottingham youth is sluggish and cold. Lincoln against Nottingham, say I! For no one hath put foot upon the boards this day such as we of Lincoln call a cudgel player." At this, one would nudge another with his elbow, saying, "Go thou, Ned!" or "Go thou, Thomas!" but no lad cared to gain a cracked crown for nothing. Presently Eric saw where Little John stood among the others, a head and shoulders above them all, and he called to him loudly, "Halloa, thou long-legged fellow in scarlet! Broad are thy shoulders and thick thy head; is not thy lass fair enough for thee to take cudgel in hand for her sake? In truth, I believe that Nottingham men do turn to bone and sinew, for neither heart nor courage have they! Now, thou great lout, wilt thou not twirl staff for Nottingham?" "Ay," quoth Little John, "had I but mine own good staff here, it would pleasure me hugely to crack thy knave's pate, thou saucy braggart! I wot it would be well for thee an thy cock's comb were cut!" Thus he spoke, slowly at first, for he was slow to move; but his wrath gathered headway like a great stone rolling down a hill, so that at the end he was full of anger. Then Eric o' Lincoln laughed aloud. "Well spoken for one who fears to meet me fairly, man to man," said he. "Saucy art thou thine own self, and if thou puttest foot upon these boards, I will make thy saucy tongue rattle within thy teeth!" "Now," quoth Little John, "is there never a man here that will lend me a good stout staff till I try the mettle of yon fellow?" At this, half a score reached him their staves, and he took the stoutest and heaviest of them all. Then, looking up and down the cudgel, he said, "Now, I have in my hand but a splint of wood--a barley straw, as it were--yet I trow it will have to serve me, so here goeth." Thereupon he cast the cudgel upon the stand and, leaping lightly after it, snatched it up in his hand again. Then each man stood in his place and measured the other with fell looks until he that directed the sport cried, "Play!" At this they stepped forth, each grasping his staff tightly in the middle. Then those that stood around saw the stoutest game of quarterstaff that e'er Nottingham Town beheld. At first Eric o' Lincoln thought that he would gain an easy advantage, so he came forth as if he would say, "Watch, good people, how that I carve you this cockerel right speedily"; but he presently found it to be no such speedy matter. Right deftly he struck, and with great skill of fence, but he had found his match in Little John. Once, twice, thrice, he struck, and three times Little John turned the blows to the left hand and to the right. Then quickly and with a dainty backhanded blow, he rapped Eric beneath his guard so shrewdly that it made his head ring again. Then Eric stepped back to gather his wits, while a great shout went up and all were glad that Nottingham had cracked Lincoln's crown; and thus ended the first bout of the game. Then presently the director of the sport cried, "Play!" and they came together again; but now Eric played warily, for he found his man was of right good mettle, and also he had no sweet memory of the blow that he had got; so this bout neither Little John nor the Lincoln man caught a stroke within his guard. Then, after a while, they parted again, and this made the second bout. Then for the third time they came together, and at first Eric strove to be wary, as he had been before; but, growing mad at finding himself so foiled, he lost his wits and began to rain blows so fiercely and so fast that they rattled like hail on penthouse roof; but, in spite of all, he did not reach within Little John's guard. Then at last Little John saw his chance and seized it right cleverly. Once more, with a quick blow, he rapped Eric beside the head, and ere he could regain himself, Little John slipped his right hand down to his left and, with a swinging blow, smote the other so sorely upon the crown that down he fell as though he would never move again. Then the people shouted so loud that folk came running from all about to see what was the ado; while Little John leaped down from the stand and gave the staff back to him that had lent it to him. And thus ended the famous bout between Little John and Eric o' Lincoln of great renown. But now the time had come when those who were to shoot with the longbow were to take their places, so the people began flocking to the butts where the shooting was to be. Near the target, in a good place, sat the Sheriff upon a raised dais, with many gentlefolk around him. When the archers had taken their places, the herald came forward and proclaimed the rules of the game, and how each should shoot three shots, and to him that should shoot the best the prize of two fat steers was to belong. A score of brave shots were gathered there, and among them some of the keenest hands at the longbow in Lincoln and Nottinghamshire; and among them Little John stood taller than all the rest. "Who is yon stranger clad all in scarlet?" said some, and others answered, "It is he that hath but now so soundly cracked the crown of Eric o' Lincoln." Thus the people talked among themselves, until at last it reached even the Sheriff's ears. And now each man stepped forward and shot in turn; but though each shot well, Little John was the best of all, for three times he struck the clout, and once only the length of a barleycorn from the center. "Hey for the tall archer!" shouted the crowd, and some among them shouted, "Hey for Reynold Greenleaf!" for this was the name that Little John had called himself that day. Then the Sheriff stepped down from the raised seat and came to where the archers stood, while all doffed their caps that saw him coming. He looked keenly at Little John but did not know him, though he said, after a while, "How now, good fellow, methinks there is that about thy face that I have seen erewhile." "Mayhap it may be so," quoth Little John, "for often have I seen Your Worship." And, as he spoke, he looked steadily into the Sheriff's eyes so that the latter did not suspect who he was. "A brave blade art thou, good friend," said the Sheriff, "and I hear that thou hast well upheld the skill of Nottinghamshire against that of Lincoln this day. What may be thy name, good fellow?" "Men do call me Reynold Greenleaf, Your Worship," said Little John; and the old ballad that tells of this, adds, "So, in truth, was he a green leaf, but of what manner of tree the Sheriff wotted not." "Now, Reynold Greenleaf," quoth the Sheriff, "thou art the fairest hand at the longbow that mine eyes ever beheld, next to that false knave, Robin Hood, from whose wiles Heaven forfend me! Wilt thou join my service, good fellow? Thou shalt be paid right well, for three suits of clothes shalt thou have a year, with good food and as much ale as thou canst drink; and, besides this, I will pay thee forty marks each Michaelmastide." "Then here stand I a free man, and right gladly will I enter thy household," said Little John, for he thought he might find some merry jest, should he enter the Sheriff's service. "Fairly hast thou won the fat steers," said the Sheriff, "and hereunto I will add a butt of good March beer, for joy of having gotten such a man; for, I wot, thou shootest as fair a shaft as Robin Hood himself." "Then," said Little John, "for joy of having gotten myself into thy service, I will give fat steers and brown ale to all these good folk, to make them merry withal." At this arose a great shout, many casting their caps aloft, for joy of the gift. Then some built great fires and roasted the steers, and others broached the butt of ale, with which all made themselves merry. Then, when they had eaten and drunk as much as they could, and when the day faded and the great moon arose, all red and round, over the spires and towers of Nottingham Town, they joined hands and danced around the fires, to the music of bagpipes and harps. But long before this merrymaking had begun, the Sheriff and his new servant Reynold Greenleaf were in the Castle of Nottingham. How Little John Lived at the Sheriff's THUS LITTLE JOHN entered into the Sheriff's service and found the life he led there easy enough, for the Sheriff made him his right-hand man and held him in great favor. He sat nigh the Sheriff at meat, and he ran beside his horse when he went a-hunting; so that, what with hunting and hawking a little, and eating rich dishes and drinking good sack, and sleeping until late hours in the morning, he grew as fat as a stall-fed ox. Thus things floated easily along with the tide, until one day when the Sheriff went a-hunting, there happened that which broke the smooth surface of things. This morning the Sheriff and many of his men set forth to meet certain lords, to go a-hunting. He looked all about him for his good man, Reynold Greenleaf, but, not finding him, was vexed, for he wished to show Little John's skill to his noble friends. As for Little John, he lay abed, snoring lustily, till the sun was high in the heavens. At last he opened his eyes and looked about him but did not move to arise. Brightly shone the sun in at the window, and all the air was sweet with the scent of woodbine that hung in sprays about the wall without, for the cold winter was past and spring was come again, and Little John lay still, thinking how sweet was everything on this fair morn. Just then he heard, faint and far away, a distant bugle note sounding thin and clear. The sound was small, but, like a little pebble dropped into a glassy fountain, it broke all the smooth surface of his thoughts, until his whole soul was filled with disturbance. His spirit seemed to awaken from its sluggishness, and his memory brought back to him all the merry greenwood life--how the birds were singing blithely there this bright morning, and how his loved companions and friends were feasting and making merry, or perhaps talking of him with sober speech; for when he first entered the Sheriff's service he did so in jest; but the hearthstone was warm during the winter, and the fare was full, and so he had abided, putting off from day to day his going back to Sherwood, until six long months had passed. But now he thought of his good master and of Will Stutely, whom he loved better than anyone in all the world, and of young David of Doncaster, whom he had trained so well in all manly sports, till there came over his heart a great and bitter longing for them all, so that his eyes filled with tears. Then he said aloud, "Here I grow fat like a stall-fed ox and all my manliness departeth from me while I become a sluggard and dolt. But I will arouse me and go back to mine own dear friends once more, and never will I leave them again till life doth leave my lips." So saying, he leaped from bed, for he hated his sluggishness now. When he came downstairs he saw the Steward standing near the pantry door--a great, fat man, with a huge bundle of keys hanging to his girdle. Then Little John said, "Ho, Master Steward, a hungry man am I, for nought have I had for all this blessed morn. Therefore, give me to eat." Then the Steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys in his girdle, for he hated Little John because he had found favor with the Sheriff. "So, Master Reynold Greenleaf, thou art anhungered, art thou?" quoth he. "But, fair youth, if thou livest long enough, thou wilt find that he who getteth overmuch sleep for an idle head goeth with an empty stomach. For what sayeth the old saw, Master Greenleaf? Is it not 'The late fowl findeth but ill faring'?" "Now, thou great purse of fat!" cried Little John, "I ask thee not for fool's wisdom, but for bread and meat. Who art thou, that thou shouldst deny me to eat? By Saint Dunstan, thou hadst best tell me where my breakfast is, if thou wouldst save broken bones!" "Thy breakfast, Master Fireblaze, is in the pantry," answered the Steward. "Then fetch it hither!" cried Little John, who waxed angry by this time. "Go thou and fetch it thine own self," quoth the Steward. "Am I thy slave, to fetch and carry for thee?" "I say, go thou, bring it me!" "I say, go thou, fetch it for thyself!" "Ay, marry, that will I, right quickly!" quoth Little John in a rage. And, so saying, he strode to the pantry and tried to open the door but found it locked, whereat the Steward laughed and rattled his keys. Then the wrath of Little John boiled over, and, lifting his clenched fist, he smote the pantry door, bursting out three panels and making so large an opening that he could easily stoop and walk through it. When the Steward saw what was done, he waxed mad with rage; and, as Little John stooped to look within the pantry, he seized him from behind by the nape of the neck, pinching him sorely and smiting him over the head with his keys till the yeoman's ears rang again. At this Little John turned upon the Steward and smote him such a buffet that the fat man fell to the floor and lay there as though he would never move again. "There," quoth Little John, "think well of that stroke and never keep a good breakfast from a hungry man again." So saying, he crept into the pantry and looked about him to see if he could find something to appease his hunger. He saw a great venison pasty and two roasted capons, beside which was a platter of plover's eggs; moreover, there was a flask of sack and one of canary--a sweet sight to a hungry man. These he took down from the shelves and placed upon a sideboard, and prepared to make himself merry. Now the Cook, in the kitchen across the courtyard, heard the loud talking between Little John and the Steward, and also the blow that Little John struck the other, so he came running across the court and up the stairway to where the Steward's pantry was, bearing in his hands the spit with the roast still upon it. Meanwhile the Steward had gathered his wits about him and risen to his feet, so that when the Cook came to the Steward's pantry he saw him glowering through the broken door at Little John, who was making ready for a good repast, as one dog glowers at another that has a bone. When the Steward saw the Cook, he came to him, and, putting one arm over his shoulder, "Alas, sweet friend!" quoth he--for the Cook was a tall, stout man--"seest thou what that vile knave Reynold Greenleaf hath done? He hath broken in upon our master's goods, and hath smitten me a buffet upon the ear, so that I thought I was dead. Good Cook, I love thee well, and thou shalt have a good pottle of our master's best wine every day, for thou art an old and faithful servant. Also, good Cook, I have ten shillings that I mean to give as a gift to thee. But hatest thou not to see a vile upstart like this Reynold Greenleaf taking it upon him so bravely?" "Ay, marry, that do I," quoth the Cook boldly, for he liked the Steward because of his talk of the wine and of the ten shillings. "Get thee gone straightway to thy room, and I will bring out this knave by his ears." So saying, he laid aside his spit and drew the sword that hung by his side; whereupon the Steward left as quickly as he could, for he hated the sight of naked steel. Then the Cook walked straightway to the broken pantry door, through which he saw Little John tucking a napkin beneath his chin and preparing to make himself merry. "Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf?" said the Cook, "thou art no better than a thief, I wot. Come thou straight forth, man, or I will carve thee as I would carve a sucking pig." "Nay, good Cook, bear thou thyself more seemingly, or else I will come forth to thy dole. At most times I am as a yearling lamb, but when one cometh between me and my meat, I am a raging lion, as it were." "Lion or no lion," quoth the valorous Cook, "come thou straight forth, else thou art a coward heart as well as a knavish thief." "Ha!" cried Little John, "coward's name have I never had; so, look to thyself, good Cook, for I come forth straight, the roaring lion I did speak of but now." Then he, too, drew his sword and came out of the pantry; then, putting themselves into position, they came slowly together, with grim and angry looks; but suddenly Little John lowered his point. "Hold, good Cook!" said he. "Now, I bethink me it were ill of us to fight with good victuals standing so nigh, and such a feast as would befit two stout fellows such as we are. Marry, good friend, I think we should enjoy this fair feast ere we fight. What sayest thou, jolly Cook?" At this speech the Cook looked up and down, scratching his head in doubt, for he loved good feasting. At last he drew a long breath and said to Little John, "Well, good friend, I like thy plan right well; so, pretty boy, say I, let us feast, with all my heart, for one of us may sup in Paradise before nightfall." So each thrust his sword back into the scabbard and entered the pantry. Then, after they had seated themselves, Little John drew his dagger and thrust it into the pie. "A hungry man must be fed," quoth he, "so, sweet chuck, I help myself without leave." But the Cook did not lag far behind, for straightway his hands also were deeply thrust within the goodly pasty. After this, neither of them spoke further, but used their teeth to better purpose. But though neither spoke, they looked at one another, each thinking within himself that he had never seen a more lusty fellow than the one across the board. At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep breath, as though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin, for he could eat no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the pasty aside, as though he would say, "I want thee by me no more, good friend." Then he took the pottle of sack, and said he, "Now, good fellow, I swear by all that is bright, that thou art the stoutest companion at eating that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy health." So saying, he clapped the flask to his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while the good wine flooded his throat. Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who also said, "Lo, I drink thy health, sweet fellow!" Nor was he behind Little John in drinking any more than in eating. "Now," quoth Little John, "thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad. I doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?" "Truly, I have trolled one now and then," quoth the Cook, "yet I would not sing alone." "Nay, truly," said Little John, "that were but ill courtesy. Strike up thy ditty, and I will afterward sing one to match it, if I can. "So be it, pretty boy," quoth the Cook. "And hast thou e'er heard the song of the Deserted Shepherdess?" "Truly, I know not," answered Little John, "but sing thou and let me hear." Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his throat, sang right sweetly: THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS "_In Lententime, when leaves wax green, And pretty birds begin to mate, When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween, And stockdove cooeth soon and late, Fair Phillis sat beside a stone, And thus I heard her make her moan: 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair. "'The thrush hath taken him a she, The robin, too, and eke the dove; My Robin hath deserted me, And left me for another love. So here, by brookside, all alone, I sit me down and make my moan. O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair.' "But ne'er came herring from the sea, But good as he were in the tide; Young Corydon came o'er the lea, And sat him Phillis down beside. So, presently, she changed her tone, And 'gan to cease her from her moan, 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! Thou mayst e'en keep thy garlands fair, I want them not to deck my hair_.'" "Now, by my faith," cried Little John, "that same is a right good song, and hath truth in it, also." "Glad am I thou likest it, sweet lad," said the Cook. "Now sing thou one also, for ne'er should a man be merry alone, or sing and list not." "Then I will sing thee a song of a right good knight of Arthur's court, and how he cured his heart's wound without running upon the dart again, as did thy Phillis; for I wot she did but cure one smart by giving herself another. So, list thou while I sing: THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE "_When Arthur, King, did rule this land, A goodly king was he, And had he of stout knights a band Of merry company. "Among them all, both great and small, A good stout knight was there, A lusty childe, and eke a tall, That loved a lady fair. "But nought would she to do with he, But turned her face away; So gat he gone to far countrye, And left that lady gay. "There all alone he made his moan, And eke did sob and sigh, And weep till it would move a stone, And he was like to die. "But still his heart did feel the smart, And eke the dire distress, And rather grew his pain more sharp As grew his body less. "Then gat he back where was good sack And merry com panye, And soon did cease to cry 'Alack!' When blithe and gay was he. "From which I hold, and feel full bold To say, and eke believe, That gin the belly go not cold The heart will cease to grieve_." "Now, by my faith," cried the Cook, as he rattled the pottle against the sideboard, "I like that same song hugely, and eke the motive of it, which lieth like a sweet kernel in a hazelnut" "Now thou art a man of shrewd opinions," quoth Little John, "and I love thee truly as thou wert my brother." "And I love thee, too. But the day draweth on, and I have my cooking to do ere our master cometh home; so let us e'en go and settle this brave fight we have in hand." "Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "and that right speedily. Never have I been more laggard in fighting than in eating and drinking. So come thou straight forth into the passageway, where there is good room to swing a sword, and I will try to serve thee." Then they both stepped forth into the broad passage that led to the Steward's pantry, where each man drew his sword again and without more ado fell upon the other as though he would hew his fellow limb from limb. Then their swords clashed upon one another with great din, and sparks flew from each blow in showers. So they fought up and down the hall for an hour and more, neither striking the other a blow, though they strove their best to do so; for both were skillful at the fence; so nothing came of all their labor. Ever and anon they rested, panting; then, after getting their wind, at it they would go again more fiercely than ever. At last Little John cried aloud, "Hold, good Cook!" whereupon each rested upon his sword, panting. "Now will I make my vow," quoth Little John, "thou art the very best swordsman that ever mine eyes beheld. Truly, I had thought to carve thee ere now." "And I had thought to do the same by thee," quoth the Cook, "but I have missed the mark somehow." "Now I have been thinking within myself," quoth Little John, "what we are fighting for; but albeit I do not rightly know." "Why, no more do I," said the Cook. "I bear no love for that pursy Steward, but I thought that we had engaged to fight with one another and that it must be done." "Now," quoth Little John, "it doth seem to me that instead of striving to cut one another's throats, it were better for us to be boon companions. What sayst thou, jolly Cook, wilt thou go with me to Sherwood Forest and join with Robin Hood's band? Thou shalt live a merry life within the woodlands, and sevenscore good companions shalt thou have, one of whom is mine own self. Thou shalt have three suits of Lincoln green each year, and forty marks in pay." "Now, thou art a man after mine own heart!" cried the Cook right heartily, "and, as thou speakest of it, that is the very service for me. I will go with thee, and that right gladly. Give me thy palm, sweet fellow, and I will be thine own companion from henceforth. What may be thy name, lad?" "Men do call me Little John, good fellow." "How? And art thou indeed Little John, and Robin Hood's own right-hand man? Many a time and oft I heard of thee, but never did I hope to set eyes upon thee. And thou art indeed the famous Little John!" And the Cook seemed lost in amazement, and looked upon his companion with open eyes. "I am Little John, indeed, and I will bring to Robin Hood this day a right stout fellow to join his merry band. But ere we go, good friend, it seemeth to me to be a vast pity that, as we have had so much of the Sheriff's food, we should not also carry off some of his silver plate to Robin Hood, as a present from his worship." "Ay, marry is it," said the Cook. And so they began hunting about, and took as much silver as they could lay hands upon, clapping it into a bag, and when they had filled the sack they set forth to Sherwood Forest. Plunging into the woods, they came at last to the greenwood tree, where they found Robin Hood and threescore of his merry men lying upon the fresh green grass. When Robin and his men saw who it was that came, they leaped to their feet. "Now welcome!" cried Robin Hood. "Now welcome, Little John! For long hath it been since we have heard from thee, though we all knew that thou hadst joined the Sheriff's service. And how hast thou fared all these long days?" "Right merrily have I lived at the Lord Sheriff's," answered Little John, "and I have come straight thence. See, good master! I have brought thee his cook, and even his silver plate." Thereupon he told Robin Hood and his merry men that were there, all that had befallen him since he had left them to go to the Fair at Nottingham Town. Then all shouted with laughter, except Robin Hood; but he looked grave. "Nay, Little John," said he, "thou art a brave blade and a trusty fellow. I am glad thou hast brought thyself back to us, and with such a good companion as the Cook, whom we all welcome to Sherwood. But I like not so well that thou hast stolen the Sheriff's plate like some paltry thief. The Sheriff hath been punished by us, and hath lost three hundred pounds, even as he sought to despoil another; but he hath done nought that we should steal his household plate from him." Though Little John was vexed with this, he strove to pass it off with a jest. "Nay, good master," quoth he, "if thou thinkest the Sheriff gave us not the plate, I will fetch him, that he may tell us with his own lips he giveth it all to us." So saying he leaped to his feet, and was gone before Robin could call him back. Little John ran for full five miles till he came to where the Sheriff of Nottingham and a gay company were hunting near the forest. When Little John came to the Sheriff he doffed his cap and bent his knee. "God save thee, good master," quoth he. "Why, Reynold Greenleaf!" cried the Sheriff, "whence comest thou and where hast thou been?" "I have been in the forest," answered Little John, speaking amazedly, "and there I saw a sight such as ne'er before man's eyes beheld! Yonder I saw a young hart all in green from top to toe, and about him was a herd of threescore deer, and they, too, were all of green from head to foot. Yet I dared not shoot, good master, for fear lest they should slay me." "Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf," cried the Sheriff, "art thou dreaming or art thou mad, that thou dost bring me such, a tale?" "Nay, I am not dreaming nor am I mad," said Little John, "and if thou wilt come with me, I will show thee this fair sight, for I have seen it with mine own eyes. But thou must come alone, good master, lest the others frighten them and they get away." So the party all rode forward, and Little John led them downward into the forest. "Now, good master," quoth he at last, "we are nigh where I saw this herd." Then the Sheriff descended from his horse and bade them wait for him until he should return; and Little John led him forward through a close copse until suddenly they came to a great open glade, at the end of which Robin Hood sat beneath the shade of the great oak tree, with his merry men all about him. "See, good Master Sheriff," quoth Little John, "yonder is the hart of which I spake to thee." At this the Sheriff turned to Little John and said bitterly, "Long ago I thought I remembered thy face, but now I know thee. Woe betide thee, Little John, for thou hast betrayed me this day." In the meantime Robin Hood had come to them. "Now welcome, Master Sheriff," said he. "Hast thou come today to take another feast with me?" "Nay, Heaven forbid!" said the Sheriff in tones of deep earnest. "I care for no feast and have no hunger today." "Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "if thou hast no hunger, maybe thou hast thirst, and well I know thou wilt take a cup of sack with me. But I am grieved that thou wilt not feast with me, for thou couldst have victuals to thy liking, for there stands thy Cook." Then he led the Sheriff, willy-nilly, to the seat he knew so well beneath the greenwood tree. "Ho, lads!" cried Robin, "fill our good friend the Sheriff a right brimming cup of sack and fetch it hither, for he is faint and weary." Then one of the band brought the Sheriff a cup of sack, bowing low as he handed it to him; but the Sheriff could not touch the wine, for he saw it served in one of his own silver flagons, on one of his own silver plates. "How now," quoth Robin, "dost thou not like our new silver service? We have gotten a bag of it this day." So saying, he held up the sack of silver that Little John and the Cook had brought with them. Then the Sheriff's heart was bitter within him; but, not daring to say anything, he only gazed upon the ground. Robin looked keenly at him for a time before he spoke again. Then said he, "Now, Master Sheriff, the last time thou camest to Sherwood Forest thou didst come seeking to despoil a poor spendthrift, and thou wert despoiled thine own self; but now thou comest seeking to do no harm, nor do I know that thou hast despoiled any man. I take my tithes from fat priests and lordly squires, to help those that they despoil and to raise up those that they bow down; but I know not that thou hast tenants of thine own whom thou hast wronged in any way. Therefore, take thou thine own again, nor will I dispossess thee today of so much as one farthing. Come with me, and I will lead thee from the forest back to thine own party again." Then, slinging the bag upon his shoulder, he turned away, the Sheriff following him, all too perplexed in mind to speak. So they went forward until they came to within a furlong of the spot where the Sheriff's companions were waiting for him. Then Robin Hood gave the sack of silver back to the Sheriff. "Take thou thine own again," he said, "and hearken to me, good Sheriff, take thou a piece of advice with it. Try thy servants well ere thou dost engage them again so readily." Then, turning, he left the other standing bewildered, with the sack in his hands. The company that waited for the Sheriff were all amazed to see him come out of the forest bearing a heavy sack upon his shoulders; but though they questioned him, he answered never a word, acting like one who walks in a dream. Without a word, he placed the bag across his nag's back and then, mounting, rode away, all following him; but all the time there was a great turmoil of thoughts within his head, tumbling one over the other. And thus ends the merry tale of Little John and how he entered the Sheriff's service. Little John and the Tanner of Blyth ONE FINE DAY, not long after Little John had left abiding with the Sheriff and had come back, with his worship's cook, to the merry greenwood, as has just been told, Robin Hood and a few chosen fellows of his band lay upon the soft sward beneath the greenwood tree where they dwelled. The day was warm and sultry, so that while most of the band were scattered through the forest upon this mission and upon that, these few stout fellows lay lazily beneath the shade of the tree, in the soft afternoon, passing jests among themselves and telling merry stories, with laughter and mirth. All the air was laden with the bitter fragrance of the May, and all the bosky shades of the woodlands beyond rang with the sweet song of birds-- the throstle cock, the cuckoo, and the wood pigeon--and with the song of birds mingled the cool sound of the gurgling brook that leaped out of the forest shades, and ran fretting amid its rough, gray stones across the sunlit open glade before the trysting tree. And a fair sight was that halfscore of tall, stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, lying beneath the broad-spreading branches of the great oak tree, amid the quivering leaves of which the sunlight shivered and fell in dancing patches upon the grass. Suddenly Robin Hood smote his knee. "By Saint Dunstan," quoth he, "I had nigh forgot that quarter-day cometh on apace, and yet no cloth of Lincoln green in all our store. It must be looked to, and that in quick season. Come, busk thee, Little John! Stir those lazy bones of thine, for thou must get thee straightway to our good gossip, the draper Hugh Longshanks of Ancaster. Bid him send us straightway twentyscore yards of fair cloth of Lincoln green; and mayhap the journey may take some of the fat from off thy bones, that thou hast gotten from lazy living at our dear Sheriff's." "Nay," muttered Little John (for he had heard so much upon this score that he was sore upon the point), "nay, truly, mayhap I have more flesh upon my joints than I once had, yet, flesh or no flesh, I doubt not that I could still hold my place and footing upon a narrow bridge against e'er a yeoman in Sherwood, or Nottinghamshire, for the matter of that, even though he had no more fat about his bones than thou hast, good master." At this reply a great shout of laughter went up, and all looked at Robin Hood, for each man knew that Little John spake of a certain fight that happened between their master and himself, through which they first became acquainted. "Nay," quoth Robin Hood, laughing louder than all. "Heaven forbid that I should doubt thee, for I care for no taste of thy staff myself, Little John. I must needs own that there are those of my band can handle a seven-foot staff more deftly than I; yet no man in all Nottinghamshire can draw gray goose shaft with my fingers. Nevertheless, a journey to Ancaster may not be ill for thee; so go thou, as I bid, and thou hadst best go this very evening, for since thou hast abided at the Sheriff's many know thy face, and if thou goest in broad daylight, thou mayst get thyself into a coil with some of his worship's men-at-arms. Bide thou here till I bring thee money to pay our good Hugh. I warrant he hath no better customers in all Nottinghamshire than we." So saying, Robin left them and entered the forest. Not far from the trysting tree was a great rock in which a chamber had been hewn, the entrance being barred by a massive oaken door two palms'- breadth in thickness, studded about with spikes, and fastened with a great padlock. This was the treasure house of the band, and thither Robin Hood went and, unlocking the door, entered the chamber, from which he brought forth a bag of gold which he gave to Little John, to pay Hugh Longshanks withal, for the cloth of Lincoln green. Then up got Little John, and, taking the bag of gold, which he thrust into his bosom, he strapped a girdle about his loins, took a stout pikestaff full seven feet long in his hand, and set forth upon his journey. So he strode whistling along the leafy forest path that led to Fosse Way, turning neither to the right hand nor the left, until at last he came to where the path branched, leading on the one hand onward to Fosse Way, and on the other, as well Little John knew, to the merry Blue Boar Inn. Here Little John suddenly ceased whistling and stopped in the middle of the path. First he looked up and then he looked down, and then, tilting his cap over one eye, he slowly scratched the back part of his head. For thus it was: at the sight of these two roads, two voices began to alarum within him, the one crying, "There lies the road to the Blue Boar Inn, a can of brown October, and a merry night with sweet companions such as thou mayst find there"; the other, "There lies the way to Ancaster and the duty thou art sent upon." Now the first of these two voices was far the louder, for Little John had grown passing fond of good living through abiding at the Sheriff's house; so, presently, looking up into the blue sky, across which bright clouds were sailing like silver boats, and swallows skimming in circling flight, quoth he, "I fear me it will rain this evening, so I'll e'en stop at the Blue Boar till it passes by, for I know my good master would not have me wet to the skin." So, without more ado, off he strode down the path that lay the way of his likings. Now there was no sign of any foul weather, but when one wishes to do a thing, as Little John did, one finds no lack of reasons for the doing. Four merry wags were at the Blue Boar Inn; a butcher, a beggar, and two barefoot friars. Little John heard them singing from afar, as he walked through the hush of the mellow twilight that was now falling over hill and dale. Right glad were they to welcome such a merry blade as Little John. Fresh cans of ale were brought, and with jest and song and merry tales the hours slipped away on fleeting wings. None thought of time or tide till the night was so far gone that Little John put by the thought of setting forth upon his journey again that night, and so bided at the Blue Boar Inn until the morrow. Now it was an ill piece of luck for Little John that he left his duty for his pleasure, and he paid a great score for it, as we are all apt to do in the same case, as you shall see. Up he rose at the dawn of the next day, and, taking his stout pikestaff in his hand, he set forth upon his journey once more, as though he would make up for lost time. In the good town of Blyth there lived a stout tanner, celebrated far and near for feats of strength and many tough bouts at wrestling and the quarterstaff. For five years he had held the mid-country champion belt for wrestling, till the great Adam o' Lincoln cast him in the ring and broke one of his ribs; but at quarterstaff he had never yet met his match in all the country about. Besides all this, he dearly loved the longbow, and a sly jaunt in the forest when the moon was full and the dun deer in season; so that the King's rangers kept a shrewd eye upon him and his doings, for Arthur a Bland's house was apt to have aplenty of meat in it that was more like venison than the law allowed. Now Arthur had been to Nottingham Town the day before Little John set forth on his errand, there to sell a halfscore of tanned cowhides. At the dawn of the same day that Little John left the inn, he started from Nottingham, homeward for Blyth. His way led, all in the dewy morn, past the verge of Sherwood Forest, where the birds were welcoming the lovely day with a great and merry jubilee. Across the Tanner's shoulders was slung his stout quarterstaff, ever near enough to him to be gripped quickly, and on his head was a cap of doubled cowhide, so tough that it could hardly be cloven even by a broadsword. "Now," quoth Arthur a Bland to himself, when he had come to that part of the road that cut through a corner of the forest, "no doubt at this time of year the dun deer are coming from the forest depths nigher to the open meadow lands. Mayhap I may chance to catch a sight of the dainty brown darlings thus early in the morn." For there was nothing he loved better than to look upon a tripping herd of deer, even when he could not tickle their ribs with a clothyard shaft. Accordingly, quitting the path, he went peeping this way and that through the underbrush, spying now here and now there, with all the wiles of a master of woodcraft, and of one who had more than once donned a doublet of Lincoln green. Now as Little John stepped blithely along, thinking of nothing but of such things as the sweetness of the hawthorn buds that bedecked the hedgerows, or gazing upward at the lark, that, springing from the dewy grass, hung aloft on quivering wings in the yellow sunlight, pouring forth its song that fell like a falling star from the sky, his luck led him away from the highway, not far from the spot where Arthur a Bland was peeping this way and that through the leaves of the thickets. Hearing a rustling of the branches, Little John stopped and presently caught sight of the brown cowhide cap of the Tanner moving among the bushes. "I do much wonder," quoth Little John to himself, "what yon knave is after, that he should go thus peeping and peering about I verily believe that yon scurvy varlet is no better than a thief, and cometh here after our own and the good King's dun deer." For by much roving in the forest, Little John had come to look upon all the deer in Sherwood as belonging to Robin Hood and his band as much as to good King Harry. "Nay," quoth he again, after a time, "this matter must e'en be looked into." So, quitting the highroad, he also entered the thickets, and began spying around after stout Arthur a Bland. So for a long time they both of them went hunting about, Little John after the Tanner, and the Tanner after the deer. At last Little John trod upon a stick, which snapped under his foot, whereupon, hearing the noise, the Tanner turned quickly and caught sight of the yeoman. Seeing that the Tanner had spied him out, Little John put a bold face upon the matter. "Hilloa," quoth he, "what art thou doing here, thou naughty fellow? Who art thou that comest ranging Sherwood's paths? In very sooth thou hast an evil cast of countenance, and I do think, truly, that thou art no better than a thief, and comest after our good King's deer." "Nay," quoth the Tanner boldly--for, though taken by surprise, he was not a man to be frightened by big words--"thou liest in thy teeth. I am no thief, but an honest craftsman. As for my countenance, it is what it is; and, for the matter of that, thine own is none too pretty, thou saucy fellow." "Ha!" quoth Little John in a great loud voice, "wouldst thou give me backtalk? Now I have a great part of a mind to crack thy pate for thee. I would have thee know, fellow, that I am, as it were, one of the King's foresters. Leastwise," muttered he to himself, "I and my friends do take good care of our good sovereign's deer." "I care not who thou art," answered the bold Tanner, "and unless thou hast many more of thy kind by thee, thou canst never make Arthur a Bland cry 'A mercy.'" "Is it so?" cried Little John in a rage. "Now, by my faith, thou saucy rogue, thy tongue hath led thee into a pit thou wilt have a sorry time getting out of; for I will give thee such a drubbing as ne'er hast thou had in all thy life before. Take thy staff in thy hand, fellow, for I will not smite an unarmed man. "Marry come up with a murrain!" cried the Tanner, for he, too, had talked himself into a fume. "Big words ne'er killed so much as a mouse. Who art thou that talkest so freely of cracking the head of Arthur a Bland? If I do not tan thy hide this day as ne'er I tanned a calf's hide in all my life before, split my staff into skewers for lamb's flesh and call me no more brave man! Now look to thyself, fellow!" "Stay!" said Little John. "Let us first measure our cudgels. I do reckon my staff longer than thine, and I would not take vantage of thee by even so much as an inch." "Nay, I pass not for length," answered the Tanner. "My staff is long enough to knock down a calf; so look to thyself, fellow, I say again." So, without more ado, each gripped his staff in the middle, and, with fell and angry looks, they came slowly together. Now news had been brought to Robin Hood how that Little John, instead of doing his bidding, had passed by duty for pleasure, and so had stopped overnight with merry company at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of going straight to Ancaster. So, being vexed to his heart by this, he set forth at dawn of day to seek Little John at the Blue Boar, or at least to meet the yeoman on the way, and ease his heart of what he thought of the matter. As thus he strode along in anger, putting together the words he would use to chide Little John, he heard, of a sudden, loud and angry voices, as of men in a rage, passing fell words back and forth from one to the other. At this, Robin Hood stopped and listened. "Surely," quoth he to himself, "that is Little John's voice, and he is talking in anger also. Methinks the other is strange to my ears. Now Heaven forfend that my good trusty Little John should have fallen into the hands of the King's rangers. I must see to this matter, and that quickly." Thus spoke Robin Hood to himself, all his anger passing away like a breath from the windowpane, at the thought that perhaps his trusty right-hand man was in some danger of his life. So cautiously he made his way through the thickets whence the voices came, and, pushing aside the leaves, peeped into the little open space where the two men, staff in hand, were coming slowly together. "Ha!" quoth Robin to himself, "here is merry sport afoot. Now I would give three golden angels from my own pocket if yon stout fellow would give Little John a right sound drubbing! It would please me to see him well thumped for having failed in my bidding. I fear me, though, there is but poor chance of my seeing such a pleasant sight." So saying, he stretched himself at length upon the ground, that he might not only see the sport the better, but that he might enjoy the merry sight at his ease. As you may have seen two dogs that think to fight, walking slowly round and round each other, neither cur wishing to begin the combat, so those two stout yeomen moved slowly around, each watching for a chance to take the other unaware, and so get in the first blow. At last Little John struck like a flash, and--"rap!"--the Tanner met the blow and turned it aside, and then smote back at Little John, who also turned the blow; and so this mighty battle began. Then up and down and back and forth they trod, the blows falling so thick and fast that, at a distance, one would have thought that half a score of men were fighting. Thus they fought for nigh a half an hour, until the ground was all plowed up with the digging of their heels, and their breathing grew labored like the ox in the furrow. But Little John suffered the most, for he had become unused to such stiff labor, and his joints were not as supple as they had been before he went to dwell with the Sheriff. All this time Robin Hood lay beneath the bush, rejoicing at such a comely bout of quarterstaff. "By my faith!" quoth he to himself, "never had I thought to see Little John so evenly matched in all my life. Belike, though, he would have overcome yon fellow before this had he been in his former trim." At last Little John saw his chance, and, throwing all the strength he felt going from him into one blow that might have felled an ox, he struck at the Tanner with might and main. And now did the Tanner's cowhide cap stand him in good stead, and but for it he might never have held staff in hand again. As it was, the blow he caught beside the head was so shrewd that it sent him staggering across the little glade, so that, if Little John had had the strength to follow up his vantage, it would have been ill for stout Arthur. But he regained himself quickly and, at arm's length, struck back a blow at Little John, and this time the stroke reached its mark, and down went Little John at full length, his cudgel flying from his hand as he fell. Then, raising his staff, stout Arthur dealt him another blow upon the ribs. "Hold!" roared Little John. "Wouldst thou strike a man when he is down?" "Ay, marry would I," quoth the Tanner, giving him another thwack with his staff. "Stop!" roared Little John. "Help! Hold, I say! I yield me! I yield me, I say, good fellow!" "Hast thou had enough?" asked the Tanner grimly, holding his staff aloft. "Ay, marry, and more than enough." "And thou dost own that I am the better man of the two?" "Yea, truly, and a murrain seize thee!" said Little John, the first aloud and the last to his beard. "Then thou mayst go thy ways; and thank thy patron saint that I am a merciful man," said the Tanner. "A plague o' such mercy as thine!" said Little John, sitting up and feeling his ribs where the Tanner had cudgeled him. "I make my vow, my ribs feel as though every one of them were broken in twain. I tell thee, good fellow, I did think there was never a man in all Nottinghamshire could do to me what thou hast done this day." "And so thought I, also," cried Robin Hood, bursting out of the thicket and shouting with laughter till the tears ran down his cheeks. "O man, man!" said he, as well as he could for his mirth, "'a didst go over like a bottle knocked from a wall. I did see the whole merry bout, and never did I think to see thee yield thyself so, hand and foot, to any man in all merry England. I was seeking thee, to chide thee for leaving my bidding undone; but thou hast been paid all I owed thee, full measure, pressed down and overflowing, by this good fellow. Marry, 'a did reach out his arm full length while thou stood gaping at him, and, with a pretty rap, tumbled thee over as never have I seen one tumbled before." So spoke bold Robin, and all the time Little John sat upon the ground, looking as though he had sour curds in his mouth. "What may be thy name, good fellow?" said Robin, next, turning to the Tanner. "Men do call me Arthur a Bland," spoke up the Tanner boldly, "and now what may be thy name?" "Ha, Arthur a Bland!" quoth Robin, "I have heard thy name before, good fellow. Thou didst break the crown of a friend of mine at the fair at Ely last October. The folk there call him Jock o' Nottingham; we call him Will Scathelock. This poor fellow whom thou hast so belabored is counted the best hand at the quarterstaff in all merry England. His name is Little John, and mine Robin Hood." "How!" cried the Tanner, "art thou indeed the great Robin Hood, and is this the famous Little John? Marry, had I known who thou art, I would never have been so bold as to lift my hand against thee. Let me help thee to thy feet, good Master Little John, and let me brush the dust from off thy coat." "Nay," quoth Little John testily, at the same time rising carefully, as though his bones had been made of glass, "I can help myself, good fellow, without thy aid; and let me tell thee, had it not been for that vile cowskin cap of thine, it would have been ill for thee this day." At this Robin laughed again, and, turning to the Tanner, he said, "Wilt thou join my band, good Arthur? For I make my vow thou art one of the stoutest men that ever mine eyes beheld." "Will I join thy band?" cried the Tanner joyfully. "Ay, marry, will I! Hey for a merry life!" cried he, leaping aloft and snapping his fingers, "and hey for the life I love! Away with tanbark and filthy vats and foul cowhides! I will follow thee to the ends of the earth, good master, and not a herd of dun deer in all the forest but shall know the sound of the twang of my bowstring." "As for thee, Little John," said Robin, turning to him and laughing, "thou wilt start once more for Ancaster, and we will go part way with thee, for I will not have thee turn again to either the right hand or the left till thou hast fairly gotten away from Sherwood. There are other inns that thou knowest yet, hereabouts." Thereupon, leaving the thickets, they took once more to the highway and departed upon their business. Robin Hood and Will Scarlet THUS THEY traveled along the sunny road, three stout fellows such as you could hardly match anywhere else in all merry England. Many stopped to gaze after them as they strode along, so broad were their shoulders and so sturdy their gait. Quoth Robin Hood to Little John, "Why didst thou not go straight to Ancaster, yesterday, as I told thee? Thou hadst not gotten thyself into such a coil hadst thou done as I ordered." "I feared the rain that threatened," said Little John in a sullen tone, for he was vexed at being so chaffed by Robin with what had happened to him. "The rain!" cried Robin, stopping of a sudden in the middle of the road, and looking at Little John in wonder. "Why, thou great oaf! not a drop of rain has fallen these three days, neither has any threatened, nor hath there been a sign of foul weather in earth or sky or water." "Nevertheless," growled Little John, "the holy Saint Swithin holdeth the waters of the heavens in his pewter pot, and he could have poured them out, had he chosen, even from a clear sky; and wouldst thou have had me wet to the skin?" At this Robin Hood burst into a roar of laughter. "O Little John!" said he, "what butter wits hast thou in that head of thine! Who could hold anger against such a one as thou art?" So saying, they all stepped out once more, with the right foot foremost, as the saying is. After they had traveled some distance, the day being warm and the road dusty, Robin Hood waxed thirsty; so, there being a fountain of water as cold as ice, just behind the hedgerow, they crossed the stile and came to where the water bubbled up from beneath a mossy stone. Here, kneeling and making cups of the palms of their hands, they drank their fill, and then, the spot being cool and shady, they stretched their limbs and rested them for a space. In front of them, over beyond the hedge, the dusty road stretched away across the plain; behind them the meadow lands and bright green fields of tender young corn lay broadly in the sun, and overhead spread the shade of the cool, rustling leaves of the beechen tree. Pleasantly to their nostrils came the tender fragrance of the purple violets and wild thyme that grew within the dewy moisture of the edge of the little fountain, and pleasantly came the soft gurgle of the water. All was so pleasant and so full of the gentle joy of the bright Maytime, that for a long time no one of the three cared to speak, but each lay on his back, gazing up through the trembling leaves of the trees to the bright sky overhead. At last, Robin, whose thoughts were not quite so busy wool- gathering as those of the others, and who had been gazing around him now and then, broke the silence. "Heyday!" quoth he, "yon is a gaily feathered bird, I take my vow." The others looked and saw a young man walking slowly down the highway. Gay was he, indeed, as Robin had said, and a fine figure he cut, for his doublet was of scarlet silk and his stockings also; a handsome sword hung by his side, the embossed leathern scabbard being picked out with fine threads of gold; his cap was of scarlet velvet, and a broad feather hung down behind and back of one ear. His hair was long and yellow and curled upon his shoulders, and in his hand he bore an early rose, which he smelled at daintily now and then. "By my life!" quoth Robin Hood, laughing, "saw ye e'er such a pretty, mincing fellow?" "Truly, his clothes have overmuch prettiness for my taste," quoth Arthur a Bland, "but, ne'ertheless, his shoulders are broad and his loins are narrow, and seest thou, good master, how that his arms hang from his body? They dangle not down like spindles, but hang stiff and bend at the elbow. I take my vow, there be no bread and milk limbs in those fine clothes, but stiff joints and tough thews." "Methinks thou art right, friend Arthur," said Little John. "I do verily think that yon is no such roseleaf and whipped-cream gallant as he would have one take him to be." "Pah!" quoth Robin Hood, "the sight of such a fellow doth put a nasty taste into my mouth! Look how he doth hold that fair flower betwixt his thumb and finger, as he would say, 'Good rose, I like thee not so ill but I can bear thy odor for a little while.' I take it ye are both wrong, and verily believe that were a furious mouse to run across his path, he would cry, 'La!' or 'Alack-a-day!' and fall straightway into a swoon. I wonder who he may be." "Some great baron's son, I doubt not," answered Little John, "with good and true men's money lining his purse." "Ay, marry, that is true, I make no doubt," quoth Robin. "What a pity that such men as he, that have no thought but to go abroad in gay clothes, should have good fellows, whose shoes they are not fit to tie, dancing at their bidding. By Saint Dunstan, Saint Alfred, Saint Withold, and all the good men in the Saxon calendar, it doth make me mad to see such gay lordlings from over the sea go stepping on the necks of good Saxons who owned this land before ever their great-grandsires chewed rind of brawn! By the bright bow of Heaven, I will have their ill-gotten gains from them, even though I hang for it as high as e'er a forest tree in Sherwood!" "Why, how now, master," quoth Little John, "what heat is this? Thou dost set thy pot a-boiling, and mayhap no bacon to cook! Methinks yon fellow's hair is overlight for Norman locks. He may be a good man and true for aught thou knowest." "Nay," said Robin, "my head against a leaden farthing, he is what I say. So, lie ye both here, I say, till I show you how I drub this fellow." So saying, Robin Hood stepped forth from the shade of the beech tree, crossed the stile, and stood in the middle of the road, with his hands on his hips, in the stranger's path. Meantime the stranger, who had been walking so slowly that all this talk was held before he came opposite the place where they were, neither quickened his pace nor seemed to see that such a man as Robin Hood was in the world. So Robin stood in the middle of the road, waiting while the other walked slowly forward, smelling his rose, and looking this way and that, and everywhere except at Robin. "Hold!" cried Robin, when at last the other had come close to him. "Hold! Stand where thou art!" "Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?" said the stranger in soft and gentle voice. "And wherefore should I stand where I am? Ne'ertheless, as thou dost desire that I should stay, I will abide for a short time, that I may hear what thou mayst have to say to me." "Then," quoth Robin, "as thou dost so fairly do as I tell thee, and dost give me such soft speech, I will also treat thee with all due courtesy. I would have thee know, fair friend, that I am, as it were, a votary at the shrine of Saint Wilfred who, thou mayst know, took, willy-nilly, all their gold from the heathen, and melted it up into candlesticks. Wherefore, upon such as come hereabouts, I levy a certain toll, which I use for a better purpose, I hope, than to make candlesticks withal. Therefore, sweet chuck, I would have thee deliver to me thy purse, that I may look into it, and judge, to the best of my poor powers, whether thou hast more wealth about thee than our law allows. For, as our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, 'He who is fat from overliving must needs lose blood.'" All this time the youth had been sniffing at the rose that he held betwixt his thumb and finger. "Nay," said he with a gentle smile, when Robin Hood had done, "I do love to hear thee talk, thou pretty fellow, and if, haply, thou art not yet done, finish, I beseech thee. I have yet some little time to stay." "I have said all," quoth Robin, "and now, if thou wilt give me thy purse, I will let thee go thy way without let or hindrance so soon as I shall see what it may hold. I will take none from thee if thou hast but little." "Alas! It doth grieve me much," said the other, "that I cannot do as thou dost wish. I have nothing to give thee. Let me go my way, I prythee. I have done thee no harm." "Nay, thou goest not," quoth Robin, "till thou hast shown me thy purse." "Good friend," said the other gently, "I have business elsewhere. I have given thee much time and have heard thee patiently. Prythee, let me depart in peace." "I have spoken to thee, friend," said Robin sternly, "and I now tell thee again, that thou goest not one step forward till thou hast done as I bid thee." So saying, he raised his quarterstaff above his head in a threatening way. "Alas!" said the stranger sadly, "it doth grieve me that this thing must be. I fear much that I must slay thee, thou poor fellow!" So saying, he drew his sword. "Put by thy weapon," quoth Robin. "I would take no vantage of thee. Thy sword cannot stand against an oaken staff such as mine. I could snap it like a barley straw. Yonder is a good oaken thicket by the roadside; take thee a cudgel thence and defend thyself fairly, if thou hast a taste for a sound drubbing." First the stranger measured Robin with his eye, and then he measured the oaken staff. "Thou art right, good fellow," said he presently, "truly, my sword is no match for that cudgel of thine. Bide thee awhile till I get me a staff." So saying, he threw aside the rose that he had been holding all this time, thrust his sword back into the scabbard, and, with a more hasty step than he had yet used, stepped to the roadside where grew the little clump of ground oaks Robin had spoken of. Choosing among them, he presently found a sapling to his liking. He did not cut it, but, rolling up his sleeves a little way, he laid hold of it, placed his heel against the ground, and, with one mighty pull, plucked the young tree up by the roots from out the very earth. Then he came back, trimming away the roots and tender stems with his sword as quietly as if he had done nought to speak of. Little John and the Tanner had been watching all that passed, but when they saw the stranger drag the sapling up from the earth, and heard the rending and snapping of its roots, the Tanner pursed his lips together, drawing his breath between them in a long inward whistle. "By the breath of my body!" said Little John, as soon as he could gather his wits from their wonder, "sawest thou that, Arthur? Marry, I think our poor master will stand but an ill chance with yon fellow. By Our Lady, he plucked up yon green tree as it were a barley straw." Whatever Robin Hood thought, he stood his ground, and now he and the stranger in scarlet stood face to face. Well did Robin Hood hold his own that day as a mid-country yeoman. This way and that they fought, and back and forth, Robin's skill against the stranger's strength. The dust of the highway rose up around them like a cloud, so that at times Little John and the Tanner could see nothing, but only hear the rattle of the staves against one another. Thrice Robin Hood struck the stranger; once upon the arm and twice upon the ribs, and yet had he warded all the other's blows, only one of which, had it met its mark, would have laid stout Robin lower in the dust than he had ever gone before. At last the stranger struck Robin's cudgel so fairly in the middle that he could hardly hold his staff in his hand; again he struck, and Robin bent beneath the blow; a third time he struck, and now not only fairly beat down Robin's guard, but gave him such a rap, also, that down he tumbled into the dusty road. "Hold!" cried Robin Hood, when he saw the stranger raising his staff once more. "I yield me!" "Hold!" cried Little John, bursting from his cover, with the Tanner at his heels. "Hold! give over, I say!" "Nay," answered the stranger quietly, "if there be two more of you, and each as stout as this good fellow, I am like to have my hands full. Nevertheless, come on, and I will strive my best to serve you all." "Stop!" cried Robin Hood, "we will fight no more. I take my vow, this is an ill day for thee and me, Little John. I do verily believe that my wrist, and eke my arm, are palsied by the jar of the blow that this stranger struck me." Then Little John turned to Robin Hood. "Why, how now, good master," said he. "Alas! Thou art in an ill plight. Marry, thy jerkin is all befouled with the dust of the road. Let me help thee to arise." "A plague on thy aid!" cried Robin angrily. "I can get to my feet without thy help, good fellow." "Nay, but let me at least dust thy coat for thee. I fear thy poor bones are mightily sore," quoth Little John soberly, but with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "Give over, I say!" quoth Robin in a fume. "My coat hath been dusted enough already, without aid of thine." Then, turning to the stranger, he said, "What may be thy name, good fellow?" "My name is Gamwell," answered the other. "Ha!" cried Robin, "is it even so? I have near kin of that name. Whence camest thou, fair friend?" "From Maxfield Town I come," answered the stranger. "There was I born and bred, and thence I come to seek my mother's young brother, whom men call Robin Hood. So, if perchance thou mayst direct me--" "Ha! Will Gamwell!" cried Robin, placing both hands upon the other's shoulders and holding him off at arm's length. "Surely, it can be none other! I might have known thee by that pretty maiden air of thine--that dainty, finicking manner of gait. Dost thou not know me, lad? Look upon me well." "Now, by the breath of my body!" cried the other, "I do believe from my heart that thou art mine own Uncle Robin. Nay, certain it is so!" And each flung his arms around the other, kissing him upon the cheek. Then once more Robin held his kinsman off at arm's length and scanned him keenly from top to toe. "Why, how now," quoth he, "what change is here? Verily, some eight or ten years ago I left thee a stripling lad, with great joints and ill-hung limbs, and lo! here thou art, as tight a fellow as e'er I set mine eyes upon. Dost thou not remember, lad, how I showed thee the proper way to nip the goose feather betwixt thy fingers and throw out thy bow arm steadily? Thou gayest great promise of being a keen archer. And dost thou not mind how I taught thee to fend and parry with the cudgel?" "Yea," said young Gamwell, "and I did so look up to thee, and thought thee so above all other men that, I make my vow, had I known who thou wert, I would never have dared to lift hand against thee this day. I trust I did thee no great harm." "No, no," quoth Robin hastily, and looking sideways at Little John, "thou didst not harm me. But say no more of that, I prythee. Yet I will say, lad, that I hope I may never feel again such a blow as thou didst give me. By'r Lady, my arm doth tingle yet from fingernail to elbow. Truly, I thought that I was palsied for life. I tell thee, coz, that thou art the strongest man that ever I laid mine eyes upon. I take my vow, I felt my stomach quake when I beheld thee pluck up yon green tree as thou didst. But tell me, how camest thou to leave Sir Edward and thy mother?" "Alas!" answered young Gamwell, "it is an ill story, uncle, that I have to tell thee. My father's steward, who came to us after old Giles Crookleg died, was ever a saucy varlet, and I know not why my father kept him, saving that he did oversee with great judgment. It used to gall me to hear him speak up so boldly to my father, who, thou knowest, was ever a patient man to those about him, and slow to anger and harsh words. Well, one day--and an ill day it was for that saucy fellow--he sought to berate my father, I standing by. I could stand it no longer, good uncle, so, stepping forth, I gave him a box o' the ear, and-- wouldst thou believe it?--the fellow straightway died o't. I think they said I broke his neck, or something o' the like. So off they packed me to seek thee and escape the law. I was on my way when thou sawest me, and here I am." "Well, by the faith of my heart," quoth Robin Hood, "for anyone escaping the law, thou wast taking it the most easily that ever I beheld in all my life. Whenever did anyone in all the world see one who had slain a man, and was escaping because of it, tripping along the highway like a dainty court damsel, sniffing at a rose the while?" "Nay, uncle," answered Will Gamwell, "overhaste never churned good butter, as the old saying hath it. Moreover, I do verily believe that this overstrength of my body hath taken the nimbleness out of my heels. Why, thou didst but just now rap me thrice, and I thee never a once, save by overbearing thee by my strength." "Nay," quoth Robin, "let us say no more on that score. I am right glad to see thee, Will, and thou wilt add great honor and credit to my band of merry fellows. But thou must change thy name, for warrants will be out presently against thee; so, because of thy gay clothes, thou shalt henceforth and for aye be called Will Scarlet." "Will Scarlet," quoth Little John, stepping forward and reaching out his great palm, which the other took, "Will Scarlet, the name fitteth thee well. Right glad am I to welcome thee among us. I am called Little John; and this is a new member who has just joined us, a stout tanner named Arthur a Bland. Thou art like to achieve fame, Will, let me tell thee, for there will be many a merry ballad sung about the country, and many a merry story told in Sherwood of how Robin Hood taught Little John and Arthur a Bland the proper way to use the quarterstaff; likewise, as it were, how our good master bit off so large a piece of cake that he choked on it." "Nay, good Little John," quoth Robin gently, for he liked ill to have such a jest told of him. "Why should we speak of this little matter? Prythee, let us keep this day's doings among ourselves." "With all my heart," quoth Little John. "But, good master, I thought that thou didst love a merry story, because thou hast so often made a jest about a certain increase of fatness on my joints, of flesh gathered by my abiding with the Sheriff of--" "Nay, good Little John," said Robin hastily, "I do bethink me I have said full enough on that score." "It is well," quoth Little John, "for in truth I myself have tired of it somewhat. But now I bethink me, thou didst also seem minded to make a jest of the rain that threatened last night; so--" "Nay, then," said Robin Hood testily, "I was mistaken. I remember me now it did seem to threaten rain." "Truly, I did think so myself," quoth Little John, "therefore, no doubt, thou dost think it was wise of me to abide all night at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of venturing forth in such stormy weather; dost thou not?" "A plague of thee and thy doings!" cried Robin Hood. "If thou wilt have it so, thou wert right to abide wherever thou didst choose." "Once more, it is well," quoth Little John. "As for myself, I have been blind this day. I did not see thee drubbed; I did not see thee tumbled heels over head in the dust; and if any man says that thou wert, I can with a clear conscience rattle his lying tongue betwixt his teeth." "Come," cried Robin, biting his nether lip, while the others could not forbear laughing. "We will go no farther today, but will return to Sherwood, and thou shalt go to Ancaster another time, Little John." So said Robin, for now that his bones were sore, he felt as though a long journey would be an ill thing for him. So, turning their backs, they retraced their steps whence they came. The Adventure with Midge the Miller's Son WHEN THE four yeomen had traveled for a long time toward Sherwood again, high noontide being past, they began to wax hungry. Quoth Robin Hood, "I would that I had somewhat to eat. Methinks a good loaf of white bread, with a piece of snow-white cheese, washed down with a draught of humming ale, were a feast for a king." "Since thou speakest of it," said Will Scarlet, "methinks it would not be amiss myself. There is that within me crieth out, 'Victuals, good friend, victuals!'" "I know a house near by," said Arthur a Bland, "and, had I but the money, I would bring ye that ye speak of; to wit, a sweet loaf of bread, a fair cheese, and a skin of brown ale." "For the matter of that, thou knowest I have money by me, good master," quoth Little John. "Why, so thou hast, Little John," said Robin. "How much money will it take, good Arthur, to buy us meat and drink?" "I think that six broad pennies will buy food enow for a dozen men," said the Tanner. "Then give him six pennies, Little John," quoth Robin, "for methinks food for three men will about fit my need. Now get thee gone, Arthur, with the money, and bring the food here, for there is a sweet shade in that thicket yonder, beside the road, and there will we eat our meal." So Little John gave Arthur the money, and the others stepped to the thicket, there to await the return of the Tanner. After a time he came back, bearing with him a great brown loaf of bread, and a fair, round cheese, and a goatskin full of stout March beer, slung over his shoulders. Then Will Scarlet took his sword and divided the loaf and the cheese into four fair portions, and each man helped himself. Then Robin Hood took a deep pull at the beer. "Aha!" said he, drawing in his breath, "never have I tasted sweeter drink than this." After this no man spake more, but each munched away at his bread and cheese lustily, with ever and anon a pull at the beer. At last Will Scarlet looked at a small piece of bread he still held in his hand, and quoth he, "Methinks I will give this to the sparrows." So, throwing it from him, he brushed the crumbs from his jerkin. "I, too," quoth Robin, "have had enough, I think." As for Little John and the Tanner, they had by this time eaten every crumb of their bread and cheese. "Now," quoth Robin, "I do feel myself another man, and would fain enjoy something pleasant before going farther upon our journey. I do bethink me, Will, that thou didst use to have a pretty voice, and one that tuned sweetly upon a song. Prythee, give us one ere we journey farther." "Truly, I do not mind turning a tune," answered Will Scarlet, "but I would not sing alone." "Nay, others will follow. Strike up, lad," quoth Robin. "In that case, 'tis well," said Will Scarlet. "I do call to mind a song that a certain minstrel used to sing in my father's hall, upon occasion. I know no name for it and so can give you none; but thus it is." Then, clearing his throat, he sang: "_In the merry blossom time, When love longings food the breast, When the flower is on the lime, When the small fowl builds her nest, Sweetly sings the nightingale And the throstle cock so bold; Cuckoo in the dewy dale And the turtle in the word. But the robin I love dear, For he singeth through the year. Robin! Robin! Merry Robin! So I'd have my true love be: Not to fly At the nigh Sign of cold adversity_. "_When the spring brings sweet delights, When aloft the lark doth rise, Lovers woo o' mellow nights, And youths peep in maidens' eyes, That time blooms the eglantine, Daisies pied upon the hill, Cowslips fair and columbine, Dusky violets by the rill. But the ivy green cloth grow When the north wind bringeth snow. Ivy! Ivy! Stanch and true! Thus I'd have her love to be: Not to die At the nigh Breath of cold adversity_." "'Tis well sung," quoth Robin, "but, cousin, I tell thee plain, I would rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some lusty ballad than a finicking song of flowers and birds, and what not. Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and 'tis none so bad a snatch of a song, for the matter of that. Now, Tanner, it is thy turn." "I know not," quoth Arthur, smiling, with his head on one side, like a budding lass that is asked to dance, "I know not that I can match our sweet friend's song; moreover, I do verily think that I have caught a cold and have a certain tickling and huskiness in the windpipe." "Nay, sing up, friend," quoth Little John, who sat next to him, patting him upon the shoulder. "Thou hast a fair, round, mellow voice; let us have a touch of it." "Nay, an ye will ha' a poor thing," said Arthur, "I will do my best. Have ye ever heard of the wooing of Sir Keith, the stout young Cornish knight, in good King Arthur's time?" "Methinks I have heard somewhat of it," said Robin; "but ne'ertheless strike up thy ditty and let us hear it, for, as I do remember me, it is a gallant song; so out with it, good fellow." Thereupon, clearing his throat, the Tanner, without more ado, began to sing: THE WOOING OF SIR KEITH "_King Arthur sat in his royal hall, And about on either hand Was many a noble lordling tall, The greatest in the land. "Sat Lancelot with raven locks, Gawaine with golden hair, Sir Tristram, Kay who kept the locks, And many another there. "And through the stained windows bright, From o'er the red-tiled eaves, The sunlight blazed with colored light On golden helms and greaves. "But suddenly a silence came About the Table Round, For up the hall there walked a dame Bent nigh unto the ground. "Her nose was hooked, her eyes were bleared, Her locks were lank and white; Upon her chin there grew a beard; She was a gruesome sight. "And so with crawling step she came And kneeled at Arthur's feet; Quoth Kay, 'She is the foulest dame That e'er my sight did greet.' "'O mighty King! of thee I crave A boon on bended knee'; 'Twas thus she spoke. 'What wouldst thou have.' Quoth Arthur, King, 'of me_?' "_Quoth she, 'I have a foul disease Doth gnaw my very heart, And but one thing can bring me ease Or cure my bitter smart. "'There is no rest, no ease for me North, east, or west, or south, Till Christian knight will willingly Thrice kiss me on the mouth. "'Nor wedded may this childe have been That giveth ease to me; Nor may he be constrained, I ween, But kiss me willingly. "'So is there here one Christian knight Of such a noble strain That he will give a tortured wight Sweet ease of mortal pain?' "'A wedded man,' quoth Arthur, King, 'A wedded man I be Else would I deem it noble thing To kiss thee willingly. "'Now, Lancelot, in all men's sight Thou art the head and chief Of chivalry. Come, noble knight, And give her quick relief.' "But Lancelot he turned aside And looked upon the ground, For it did sting his haughty pride To hear them laugh around. "'Come thou, Sir Tristram,' quoth the King. Quoth he, 'It cannot be, For ne'er can I my stomach bring To do it willingly.' "'Wilt thou, Sir Kay, thou scornful wight?' Quoth Kay, 'Nay, by my troth! What noble dame would kiss a knight That kissed so foul a mouth_?' "'_Wilt thou, Gawaine?' 'I cannot, King.' 'Sir Geraint?' 'Nay, not I; My kisses no relief could bring, For sooner would I die.' "Then up and spake the youngest man Of all about the board, 'Now such relief as Christian can I'll give to her, my lord.' "It was Sir Keith, a youthful knight, Yet strong of limb and bold, With beard upon his chin as light As finest threads of gold. "Quoth Kay, 'He hath no mistress yet That he may call his own, But here is one that's quick to get, As she herself has shown.' "He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, He kissed her three times o'er, A wondrous change came in a trice, And she was foul no more. "Her cheeks grew red as any rose, Her brow as white as lawn, Her bosom like the winter snows, Her eyes like those of fawn. "Her breath grew sweet as summer breeze That blows the meadows o'er; Her voice grew soft as rustling trees, And cracked and harsh no more. "Her hair grew glittering, like the gold, Her hands as white as milk; Her filthy rags, so foul and old, Were changed to robes of silk. "In great amaze the knights did stare. Quoth Kay, 'I make my vow If it will please thee, lady fair, I'll gladly kiss thee now_.' "_But young Sir Keith kneeled on one knee And kissed her robes so fair. 'O let me be thy slave,' said he, 'For none to thee compare.' "She bent her down, she kissed his brow, She kissed his lips and eyes. Quoth she, 'Thou art my master now, My lord, my love, arise! "'And all the wealth that is mine own, My lands, I give to thee, For never knight hath lady shown Such noble courtesy. "'Bewitched was I, in bitter pain, But thou hast set me free, So now I am myself again, I give myself to thee_.'" "Yea, truly," quoth Robin Hood, when the Tanner had made an end of singing, "it is as I remember it, a fair ditty, and a ballad with a pleasing tune of a song." "It hath oftentimes seemed to me," said Will Scarlet, "that it hath a certain motive in it, e'en such as this: That a duty which seemeth to us sometimes ugly and harsh, when we do kiss it fairly upon the mouth, so to speak, is no such foul thing after all." "Methinks thou art right," quoth Robin, "and, contrariwise, that when we kiss a pleasure that appeareth gay it turneth foul to us; is it not so, Little John? Truly such a thing hath brought thee sore thumps this day. Nay, man, never look down in the mouth. Clear thy pipes and sing us a ditty." "Nay," said Little John, "I have none as fair as that merry Arthur has trolled. They are all poor things that I know. Moreover, my voice is not in tune today, and I would not spoil even a tolerable song by ill singing." Upon this all pressed Little John to sing, so that when he had denied them a proper length of time, such as is seemly in one that is asked to sing, he presently yielded. Quoth he, 'Well, an ye will ha' it so, I will give you what I can. Like to fair Will, I have no title to my ditty, but thus it runs: "_O Lady mine, the spring is here, With a hey nonny nonny; The sweet love season of the year, With a ninny ninny nonny; Now lad and lass Lie in the grass That groweth green With flowers between. The buck doth rest The leaves do start, The cock doth crow, The breeze doth blow, And all things laugh in_--" "Who may yon fellow be coming along the road?" said Robin, breaking into the song. "I know not," quoth Little John in a surly voice. "But this I do know, that it is an ill thing to do to check the flow of a good song." "Nay, Little John," said Robin, "be not vexed, I prythee; but I have been watching him coming along, bent beneath that great bag over his shoulder, ever since thou didst begin thy song. Look, Little John, I pray, and see if thou knowest him." Little John looked whither Robin Hood pointed. "Truly," quoth he, after a time, "I think yon fellow is a certain young miller I have seen now and then around the edge of Sherwood; a poor wight, methinks, to spoil a good song about." "Now thou speakest of him," quoth Robin Hood, "methinks I myself have seen him now and then. Hath he not a mill over beyond Nottingham Town, nigh to the Salisbury road?" "Thou art right; that is the man," said Little John. "A good stout fellow," quoth Robin. "I saw him crack Ned o' Bradford's crown about a fortnight since, and never saw I hair lifted more neatly in all my life before." By this time the young miller had come so near that they could see him clearly. His clothes were dusted with flour, and over his back he carried a great sack of meal, bending so as to bring the whole weight upon his shoulders, and across the sack was a thick quarterstaff. His limbs were stout and strong, and he strode along the dusty road right sturdily with the heavy sack across his shoulders. His cheeks were ruddy as a winter hip, his hair was flaxen in color, and on his chin was a downy growth of flaxen beard. "A good honest fellow," quoth Robin Hood, "and such an one as is a credit to English yeomanrie. Now let us have a merry jest with him. We will forth as though we were common thieves and pretend to rob him of his honest gains. Then will we take him into the forest and give him a feast such as his stomach never held in all his life before. We will flood his throat with good canary and send him home with crowns in his purse for every penny he hath. What say ye, lads?" "Truly, it is a merry thought," said Will Scarlet. "It is well planned," quoth Little John, "but all the saints preserve us from any more drubbings this day! Marry, my poor bones ache so that I--" "Prythee peace, Little John," quoth Robin. "Thy foolish tongue will get us both well laughed at yet." "My foolish tongue, forsooth," growled Little John to Arthur a Bland. "I would it could keep our master from getting us into another coil this day." But now the Miller, plodding along the road, had come opposite to where the yeomen lay hidden, whereupon all four of them ran at him and surrounded him. "Hold, friend!" cried Robin to the Miller; whereupon he turned slowly, with the weight of the bag upon his shoulder, and looked at each in turn all bewildered, for though a good stout man his wits did not skip like roasting chestnuts. "Who bids me stay?" said the Miller in a voice deep and gruff, like the growl of a great dog. "Marry, that do I," quoth Robin; "and let me tell thee, friend, thou hadst best mind my bidding." "And who art thou, good friend?" said the Miller, throwing the great sack of meal from his shoulder to the ground, "and who are those with thee?" "We be four good Christian men," quoth Robin, "and would fain help thee by carrying part of thy heavy load." "I give you all thanks," said the Miller, "but my bag is none that heavy that I cannot carry it e'en by myself." "Nay, thou dost mistake," quoth Robin, "I meant that thou mightest perhaps have some heavy farthings or pence about thee, not to speak of silver and gold. Our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth that gold is an overheavy burden for a two-legged ass to carry; so we would e'en lift some of this load from thee." "Alas!" cried the Miller, "what would ye do to me? I have not about me so much as a clipped groat. Do me no harm, I pray you, but let me depart in peace. Moreover, let me tell you that ye are upon Robin Hood's ground, and should he find you seeking to rob an honest craftsman, he will clip your ears to your heads and scourge you even to the walls of Nottingham. "In truth I fear Robin Hood no more than I do myself," quoth jolly Robin. "Thou must this day give up to me every penny thou hast about thee. Nay, if thou dost budge an inch I will rattle this staff about thine ears." "Nay, smite me not!" cried the Miller, throwing up his elbow as though he feared the blow. "Thou mayst search me if thou wilt, but thou wilt find nothing upon me, pouch, pocket, or skin." "Is it so?" quoth Robin Hood, looking keenly upon him. "Now I believe that what thou tellest is no true tale. If I am not much mistook thou hast somewhat in the bottom of that fat sack of meal. Good Arthur, empty the bag upon the ground; I warrant thou wilt find a shilling or two in the flour." "Alas!" cried the Miller, falling upon his knees, "spoil not all my good meal! It can better you not, and will ruin me. Spare it, and I will give up the money in the bag." "Ha!" quoth Robin, nudging Will Scarlet. "Is it so? And have I found where thy money lies? Marry, I have a wondrous nose for the blessed image of good King Harry. I thought that I smelled gold and silver beneath the barley meal. Bring it straight forth, Miller." Then slowly the Miller arose to his feet, and slowly and unwillingly he untied the mouth of the bag, and slowly thrust his hands into the meal and began fumbling about with his arms buried to the elbows in the barley flour. The others gathered round him, their heads together, looking and wondering what he would bring forth. So they stood, all with their heads close together gazing down into the sack. But while he pretended to be searching for the money, the Miller gathered two great handfuls of meal. "Ha," quoth he, "here they are, the beauties." Then, as the others leaned still more forward to see what he had, he suddenly cast the meal into their faces, filling their eyes and noses and mouths with the flour, blinding and half choking them. Arthur a Bland was worse off than any, for his mouth was open, agape with wonder of what was to come, so that a great cloud of flour flew down his throat, setting him a-coughing till he could scarcely stand. Then, while all four stumbled about, roaring with the smart of the meal in their eyeballs, and while they rubbed their eyes till the tears made great channels on their faces through the meal, the Miller seized another handful of flour and another and another, throwing it in their faces, so that even had they had a glimmering of light before they were now as blind as ever a beggar in Nottinghamshire, while their hair and beards and clothes were as white as snow. Then catching up his great crabstaff, the Miller began laying about him as though he were clean gone mad. This way and that skipped the four, like peas on a drumhead, but they could see neither to defend themselves nor to run away. Thwack! thwack! went the Miller's cudgel across their backs, and at every blow great white clouds of flour rose in the air from their jackets and went drifting down the breeze. "Stop!" roared Robin at last. "Give over, good friend, I am Robin Hood!" "Thou liest, thou knave," cried the Miller, giving him a rap on the ribs that sent up a great cloud of flour like a puff of smoke. "Stout Robin never robbed an honest tradesman. Ha! thou wouldst have my money, wouldst thou?" And he gave him another blow. "Nay, thou art not getting thy share, thou long-legged knave. Share and share alike." And he smote Little John across the shoulders so that he sent him skipping half across the road. "Nay, fear not, it is thy turn now, black beard." And he gave the Tanner a crack that made him roar for all his coughing. "How now, red coat, let me brush the dust from thee!" cried he, smiting Will Scarlet. And so he gave them merry words and blows until they could scarcely stand, and whenever he saw one like to clear his eyes he threw more flour in his face. At last Robin Hood found his horn and clapping it to his lips, blew three loud blasts upon it. Now it chanced that Will Stutely and a party of Robin's men were in the glade not far from where this merry sport was going forward. Hearing the hubbub of voices, and blows that sounded like the noise of a flail in the barn in wintertime, they stopped, listening and wondering what was toward. Quoth Will Stutely, "Now if I mistake not there is some stout battle with cudgels going forward not far hence. I would fain see this pretty sight." So saying, he and the whole party turned their steps whence the noise came. When they had come near where all the tumult sounded they heard the three blasts of Robin's bugle horn. "Quick!" cried young David of Doncaster. "Our master is in sore need!" So, without stopping a moment, they dashed forward with might and main and burst forth from the covert into the highroad. But what a sight was that which they saw! The road was all white with meal, and five men stood there also white with meal from top to toe, for much of the barley flour had fallen back upon the Miller. "What is thy need, master?" cried Will Stutely. "And what doth all this mean?" "Why," quoth Robin in a mighty passion, "yon traitor felt low hath come as nigh slaying me as e'er a man in all the world. Hadst thou not come quickly, good Stutely, thy master had been dead." Hereupon, while he and the three others rubbed the meal from their eyes, and Will Stutely and his men brushed their clothes clean, he told them all; how that he had meant to pass a jest upon the Miller, which same had turned so grievously upon them. "Quick, men, seize the vile Miller!" cried Stutely, who was nigh choking with laughter as were the rest; whereupon several ran upon the stout fellow and seizing him, bound his arms behind his back with bowstrings. "Ha!" cried Robin, when they brought the trembling Miller to him. "Thou wouldst murder me, wouldst thou? By my faith"--Here he stopped and stood glaring upon the, Miller grimly. But Robin's anger could not hold, so first his eyes twinkled, and then in spite of all he broke into a laugh. Now when they saw their master laugh, the yeomen who stood around could contain themselves no longer, and a mighty shout of laughter went up from all. Many could not stand, but rolled upon the ground from pure merriment. "What is thy name, good fellow?" said Robin at last to the Miller, who stood gaping and as though he were in amaze. "Alas, sir, I am Midge, the Miller's son," said he in a frightened voice. "I make my vow," quoth merry Robin, smiting him upon the shoulder, "thou art the mightiest Midge that e'er mine eyes beheld. Now wilt thou leave thy dusty mill and come and join my band? By my faith, thou art too stout a man to spend thy days betwixt the hopper and the till." "Then truly, if thou dost forgive me for the blows I struck, not knowing who thou wast, I will join with thee right merrily," said the Miller. "Then have I gained this day," quoth Robin, "the three stoutest yeomen in all Nottinghamshire. We will get us away to the greenwood tree, and there hold a merry feast in honor of our new friends, and mayhap a cup or two of good sack and canary may mellow the soreness of my poor joints and bones, though I warrant it will be many a day before I am again the man I was." So saying, he turned and led the way, the rest following, and so they entered the forest once more and were lost to sight. So that night all was ablaze with crackling fires in the woodlands, for though Robin and those others spoken of, only excepting Midge, the Miller's son, had many a sore bump and bruise here and there on their bodies, they were still not so sore in the joints that they could not enjoy a jolly feast given all in welcome to the new members of the band. Thus with songs and jesting and laughter that echoed through the deeper and more silent nooks of the forest, the night passed quickly along, as such merry times are wont to do, until at last each man sought his couch and silence fell on all things and all things seemed to sleep. But Little John's tongue was ever one that was not easy of guidance, so that, inch by inch, the whole story of his fight with the Tanner and Robin's fight with Will Scarlet leaked out. And so I have told it that you may laugh at the merry tale along with me. Robin Hood and Allan a Dale IT HAS just been told how three unlucky adventures fell upon Robin Hood and Little John all in one day bringing them sore ribs and aching bones. So next we will tell how they made up for those ill happenings by a good action that came about not without some small pain to Robin. Two days had passed by, and somewhat of the soreness had passed away from Robin Hood's joints, yet still, when he moved of a sudden and without thinking, pain here and there would, as it were, jog him, crying, "Thou hast had a drubbing, good fellow." The day was bright and jocund, and the morning dew still lay upon the grass. Under the greenwood tree sat Robin Hood; on one side was Will Scarlet, lying at full length upon his back, gazing up into the clear sky, with hands clasped behind his head; upon the other side sat Little John, fashioning a cudgel out of a stout crab-tree limb; elsewhere upon the grass sat or lay many others of the band. "By the faith of my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I do bethink me that we have had no one to dine with us for this long time. Our money groweth low in the purse, for no one hath come to pay a reckoning for many a day. Now busk thee, good Stutely, and choose thee six men, and get thee gone to Fosse Way or thereabouts, and see that thou bringest someone to eat with us this evening. Meantime we will prepare a grand feast to do whosoever may come the greater honor. And stay, good Stutely. I would have thee take Will Scarlet with thee, for it is meet that he should become acquaint with the ways of the forest." "Now do I thank thee, good master," quoth Stutely, springing to his feet, "that thou hast chosen me for this adventure. Truly, my limbs do grow slack through abiding idly here. As for two of my six, I will choose Midge the Miller and Arthur a Bland, for, as well thou knowest, good master, they are stout fists at the quarterstaff. Is it not so, Little John?" At this all laughed but Little John and Robin, who twisted up his face. "I can speak for Midge," said he, "and likewise for my cousin Scarlet. This very blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors as a beggar's cloak." So, having chosen four more stout fellows, Will Stutely and his band set forth to Fosse Way, to find whether they might not come across some rich guest to feast that day in Sherwood with Robin and his band. For all the livelong day they abided near this highway. Each man had brought with him a good store of cold meat and a bottle of stout March beer to stay his stomach till the homecoming. So when high noontide had come they sat them down upon the soft grass, beneath a green and wide- spreading hawthorn bush, and held a hearty and jovial feast. After this, one kept watch while the others napped, for it was a still and sultry day. Thus they passed the time pleasantly enow, but no guest such as they desired showed his face in all the time that they lay hidden there. Many passed along the dusty road in the glare of the sun: now it was a bevy of chattering damsels merrily tripping along; now it was a plodding tinker; now a merry shepherd lad; now a sturdy farmer; all gazing ahead along the road, unconscious of the seven stout fellows that lay hidden so near them. Such were the travelers along the way; but fat abbot, rich esquire, or money-laden usurer came there none. At last the sun began to sink low in the heavens; the light grew red and the shadows long. The air grew full of silence, the birds twittered sleepily, and from afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the milkmaid calling the kine home to the milking. Then Stutely arose from where he was lying. "A plague of such ill luck!" quoth he. "Here have we abided all day, and no bird worth the shooting, so to speak, hath come within reach of our bolt. Had I gone forth on an innocent errand, I had met a dozen stout priests or a score of pursy money-lenders. But it is ever thus: the dun deer are never so scarce as when one has a gray goose feather nipped betwixt the fingers. Come, lads, let us pack up and home again, say I." Accordingly, the others arose, and, coming forth from out the thicket, they all turned their toes back again to Sherwood. After they had gone some distance, Will Stutely, who headed the party, suddenly stopped. "Hist!" quoth he, for his ears were as sharp as those of a five-year-old fox. "Hark, lads! Methinks I hear a sound." At this all stopped and listened with bated breath, albeit for a time they could hear nothing, their ears being duller than Stutely's. At length they heard a faint and melancholy sound, like someone in lamentation. "Ha!" quoth Will Scarlet, "this must be looked into. There is someone in distress nigh to us here." "I know not," quoth Will Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, "our master is ever rash about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but, for my part, I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils. Yon is a man's voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always ready to get himself out from his own pothers." Then out spake Will Scarlet boldly. "Now out upon thee, to talk in that manner, Stutely! Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the trouble of this poor creature." "Nay," quoth Stutely, "thou dost leap so quickly, thou'lt tumble into the ditch. Who said I would not go? Come along, say I." Thus saying, he led the way, the others following, till, after they had gone a short distance, they came to a little opening in the woodland, whence a brook, after gurgling out from under the tangle of overhanging bushes, spread out into a broad and glassy-pebbled pool. By the side of this pool, and beneath the branches of a willow, lay a youth upon his face, weeping aloud, the sound of which had first caught the quick ears of Stutely. His golden locks were tangled, his clothes were all awry, and everything about him betokened sorrow and woe. Over his head, from the branches of the osier, hung a beautiful harp of polished wood inlaid with gold and silver in fantastic devices. Beside him lay a stout ashen bow and half a score of fair, smooth arrows. "Halloa!" shouted Will Stutely, when they had come out from the forest into the little open spot. "Who art thou, fellow, that liest there killing all the green grass with salt water?" Hearing the voice, the stranger sprang to his feet and; snatching up his bow and fitting a shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill might befall him. "Truly," said one of the yeomen, when they had seen the young stranger's face, "I do know that lad right well. He is a certain minstrel that I have seen hereabouts more than once. It was only a week ago I saw him skipping across the hill like a yearling doe. A fine sight he was then, with a flower at his ear and a cock's plume stuck in his cap; but now, methinks, our cockerel is shorn of his gay feathers." "Pah!" cried Will Stutely, coming up to the stranger, "wipe thine eyes, man! I do hate to see a tall, stout fellow so sniveling like a girl of fourteen over a dead tomtit. Put down thy bow, man! We mean thee no harm." But Will Scarlet, seeing how the stranger, who had a young and boyish look, was stung by the words that Stutely had spoken, came to him and put his hand upon the youth's shoulder. "Nay, thou art in trouble, poor boy!" said he kindly. "Mind not what these fellows have said. They are rough, but they mean thee well. Mayhap they do not understand a lad like thee. Thou shalt come with us, and perchance we may find a certain one that can aid thee in thy perplexities, whatsoever they may be." "Yea, truly, come along," said Will Stutely gruffly. "I meant thee no harm, and may mean thee some good. Take down thy singing tool from off this fair tree, and away with us." The youth did as he was bidden and, with bowed head and sorrowful step, accompanied the others, walking beside Will Scarlet. So they wended their way through the forest. The bright light faded from the sky and a glimmering gray fell over all things. From the deeper recesses of the forest the strange whispering sounds of night-time came to the ear; all else was silent, saving only for the rattling of their footsteps amid the crisp, dry leaves of the last winter. At last a ruddy glow shone before them here and there through the trees; a little farther and they came to the open glade, now bathed in the pale moonlight. In the center of the open crackled a great fire, throwing a red glow on all around. At the fire were roasting juicy steaks of venison, pheasants, capons, and fresh fish from the river. All the air was filled with the sweet smell of good things cooking. The little band made its way across the glade, many yeomen turning with curious looks and gazing after them, but none speaking or questioning them. So, with Will Scarlet upon one side and Will Stutely upon the other, the stranger came to where Robin Hood sat on a seat of moss under the greenwood tree, with Little John standing beside him. "Good even, fair friend," said Robin Hood, rising as the other drew near. "And hast thou come to feast with me this day?" "Alas! I know not," said the lad, looking around him with dazed eyes, for he was bewildered with all that he saw. "Truly, I know not whether I be in a dream," said he to himself in a low voice. "Nay, marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art awake, as thou wilt presently find, for a fine feast is a-cooking for thee. Thou art our honored guest this day." Still the young stranger looked about him, as though in a dream. Presently he turned to Robin. "Methinks," said he, "I know now where I am and what hath befallen me. Art not thou the great Robin Hood?" "Thou hast hit the bull's eye," quoth Robin, clapping him upon the shoulder. "Men hereabouts do call me by that name. Sin' thou knowest me, thou knowest also that he who feasteth with me must pay his reckoning. I trust thou hast a full purse with thee, fair stranger." "Alas!" said the stranger, "I have no purse nor no money either, saving only the half of a sixpence, the other half of which mine own dear love doth carry in her bosom, hung about her neck by a strand of silken thread." At this speech a great shout of laughter went up from those around, whereat the poor boy looked as he would die of shame; but Robin Hood turned sharply to Will Stutely. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is this the guest that thou hast brought us to fill our purse? Methinks thou hast brought but a lean cock to the market." "Nay, good master," answered Will Stutely, grinning, "he is no guest of mine; it was Will Scarlet that brought him thither." Then up spoke Will Scarlet, and told how they had found the lad in sorrow, and how he had brought him to Robin, thinking that he might perchance aid him in his trouble. Then Robin Hood turned to the youth, and, placing his hand upon the other's shoulder, held him off at arm's length, scanning his face closely. "A young face," quoth he in a low voice, half to himself, "a kind face, a good face. 'Tis like a maiden's for purity, and, withal, the fairest that e'er mine eyes did see; but, if I may judge fairly by thy looks, grief cometh to young as well as to old." At these words, spoken so kindly, the poor lad's eyes brimmed up with tears. "Nay, nay," said Robin hastily, "cheer up, lad; I warrant thy case is not so bad that it cannot be mended. What may be thy name?" "Allen a Dale is my name, good master." "Allen a Dale," repeated Robin, musing. "Allen a Dale. It doth seem to me that the name is not altogether strange to mine ears. Yea, surely thou art the minstrel of whom we have been hearing lately, whose voice so charmeth all men. Dost thou not come from the Dale of Rotherstream, over beyond Stavely?" "Yea, truly," answered Allan, "I do come thence." "How old art thou, Allan?" said Robin. "I am but twenty years of age." "Methinks thou art overyoung to be perplexed with trouble," quoth Robin kindly; then, turning to the others, he cried, "Come, lads, busk ye and get our feast ready; only thou, Will Scarlet, and thou, Little John, stay here with me." Then, when the others had gone, each man about his business, Robin turned once more to the youth. "Now, lad," said he, "tell us thy troubles, and speak freely. A flow of words doth ever ease the heart of sorrows; it is like opening the waste weir when the mill dam is overfull. Come, sit thou here beside me, and speak at thine ease." Then straightway the youth told the three yeomen all that was in his heart; at first in broken words and phrases, then freely and with greater ease when he saw that all listened closely to what he said. So he told them how he had come from York to the sweet vale of Rother, traveling the country through as a minstrel, stopping now at castle, now at hall, and now at farmhouse; how he had spent one sweet evening in a certain broad, low farmhouse, where he sang before a stout franklin and a maiden as pure and lovely as the first snowdrop of spring; how he had played and sung to her, and how sweet Ellen o' the Dale had listened to him and had loved him. Then, in a low, sweet voice, scarcely louder than a whisper, he told how he had watched for her and met her now and then when she went abroad, but was all too afraid in her sweet presence to speak to her, until at last, beside the banks of Rother, he had spoken of his love, and she had whispered that which had made his heartstrings quiver for joy. Then they broke a sixpence between them, and vowed to be true to one another forever. Next he told how her father had discovered what was a-doing, and had taken her away from him so that he never saw her again, and his heart was sometimes like to break; how this morn, only one short month and a half from the time that he had seen her last, he had heard and knew it to be so, that she was to marry old Sir Stephen of Trent, two days hence, for Ellen's father thought it would be a grand thing to have his daughter marry so high, albeit she wished it not; nor was it wonder that a knight should wish to marry his own sweet love, who was the most beautiful maiden in all the world. To all this the yeomen listened in silence, the clatter of many voices, jesting and laughing, sounding around them, and the red light of the fire shining on their faces and in their eyes. So simple were the poor boy's words, and so deep his sorrow, that even Little John felt a certain knotty lump rise in his throat. "I wonder not," said Robin, after a moment's silence, "that thy true love loved thee, for thou hast surely a silver cross beneath thy tongue, even like good Saint Francis, that could charm the birds of the air by his speech." "By the breath of my body," burst forth Little John, seeking to cover his feelings with angry words, "I have a great part of a mind to go straightway and cudgel the nasty life out of the body of that same vile Sir Stephen. Marry, come up, say I--what a plague--does an old weazen think that tender lasses are to be bought like pullets o' a market day? Out upon him!--I--but no matter, only let him look to himself." Then up spoke Will Scarlet. "Methinks it seemeth but ill done of the lass that she should so quickly change at others' bidding, more especially when it cometh to the marrying of a man as old as this same Sir Stephen. I like it not in her, Allan." "Nay," said Allan hotly, "thou dost wrong her. She is as soft and gentle as a stockdove. I know her better than anyone in all the world. She may do her father's bidding, but if she marries Sir Stephen, her heart will break and she will die. My own sweet dear, I--" He stopped and shook his head, for he could say nothing further. While the others were speaking, Robin Hood had been sunk in thought. "Methinks I have a plan might fit thy case, Allan," said he. "But tell me first, thinkest thou, lad, that thy true love hath spirit enough to marry thee were ye together in church, the banns published, and the priest found, even were her father to say her nay?" "Ay, marry would she," cried Allan eagerly. "Then, if her father be the man that I take him to be, I will undertake that he shall give you both his blessing as wedded man and wife, in the place of old Sir Stephen, and upon his wedding morn. But stay, now I bethink me, there is one thing reckoned not upon--the priest. Truly, those of the cloth do not love me overmuch, and when it comes to doing as I desire in such a matter, they are as like as not to prove stiff- necked. As to the lesser clergy, they fear to do me a favor because of abbot or bishop. "Nay," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing, "so far as that goeth, I know of a certain friar that, couldst thou but get on the soft side of him, would do thy business even though Pope Joan herself stood forth to ban him. He is known as the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey, and dwelleth in Fountain Dale." "But," quoth Robin, "Fountain Abbey is a good hundred miles from here. An we would help this lad, we have no time to go thither and back before his true love will be married. Nought is to be gained there, coz." "Yea," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing again, "but this Fountain Abbey is not so far away as the one of which thou speakest, uncle. The Fountain Abbey of which I speak is no such rich and proud place as the other, but a simple little cell; yet, withal, as cosy a spot as ever stout anchorite dwelled within. I know the place well, and can guide thee thither, for, though it is a goodly distance, yet methinks a stout pair of legs could carry a man there and back in one day." "Then give me thy hand, Allan," cried Robin, "and let me tell thee, I swear by the bright hair of Saint AElfrida that this time two days hence Ellen a Dale shall be thy wife. I will seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey tomorrow day, and I warrant I will get upon the soft side of him, even if I have to drub one soft." At this Will Scarlet laughed again. "Be not too sure of that, good uncle," quoth he, "nevertheless, from what I know of him, I think this Curtal Friar will gladly join two such fair lovers, more especially if there be good eating and drinking afoot thereafter." But now one of the band came to say that the feast was spread upon the grass; so, Robin leading the way, the others followed to where the goodly feast was spread. Merry was the meal. Jest and story passed freely, and all laughed till the forest rang again. Allan laughed with the rest, for his cheeks were flushed with the hope that Robin Hood had given him. At last the feast was done, and Robin Hood turned to Allan, who sat beside him. "Now, Allan," quoth he, "so much has been said of thy singing that we would fain have a taste of thy skill ourselves. Canst thou not give us something?" "Surely," answered Allan readily; for he was no third-rate songster that must be asked again and again, but said "yes" or "no" at the first bidding; so, taking up his harp, he ran his fingers lightly over the sweetly sounding strings, and all was hushed about the cloth. Then, backing his voice with sweet music on his harp, he sang: MAY ELLEN'S WEDDING (Giving an account of how she was beloved by a fairy prince, who took her to his own home.) "_May Ellen sat beneath a thorn And in a shower around The blossoms fell at every breeze Like snow upon the ground, And in a lime tree near was heard The sweet song of a strange, wild bird. "O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet, O lingering sweet the strain! May Ellen's heart within her breast Stood still with blissful pain: And so, with listening, upturned face, She sat as dead in that fair place. "'Come down from out the blossoms, bird! Come down from out the tree, And on my heart I'll let thee lie, And love thee tenderly!' Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low, From where the hawthorn shed its snow. "Down dropped the bird on quivering wing, From out the blossoming tree, And nestled in her snowy breast. 'My love! my love!' cried she; Then straightway home, 'mid sun and flower, She bare him to her own sweet bower. "The day hath passed to mellow night, The moon floats o'er the lea, And in its solemn, pallid light A youth stands silently: A youth of beauty strange and rare, Within May Ellen's bower there. "He stood where o'er the pavement cold The glimmering moonbeams lay. May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes, Nor could she turn away, For, as in mystic dreams we see A spirit, stood he silently. "All in a low and breathless voice, 'Whence comest thou?' said she; 'Art thou the creature of a dream, Or a vision that I see?' Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver Through straining reeds beside the river. "'I came, a bird on feathered wing, From distant Faeryland Where murmuring waters softly sing Upon the golden strand, Where sweet trees are forever green; And there my mother is the queen.' . . . . . . . "No more May Ellen leaves her bower To grace the blossoms fair; But in the hushed and midnight hour They hear her talking there, Or, when the moon is shining white, They hear her singing through the night. "'Oh, don thy silks and jewels fine,' May Ellen's mother said, 'For hither comes the Lord of Lyne And thou this lord must wed.' May Ellen said, 'It may not be. He ne'er shall find his wife in me.' "Up spoke her brother, dark and grim: 'Now by the bright blue sky, E'er yet a day hath gone for him Thy wicked bird shall die! For he hath wrought thee bitter harm, By some strange art or cunning charm.' "Then, with a sad and mournful song, Away the bird did fly, And o'er the castle eaves, and through The gray and windy sky. 'Come forth!' then cried the brother grim, 'Why dost thou gaze so after him?' "It is May Ellen's wedding day, The sky is blue and fair, And many a lord and lady gay In church are gathered there. The bridegroom was Sir Hugh the Bold, All clad in silk and cloth of gold. "In came the bride in samite white With a white wreath on her head; Her eyes were fixed with a glassy look, Her face was as the dead, And when she stood among the throng, She sang a wild and wondrous song. "Then came a strange and rushing sound Like the coming wind doth bring, And in the open windows shot Nine swans on whistling wing, And high above the heads they flew, In gleaming fight the darkness through. "Around May Ellen's head they flew In wide and windy fight, And three times round the circle drew. The guests shrank in affright, And the priest beside the altar there, Did cross himself with muttered prayer. "But the third time they flew around, Fair Ellen straight was gone, And in her place, upon the ground, There stood a snow-white swan. Then, with a wild and lovely song, It joined the swift and winged throng. "There's ancient men at weddings been, For sixty years and more, But such a wondrous wedding day, They never saw before. But none could check and none could stay, The swans that bore the bride away_." Not a sound broke the stillness when Allan a Dale had done, but all sat gazing at the handsome singer, for so sweet was his voice and the music that each man sat with bated breath, lest one drop more should come and he should lose it. "By my faith and my troth," quoth Robin at last, drawing a deep breath, "lad, thou art--Thou must not leave our company, Allan! Wilt thou not stay with us here in the sweet green forest? Truly, I do feel my heart go out toward thee with great love." Then Allan took Robin's hand and kissed it. "I will stay with thee always, dear master," said he, "for never have I known such kindness as thou hast shown me this day." Then Will Scarlet stretched forth his hand and shook Allan's in token of fellowship, as did Little John likewise. And thus the famous Allan a Dale became one of Robin Hood's band. Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal Friar THE STOUT YEOMEN of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a morn, more especially when the summertime had come, for then in the freshness of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and the song of the small birds the sweetest. Quoth Robin, "Now will I go to seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey of whom we spake yesternight, and I will take with me four of my good men, and these four shall be Little John, Will Scarlet, David of Doncaster, and Arthur a Bland. Bide the rest of you here, and Will Stutely shall be your chief while I am gone." Then straightway Robin Hood donned a fine steel coat of chain mail, over which he put on a light jacket of Lincoln green. Upon his head he clapped a steel cap, and this he covered by one of soft white leather, in which stood a nodding cock's plume. By his side he hung a good broadsword of tempered steel, the bluish blade marked all over with strange figures of dragons, winged women, and what not. A gallant sight was Robin so arrayed, I wot, the glint of steel showing here and there as the sunlight caught brightly the links of polished mail that showed beneath his green coat. So, having arrayed himself, he and the four yeomen set forth upon their way, Will Scarlet taking the lead, for he knew better than the others whither to go. Thus, mile after mile, they strode along, now across a brawling stream, now along a sunlit road, now adown some sweet forest path, over which the trees met in green and rustling canopy, and at the end of which a herd of startled deer dashed away, with rattle of leaves and crackle of branches. Onward they walked with song and jest and laughter till noontide was passed, when at last they came to the banks of a wide, glassy, and lily-padded stream. Here a broad, beaten path stretched along beside the banks, on which path labored the horses that tugged at the slow-moving barges, laden with barley meal or what not, from the countryside to the many-towered town. But now, in the hot silence of the midday, no horse was seen nor any man besides themselves. Behind them and before them stretched the river, its placid bosom ruffled here and there by the purple dusk of a small breeze. "Now, good uncle," quoth Will Scarlet at last, when they had walked for a long time beside this sweet, bright river, "just beyond yon bend ahead of us is a shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh, and upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage hidden amidst the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth the Friar of Fountain Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know the way; albeit it is not overhard to find." "Nay," quoth jolly Robin, stopping suddenly, "had I thought that I should have had to wade water, even were it so crystal a stream as this, I had donned other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for after all a wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be, must. But bide ye here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry adventure alone. Nevertheless, listen well, and if ye hear me sound upon my bugle horn, come quickly." So saying, he turned and left them, striding onward alone. Robin had walked no farther than where the bend of the road hid his good men from his view, when he stopped suddenly, for he thought that he heard voices. He stood still and listened, and presently heard words passed back and forth betwixt what seemed to be two men, and yet the two voices were wondrously alike. The sound came from over behind the bank, that here was steep and high, dropping from the edge of the road a half a score of feet to the sedgy verge of the river. "'Tis strange," muttered Robin to himself after a space, when the voices had ceased their talking, "surely there be two people that spoke the one to the other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make my vow that never have I heard the like in all my life before. Truly, if this twain are to be judged by their voices, no two peas were ever more alike. I will look into this matter." So saying, he came softly to the river bank and laying him down upon the grass, peered over the edge and down below. All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in cool places, and up to Robin's nostrils came the tender odor of the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams. Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree, and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped, curly black hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one's hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a friar. His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e'en a match for those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him. "By my faith," quoth Robin to himself, "I do verily believe that this is the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it must have been this holy man talking to himself." So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he was so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and, having first wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and sweeter napkin ne'er had king in all the world), he took up his flask and began talking to himself as though he were another man, and answering himself as though he were somebody else. "Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee as a lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to me in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take a drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech thee, sweeten the draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from his right hand to his left). An thou wilt force it on me so, I must needs do thy bidding, yet with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very great health (here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad, 'tis thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand back again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here's wishing thee as much good as thou wishest me." Saying this, he took another draught, and truly he drank enough for two. All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm across his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would not have spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire. Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking again in this wise: "Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La, I know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost thou not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that can pipe so well and hath heard so many goodly songs and ballads, ne'ertheless, an thou wilt have it so, I will do my best. But now methinks that thou and I might sing some fair song together; dost thou not know a certain dainty little catch called 'The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid'? Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost thou not think that thou couldst take the lass's part if I take the lad's? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I will follow with the lass." Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high and squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCORNFUL MAID _HE "Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love? And it's wilt thou, love, he mine? For I will give unto thee, my love, Gay knots and ribbons so fine. I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee, And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee. Then it's hark! hark! hark! To the winged lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, So come thou and be my love. SHE "Now get thee away, young man so fine; Now get thee away, I say; For my true love shall never be thine, And so thou hadst better not stay. Thou art not a fine enough lad for me, So I'll wait till a better young man I see. For it's hark! hark! hark! To the winged lark, And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, Yet never I'll be thy love. HE "Then straight will I seek for another fair she, For many a maid can be found, And as thou wilt never have aught of me, By thee will I never be bound. For never is a blossom in the field so rare, But others are found that are just as fair. So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, And I'll seek me another dear love. SHE "Young man, turn not so very quick away Another fair lass to find. Methinks I have spoken in haste today, Nor have I made up my mind_, _And if thou only wilt stay with me, I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee_." Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed: "_So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! For the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill And I'll be thine own true love_." So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined in with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music, he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have we here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday." Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout as was Robin's. "Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so sweetly together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down the bank to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October. Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?" "Truly," said the Friar in a glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse any man drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art welcome to a drink of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin. Robin took it without more ado and putting it to his lips, tilted his head back, while that which was within said "glug! lug! glug!" for more than three winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the while, and when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman, and straightway placed it at his own lips. When it came away again there was nought within it. "Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked Robin, laughing. "Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly. "And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?" "Yea, somewhat." "Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey." "Yea, somewhat." "Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth Robin, "I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the river or the other." "That," quoth the Friar, "is a practical question upon which the cunning rules appertaining to logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out by the aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not." "I do wish much," quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest, "to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar." "Truly," said the other piously, "it is a goodly wish on the part of one so young. Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend, the river is free to all." "Yea, good father," said Robin, "but thou seest that my clothes are of the finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me across?" "Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!" burst forth the Friar in a mighty rage, "dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou kiss-my-lady-la poppenjay; thou--thou What shall I call thee? Dost thou ask me, the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear--" Here he paused suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little eyes twinkled once more. "But why should I not?" quoth he piously. "Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the river? And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise? Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin, and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself. Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt get thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine own." "Nay, good father," said Robin, "I would not burden thee with aught of mine but myself." "Dost thou think," said the Friar mildly, "that the good Saint Christopher would ha' sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as I bid thee, for I would carry it as a penance to my pride." Upon this, without more ado, Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his side and handed it to the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his arm. Then once more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted upon it, he stepped sturdily into the water and so strode onward, splashing in the shoal, and breaking all the smooth surface into ever- widening rings. At last he reached the other side and Robin leaped lightly from his back. "Many thanks, good father," quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste." At this the stout Friar looked upon Robin for a long time, his head on one side, and with a most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly winked his right eye. "Nay, good youth," said he gently, "I doubt not that thou art in haste with thine affairs, yet thou dost think nothing of mine. Thine are of a carnal nature; mine are of a spiritual nature, a holy work, so to speak; moreover, mine affairs do lie upon the other side of this stream. I see by thy quest of this same holy recluse that thou art a good young man and most reverent to the cloth. I did get wet coming hither, and am sadly afraid that should I wade the water again I might get certain cricks and pains i' the joints that would mar my devotions for many a day to come. I know that since I have so humbly done thy bidding thou wilt carry me back again. Thou seest how Saint Godrick, that holy hermit whose natal day this is, hath placed in my hands two swords and in thine never a one. Therefore be persuaded, good youth, and carry me back again." Robin Hood looked up and he looked down, biting his nether lip. Quoth he, "Thou cunning Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow. Let me tell thee that not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me in all my life before. I might have known from thy looks that thou wert no such holy man as thou didst pretend to be." "Nay," interrupted the Friar, "I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither, lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel." "Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the right to use his tongue as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee." "Marry, come up," quoth the Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back." So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side; then he bent his stout back and took the Friar upon it. Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar than the Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford, so he went stumbling among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now nearly tripping over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his face in beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his load. Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin's sides and bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the while. To all this Robin answered never a word, but, having softly felt around till he found the buckle of the belt that held the Friar's sword, he worked slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them. Thus it came about that, by the time he had reached the other bank with his load, the Friar's sword belt was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin stood on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped hold of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the holy man, leaving him without a weapon. "Now then," quoth merry Robin, panting as he spake and wiping the sweat from his brow, "I have thee, fellow. This time that same saint of whom thou didst speak but now hath delivered two swords into my hand and hath stripped thine away from thee. Now if thou dost not carry me back, and that speedily, I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full of holes as a slashed doublet." The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked at Robin with a grim look. "Now," said he at last, "I did think that thy wits were of the heavy sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against thee save in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy bidding and take thee upon my back and carry thee." So jolly Robin gave him his sword again, which the Friar buckled to his side, and this time looked to it that it was more secure in its fastenings; then tucking up his robes once more, he took Robin Hood upon his back and without a word stepped into the water, and so waded on in silence while Robin sat laughing upon his back. At last he reached the middle of the ford where the water was deepest. Here he stopped for a moment, and then, with a sudden lift of his hand and heave of his shoulders, fairly shot Robin over his head as though he were a sack of grain. Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash. "There," quoth the holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore, "let that cool thy hot spirit, if it may." Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood gazing about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little rills. At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of his mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the stout Friar standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin Hood a mad man. "Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am after thee straight, and if I do not carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never lift finger again!" So saying, he dashed, splashing, to the bank. "Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear not; I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry 'Alack-a-day' ere long time is gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer." And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado, to roll up his sleeves above his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more about him, showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out like humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of before, that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown. "Look to thyself," cried Robin, drawing his good sword. "Ay, marry," quoth the Friar, who held his already in his hand. So, without more ado, they came together, and thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle. Right and left, and up and down and back and forth they fought. The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash that sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout at quarterstaff, but a grim and serious fight of real earnest. Thus they strove for an hour or more, pausing every now and then to rest, at which times each looked at the other with wonder, and thought that never had he seen so stout a fellow; then once again they would go at it more fiercely than ever. Yet in all this time neither had harmed the other nor caused his blood to flow. At last merry Robin cried, "Hold thy hand, good friend!" whereupon both lowered their swords. "Now I crave a boon ere we begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that it would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so stout and brave a fellow. "What wouldst thou have of me?" asked the Friar. "Only this," quoth Robin; "that thou wilt let me blow thrice upon my bugle horn." The Friar bent his brows and looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. "Now I do verily think that thou hast some cunning trick in this," quoth he. "Ne'ertheless, I fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish, providing thou wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle." "With all my heart," quoth Robin, "so, here goes for one." So saying, he raised his silver horn to his lips and blew thrice upon it, clear and high. Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come to pass, holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as knights use for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle always hung at his girdle along with his rosary. Scarcely had the echo of the last note of Robin's bugle come winding back from across the river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came running around the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an arrow ready nocked upon the string. "Ha! Is it thus, thou traitor knave!" cried the Friar. "Then, marry, look to thyself!" So saying, he straightway clapped the hawk's whistle to his lips and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now there came a crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the road, and presently forth from the covert burst four great, shaggy hounds. "At 'em, Sweet Lips! At 'em, Bell Throat! At 'em, Beauty! At 'em, Fangs!" cried the Friar, pointing at Robin. And now it was well for that yeoman that a tree stood nigh him beside the road, else had he had an ill chance of it. Ere one could say "Gaffer Downthedale" the hounds were upon him, and he had only time to drop his sword and leap lightly into the tree, around which the hounds gathered, looking up at him as though he were a cat on the eaves. But the Friar quickly called off his dogs. "At 'em!" cried he, pointing down the road to where the yeomen were standing stock still with wonder of what they saw. As the hawk darts down upon its quarry, so sped the four dogs at the yeomen; but when the four men saw the hounds so coming, all with one accord, saving only Will Scarlet, drew each man his goose feather to his ear and let fly his shaft. And now the old ballad telleth of a wondrous thing that happened, for thus it says, that each dog so shot at leaped lightly aside, and as the arrow passed him whistling, caught it in his mouth and bit it in twain. Now it would have been an ill day for these four good fellows had not Will Scarlet stepped before the others and met the hounds as they came rushing. "Why, how now, Fangs!" cried he sternly. "Down, Beauty! Down, sirrah! What means this?" At the sound of his voice each dog shrank back quickly and then straightway came to him and licked his hands and fawned upon him, as is the wont of dogs that meet one they know. Then the four yeomen came forward, the hounds leaping around Will Scarlet joyously. "Why, how now!" cried the stout Friar, "what means this? Art thou wizard to turn those wolves into lambs? Ha!" cried he, when they had come still nearer, "can I trust mine eyes? What means it that I see young Master William Gamwell in such company?" "Nay, Tuck," said the young man, as the four came forward to where Robin was now clambering down from the tree in which he had been roosting, he having seen that all danger was over for the time; "nay, Tuck, my name is no longer Will Gamwell, but Will Scarlet; and this is my good uncle, Robin Hood, with whom I am abiding just now." "Truly, good master," said the Friar, looking somewhat abashed and reaching out his great palm to Robin, "I ha' oft heard thy name both sung and spoken of, but I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave thy forgiveness, and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against me." "Truly, most holy father," said Little John, "I am more thankful than e'er I was in all my life before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee and thy dogs. I tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away from me when I saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of thine coming straight at me." "Thou mayst indeed be thankful, friend," said the Friar gravely. "But, Master Will, how cometh it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?" "Why, Tuck, dost thou not know of my ill happening with my father's steward?" answered Scarlet. "Yea, truly, yet I knew not that thou wert in hiding because of it. Marry, the times are all awry when a gentleman must lie hidden for so small a thing." "But we are losing time," quoth Robin, "and I have yet to find that same Curtal Friar." "Why, uncle, thou hast not far to go," said Will Scarlet, pointing to the Friar, "for there he stands beside thee." "How?" quoth Robin, "art thou the man that I have been at such pains to seek all day, and have got such a ducking for?" "Why, truly," said the Friar demurely, "some do call me the Curtal Friar of Fountain Dale; others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain Abbey; others still again call me simple Friar Tuck." "I like the last name best," quoth Robin, "for it doth slip more glibly off the tongue. But why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought, instead of sending me searching for black moonbeams?" "Why, truly, thou didst not ask me, good master," quoth stout Tuck; "but what didst thou desire of me?" "Nay," quoth Robin, "the day groweth late, and we cannot stand longer talking here. Come back with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to thee as we travel along." So, without tarrying longer, they all departed, with the stout dogs at their heels, and wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was long past nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree. Now listen, for next I will tell how Robin Hood compassed the happiness of two young lovers, aided by the merry Friar Tuck of Fountain Dale. Robin Hood Compasses a Marriage AND NOW had come the morning when fair Ellen was to be married, and on which merry Robin had sworn that Allan a Dale should, as it were, eat out of the platter that had been filled for Sir Stephen of Trent. Up rose Robin Hood, blithe and gay, up rose his merry men one and all, and up rose last of all stout Friar Tuck, winking the smart of sleep from out his eyes. Then, while the air seemed to brim over with the song of many birds, all blended together and all joying in the misty morn, each man raved face and hands in the leaping brook, and so the day began. "Now," quoth Robin, when they had broken their fast, and each man had eaten his fill, "it is time for us to set forth upon the undertaking that we have in hand for today. I will choose me one score of my good men to go with me, for I may need aid; and thou, Will Scarlet, wilt abide here and be the chief while I am gone." Then searching through all the band, each man of whom crowded forward eager to be chosen, Robin called such as he wished by name, until he had a score of stout fellows, the very flower of his yeomanrie. Besides Little John and Will Stutely were nigh all those famous lads of whom I have already told you. Then, while those so chosen ran leaping, full of joy, to arm themselves with bow and shaft and broadsword, Robin Hood stepped aside into the covert, and there donned a gay, beribboned coat such as might have been worn by some strolling minstrel, and slung a harp across his shoulder, the better to carry out that part. All the band stared and many laughed, for never had they seen their master in such a fantastic guise before. "Truly," quoth Robin, holding up his arms and looking down at himself, "I do think it be somewhat of a gay, gaudy, grasshopper dress; but it is a pretty thing for all that, and doth not ill befit the turn of my looks, albeit I wear it but for the nonce. But stay, Little John, here are two bags that I would have thee carry in thy pouch for the sake of safekeeping. I can ill care for them myself beneath this motley." "Why, master," quoth Little John, taking the bags and weighing them in his hand, "here is the chink of gold." "Well, what an there be," said Robin, "it is mine own coin and the band is none the worse for what is there. Come, busk ye, lads," and he turned quickly away. "Get ye ready straightway." Then gathering the score together in a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar Tuck, he led them forth upon their way from the forest shades. So they walked on for a long time till they had come out of Sherwood and to the vale of Rotherstream. Here were different sights from what one saw in the forest; hedgerows, broad fields of barley corn, pasture lands rolling upward till they met the sky and all dotted over with flocks of white sheep, hayfields whence came the odor of new-mown hay that lay in smooth swathes over which skimmed the swifts in rapid flight; such they saw, and different was it, I wot, from the tangled depths of the sweet woodlands, but full as fair. Thus Robin led his band, walking blithely with chest thrown out and head thrown back, snuffing the odors of the gentle breeze that came drifting from over the hayfields. "Truly," quoth he, "the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland shades. Who calls it a vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness in our minds that bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that merry song thou singest, Little John? Is it not thus? "_For when my love's eyes do thine, do thine, And when her lips smile so rare, The day it is jocund and fine, so fine, Though let it be wet or be fair And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast, Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past_." "Nay," said Friar Tuck piously, "ye do think of profane things and of nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards against care and woe than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation. Look upon me, have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?" At this a great shout of laughter went up from all around, for the night before the stout Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any one of all the merry men. "Truly," quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, "I should say that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness." So they stepped along, talking, singing, jesting, and laughing, until they had come to a certain little church that belonged to the great estates owned by the rich Priory of Emmet. Here it was that fair Ellen was to be married on that morn, and here was the spot toward which the yeomen had pointed their toes. On the other side of the road from where the church stood with waving fields of barley around, ran a stone wall along the roadside. Over the wall from the highway was a fringe of young trees and bushes, and here and there the wall itself was covered by a mass of blossoming woodbine that filled all the warm air far and near with its sweet summer odor. Then straightway the yeomen leaped over the wall, alighting on the tall soft grass upon the other side, frightening a flock of sheep that lay there in the shade so that they scampered away in all directions. Here was a sweet cool shadow both from the wall and from the fair young trees and bushes, and here sat the yeomen down, and glad enough they were to rest after their long tramp of the morning. "Now," quoth Robin, "I would have one of you watch and tell me when he sees anyone coming to the church, and the one I choose shall be young David of Doncaster. So get thee upon the wall, David, and hide beneath the woodbine so as to keep watch." Accordingly young David did as he was bidden, the others stretching themselves at length upon the grass, some talking together and others sleeping. Then all was quiet save only for the low voices of those that talked together, and for Allan's restless footsteps pacing up and down, for his soul was so full of disturbance that he could not stand still, and saving, also, for the mellow snoring of Friar Tuck, who enjoyed his sleep with a noise as of one sawing soft wood very slowly. Robin lay upon his back and gazed aloft into the leaves of the trees, his thought leagues away, and so a long time passed. Then up spoke Robin, "Now tell us, young David of Doncaster, what dost thou see?" Then David answered, "I see the white clouds floating and I feel the wind a-blowing and three black crows are flying over the wold; but nought else do I see, good master." So silence fell again and another time passed, broken only as I have said, till Robin, growing impatient, spake again. "Now tell me, young David, what dost thou see by this?" And David answered, "I see the windmills swinging and three tall poplar trees swaying against the sky, and a flock of fieldfares are flying over the hill; but nought else do I see, good master." So another time passed, till at last Robin asked young David once more what he saw; and David said, "I hear the cuckoo singing, and I see how the wind makes waves in the barley field; and now over the hill to the church cometh an old friar, and in his hands he carries a great bunch of keys; and lo! Now he cometh to the church door." Then up rose Robin Hood and shook Friar Tuck by the shoulder. "Come, rouse thee, holy man!" cried he; whereupon, with much grunting, the stout Tuck got to his feet. "Marry, bestir thyself," quoth Robin, "for yonder, in the church door, is one of thy cloth. Go thou and talk to him, and so get thyself into the church, that thou mayst be there when thou art wanted; meantime, Little John, Will Stutely, and I will follow thee anon." So Friar Tuck clambered over the wall, crossed the road, and came to the church, where the old friar was still laboring with the great key, the lock being somewhat rusty and he somewhat old and feeble. "Hilloa, brother," quoth Tuck, "let me aid thee." So saying, he took the key from the other's hand and quickly opened the door with a turn of it. "Who art thou, good brother?" asked the old friar, in a high, wheezing voice. "Whence comest thou, and whither art thou going?" And he winked and blinked at stout Friar Tuck like an owl at the sun. "Thus do I answer thy questions, brother," said the other. "My name is Tuck, and I go no farther than this spot, if thou wilt haply but let me stay while this same wedding is going forward. I come from Fountain Dale and, in truth, am a certain poor hermit, as one may say, for I live in a cell beside the fountain blessed by that holy Saint Ethelrada. But, if I understand aught, there is to be a gay wedding here today; so, if thou mindest not, I would fain rest me in the cool shade within, for I would like to see this fine sight." "Truly, thou art welcome, brother," said the old man, leading the way within. Meantime, Robin Hood, in his guise of harper, together with Little John and Will Stutely, had come to the church. Robin sat him down on a bench beside the door, but Little John, carrying the two bags of gold, went within, as did Will Stutely. So Robin sat by the door, looking up the road and down the road to see who might come, till, after a time, he saw six horsemen come riding sedately and slowly, as became them, for they were churchmen in high orders. Then, when they had come nearer, Robin saw who they were, and knew them. The first was the Bishop of Hereford, and a fine figure he cut, I wot. His vestments were of the richest silk, and around his neck was a fair chain of beaten gold. The cap that hid his tonsure was of black velvet, and around the edges of it were rows of jewels that flashed in the sunlight, each stone being set in gold. His hose were of flame-colored silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the long, pointed toes being turned up and fastened to his knees, and on either instep was embroidered a cross in gold thread. Beside the Bishop rode the Prior of Emmet upon a mincing palfrey. Rich were his clothes also, but not so gay as the stout Bishop's. Behind these were two of the higher brethren of Emmet, and behind these again two retainers belonging to the Bishop; for the Lord Bishop of Hereford strove to be as like the great barons as was in the power of one in holy orders. When Robin saw this train drawing near, with flash of jewels and silk and jingle of silver bells on the trappings of the nags, he looked sourly upon them. Quoth he to himself, "Yon Bishop is overgaudy for a holy man. I do wonder whether his patron, who, methinks, was Saint Thomas, was given to wearing golden chains about his neck, silk clothing upon his body, and pointed shoes upon his feet; the money for all of which, God wot, hath been wrung from the sweat of poor tenants. Bishop, Bishop, thy pride may have a fall ere thou wottest of it." So the holy men came to the church; the Bishop and the Prior jesting and laughing between themselves about certain fair dames, their words more befitting the lips of laymen, methinks, than holy clerks. Then they dismounted, and the Bishop, looking around, presently caught sight of Robin standing in the doorway. "Hilloa, good fellow," quoth he in a jovial voice, "who art thou that struttest in such gay feathers?" "A harper am I from the north country," quoth Robin, "and I can touch the strings, I wot, as never another man in all merry England can do. Truly, good Lord Bishop, many a knight and burgher, clerk and layman, have danced to my music, willy-nilly, and most times greatly against their will; such is the magic of my harping. Now this day, my Lord Bishop, if I may play at this wedding, I do promise that I will cause the fair bride to love the man she marries with a love that shall last as long as that twain shall live together." "Ha! is it so?" cried the Bishop. "Meanest thou this in sooth?" And he looked keenly at Robin, who gazed boldly back again into his eyes. "Now, if thou wilt cause this maiden (who hath verily bewitched my poor cousin Stephen) thus to love the man she is to marry, as thou sayst thou canst, I will give thee whatsoever thou wilt ask me in due measure. Let me have a taste of thy skill, fellow." "Nay," quoth Robin, "my music cometh not without I choose, even at a lord bishop's bidding. In sooth, I will not play until the bride and bridegroom come." "Now, thou art a saucy varlet to speak so to my crest," quoth the Bishop, frowning on Robin. "Yet, I must needs bear with thee. Look, Prior, hither cometh our cousin Sir Stephen, and his ladylove." And now, around the bend of the highroad, came others, riding upon horses. The first of all was a tall, thin man, of knightly bearing, dressed all in black silk, with a black velvet cap upon his head, turned up with scarlet. Robin looked, and had no doubt that this was Sir Stephen, both because of his knightly carriage and of his gray hairs. Beside him rode a stout Saxon franklin, Ellen's father, Edward of Deirwold; behind those two came a litter borne by two horses, and therein was a maiden whom Robin knew must be Ellen. Behind this litter rode six men-at-arms, the sunlight flashing on their steel caps as they came jingling up the dusty road. So these also came to the church, and there Sir Stephen leaped from his horse and, coming to the litter, handed fair Ellen out therefrom. Then Robin Hood looked at her, and could wonder no longer how it came about that so proud a knight as Sir Stephen of Trent wished to marry a common franklin's daughter; nor did he wonder that no ado was made about the matter, for she was the fairest maiden that ever he had beheld. Now, however, she was all pale and drooping, like a fair white lily snapped at the stem; and so, with bent head and sorrowful look, she went within the church, Sir Stephen leading her by the hand. "Why dost thou not play, fellow?" quoth the Bishop, looking sternly at Robin. "Marry," said Robin calmly, "I will play in greater wise than Your Lordship thinks, but not till the right time hath come." Said the Bishop to himself, while he looked grimly at Robin, "When this wedding is gone by I will have this fellow well whipped for his saucy tongue and bold speech." And now fair Ellen and Sir Stephen stood before the altar, and the Bishop himself came in his robes and opened his book, whereat fair Ellen looked up and about her in bitter despair, like the fawn that finds the hounds on her haunch. Then, in all his fluttering tags and ribbons of red and yellow, Robin Hood strode forward. Three steps he took from the pillar whereby he leaned, and stood between the bride and bridegroom. "Let me look upon this lass," he said in a loud voice. "Why, how now! What have we here? Here be lilies in the cheeks, and not roses such as befit a bonny bride. This is no fit wedding. Thou, Sir Knight, so old, and she so young, and thou thinkest to make her thy wife? I tell thee it may not be, for thou art not her own true love." At this all stood amazed, and knew not where to look nor what to think or say, for they were all bewildered with the happening; so, while everyone looked at Robin as though they had been changed to stone, he clapped his bugle horn to his lips and blew three blasts so loud and clear, they echoed from floor to rafter as though they were sounded by the trump of doom. Then straightway Little John and Will Stutely came leaping and stood upon either side of Robin Hood, and quickly drew their broadswords, the while a mighty voice rolled over the heads of all, "Here be I, good master, when thou wantest me"; for it was Friar Tuck that so called from the organ loft. And now all was hubbub and noise. Stout Edward strode forward raging, and would have seized his daughter to drag her away, but Little John stepped between and thrust him back. "Stand back, old man," said he, "thou art a hobbled horse this day." "Down with the villains!" cried Sir Stephen, and felt for his sword, but it hung not beside him on his wedding day. Then the men-at-arms drew their swords, and it seemed like that blood would wet the stones; but suddenly came a bustle at the door and loud voices, steel flashed in the light, and the crash of blows sounded. The men-at-arms fell back, and up the aisle came leaping eighteen stout yeomen all clad in Lincoln green, with Allan a Dale at their head. In his hand he bore Robin Hood's good stout trusty bow of yew, and this he gave to him, kneeling the while upon one knee. Then up spake Edward of Deirwold in a deep voice of anger, "Is it thou, Allan a Dale, that hath bred all this coil in a church?" "Nay," quoth merry Robin, "that have I done, and I care not who knoweth it, for my name is Robin Hood." At this name a sudden silence fell. The Prior of Emmet and those that belonged to him gathered together like a flock of frightened sheep when the scent of the wolf is nigh, while the Bishop of Hereford, laying aside his book, crossed himself devoutly. "Now Heaven keep us this day," said he, "from that evil man!" "Nay," quoth Robin, "I mean you no harm; but here is fair Ellen's betrothed husband, and she shall marry him or pain will be bred to some of you." Then up spake stout Edward in a loud and angry voice, "Now I say nay! I am her father, and she shall marry Sir Stephen and none other." Now all this time, while everything was in turmoil about him, Sir Stephen had been standing in proud and scornful silence. "Nay, fellow," said he coldly, "thou mayst take thy daughter back again; I would not marry her after this day's doings could I gain all merry England thereby. I tell thee plainly, I loved thy daughter, old as I am, and would have taken her up like a jewel from the sty, yet, truly, I knew not that she did love this fellow, and was beloved by him. Maiden, if thou dost rather choose a beggarly minstrel than a high-born knight, take thy choice. I do feel it shame that I should thus stand talking amid this herd, and so I will leave you." Thus saying, he turned and, gathering his men about him, walked proudly down the aisle. Then all the yeomen were silenced by the scorn of his words. Only Friar Tuck leaned over the edge of the choir loft and called out to him ere he had gone, "Good den, Sir Knight. Thou wottest old bones must alway make room for young blood." Sir Stephen neither answered nor looked up, but passed out from the church as though he had heard nought, his men following him. Then the Bishop of Hereford spoke hastily, "I, too, have no business here, and so will depart." And he made as though he would go. But Robin Hood laid hold of his clothes and held him. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," said he, "I have yet somewhat to say to thee." The Bishop's face fell, but he stayed as Robin bade him, for he saw he could not go. Then Robin Hood turned to stout Edward of Deirwold, and said he, "Give thy blessing on thy daughter's marriage to this yeoman, and all will be well. Little John, give me the bags of gold. Look, farmer. Here are two hundred bright golden angels; give thy blessing, as I say, and I will count them out to thee as thy daughter's dower. Give not thy blessing, and she shall be married all the same, but not so much as a cracked farthing shall cross thy palm. Choose." Then Edward looked upon the ground with bent brows, turning the matter over and over in his mind; but he was a shrewd man and one, withal, that made the best use of a cracked pipkin; so at last he looked up and said, but in no joyous tone, "If the wench will go her own gait, let her go. I had thought to make a lady of her; yet if she chooses to be what she is like to be, I have nought to do with her henceforth. Ne'ertheless I will give her my blessing when she is duly wedded." "It may not be," spake up one of those of Emmet. "The banns have not been duly published, neither is there any priest here to marry them." "How sayst thou?" roared Tuck from the choir loft. "No priest? Marry, here stands as holy a man as thou art, any day of the week, a clerk in orders, I would have thee know. As for the question of banns, stumble not over that straw, brother, for I will publish them." So saying, he called the banns; and, says the old ballad, lest three times should not be enough, he published them nine times o'er. Then straightway he came down from the loft and forthwith performed the marriage service; and so Allan and Ellen were duly wedded. And now Robin counted out two hundred golden angels to Edward of Deirwold, and he, upon his part, gave his blessing, yet not, I wot, as though he meant it with overmuch good will. Then the stout yeomen crowded around and grasped Allan's palm, and he, holding Ellen's hand within his own, looked about him all dizzy with his happiness. Then at last jolly Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford, who had been looking on at all that passed with a grim look. "My Lord Bishop," quoth he, "thou mayst bring to thy mind that thou didst promise me that did I play in such wise as to cause this fair lass to love her husband, thou wouldst give me whatsoever I asked in reason. I have played my play, and she loveth her husband, which she would not have done but for me; so now fulfill thy promise. Thou hast upon thee that which, methinks, thou wouldst be the better without; therefore, I prythee, give me that golden chain that hangeth about thy neck as a wedding present for this fair bride." Then the Bishop's cheeks grew red with rage and his eyes flashed. He looked at Robin with a fell look, but saw that in the yeoman's face which bade him pause. Then slowly he took the chain from about his neck and handed it to Robin, who flung it over Ellen's head so that it hung glittering about her shoulders. Then said merry Robin, "I thank thee, on the bride's part, for thy handsome gift, and truly thou thyself art more seemly without it. Now, shouldst thou ever come nigh to Sherwood I much hope that I shall give thee there such a feast as thou hast ne'er had in all thy life before." "May Heaven forfend!" cried the Bishop earnestly; for he knew right well what manner of feast it was that Robin Hood gave his guests in Sherwood Forest. But now Robin Hood gathered his men together, and, with Allan and his young bride in their midst, they all turned their footsteps toward the woodlands. On the way thither Friar Tuck came close to Robin and plucked him by the sleeve. "Thou dost lead a merry life, good master," quoth he, "but dost thou not think that it would be for the welfare of all your souls to have a good stout chaplain, such as I, to oversee holy matters? Truly, I do love this life mightily." At this merry Robin Hood laughed amain, and bade him stay and become one of their band if he wished. That night there was such a feast held in the greenwood as Nottinghamshire never saw before. To that feast you and I were not bidden, and pity it is that we were not; so, lest we should both feel the matter the more keenly, I will say no more about it. Robin Hood Aids a Sorrowful Knight SO PASSED the gentle springtime away in budding beauty; its silver showers and sunshine, its green meadows and its flowers. So, likewise, passed the summer with its yellow sunlight, its quivering heat and deep, bosky foliage, its long twilights and its mellow nights, through which the frogs croaked and fairy folk were said to be out on the hillsides. All this had passed and the time of fall had come, bringing with it its own pleasures and joyousness; for now, when the harvest was gathered home, merry bands of gleaners roamed the country about, singing along the roads in the daytime, and sleeping beneath the hedgerows and the hay-ricks at night. Now the hips burned red in the tangled thickets and the hews waxed black in the hedgerows, the stubble lay all crisp and naked to the sky, and the green leaves were fast turning russet and brown. Also, at this merry season, good things of the year are gathered in in great store. Brown ale lies ripening in the cellar, hams and bacon hang in the smoke-shed, and crabs are stowed away in the straw for roasting in the wintertime, when the north wind piles the snow in drifts around the gables and the fire crackles warm upon the hearth. So passed the seasons then, so they pass now, and so they will pass in time to come, while we come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are soon forgotten. Quoth Robin Hood, snuffing the air, "Here is a fair day, Little John, and one that we can ill waste in idleness. Choose such men as thou dost need, and go thou east while I will wend to the west, and see that each of us bringeth back some goodly guest to dine this day beneath the greenwood tree." "Marry," cried Little John, clapping his palms together for joy, "thy bidding fitteth my liking like heft to blade. I'll bring thee back a guest this day, or come not back mine own self." Then they each chose such of the band as they wished, and so went forth by different paths from the forest. Now, you and I cannot go two ways at the same time while we join in these merry doings; so we will e'en let Little John follow his own path while we tuck up our skirts and trudge after Robin Hood. And here is good company, too; Robin Hood, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, Will Scathelock, Midge, the Miller's son, and others. A score or more of stout fellows had abided in the forest, with Friar Tuck, to make ready for the homecoming, but all the rest were gone either with Robin Hood or Little John. They traveled onward, Robin following his fancy and the others following Robin. Now they wended their way through an open dale with cottage and farm lying therein, and now again they entered woodlands once more. Passing by fair Mansfield Town, with its towers and battlements and spires all smiling in the sun, they came at last out of the forest lands. Onward they journeyed, through highway and byway, through villages where goodwives and merry lasses peeped through the casements at the fine show of young men, until at last they came over beyond Alverton in Derbyshire. By this time high noontide had come, yet they had met no guest such as was worth their while to take back to Sherwood; so, coming at last to a certain spot where a shrine stood at the crossing of two roads, Robin called upon them to stop, for here on either side was shelter of high hedgerows, behind which was good hiding, whence they could watch the roads at their ease, while they ate their midday meal. Quoth merry Robin, "Here, methinks, is good lodging, where peaceful folk, such as we be, can eat in quietness; therefore we will rest here, and see what may, perchance, fall into our luck-pot." So they crossed a stile and came behind a hedgerow where the mellow sunlight was bright and warm, and where the grass was soft, and there sat them down. Then each man drew from the pouch that hung beside him that which he had brought to eat, for a merry walk such as this had been sharpens the appetite till it is as keen as a March wind. So no more words were spoken, but each man saved his teeth for better use--munching at brown crust and cold meat right lustily. In front of them, one of the highroads crawled up the steep hill and then dipped suddenly over its crest, sharp-cut with hedgerow and shaggy grass against the sky. Over the top of the windy hill peeped the eaves of a few houses of the village that fell back into the valley behind; there, also, showed the top of a windmill, the sails slowly rising and dipping from behind the hill against the clear blue sky, as the light wind moved them with creaking and labored swing. So the yeomen lay behind the hedge and finished their midday meal; but still the time slipped along and no one came. At last, a man came slowly riding over the hill and down the stony road toward the spot where Robin and his band lay hidden. He was a good stout knight, but sorrowful of face and downcast of mien. His clothes were plain and rich, but no chain of gold, such as folk of his stand in life wore at most times, hung around his neck, and no jewel was about him; yet no one could mistake him for aught but one of proud and noble blood. His head was bowed upon his breast and his hands drooped limp on either side; and so he came slowly riding, as though sunk in sad thoughts, while even his good horse, the reins loose upon his neck, walked with hanging head, as though he shared his master's grief. Quoth Robin Hood, "Yon is verily a sorry-looking gallant, and doth seem to have donned ill-content with his jerkin this morning; nevertheless, I will out and talk with him, for there may be some pickings here for a hungry daw. Methinks his dress is rich, though he himself is so downcast. Bide ye here till I look into this matter." So saying, he arose and left them, crossed the road to the shrine, and there stood, waiting for the sorrowful knight to come near him. So, presently, when the knight came riding slowly along, jolly Robin stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle rein. "Hold, Sir Knight," quoth he. "I prythee tarry for a short time, for I have a few words to say to thee." "What art thou, friend, who dost stop a traveler in this manner upon his most gracious Majesty's highway?" said the Knight. "Marry," quoth Robin, "that is a question hard to answer. One man calleth me kind, another calleth me cruel; this one calleth me good honest fellow, and that one, vile thief. Truly, the world hath as many eyes to look upon a man withal as there are spots on a toad; so, with what pair of eyes thou regardest me lieth entirely with thine own self. My name is Robin Hood." "Truly, good Robin," said the Knight, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, "thou hast a quaint conceit. As for the pair of eyes with which I regard thee, I would say that they are as favorable as may be, for I hear much good of thee and little ill. What is thy will of me?" "Now, I make my vow, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "thou hast surely learned thy wisdom of good Gaffer Swanthold, for he sayeth, 'Fair words are as easy spoke as foul, and bring good will in the stead of blows.' Now I will show thee the truth of this saying; for, if thou wilt go with me this day to Sherwood Forest, I will give thee as merry a feast as ever thou hadst in all thy life." "Thou art indeed kind," said the Knight, "but methinks thou wilt find me but an ill-seeming and sorrowful guest. Thou hadst best let me pass on my way in peace." "Nay," quoth Robin, "thou mightst go thine own way but for one thing, and that I will tell thee. We keep an inn, as it were, in the very depths of Sherwood, but so far from highroads and beaten paths that guests do not often come nigh us; so I and my friends set off merrily and seek them when we grow dull of ourselves. Thus the matter stands, Sir Knight; yet I will furthermore tell thee that we count upon our guests paying a reckoning." "I take thy meaning, friend," said the Knight gravely, "but I am not thy man, for I have no money by me." "Is it sooth?" said Robin, looking at the Knight keenly. "I can scarce choose but believe thee; yet, Sir Knight, there be those of thy order whose word is not to be trusted as much as they would have others believe. Thou wilt think no ill if I look for myself in this matter." Then, still holding the horse by the bridle rein, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle, whereupon fourscore yeomen came leaping over the stile and ran to where the Knight and Robin stood. "These," said Robin, looking upon them proudly, "are some of my merry men. They share and share alike with me all joys and troubles, gains and losses. Sir Knight, I prythee tell me what money thou hast about thee." For a time the Knight said not a word, but a slow red arose into his cheeks; at last he looked Robin in the face and said, "I know not why I should be ashamed, for it should be no shame to me; but, friend, I tell thee the truth, when I say that in my purse are ten shillings, and that that is every groat that Sir Richard of the Lea hath in all the wide world." When Sir Richard ended a silence fell, until at last Robin said, "And dost thou pledge me thy knightly word that this is all thou hast with thee?" "Yea," answered Sir Richard, "I do pledge thee my most solemn word, as a true knight, that it is all the money I have in the world. Nay, here is my purse, ye may find for yourselves the truth of what I say." And he held his purse out to Robin. "Put up thy purse, Sir Richard," quoth Robin. "Far be it from me to doubt the word of so gentle a knight. The proud I strive to bring low, but those that walk in sorrow I would aid if I could. Come, Sir Richard, cheer up thy heart and go with us into the greenwood. Even I may perchance aid thee, for thou surely knowest how the good Athelstane was saved by the little blind mole that digged a trench over which he that sought the king's life stumbled." "Truly, friend," said Sir Richard, "methinks thou meanest kindness in thine own way; nevertheless my troubles are such that it is not likely that thou canst cure them. But I will go with thee this day into Sherwood." Hereupon he turned his horse's head, and they all wended their way to the woodlands, Robin walking on one side of the Knight and Will Scarlet on the other, while the rest of the band trudged behind. After they had traveled thus for a time Robin Hood spake. "Sir Knight," said he, "I would not trouble thee with idle questions; but dost thou find it in thy heart to tell me thy sorrows?" "Truly, Robin," quoth the Knight, "I see no reason why I should not do so. Thus it is: My castle and my lands are in pawn for a debt that I owe. Three days hence the money must be paid or else all mine estate is lost forever, for then it falls into the hands of the Priory of Emmet, and what they swallow they never give forth again." Quoth Robin, "I understand not why those of thy kind live in such a manner that all their wealth passeth from them like snow beneath the springtide sun." "Thou wrongest me, Robin," said the Knight, "for listen: I have a son but twenty winters old, nevertheless he has won his spurs as knight. Last year, on a certain evil day, the jousts were held at Chester, and thither my son went, as did I and my lady wife. I wot it was a proud time for us, for he unhorsed each knight that he tilted against. At last he ran a course with a certain great knight, Sir Walter of Lancaster, yet, though my son was so youthful, he kept his seat, albeit both spears were shivered to the heft; but it happened that a splinter of my boy's lance ran through the visor of Sir Walter's helmet and pierced through his eye into his brain, so that he died ere his esquire could unlace his helm. Now, Robin, Sir Walter had great friends at court, therefore his kinsmen stirred up things against my son so that, to save him from prison, I had to pay a ransom of six hundred pounds in gold. All might have gone well even yet, only that, by ins and outs and crookedness of laws, I was shorn like a sheep that is clipped to the quick. So it came that I had to pawn my lands to the Priory of Emmet for more money, and a hard bargain they drove with me in my hour of need. Yet I would have thee understand I grieve so for my lands only because of my dear lady wife." "But where is thy son now?" asked Robin, who had listened closely to all the Knight had said. "In Palestine," said Sir Richard, "battling like a brave Christian soldier for the cross and the holy sepulcher. Truly, England was an ill place for him because of Sir Walter's death and the hate of the Lancastrian's kinsmen." "Truly," said Robin, much moved, "thine is a hard lot. But tell me, what is owing to Emmet for thine estates?" "Only four hundred pounds," said Sir Richard. At this, Robin smote his thigh in anger. "O the bloodsuckers!" cried he. "A noble estate to be forfeit for four hundred pounds! But what will befall thee if thou dost lose thy lands, Sir Richard?" "It is not mine own lot that doth trouble me in that case," said the Knight, "but my dear lady's; for should I lose my land she will have to betake herself to some kinsman and there abide in charity, which, methinks, would break her proud heart. As for me, I will over the salt sea, and so to Palestine to join my son in fight for the holy sepulcher." Then up spake Will Scarlet. "But hast thou no friend that will help thee in thy dire need?" "Never a man," said Sir Richard. "While I was rich enow at home, and had friends, they blew great boasts of how they loved me. But when the oak falls in the forest the swine run from beneath it lest they should be smitten down also. So my friends have left me; for not only am I poor but I have great enemies." Then Robin said, "Thou sayst thou hast no friends, Sir Richard. I make no boast, but many have found Robin Hood a friend in their troubles. Cheer up, Sir Knight, I may help thee yet." The Knight shook his head with a faint smile, but for all that, Robin's words made him more blithe of heart, for in truth hope, be it never so faint, bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat. The day was well-nigh gone when they came near to the greenwood tree. Even at a distance they saw by the number of men that Little John had come back with some guest, but when they came near enough, whom should they find but the Lord Bishop of Hereford! The good Bishop was in a fine stew, I wot. Up and down he walked beneath the tree like a fox caught in a hencoop. Behind him were three Black Friars standing close together in a frightened group, like three black sheep in a tempest. Hitched to the branches of the trees close at hand were six horses, one of them a barb with gay trappings upon which the Bishop was wont to ride, and the others laden with packs of divers shapes and kinds, one of which made Robin's eyes glisten, for it was a box not overlarge, but heavily bound with bands and ribs of iron. When the Bishop saw Robin and those with him come into the open he made as though he would have run toward the yeoman, but the fellow that guarded the Bishop and the three friars thrust his quarterstaff in front, so that his lordship was fain to stand back, though with frowning brow and angry speech. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," cried jolly Robin in a loud voice, when he saw what had passed, "I will come to thee with all speed, for I would rather see thee than any man in merry England." So saying, he quickened his steps and soon came to where the Bishop stood fuming. "How now," quoth the Bishop in a loud and angry voice, when Robin had so come to him, "is this the way that thou and thy band treat one so high in the church as I am? I and these brethren were passing peacefully along the highroad with our pack horses, and a half score of men to guard them, when up comes a great strapping fellow full seven feet high, with fourscore or more men back of him, and calls upon me to stop--me, the Lord Bishop of Hereford, mark thou! Whereupon my armed guards-- beshrew them for cowards!--straight ran away. But look ye; not only did this fellow stop me, but he threatened me, saying that Robin Hood would strip me as bare as a winter hedge. Then, besides all this, he called me such vile names as 'fat priest,' 'man-eating bishop,' 'money-gorging usurer,' and what not, as though I were no more than a strolling beggar or tinker." At this, the Bishop glared like an angry cat, while even Sir Richard laughed; only Robin kept a grave face. "Alas! my lord," said he, "that thou hast been so ill-treated by my band! I tell thee truly that we greatly reverence thy cloth. Little John, stand forth straightway." At these words Little John came forward, twisting his face into a whimsical look, as though he would say, "Ha' mercy upon me, good master." Then Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford and said, "Was this the man who spake so boldly to Your Lordship?" "Ay, truly it was the same," said the Bishop, "a naughty fellow, I wot. "And didst thou, Little John," said Robin in a sad voice, "call his lordship a fat priest?" "Ay," said Little John sorrowfully. "And a man-eating bishop?" "Ay," said Little John, more sorrowfully than before. "And a money-gorging usurer?" "Ay," said Little John in so sorrowful a voice that it might have drawn tears from the Dragon of Wentley. "Alas, that these things should be!" said jolly Robin, turning to the Bishop, "for I have ever found Little John a truthful man." At this, a roar of laughter went up, whereat the blood rushed into the Bishop's face till it was cherry red from crown to chin; but he said nothing and only swallowed his words, though they well-nigh choked him. "Nay, my Lord Bishop," said Robin, "we are rough fellows, but I trust not such ill men as thou thinkest, after all. There is not a man here that would harm a hair of thy reverence's head. I know thou art galled by our jesting, but we are all equal here in the greenwood, for there are no bishops nor barons nor earls among us, but only men, so thou must share our life with us while thou dost abide here. Come, busk ye, my merry men, and get the feast ready. Meantime, we will show our guests our woodland sports." So, while some went to kindle the fires for roasting meats, others ran leaping to get their cudgels and longbows. Then Robin brought forward Sir Richard of the Lea. "My Lord Bishop," said he, "here is another guest that we have with us this day. I wish that thou mightest know him better, for I and all my men will strive to honor you both at this merrymaking." "Sir Richard," said the Bishop in a reproachful tone, "methinks thou and I are companions and fellow sufferers in this den of--" He was about to say "thieves," but he stopped suddenly and looked askance at Robin Hood. "Speak out, Bishop," quoth Robin, laughing. "We of Sherwood check not an easy flow of words. 'Den of thieves' thou west about to say." Quoth the Bishop, "Mayhap that was what I meant to say, Sir Richard; but this I will say, that I saw thee just now laugh at the scurrilous jests of these fellows. It would have been more becoming of thee, methinks, to have checked them with frowns instead of spurring them on by laughter." "I meant no harm to thee," said Sir Richard, "but a merry jest is a merry jest, and I may truly say I would have laughed at it had it been against mine own self." But now Robin Hood called upon certain ones of his band who spread soft moss upon the ground and laid deerskins thereon. Then Robin bade his guests be seated, and so they all three sat down, some of the chief men, such as Little John, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, and others, stretching themselves upon the ground near by. Then a garland was set up at the far end of the glade, and thereat the bowmen shot, and such shooting was done that day as it would have made one's heart leap to see. And all the while Robin talked so quaintly to the Bishop and the Knight that, the one forgetting his vexation and the other his troubles, they both laughed aloud again and again. Then Allan a Dale came forth and tuned his harp, and all was hushed around, and he sang in his wondrous voice songs of love, of war, of glory, and of sadness, and all listened without a movement or a sound. So Allan sang till the great round silver moon gleamed with its clear white light amid the upper tangle of the mazy branches of the trees. At last two fellows came to say that the feast was ready spread, so Robin, leading his guests with either hand, brought them to where great smoking dishes that sent savory smells far and near stood along the white linen cloth spread on the grass. All around was a glare of torches that lit everything up with a red light. Then, straightway sitting down, all fell to with noise and hubbub, the rattling of platters blending with the sound of loud talking and laughter. A long time the feast lasted, but at last all was over, and the bright wine and humming ale passed briskly. Then Robin Hood called aloud for silence, and all was hushed till he spoke. "I have a story to tell you all, so listen to what I have to say," quoth he; whereupon, without more ado, he told them all about Sir Richard, and how his lands were in pawn. But, as he went on, the Bishop's face, that had erst been smiling and ruddy with merriment, waxed serious, and he put aside the horn of wine he held in his hand, for he knew the story of Sir Richard, and his heart sank within him with grim forebodings. Then, when Robin Hood had done, he turned to the Bishop of Hereford. "Now, my Lord Bishop," said he, "dost thou not think this is ill done of anyone, much more of a churchman, who should live in humbleness and charity?" To this the Bishop answered not a word but looked upon the ground with moody eyes. Quoth Robin, "Now, thou art the richest bishop in all England; canst thou not help this needy brother?" But still the Bishop answered not a word. Then Robin turned to Little John, and quoth he, "Go thou and Will Stutely and bring forth those five pack horses yonder." Whereupon the two yeomen did as they were bidden, those about the cloth making room on the green, where the light was brightest, for the five horses which Little John and Will Stutely presently led forward. "Who hath the score of the goods?" asked Robin Hood, looking at the Black Friars. Then up spake the smallest of all, in a trembling voice--an old man he was, with a gentle, wrinkled face. "That have I; but, I pray thee, harm me not." "Nay," quoth Robin, "I have never harmed harmless man yet; but give it to me, good father." So the old man did as he was bidden, and handed Robin the tablet on which was marked down the account of the various packages upon the horses. This Robin handed to Will Scarlet, bidding him to read the same. So Will Scarlet, lifting his voice that all might hear, began: "Three bales of silk to Quentin, the mercer at Ancaster." "That we touch not," quoth Robin, "for this Quentin is an honest fellow, who hath risen by his own thrift." So the bales of silk were laid aside unopened. "One bale of silk velvet for the Abbey of Beaumont." "What do these priests want of silk velvet?" quoth Robin. "Nevertheless, though they need it not, I will not take all from them. Measure it off into three lots, one to be sold for charity, one for us, and one for the abbey." So this, too, was done as Robin Hood bade. "Twoscore of great wax candles for the Chapel of Saint Thomas." "That belongeth fairly to the chapel," quoth Robin, "so lay it to one side. Far be it from us to take from the blessed Saint Thomas that which belongeth to him." So this, also, was done according to Robin's bidding, and the candles were laid to one side, along with honest Quentin's unopened bales of silk. So the list was gone through with, and the goods adjudged according to what Robin thought most fit. Some things were laid aside untouched, and many were opened and divided into three equal parts, for charity, for themselves, and for the owners. And now all the ground in the torchlight was covered over with silks and velvets and cloths of gold and cases of rich wines, and so they came to the last line upon the tablet--"A box belonging to the Lord Bishop of Hereford." At these words the Bishop shook as with a chill, and the box was set upon the ground. "My Lord Bishop, hast thou the key of this box?" asked Robin. The Bishop shook his head. "Go, Will Scarlet," said Robin, "thou art the strongest man here--bring a sword straightway, and cut this box open, if thou canst." Then up rose Will Scarlet and left them, coming back in a short time, bearing a great two-handed sword. Thrice he smote that strong, ironbound box, and at the third blow it burst open and a great heap of gold came rolling forth, gleaming red in the light of the torches. At this sight a murmur went all around among the band, like the sound of the wind in distant trees; but no man came forward nor touched the money. Quoth Robin, "Thou, Will Scarlet, thou, Allan a Dale, and thou, Little John, count it over." A long time it took to count all the money, and when it had been duly scored up, Will Scarlet called out that there were fifteen hundred golden pounds in all. But in among the gold they found a paper, and this Will Scarlet read in a loud voice, and all heard that this money was the rental and fines and forfeits from certain estates belonging to the Bishopric of Hereford. "My Lord Bishop," said Robin Hood, "I will not strip thee, as Little John said, like a winter hedge, for thou shalt take back one third of thy money. One third of it thou canst well spare to us for thy entertainment and that of thy train, for thou art very rich; one third of it thou canst better spare for charity, for, Bishop, I hear that thou art a hard master to those beneath thee and a close hoarder of gains that thou couldst better and with more credit to thyself give to charity than spend upon thy own likings." At this the Bishop looked up, but he could say never a word; yet he was thankful to keep some of his wealth. Then Robin turned to Sir Richard of the Lea, and quoth he, "Now, Sir Richard, the church seemed like to despoil thee, therefore some of the overplus of church gains may well be used in aiding thee. Thou shalt take that five hundred pounds laid aside for people more in need than the Bishop is, and shalt pay thy debts to Emmet therewith." Sir Richard looked at Robin until something arose in his eyes that made all the lights and the faces blur together. At last he said, "I thank thee, friend, from my heart, for what thou doest for me; yet, think not ill if I cannot take thy gift freely. But this I will do: I will take the money and pay my debts, and in a year and a day hence will return it safe either to thee or to the Lord Bishop of Hereford. For this I pledge my most solemn knightly word. I feel free to borrow, for I know no man that should be more bound to aid me than one so high in that church that hath driven such a hard bargain." "Truly, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "I do not understand those fine scruples that weigh with those of thy kind; but, nevertheless, it shall all be as thou dost wish. But thou hadst best bring the money to me at the end of the year, for mayhap I may make better use of it than the Bishop." Thereupon, turning to those near him, he gave his orders, and five hundred pounds were counted out and tied up in a leathern bag for Sir Richard. The rest of the treasure was divided, and part taken to the treasurehouse of the band, and part put by with the other things for the Bishop. Then Sir Richard arose. "I cannot stay later, good friends," said he, "for my lady will wax anxious if I come not home; so I crave leave to depart." Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose, and Robin said, "We cannot let thee go hence unattended, Sir Richard." Then up spake Little John, "Good master, let me choose a score of stout fellows from the band, and let us arm ourselves in a seemly manner and so serve as retainers to Sir Richard till he can get others in our stead." "Thou hast spoken well, Little John, and it shall be done," said Robin. Then up spake Will Scarlet, "Let us give him a golden chain to hang about his neck, such as befits one of his blood, and also golden spurs to wear at his heels." Then Robin Hood said, "Thou hast spoken well, Will Scarlet, and it shall be done." Then up spake Will Stutely, "Let us give him yon bale of rich velvet and yon roll of cloth of gold to take home to his noble lady wife as a present from Robin Hood and his merry men all." At this all clapped their hands for joy, and Robin said: "Thou hast well spoken, Will Stutely, and it shall be done." Then Sir Richard of the Lea looked all around and strove to speak, but could scarcely do so for the feelings that choked him; at last he said in a husky, trembling voice, "Ye shall all see, good friends, that Sir Richard o' the Lea will ever remember your kindness this day. And if ye be at any time in dire need or trouble, come to me and my lady, and the walls of Castle Lea shall be battered down ere harm shall befall you. I--" He could say nothing further, but turned hastily away. But now Little John and nineteen stout fellows whom he had chosen for his band, came forth all ready for the journey. Each man wore upon his breast a coat of linked mail, and on his head a cap of steel, and at his side a good stout sword. A gallant show they made as they stood all in a row. Then Robin came and threw a chain of gold about Sir Richard's neck, and Will Scarlet knelt and buckled the golden spurs upon his heel; and now Little John led forward Sir Richard's horse, and the Knight mounted. He looked down at Robin for a little time, then of a sudden stooped and kissed his cheek. All the forest glades rang with the shout that went up as the Knight and the yeomen marched off through the woodland with glare of torches and gleam of steel, and so were gone. Then up spake the Bishop of Hereford in a mournful voice, "I, too, must be jogging, good fellow, for the night waxes late." But Robin laid his hand upon the Bishop's arm and stayed him. "Be not so hasty, Lord Bishop," said he. "Three days hence Sir Richard must pay his debts to Emmet; until that time thou must be content to abide with me lest thou breed trouble for the Knight. I promise thee that thou shalt have great sport, for I know that thou art fond of hunting the dun deer. Lay by thy mantle of melancholy, and strive to lead a joyous yeoman life for three stout days. I promise thee thou shalt be sorry to go when the time has come." So the Bishop and his train abided with Robin for three days, and much sport his lordship had in that time, so that, as Robin had said, when the time had come for him to go he was sorry to leave the greenwood. At the end of three days Robin set him free, and sent him forth from the forest with a guard of yeomen to keep freebooters from taking what was left of the packs and bundles. But, as the Bishop rode away, he vowed within himself that he would sometime make Robin rue the day that he stopped him in Sherwood. But now we shall follow Sir Richard; so listen, and you shall hear what befell him, and how he paid his debts at Emmet Priory, and likewise in due season to Robin Hood. How Sir Richard of the Lea Paid His Debts THE LONG HIGHWAY stretched straight on, gray and dusty in the sun. On either side were dikes full of water bordered by osiers, and far away in the distance stood the towers of Emmet Priory with tall poplar trees around. Along the causeway rode a knight with a score of stout men-at-arms behind him. The Knight was clad in a plain, long robe of gray serge, gathered in at the waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hung a long dagger and a stout sword. But though he was so plainly dressed himself, the horse he rode was a noble barb, and its trappings were rich with silk and silver bells. So thus the band journeyed along the causeway between the dikes, till at last they reached the great gate of Emmet Priory. There the Knight called to one of his men and bade him knock at the porter's lodge with the heft of his sword. The porter was drowsing on his bench within the lodge, but at the knock he roused himself and, opening the wicket, came hobbling forth and greeted the Knight, while a tame starling that hung in a wicker cage within piped out, "_In coelo quies! In coelo quies!_" such being the words that the poor old lame porter had taught him to speak. "Where is thy prior?" asked the Knight of the old porter. "He is at meat, good knight, and he looketh for thy coming," quoth the porter, "for, if I mistake not, thou art Sir Richard of the Lea." "I am Sir Richard of the Lea; then I will go seek him forthwith," said the Knight. "But shall I not send thy horse to stable?" said the porter. "By Our Lady, it is the noblest nag, and the best harnessed, that e'er I saw in all my life before." And he stroked the horse's flank with his palm. "Nay," quoth Sir Richard, "the stables of this place are not for me, so make way, I prythee." So saying, he pushed forward, and, the gates being opened, he entered the stony courtyard of the Priory, his men behind him. In they came with rattle of steel and clashing of swords, and ring of horses' feet on cobblestones, whereat a flock of pigeons that strutted in the sun flew with flapping wings to the high eaves of the round towers. While the Knight was riding along the causeway to Emmet, a merry feast was toward in the refectory there. The afternoon sun streamed in through the great arched windows and lay in broad squares of light upon the stone floor and across the board covered with a snowy linen cloth, whereon was spread a princely feast. At the head of the table sat Prior Vincent of Emmet all clad in soft robes of fine cloth and silk; on his head was a black velvet cap picked out with gold, and around his neck hung a heavy chain of gold, with a great locket pendant therefrom. Beside him, on the arm of his great chair, roosted his favorite falcon, for the Prior was fond of the gentle craft of hawking. On his right hand sat the Sheriff of Nottingham in rich robes of purple all trimmed about with fur, and on his left a famous doctor of law in dark and sober garb. Below these sat the high cellarer of Emmet, and others chief among the brethren. Jest and laughter passed around, and all was as merry as merry could be. The wizened face of the man of law was twisted into a wrinkled smile, for in his pouch were fourscore golden angels that the Prior had paid him in fee for the case betwixt him and Sir Richard of the Lea. The learned doctor had been paid beforehand, for he had not overmuch trust in the holy Vincent of Emmet. Quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "But art thou sure, Sir Prior, that thou hast the lands so safe?" "Ay, marry," said Prior Vincent, smacking his lips after a deep draught of wine, "I have kept a close watch upon him, albeit he was unawares of the same, and I know right well that he hath no money to pay me withal." "Ay, true," said the man of law in a dry, husky voice, "his land is surely forfeit if he cometh not to pay; but, Sir Prior, thou must get a release beneath his sign manual, or else thou canst not hope to hold the land without trouble from him." "Yea," said the Prior, "so thou hast told me ere now, but I know that this knight is so poor that he will gladly sign away his lands for two hundred pounds of hard money." Then up spake the high cellarer, "Methinks it is a shame to so drive a misfortunate knight to the ditch. I think it sorrow that the noblest estate in Derbyshire should so pass away from him for a paltry five hundred pounds. Truly, I--" "How now," broke in the Prior in a quivering voice, his eyes glistening and his cheeks red with anger, "dost thou prate to my very beard, sirrah? By Saint Hubert, thou hadst best save thy breath to cool thy pottage, else it may scald thy mouth." "Nay," said the man of law smoothly, "I dare swear this same knight will never come to settlement this day, but will prove recreant. Nevertheless, we will seek some means to gain his lands from him, so never fear." But even as the doctor spoke, there came a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs and a jingle of iron mail in the courtyard below. Then up spake the Prior and called upon one of the brethren that sat below the salt, and bade him look out of the window and see who was below, albeit he knew right well it could be none but Sir Richard. So the brother arose and went and looked, and he said, "I see below a score of stout men-at-arms and a knight just dismounting from his horse. He is dressed in long robes of gray which, methinks, are of poor seeming; but the horse he rideth upon hath the richest coursing that ever I saw. The Knight dismounts and they come this way, and are even now below in the great hall." "Lo, see ye there now," quoth Prior Vincent. "Here ye have a knight with so lean a purse as scarce to buy him a crust of bread to munch, yet he keeps a band of retainers and puts rich trappings upon his horse's hide, while his own back goeth bare. Is it not well that such men should be brought low?" "But art thou sure," said the little doctor tremulously, "that this knight will do us no harm? Such as he are fierce when crossed, and he hath a band of naughty men at his heels. Mayhap thou hadst better give an extension of his debt." Thus he spake, for he was afraid Sir Richard might do him a harm. "Thou needst not fear," said the Prior, looking down at the little man beside him. "This knight is gentle and would as soon think of harming an old woman as thee." As the Prior finished, a door at the lower end of the refectory swung open, and in came Sir Richard, with folded hands and head bowed upon his breast. Thus humbly he walked slowly up the hall, while his men-at-arms stood about the door. When he had come to where the Prior sat, he knelt upon one knee. "Save and keep thee, Sir Prior," said he, "I am come to keep my day." Then the first word that the Prior said to him was "Hast thou brought my money?" "Alas! I have not so much as one penny upon my body," said the Knight; whereat the Prior's eyes sparkled. "Now, thou art a shrewd debtor, I wot," said he. Then, "Sir Sheriff, I drink to thee." But still the Knight kneeled upon the hard stones, so the Prior turned to him again. "What wouldst thou have?" quoth he sharply. At these words, a slow red mounted into the Knight's cheeks; but still he knelt. "I would crave thy mercy," said he. "As thou hopest for Heaven's mercy, show mercy to me. Strip me not of my lands and so reduce a true knight to poverty." "Thy day is broken and thy lands forfeit," said the man of law, plucking up his spirits at the Knight's humble speech. Quoth Sir Richard, "Thou man of law, wilt thou not befriend me in mine hour of need?" "Nay," said the other, "I hold with this holy Prior, who hath paid me my fees in hard gold, so that I am bounder to him." "Wilt thou not be my friend, Sir Sheriff?" said Sir Richard. "Nay, 'fore Heaven," quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "this is no business of mine, yet I will do what I may," and he nudged the Prior beneath the cloth with his knee. "Wilt thou not ease him of some of his debts, Sir Prior?" At this the Prior smiled grimly. "Pay me three hundred pounds, Sir Richard," said he, "and I will give thee quittance of thy debt." "Thou knowest, Sir Prior, that it is as easy for me to pay four hundred pounds as three hundred," said Sir Richard. "But wilt thou not give me another twelvemonth to pay my debt?" "Not another day," said the Prior sternly. "And is this all thou wilt do for me?" asked the Knight. "Now, out upon thee, false knight!" cried the Prior, bursting forth in anger. "Either pay thy debt as I have said, or release thy land and get thee gone from out my hall." Then Sir Richard arose to his feet. "Thou false, lying priest!" said he in so stern a voice that the man of law shrunk affrighted, "I am no false knight, as thou knowest full well, but have even held my place in the press and the tourney. Hast thou so little courtesy that thou wouldst see a true knight kneel for all this time, or see him come into thy hall and never offer him meat or drink?" Then quoth the man of law in a trembling voice, "This is surely an ill way to talk of matters appertaining to business; let us be mild in speech. What wilt thou pay this knight, Sir Prior, to give thee release of his land?" "I would have given him two hundred pounds," quoth the Prior, "but since he hath spoken so vilely to my teeth, not one groat over one hundred pounds will he get." "Hadst thou offered me a thousand pounds, false prior," said the Knight, "thou wouldst not have got an inch of my land." Then turning to where his men-at-arms stood near the door, he called, "Come hither," and beckoned with his finger; whereupon the tallest of them all came forward and handed him a long leathern bag. Sir Richard took the bag and shot from it upon the table a glittering stream of golden money. "Bear in mind, Sir Prior," said he, "that thou hast promised me quittance for three hundred pounds. Not one farthing above that shalt thou get." So saying, he counted out three hundred pounds and pushed it toward the Prior. But now the Prior's hands dropped at his sides and the Prior's head hung upon his shoulder, for not only had he lost all hopes of the land, but he had forgiven the Knight one hundred pounds of his debt and had needlessly paid the man of law fourscore angels. To him he turned, and quoth he, "Give me back my money that thou hast." "Nay," cried the other shrilly, "it is but my fee that thou didst pay me, and thou gettest it not back again." And he hugged his gown about him. "Now, Sir Prior," quoth Sir Richard, "I have held my day and paid all the dues demanded of me; so, as there is no more betwixt us, I leave this vile place straightway." So saying, he turned upon his heel and strode away. All this time the Sheriff had been staring with wide-open eyes and mouth agape at the tall man-at-arms, who stood as though carved out of stone. At last he gasped out, "Reynold Greenleaf!" At this, the tall man-at-arms, who was no other than Little John, turned, grinning, to the Sheriff. "I give thee good den, fair gossip," quoth he. "I would say, sweet Sheriff, that I have heard all thy pretty talk this day, and it shall be duly told unto Robin Hood. So, farewell for the nonce, till we meet again in Sherwood Forest." Then he, also, turned and followed Sir Richard down the hall, leaving the Sheriff, all pale and amazed, shrunk together upon his chair. A merry feast it was to which Sir Richard came, but a sorry lot he left behind him, and little hunger had they for the princely food spread before them. Only the learned doctor was happy, for he had his fee. Now a twelvemonth and a day passed since Prior Vincent of Emmet sat at feast, and once more the mellow fall of another year had come. But the year had brought great change, I wot, to the lands of Sir Richard of the Lea; for, where before shaggy wild grasses grew upon the meadow lands, now all stretch away in golden stubble, betokening that a rich and plentiful crop had been gathered therefrom. A year had made a great change in the castle, also, for, where were empty moats and the crumbling of neglect, all was now orderly and well kept. Bright shone the sun on battlement and tower, and in the blue air overhead a Hock of clattering jackdaws flew around the gilded weather vane and spire. Then, in the brightness of the morning, the drawbridge fell across the moat with a rattle and clank of chains, the gate of the castle swung slowly open, and a goodly array of steel-clad men-at-arms, with a knight all clothed in chain mail, as white as frost on brier and thorn of a winter morning, came flashing out from the castle courtyard. In his hand the Knight held a great spear, from the point of which fluttered a blood-red pennant as broad as the palm of one's hand. So this troop came forth from the castle, and in the midst of them walked three pack horses laden with parcels of divers shapes and kinds. Thus rode forth good Sir Richard of the Lea to pay his debt to Robin Hood this bright and merry morn. Along the highway they wended their way, with measured tramp of feet and rattle and jingle of sword and harness. Onward they marched till they came nigh to Denby, where, from the top of a hill, they saw, over beyond the town, many gay flags and streamers floating in the bright air. Then Sir Richard turned to the man-at-arms nearest to him. "What is toward yonder at Denby today?" quoth he. "Please Your Worship," answered the man-at-arms, "a merry fair is held there today, and a great wrestling match, to which many folk have come, for a prize hath been offered of a pipe of red wine, a fair golden ring, and a pair of gloves, all of which go to the best wrestler." "Now, by my faith," quoth Sir Richard, who loved good manly sports right well, "this will be a goodly thing to see. Methinks we have to stay a little while on our journey, and see this merry sport." So he turned his horse's head aside toward Denby and the fair, and thither he and his men made their way. There they found a great hubbub of merriment. Flags and streamers were floating, tumblers were tumbling on the green, bagpipes were playing, and lads and lasses were dancing to the music. But the crowd were gathered most of all around a ring where the wrestling was going forward, and thither Sir Richard and his men turned their steps. Now when the judges of the wrestling saw Sir Richard coming and knew who he was, the chief of them came down from the bench where he and the others sat, and went to the Knight and took him by the hand, beseeching him to come and sit with them and judge the sport. So Sir Richard got down from his horse and went with the others to the bench raised beside the ring. Now there had been great doings that morning, for a certain yeoman named Egbert, who came from Stoke over in Staffordshire, had thrown with ease all those that came against him; but a man of Denby, well known through all the countryside as William of the Scar, had been biding his time with the Stoke man; so, when Egbert had thrown everyone else, stout William leaped into the ring. Then a tough bout followed, and at last he threw Egbert heavily, whereat there was a great shouting and shaking of hands, for all the Denby men were proud of their wrestler. When Sir Richard came, he found stout William, puffed up by the shouts of his friends, walking up and down the ring, daring anyone to come and try a throw with him. "Come one, come all!" quoth he. "Here stand I, William of the Scar, against any man. If there is none in Derbyshire to come against me, come all who will, from Nottingham, Stafford, or York, and if I do not make them one and all root the ground with their noses like swine in the forests, call me no more brave William the wrestler." At this all laughed; but above all the laughter a loud voice was heard to cry out, "Sin' thou talkest so big, here cometh one from Nottinghamshire to try a fall with thee, fellow"; and straightway a tall youth with a tough quarterstaff in his hand came pushing his way through the crowd and at last leaped lightly over the rope into the ring. He was not as heavy as stout William, but he was taller and broader in the shoulders, and all his joints were well knit. Sir Richard looked upon him keenly, then, turning to one of the judges, he said, "Knowest thou who this youth is? Methinks I have seen him before." "Nay," said the judge, "he is a stranger to me." Meantime, without a word, the young man, laying aside his quarterstaff, began to take off his jerkin and body clothing until he presently stood with naked arms and body; and a comely sight he was when so bared to the view, for his muscles were cut round and smooth and sharp like swift- running water. And now each man spat upon his hands and, clapping them upon his knees, squatted down, watching the other keenly, so as to take the vantage of him in the grip. Then like a flash they leaped together, and a great shout went up, for William had gotten the better hold of the two. For a short time they strained and struggled and writhed, and then stout William gave his most cunning trip and throw, but the stranger met it with greater skill than his, and so the trip came to nought. Then, of a sudden, with a twist and a wrench, the stranger loosed himself, and he of the scar found himself locked in a pair of arms that fairly made his ribs crack. So, with heavy, hot breathing, they stood for a while straining, their bodies all glistening with sweat, and great drops of sweat trickling down their faces. But the stranger's hug was so close that at last stout William's muscles softened under his grip, and he gave a sob. Then the youth put forth all his strength and gave a sudden trip with his heel and a cast over his right hip, and down stout William went, with a sickening thud, and lay as though he would never move hand nor foot again. But now no shout went up for the stranger, but an angry murmur was heard among the crowd, so easily had he won the match. Then one of the judges, a kinsman to William of the Scar, rose with trembling lip and baleful look. Quoth he, "If thou hath slain that man it will go ill with thee, let me tell thee, fellow." But the stranger answered boldly, "He took his chance with me as I took mine with him. No law can touch me to harm me, even if I slew him, so that it was fairly done in the wrestling ring." "That we shall see," said the judge, scowling upon the youth, while once more an angry murmur ran around the crowd; for, as I have said, the men of Denby were proud of stout William of the Scar. Then up spoke Sir Richard gently. "Nay," said he, "the youth is right; if the other dieth, he dieth in the wrestling ring, where he took his chance, and was cast fairly enow." But in the meantime three men had come forward and lifted stout William from the ground and found that he was not dead, though badly shaken by his heavy fall. Then the chief judge rose and said, "Young man, the prize is duly thine. Here is the red-gold ring, and here the gloves, and yonder stands the pipe of wine to do with whatsoever thou dost list." At this, the youth, who had donned his clothes and taken up his staff again, bowed without a word, then, taking the gloves and the ring, and thrusting the one into his girdle and slipping the other upon his thumb, he turned and, leaping lightly over the ropes again, made his way through the crowd, and was gone. "Now, I wonder who yon youth may be," said the judge, turning to Sir Richard, "he seemeth like a stout Saxon from his red cheeks and fair hair. This William of ours is a stout man, too, and never have I seen him cast in the ring before, albeit he hath not yet striven with such great wrestlers as Thomas of Cornwall, Diccon of York, and young David of Doncaster. Hath he not a firm foot in the ring, thinkest thou, Sir Richard?" "Ay, truly, and yet this youth threw him fairly, and with wondrous ease. I much wonder who he can be." Thus said Sir Richard in a thoughtful voice. For a time the Knight stood talking to those about him, but at last he arose and made ready to depart, so he called his men about him and, tightening the girths of his saddle, he mounted his horse once more. Meanwhile the young stranger had made his way through the crowd, but, as he passed, he heard all around him such words muttered as "Look at the cockerel!" "Behold how he plumeth himself!" "I dare swear he cast good William unfairly!" "Yea, truly, saw ye not birdlime upon his hands?" "It would be well to cut his cock's comb!" To all this the stranger paid no heed, but strode proudly about as though he heard it not. So he walked slowly across the green to where the booth stood wherein was dancing, and standing at the door he looked in on the sport. As he stood thus, a stone struck his arm of a sudden with a sharp jar, and, turning, he saw that an angry crowd of men had followed him from the wrestling ring. Then, when they saw him turn so, a great hooting and yelling arose from all, so that the folk came running out from the dancing booth to see what was to do. At last a tall, broad-shouldered, burly blacksmith strode forward from the crowd swinging a mighty blackthorn club in his hand. "Wouldst thou come here to our fair town of Denby, thou Jack in the Box, to overcome a good honest lad with vile, juggling tricks?" growled he in a deep voice like the bellow of an angry bull. "Take that, then!" And of a sudden he struck a blow at the youth that might have felled an ox. But the other turned the blow deftly aside, and gave back another so terrible that the Denby man went down with a groan, as though he had been smitten by lightning. When they saw their leader fall, the crowd gave another angry shout; but the stranger placed his back against the tent near which he stood, swinging his terrible staff, and so fell had been the blow that he struck the stout smith that none dared to come within the measure of his cudgel, so the press crowded back, like a pack of dogs from a bear at bay. But now some coward hand from behind threw a sharp jagged stone that smote the stranger on the crown, so that he staggered back, and the red blood gushed from the cut and ran down his face and over his jerkin. Then, seeing him dazed with this vile blow, the crowd rushed upon him, so that they overbore him and he fell beneath their feet. Now it might have gone ill with the youth, even to the losing of his young life, had not Sir Richard come to this fair; for of a sudden, shouts were heard, and steel flashed in the air, and blows were given with the flat of swords, while through the midst of the crowd Sir Richard of the Lea came spurring on his white horse. Then the crowd, seeing the steel-clad knight and the armed men, melted away like snow on the warm hearth, leaving the young man all bloody and dusty upon the ground. Finding himself free, the youth arose and, wiping the blood from his face, looked up. Quoth he, "Sir Richard of the Lea, mayhap thou hast saved my life this day." "Who art thou that knowest Sir Richard of the Lea so well?" quoth the Knight. "Methinks I have seen thy face before, young man." "Yea, thou hast," said the youth, "for men call me David of Doncaster." "Ha!" said Sir Richard, "I wonder that I knew thee not, David; but thy beard hath grown longer, and thou thyself art more set in manhood since this day twelvemonth. Come hither into the tent, David, and wash the blood from thy face. And thou, Ralph, bring him straightway a clean jerkin. Now I am sorry for thee, yet I am right glad that I have had a chance to pay a part of my debt of kindness to thy good master Robin Hood, for it might have gone ill with thee had I not come, young man." So saying, the Knight led David into the tent, and there the youth washed the blood from his face and put on the clean jerkin. In the meantime a whisper had gone around from those that stood nearest that this was none other than the great David of Doncaster, the best wrestler in all the mid-country, who only last spring had cast stout Adam o' Lincoln in the ring at Selby, in Yorkshire, and now held the mid-country champion belt, Thus it happened that when young David came forth from the tent along with Sir Richard, the blood all washed from his face, and his soiled jerkin changed for a clean one, no sounds of anger were heard, but all pressed forward to see the young man, feeling proud that one of the great wrestlers of England should have entered the ring at Denby fair. For thus fickle is a mass of men. Then Sir Richard called aloud, "Friends, this is David of Doncaster; so think it no shame that your Denby man was cast by such a wrestler. He beareth you no ill will for what hath passed, but let it be a warning to you how ye treat strangers henceforth. Had ye slain him it would have been an ill day for you, for Robin Hood would have harried your town as the kestrel harries the dovecote. I have bought the pipe of wine from him, and now I give it freely to you to drink as ye list. But never hereafterward fall upon a man for being a stout yeoman." At this all shouted amain; but in truth they thought more of the wine than of the Knight's words. Then Sir Richard, with David beside him and his men-at-arms around, turned about and left the fair. But in after days, when the men that saw that wrestling bout were bent with age, they would shake their heads when they heard of any stalwart game, and say, "Ay, ay; but thou shouldst have seen the great David of Doncaster cast stout William of the Scar at Denby fair." Robin Hood stood in the merry greenwood with Little John and most of his stout yeomen around him, awaiting Sir Richard's coming. At last a glint of steel was seen through the brown forest leaves, and forth from the covert into the open rode Sir Richard at the head of his men. He came straight forward to Robin Hood and leaping from off his horse, clasped the yeoman in his arms. "Why, how now," said Robin, after a time, holding Sir Richard off and looking at him from top to toe, "methinks thou art a gayer bird than when I saw thee last." "Yes, thanks to thee, Robin," said the Knight, laying his hand upon the yeoman's shoulder. "But for thee I would have been wandering in misery in a far country by this time. But I have kept my word, Robin, and have brought back the money that thou didst lend me, and which I have doubled four times over again, and so become rich once more. Along with this money I have brought a little gift to thee and thy brave men from my dear lady and myself." Then, turning to his men, he called aloud, "Bring forth the pack horses." But Robin stopped him. "Nay, Sir Richard," said he, "think it not bold of me to cross thy bidding, but we of Sherwood do no business till after we have eaten and drunk." Whereupon, taking Sir Richard by the hand, he led him to the seat beneath the greenwood tree, while others of the chief men of the band came and seated themselves around. Then quoth Robin, "How cometh it that I saw young David of Doncaster with thee and thy men, Sir Knight?" Then straightway the Knight told all about his stay at Denby and of the happening at the fair, and how it was like to go hard with young David; so he told his tale, and quoth he, "It was this, good Robin, that kept me so late on the way, otherwise I would have been here an hour agone." Then, when he had done speaking, Robin stretched out his hand and grasped the Knight's palm. Quoth he in a trembling voice, "I owe thee a debt I can never hope to repay, Sir Richard, for let me tell thee, I would rather lose my right hand than have such ill befall young David of Doncaster as seemed like to come upon him at Denby." So they talked until after a while one came forward to say that the feast was spread; whereupon all arose and went thereto. When at last it was done, the Knight called upon his men to bring the pack horses forward, which they did according to his bidding. Then one of the men brought the Knight a strongbox, which he opened and took from it a bag and counted out five hundred pounds, the sum he had gotten from Robin. "Sir Richard," quoth Robin, "thou wilt pleasure us all if thou wilt keep that money as a gift from us of Sherwood. Is it not so, my lads?" Then all shouted "Ay" with a mighty voice. "I thank you all deeply," said the Knight earnestly, "but think it not ill of me if I cannot take it. Gladly have I borrowed it from you, but it may not be that I can take it as a gift." Then Robin Hood said no more but gave the money to Little John to put away in the treasury, for he had shrewdness enough to know that nought breeds ill will and heart bitterness like gifts forced upon one that cannot choose but take them. Then Sir Richard had the packs laid upon the ground and opened, whereupon a great shout went up that made the forest ring again, for lo, there were tenscore bows of finest Spanish yew, all burnished till they shone again, and each bow inlaid with fanciful figures in silver, yet not inlaid so as to mar their strength. Beside these were tenscore quivers of leather embroidered with golden thread, and in each quiver were a score of shafts with burnished heads that shone like silver; each shaft was feathered with peacock's plumes, innocked with silver. Sir Richard gave to each yeoman a bow and a quiver of arrows, but to Robin he gave a stout bow inlaid with the cunningest workmanship in gold, while each arrow in his quiver was innocked with gold. Then all shouted again for joy of the fair gift, and all swore among themselves that they would die if need be for Sir Richard and his lady. At last the time came when Sir Richard must go, whereupon Robin Hood called his band around him, and each man of the yeomen took a torch in his hand to light the way through the woodlands. So they came to the edge of Sherwood, and there the Knight kissed Robin upon the cheeks and left him and was gone. Thus Robin Hood helped a noble knight out of his dire misfortunes, that else would have smothered the happiness from his life. Little John Turns Barefoot Friar COLD WINTER had passed and spring had come. No leafy thickness had yet clad the woodlands, but the budding leaves hung like a tender mist about the trees. In the open country the meadow lands lay a sheeny green, the cornfields a dark velvety color, for they were thick and soft with the growing blades. The plowboy shouted in the sun, and in the purple new- turned furrows flocks of birds hunted for fat worms. All the broad moist earth smiled in the warm light, and each little green hill clapped its hand for joy. On a deer's hide, stretched on the ground in the open in front of the greenwood tree, sat Robin Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox. Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread, wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the cord upon his thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to his harp. Quoth Robin at last, "Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the gentle springtime than be King of all merry England. What palace in the broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all the world hath such appetite for plover's eggs and lampreys as I for juicy venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he saith, 'Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.'" "Yea," quoth Little John, as he rubbed his new-made bowstring with yellow beeswax, "the life we lead is the life for me. Thou speakest of the springtime, but methinks even the winter hath its own joys. Thou and I, good master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past, at the Blue Boar. Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will Stutely and Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with the two beggars and the strolling friar?" "Yea," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "that was the night that Will Stutely must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale emptied over his head for his pains." "Truly, it was the same," said Little John, laughing also. "Methinks that was a goodly song that the strolling friar sang. Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick ear for a tune, dost thou not remember it?" "I did have the catch of it one time," said Tuck. "Let me see," and he touched his forefinger to his forehead in thought, humming to himself, and stopping ever and anon to fit what he had got to what he searched for in his mind. At last he found it all and clearing his throat, sang merrily: "_In the blossoming hedge the robin cock sings, For the sun it is merry and bright, And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings, For his heart is all full of delight. For the May bloometh fair, And there's little of care, And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare. When the flowers all die, Then off he will fly, To keep himself warm In some jolly old barn Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm. "And such is the life of the strolling friar, With aplenty to eat and to drink; For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire, And the pretty girls smile at his wink. Then he lustily trolls As he onward strolls, A rollicking song for the saving of souls. When the wind doth blow, With the coming of snow, There's a place by the fire For the fatherly friar, And a crab in the bowl for his heart's desire_." Thus Friar Tuck sang in a rich and mellow voice, rolling his head from side to side in time with the music, and when he had done, all clapped their hands and shouted with laughter, for the song fitted him well. "In very sooth," quoth Little John, "it is a goodly song, and, were I not a yeoman of Sherwood Forest, I had rather be a strolling friar than aught else in the world." "Yea, it is a goodly song," said Robin Hood, "but methought those two burly beggars told the merrier tales and led the merrier life. Dost thou not remember what that great black-bearded fellow told of his begging at the fair in York?" "Yea," said Little John, "but what told the friar of the harvest home in Kentshire? I hold that he led a merrier life than the other two." "Truly, for the honor of the cloth," quoth Friar Tuck, "I hold with my good gossip, Little John." "Now," quoth Robin, "I hold to mine own mind. But what sayst thou, Little John, to a merry adventure this fair day? Take thou a friar's gown from our chest of strange garments, and don the same, and I will stop the first beggar I meet and change clothes with him. Then let us wander the country about, this sweet day, and see what befalls each of us." "That fitteth my mind," quoth Little John, "so let us forth, say I." Thereupon Little John and Friar Tuck went to the storehouse of the band, and there chose for the yeoman the robe of a Gray Friar. Then they came forth again, and a mighty roar of laughter went up, for not only had the band never seen Little John in such guise before, but the robe was too short for him by a good palm's-breadth. But Little John's hands were folded in his loose sleeves, and Little John's eyes were cast upon the ground, and at his girdle hung a great, long string of beads. And now Little John took up his stout staff, at the end of which hung a chubby little leathern pottle, such as palmers carry at the tips of their staves; but in it was something, I wot, more like good Malmsey than cold spring water, such as godly pilgrims carry. Then up rose Robin and took his stout staff in his hand, likewise, and slipped ten golden angels into his pouch; for no beggar's garb was among the stores of the band, so he was fain to run his chance of meeting a beggar and buying his clothes of him. So, all being made ready, the two yeomen set forth on their way, striding lustily along all in the misty morning. Thus they walked down the forest path until they came to the highway, and then along the highway till it split in twain, leading on one hand to Blyth and on the other to Gainsborough. Here the yeomen stopped. Quoth jolly Robin, "Take thou the road to Gainsborough, and I will take that to Blyth. So, fare thee well, holy father, and mayst thou not ha' cause to count thy beads in earnest ere we meet again." "Good den, good beggar that is to be," quoth Little John, "and mayst thou have no cause to beg for mercy ere I see thee next." So each stepped sturdily upon his way until a green hill rose between them, and the one was hid from the sight of the other. Little John walked along, whistling, for no one was nigh upon all the road. In the budding hedges the little birds twittered merrily, and on either hand the green hills swept up to the sky, the great white clouds of springtime sailing slowly over their crowns in lazy flight. Up hill and down dale walked Little John, the fresh wind blowing in his face and his robes fluttering behind him, and so at last he came to a crossroad that led to Tuxford. Here he met three pretty lasses, each bearing a basket of eggs to market. Quoth he, "Whither away, fair maids?" And he stood in their path, holding his staff in front of them, to stop them. Then they huddled together and nudged one another, and one presently spake up and said, "We are going to the Tuxford market, holy friar, to sell our eggs." "Now out upon it!" quoth Little John, looking upon them with his head on one side. "Surely, it is a pity that such fair lasses should be forced to carry eggs to market. Let me tell you, an I had the shaping of things in this world, ye should all three have been clothed in the finest silks, and ride upon milk-white horses, with pages at your side, and feed upon nothing but whipped cream and strawberries; for such a life would surely befit your looks." At this speech all three of the pretty maids looked down, blushing and simpering. One said, "La!" another, "Marry, a' maketh sport of us!" and the third, "Listen, now, to the holy man!" But at the same time they looked at Little John from out the corners of their eyes. "Now, look you," said Little John, "I cannot see such dainty damsels as ye are carrying baskets along a highroad. Let me take them mine own self, and one of you, if ye will, may carry my staff for me." "Nay," said one of the lasses, "but thou canst not carry three baskets all at one time." "Yea, but I can," said Little John, "and that I will show you presently. I thank the good Saint Wilfred that he hath given me a pretty wit. Look ye, now. Here I take this great basket, so; here I tie my rosary around the handle, thus; and here I slip the rosary over my head and sling the basket upon my back, in this wise." And Little John did according to his words, the basket hanging down behind him like a peddler's pack; then, giving his staff to one of the maids, and taking a basket upon either arm, he turned his face toward Tuxford Town and stepped forth merrily, a laughing maid on either side, and one walking ahead, carrying the staff. In this wise they journeyed along, and everyone they met stopped and looked after them, laughing, for never had anybody seen such a merry sight as this tall, strapping Gray Friar, with robes all too short for him, laden with eggs, and tramping the road with three pretty lasses. For this Little John cared not a whit, but when such folks gave jesting words to him he answered back as merrily, speech for speech. So they stepped along toward Tuxford, chatting and laughing, until they came nigh to the town. Here Little John stopped and set down the baskets, for he did not care to go into the town lest he should, perchance, meet some of the Sheriff's men. "Alas! sweet chucks," quoth he, "here I must leave you. I had not thought to come this way, but I am glad that I did so. Now, ere we part, we must drink sweet friendship." So saying, he unslung the leathern pottle from the end of his staff, and, drawing the stopper therefrom, he handed it to the lass who had carried his staff, first wiping the mouth of the pottle upon his sleeve. Then each lass took a fair drink of what was within, and when it had passed all around, Little John finished what was left, so that not another drop could be squeezed from it. Then, kissing each lass sweetly, he wished them all good den, and left them. But the maids stood looking after him as he walked away whistling. "What a pity," quoth one, "that such a stout, lusty lad should be in holy orders." "Marry," quoth Little John to himself, as he strode along, "yon was no such ill happening; Saint Dunstan send me more of the like." After he had trudged along for a time he began to wax thirsty again in the warmth of the day. He shook his leathern pottle beside his ear, but not a sound came therefrom. Then he placed it to his lips and tilted it high aloft, but not a drop was there. "Little John! Little John!" said he sadly to himself, shaking his head the while, "woman will be thy ruin yet, if thou dost not take better care of thyself." But at last he reached the crest of a certain hill, and saw below a sweet little thatched inn lying snugly in the dale beneath him, toward which the road dipped sharply. At the sight of this, a voice within him cried aloud, "I give thee joy, good friend, for yonder is thy heart's delight, to wit, a sweet rest and a cup of brown beer." So he quickened his pace down the hill and so came to the little inn, from which hung a sign with a stag's head painted upon it. In front of the door a clucking hen was scratching in the dust with a brood of chickens about her heels, the sparrows were chattering of household affairs under the eaves, and all was so sweet and peaceful that Little John's heart laughed within him. Beside the door stood two stout cobs with broad soft-padded saddles, well fitted for easy traveling, and speaking of rich guests in the parlor. In front of the door three merry fellows, a tinker, a peddler, and a beggar, were seated on a bench in the sun quaffing stout ale. "I give you good den, sweet friends," quoth Little John, striding up to where they sat. "Give thee good den, holy father," quoth the merry Beggar with a grin. "But look thee, thy gown is too short. Thou hadst best cut a piece off the top and tack it to the bottom, so that it may be long enough. But come, sit beside us here and take a taste of ale, if thy vows forbid thee not." "Nay," quoth Little John, also grinning, "the blessed Saint Dunstan hath given me a free dispensation for all indulgence in that line." And he thrust his hand into his pouch for money to pay his score. "Truly," quoth the Tinker, "without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the good Saint Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is like to ha' many a penance to make. Nay, take thy hand from out thy pouch, brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot. Ho, landlord, a pot of ale!" So the ale was brought and given to Little John. Then, blowing the froth a little way to make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his eyes to keep the dazzle of the sunshine out of them. Then he took the pot away, for there was nothing in it, and heaved a full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist eyes and shaking his head solemnly. "Ho, landlord!" cried the Peddler, "bring this good fellow another pot of ale, for truly it is a credit to us all to have one among us who can empty a canakin so lustily." So they talked among themselves merrily, until after a while quoth Little John, "Who rideth those two nags yonder?" "Two holy men like thee, brother," quoth the Beggar. "They are now having a goodly feast within, for I smelled the steam of a boiled pullet just now. The landlady sayeth they come from Fountain Abbey, in Yorkshire, and go to Lincoln on matters of business." "They are a merry couple," said the Tinker, "for one is as lean as an old wife's spindle, and the other as fat as a suet pudding." "Talking of fatness," said the Peddler, "thou thyself lookest none too ill-fed, holy friar." "Nay, truly," said Little John, "thou seest in me what the holy Saint Dunstan can do for them that serve him upon a handful of parched peas and a trickle of cold water." At this a great shout of laughter went up. "Truly, it is a wondrous thing," quoth the Beggar, "I would have made my vow, to see the masterly manner in which thou didst tuck away yon pot of ale, that thou hadst not tasted clear water for a brace of months. Has not this same holy Saint Dunstan taught thee a goodly song or two?" "Why, as for that," quoth Little John, grinning, "mayhap he hath lent me aid to learn a ditty or so." "Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee," quoth the Tinker. At this Little John cleared his throat and, after a word or two about a certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus: "_Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go? I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also, And we'll gather the rose As it sweetly blows, For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing_." Now it seemed as though Little John's songs were never to get sung, for he had got no farther than this when the door of the inn opened and out came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the landlord following them, and, as the saying is, washing his hands with humble soap. But when the brothers of Fountain Abbey saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad in the robes of a Gray Friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little Brother drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the thin Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in his mouth. Then, as Little John gathered his breath for a new verse, "How, now," roared forth the fat Brother, his voice coming from him like loud thunder from a little cloud, "thou naughty fellow, is this a fit place for one in thy garb to tipple and sing profane songs?" "Nay," quoth Little John, "sin' I cannot tipple and sing, like Your Worship's reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must e'en tipple and sing where I can." "Now, out upon thee," cried the tall lean Brother in a harsh voice, "now, out upon thee, that thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this talk and bearing." "Marry, come up!" quoth Little John. "Disgrace, sayest thou? Methinks it is more disgrace for one of our garb to wring hard-earned farthings out of the gripe of poor lean peasants. It is not so, brother?" At this the Tinker and the Peddler and the Beggar nudged one another, and all grinned, and the friars scowled blackly at Little John; but they could think of nothing further to say, so they turned to their horses. Then Little John arose of a sudden from the bench where he sat, and ran to where the brothers of Fountain Abbey were mounting. Quoth he, "Let me hold your horses' bridles for you. Truly, your words have smitten my sinful heart, so that I will abide no longer in this den of evil, but will go forward with you. No vile temptation, I wot, will fall upon me in such holy company." "Nay, fellow," said the lean Brother harshly, for he saw that Little John made sport of them, "we want none of thy company, so get thee gone." "Alas," quoth Little John, "I am truly sorry that ye like me not nor my company, but as for leaving you, it may not be, for my heart is so moved, that, willy-nilly, I must go with you for the sake of your holy company." Now, at this talk all the good fellows on the bench grinned till their teeth glistened, and even the landlord could not forbear to smile. As for the friars, they looked at one another with a puzzled look, and knew not what to do in the matter. They were so proud that it made them feel sick with shame to think of riding along the highroad with a strolling friar, in robes all too short for him, running beside them, but yet they could not make Little John stay against his will, for they knew he could crack the bones of both of them in a twinkling were he so minded. Then up spake the fat Brother more mildly than he had done before. "Nay, good brother," said he, "we will ride fast, and thou wilt tire to death at the pace." "Truly, I am grateful to thee for the thought of me," quoth Little John, "but have no fear, brother; my limbs are stout, and I could run like a hare from here to Gainsborough." At these words a sound of laughing came from the bench, whereat the lean Brother's wrath boiled over, like water into the fire, with great fuss and noise. "Now, out upon thee, thou naughty fellow!" he cried. "Art thou not ashamed to bring disgrace so upon our cloth? Bide thee here, thou sot, with these porkers. Thou art no fit company for us." "La, ye there now!" quoth Little John. "Thou hearest, landlord; thou art not fit company for these holy men; go back to thine alehouse. Nay, if these most holy brothers of mine do but give me the word, I'll beat thy head with this stout staff till it is as soft as whipped eggs." At these words a great shout of laughter went up from those on the bench, and the landlord's face grew red as a cherry from smothering his laugh in his stomach; but he kept his merriment down, for he wished not to bring the ill-will of the brothers of Fountain Abbey upon him by unseemly mirth. So the two brethren, as they could do nought else, having mounted their nags, turned their noses toward Lincoln and rode away. "I cannot stay longer, sweet friends," quoth Little John, as he pushed in betwixt the two cobs, "therefore I wish you good den. Off we go, we three." So saying, he swung his stout staff over his shoulder and trudged off, measuring his pace with that of the two nags. The two brothers glowered at Little John when he so pushed himself betwixt them, then they drew as far away from him as they could, so that the yeoman walked in the middle of the road, while they rode on the footpath on either side of the way. As they so went away, the Tinker, the Peddler, and the Beggar ran skipping out into the middle of the highway, each with a pot in his hand, and looked after them laughing. While they were in sight of those at the inn, the brothers walked their horses soberly, not caring to make ill matters worse by seeming to run away from Little John, for they could not but think how it would sound in folks' ears when they heard how the brethren of Fountain Abbey scampered away from a strolling friar, like the Ugly One, when the blessed Saint Dunstan loosed his nose from the red-hot tongs where he had held it fast; but when they had crossed the crest of the hill and the inn was lost to sight, quoth the fat Brother to the thin Brother, "Brother Ambrose, had we not better mend our pace?" "Why truly, gossip," spoke up Little John, "methinks it would be well to boil our pot a little faster, for the day is passing on. So it will not jolt thy fat too much, onward, say I." At this the two friars said nothing, but they glared again on Little John with baleful looks; then, without another word, they clucked to their horses, and both broke into a canter. So they galloped for a mile and more, and Little John ran betwixt them as lightly as a stag and never turned a hair with the running. At last the fat Brother drew his horse's rein with a groan, for he could stand the shaking no longer. "Alas," said Little John, with not so much as a catch in his breath, "I did sadly fear that the roughness of this pace would shake thy poor old fat paunch." To this the fat Friar said never a word, but he stared straight before him, and he gnawed his nether lip. And now they traveled forward more quietly, Little John in the middle of the road whistling merrily to himself, and the two friars in the footpath on either side saying never a word. Then presently they met three merry minstrels, all clad in red, who stared amain to see a Gray Friar with such short robes walking in the middle of the road, and two brothers with heads bowed with shame, riding upon richly caparisoned cobs on the footpaths. When they had come near to the minstrels, Little John waved his staff like an usher clearing the way. "Make way!" he cried in a loud voice. "Make way! make way! For here we go, we three!" Then how the minstrels stared, and how they laughed! But the fat Friar shook as with an ague, and the lean Friar bowed his head over his horse's neck. Then next they met two noble knights in rich array, with hawk on wrist, and likewise two fair ladies clad in silks and velvets, all a-riding on noble steeds. These all made room, staring, as Little John and the two friars came along the road. To them Little John bowed humbly. "Give you greetings, lords and ladies," said he. "But here we go, we three." Then all laughed, and one of the fair ladies cried out, "What three meanest thou, merry friend?" Little John looked over his shoulder, for they had now passed each other, and he called back, "Big Jack, lean Jack and fat Jack-pudding." At this the fat Friar gave a groan and seemed as if he were like to fall from his saddle for shame; the other brother said nothing, but he looked before him with a grim and stony look. Just ahead of them the road took a sudden turn around a high hedge, and some twoscore paces beyond the bend another road crossed the one they were riding upon. When they had come to the crossroad and were well away from those they had left, the lean Friar drew rein suddenly. "Look ye, fellow," quoth he in a voice quivering with rage, "we have had enough of thy vile company, and care no longer to be made sport of. Go thy way, and let us go ours in peace." "La there, now!" quoth Little John. "Methought we were such a merry company, and here thou dost blaze up like fat in the pan. But truly, I ha' had enow of you today, though I can ill spare your company. I know ye will miss me, but gin ye want me again, whisper to Goodman Wind, and he will bring news thereof to me. But ye see I am a poor man and ye are rich. I pray you give me a penny or two to buy me bread and cheese at the next inn." "We have no money, fellow," said the lean Friar harshly. "Come, Brother Thomas, let us forward." But Little John caught the horses by the bridle reins, one in either hand. "Ha' ye in truth no money about you whatsoever?" said he. "Now, I pray you, brothers, for charity's sake, give me somewhat to buy a crust of bread, e'en though it be only a penny." "I tell thee, fellow, we have no money," thundered the fat little Friar with the great voice. "Ha' ye, in holy truth, no money?" asked Little John. "Not a farthing," said the lean Friar sourly. "Not a groat," said the fat Friar loudly. "Nay," quoth Little John, "this must not be. Far be it from me to see such holy men as ye are depart from me with no money. Get both of you down straightway from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of the crossroads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us some money to carry us on our journey." "What sayest thou, thou limb of evil!" cried the lean Friar, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "Doss thou bid me, the high cellarer of Fountain Abbey, to get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to pray to some beggarly Saxon saint?" "Now," quoth Little John, "I ha' a great part of a mind to crack thy head for thee for speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan! But get down straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I may forget that ye are both in holy orders." So saying, he twirled his stout staff till it whistled again. At this speech both friars grew as pale as dough. Down slipped the fat Brother from off his horse on one side, and down slipped the lean Brother on the other. "Now, brothers, down on your knees and pray," said Little John; thereupon, putting his heavy hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced them to their knees, he kneeling also. Then Little John began to beseech Saint Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice. After he had so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in their pouches and see if the Saint had sent them anything; so each put his hand slowly in the pouch that hung beside him, but brought nothing thence. "Ha!" quoth Little John, "have your prayers so little virtue? Then let us at it again." Then straightway he began calling on Saint Dunstan again, somewhat in this wise: "O gracious Saint Dunstan! Send some money straightway to these poor folk, lest the fat one waste away and grow as lean as the lean one, and the lean one waste away to nothing at all, ere they get to Lincoln Town; but send them only ten shillings apiece, lest they grow puffed up with pride, Any more than that that thou sendest, send to me. "Now," quoth he, rising, "let us see what each man hath." Then he thrust his hand into his pouch and drew thence four golden angels. "What have ye, brothers?" said he. Then once again each friar slowly thrust his hand into his pouch, and once again brought it out with nothing in it. "Have ye nothing?" quoth Little John. "Nay, I warrant there is somewhat that hath crept into the seams of your pouches, and so ye ha' missed it. Let me look." So he went first to the lean Friar, and, thrusting his hand into the pouch, he drew forth a leathern bag and counted therefrom one hundred and ten pounds of golden money. "I thought," quoth Little John, "that thou hadst missed, in some odd corner of thy pouch, the money that the blessed Saint had sent thee. And now let me see whether thou hast not some, also, brother." Thereupon he thrust his hand into the pouch of the fat Friar and drew thence a bag like the other and counted out from it threescore and ten pounds. "Look ye now," quoth he, "I knew the good Saint had sent thee some pittance that thou, also, hadst missed." Then, giving them one pound between them, he slipped the rest of the money into his own pouch, saying, "Ye pledged me your holy word that ye had no money. Being holy men, I trust that ye would not belie your word so pledged, therefore I know the good Saint Dunstan hath sent this in answer to my prayers. But as I only prayed for ten shillings to be sent to each of you, all over and above that belongeth by rights to me, and so I take it. I give you good den, brothers, and may ye have a pleasant journey henceforth." So saying, he turned and left them, striding away. The friars looked at one another with a woeful look, and slowly and sadly they mounted their horses again and rode away with never a word. But Little John turned his footsteps back again to Sherwood Forest, and merrily he whistled as he strode along. And now we will see what befell Robin Hood in his venture as beggar. Robin Hood Turns Beggar AFTER JOLLY ROBIN had left Little John at the forking of the roads, he walked merrily onward in the mellow sunshine that shone about him. Ever and anon he would skip and leap or sing a snatch of song, for pure joyousness of the day; for, because of the sweetness of the springtide, his heart was as lusty within him as that of a colt newly turned out to grass. Sometimes he would walk a long distance, gazing aloft at the great white swelling clouds that moved slowly across the deep blue sky; anon he would stop and drink in the fullness of life of all things, for the hedgerows were budding tenderly and the grass of the meadows was waxing long and green; again he would stand still and listen to the pretty song of the little birds in the thickets or hearken to the clear crow of the cock daring the sky to rain, whereat he would laugh, for it took but little to tickle Robin's heart into merriment. So he trudged manfully along, ever willing to stop for this reason or for that, and ever ready to chat with such merry lasses as he met now and then. So the morning slipped along, but yet he met no beggar with whom he could change clothes. Quoth he, "If I do not change my luck in haste, I am like to have an empty day of it, for it is well nigh half gone already, and, although I have had a merry walk through the countryside, I know nought of a beggar's life." Then, after a while, he began to grow hungry, whereupon his mind turned from thoughts of springtime and flowers and birds and dwelled upon boiled capons, Malmsey, white bread, and the like, with great tenderness. Quoth he to himself, "I would I had Willie Wynkin's wishing coat; I know right well what I should wish for, and this it should be." Here he marked upon the fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand those things which he wished for. "Firstly, I would have a sweet brown pie of tender larks; mark ye, not dry cooked, but with a good sop of gravy to moisten it withal. Next, I would have a pretty pullet, fairly boiled, with tender pigeons' eggs, cunningly sliced, garnishing the platter around. With these I would have a long, slim loaf of wheaten bread that hath been baked upon the hearth; it should be warm from the fire, with glossy brown crust, the color of the hair of mine own Maid Marian, and this same crust should be as crisp and brittle as the thin white ice that lies across the furrows in the early winter's morning. These will do for the more solid things; but with these I must have three potties, fat and round, one full of Malmsey, one of Canary, and one brimming full of mine own dear lusty sack." Thus spoke Robin to himself, his mouth growing moist at the corners with the thoughts of the good things he had raised in his own mind. So, talking to himself, he came to where the dusty road turned sharply around the hedge, all tender with the green of the coming leaf, and there he saw before him a stout fellow sitting upon a stile, swinging his legs in idleness. All about this lusty rogue dangled divers pouches and bags of different sizes and kinds, a dozen or more, with great, wide, gaping mouths, like a brood of hungry daws. His coat was gathered in at his waist, and was patched with as many colors as there are stripes upon a Maypole in the springtide. On his head he wore a great tall leathern cap, and across his knees rested a stout quarterstaff of blackthorn, full as long and heavy as Robin's. As jolly a beggar was he as ever trod the lanes and byways of Nottinghamshire, for his eyes were as gray as slate, and snapped and twinkled and danced with merriment, and his black hair curled close all over his head in little rings of kinkiness. "Halloa, good fellow," quoth Robin, when he had come nigh to the other, "what art thou doing here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and the buds are swelling?" Then the other winked one eye and straightway trolled forth in a merry voice: "_I sit upon the stile, And I sing a little while As I wait for my own true dear, O, For the sun is shining bright, And the leaves are dancing light, And the little fowl sings she is near, O_. "And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh not." "Now that is a right sweet song," quoth Robin, "and, were I in the right mind to listen to thee, I could bear well to hear more; but I have two things of seriousness to ask of thee; so listen, I prythee." At this the jolly Beggar cocked his head on one side, like a rogue of a magpie. Quoth he, "I am an ill jug to pour heavy things into, good friend, and, if I mistake not, thou hast few serious words to spare at any time." "Nay," quoth jolly Robin, "what I would say first is the most serious of all thoughts to me, to wit, 'Where shall I get somewhat to eat and drink?'" "Sayst thou so?" quoth the Beggar. "Marry, I make no such serious thoughts upon the matter. I eat when I can get it, and munch my crust when I can get no crumb; likewise, when there is no ale to be had I wash the dust from out my throat with a trickle of cold water. I was sitting here, as thou camest upon me, bethinking myself whether I should break my fast or no. I do love to let my hunger grow mightily keen ere I eat, for then a dry crust is as good to me as a venison pasty with suet and raisins is to stout King Harry. I have a sharp hunger upon me now, but methinks in a short while it will ripen to a right mellow appetite." "Now, in good sooth," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "thou hast a quaint tongue betwixt thy teeth. But hast thou truly nought but a dry crust about thee? Methinks thy bags and pouches are fat and lusty for such thin fare." "Why, mayhap there is some other cold fare therein," said the Beggar slyly. "And hast thou nought to drink but cold water?" said Robin. "Never so much as a drop," quoth the Beggar. "Over beyond yon clump of trees is as sweet a little inn as ever thou hast lifted eyelid upon; but I go not thither, for they have a nasty way with me. Once, when the good Prior of Emmet was dining there, the landlady set a dear little tart of stewed crabs and barley sugar upon the window sill to cool, and, seeing it there, and fearing it might be lost, I took it with me till that I could find the owner thereof. Ever since then they have acted very ill toward me; yet truth bids me say that they have the best ale there that ever rolled over my tongue." At this Robin laughed aloud. "Marry," quoth he, "they did ill toward thee for thy kindness. But tell me truly, what hast thou in thy pouches?" "Why," quoth the Beggar, peeping into the mouths of his bags, "I find here a goodly piece of pigeon pie, wrapped in a cabbage leaf to hold the gravy. Here I behold a dainty streaked piece of brawn, and here a fair lump of white bread. Here I find four oaten cakes and a cold knuckle of ham. Ha! In sooth, 'tis strange; but here I behold six eggs that must have come by accident from some poultry yard hereabouts. They are raw, but roasted upon the coals and spread with a piece of butter that I see--" "Peace, good friend!" cried Robin, holding up his hand. "Thou makest my poor stomach quake with joy for what thou tellest me so sweetly. If thou wilt give me to eat, I will straightway hie me to that little inn thou didst tell of but now, and will bring a skin of ale for thy drinking and mine." "Friend, thou hast said enough," said the Beggar, getting down from the stile. "I will feast thee with the best that I have and bless Saint Cedric for thy company. But, sweet chuck, I prythee bring three quarts of ale at least, one for thy drinking and two for mine, for my thirst is such that methinks I can drink ale as the sands of the River Dee drink salt water." So Robin straightway left the Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a budding lime bush back of the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the grass and roasted his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by long labor in that line. After a while back came Robin bearing a goodly skin of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the grass. Then, looking upon the feast spread upon the ground--and a fair sight it was to look upon--he slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed the fairest sight that he had beheld in all his life. "Friend," said the Beggar, "let me feel the weight of that skin. "Yea, truly," quoth Robin, "help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let me see whether thy pigeon pie is fresh or no." So the one seized upon the ale and the other upon the pigeon pie, and nothing was heard for a while but the munching of food and the gurgle of ale as it left the skin. At last, after a long time had passed thus, Robin pushed the food from him and heaved a great sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had been made all over anew. "And now, good friend," quoth he, leaning upon one elbow, "I would have at thee about that other matter of seriousness of which I spoke not long since." "How!" said the Beggar reproachfully, "thou wouldst surely not talk of things appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!" "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing. "I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend; drink while I talk to thee. Thus it is: I would have thee know that I have taken a liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar's life mine own self." Said the Beggar, "I marvel not that thou hast taken a liking to my manner of life, good fellow, but 'to like' and 'to do' are two matters of different sorts. I tell thee, friend, one must serve a long apprenticeship ere one can learn to be even so much as a clapper- dudgeon, much less a crank or an Abraham-man.[3] I tell thee, lad, thou art too old to enter upon that which it may take thee years to catch the hang of." [3] Classes of traveling mendicants that infested England as late as the middle of the seventeenth century. VIDE Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES, etc. "Mayhap that may be so," quoth Robin, "for I bring to mind that Gaffer Swanthold sayeth Jack Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill shoon. Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar's life, and need but the clothing to be as good as any." "I tell thee, fellow," said the Beggar, "if thou wert clad as sweetly as good Saint Wynten, the patron of our craft, thou wouldst never make a beggar. Marry, the first jolly traveler that thou wouldst meet would beat thee to a pudding for thrusting thy nose into a craft that belongeth not to thee." "Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "I would have a try at it; and methinks I shall change clothes with thee, for thy garb seemeth to be pretty, not to say gay. So not only will I change clothes, but I will give thee two golden angels to boot. I have brought my stout staff with me, thinking that I might have to rap some one of the brethren of thy cloth over the head by way of argument in this matter, but I love thee so much for the feast thou hast given me that I would not lift even my little finger against thee, so thou needst not have a crumb of fear." To this the Beggar listened with his knuckles resting against his hips, and when Robin had ended he cocked his head on one side and thrust his tongue into his cheek. "Marry, come up," quoth he at last. "Lift thy finger against me, forsooth! Art thou out of thy wits, man? My name is Riccon Hazel, and I come from Holywell, in Flintshire, over by the River Dee. I tell thee, knave, I have cracked the head of many a better man than thou art, and even now I would scald thy crown for thee but for the ale thou hast given me. Now thou shalt not have so much as one tag-rag of my coat, even could it save thee from hanging." "Now, fellow," said Robin, "it would ill suit me to spoil thy pretty head for thee, but I tell thee plainly, that but for this feast I would do that to thee would stop thy traveling the country for many a day to come. Keep thy lips shut, lad, or thy luck will tumble out of thy mouth with thy speech!" "Now out, and alas for thee, man, for thou hast bred thyself ill this day!" cried the Beggar, rising and taking up his staff. "Take up thy club and defend thyself, fellow, for I will not only beat thee but I will take from thee thy money and leave thee not so much as a clipped groat to buy thyself a lump of goose grease to rub thy cracked crown withal. So defend thyself, I say." Then up leaped merry Robin and snatched up his staff also. "Take my money, if thou canst," quoth he. "I promise freely to give thee every farthing if thou dost touch me." And he twirled his staff in his fingers till it whistled again. Then the Beggar swung his staff also, and struck a mighty blow at Robin, which the yeoman turned. Three blows the Beggar struck, yet never one touched so much as a hair of Robin's head. Then stout Robin saw his chance, and, ere you could count three, Riccon's staff was over the hedge, and Riccon himself lay upon the green grass with no more motion than you could find in an empty pudding bag. "How now!" quoth merry Robin, laughing. "Wilt thou have my hide or my money, sweet chuck?" But to this the other answered never a word. Then Robin, seeing his plight, and that he was stunned with the blow, ran, still laughing, and brought the skin of ale and poured some of it on the Beggar's head and some down his throat, so that presently he opened his eyes and looked around as though wondering why he lay upon his back. Then Robin, seeing that he had somewhat gathered the wits that had just been rapped out of his head, said, "Now, good fellow, wilt thou change clothes with me, or shall I have to tap thee again? Here are two golden angels if thou wilt give me freely all thy rags and bags and thy cap and things. If thou givest them not freely, I much fear me I shall have to-- " and he looked up and down his staff. Then Riccon sat up and rubbed the bump on his crown. "Now, out upon it!" quoth he. "I did think to drub thee sweetly, fellow. I know not how it is, but I seem, as it were, to have bought more beer than I can drink. If I must give up my clothes, I must, but first promise me, by thy word as a true yeoman, that thou wilt take nought from me but my clothes." "I promise on the word of a true yeoman," quoth Robin, thinking that the fellow had a few pennies that he would save. Thereupon the Beggar drew a little knife that hung at his side and, ripping up the lining of his coat, drew thence ten bright golden pounds, which he laid upon the ground beside him with a cunning wink at Robin. "Now thou mayst have my clothes and welcome," said he, "and thou mightest have had them in exchange for thine without the cost of a single farthing, far less two golden angels." "Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art a sly fellow, and I tell thee truly, had I known thou hadst so much money by thee maybe thou mightst not have carried it away, for I warrant thou didst not come honestly by it." Then each stripped off his clothes and put on those of the other, and as lusty a beggar was Robin Hood as e'er you could find of a summer's day. But stout Riccon of Holywell skipped and leaped and danced for joy of the fair suit of Lincoln green that he had so gotten. Quoth he, "I am a gay-feathered bird now. Truly, my dear Moll Peascod would never know me in this dress. Thou mayst keep the cold pieces of the feast, friend, for I mean to live well and lustily while my money lasts and my clothes are gay." So he turned and left Robin and, crossing the stile, was gone, but Robin heard him singing from beyond the hedge as he strode away: "_For Polly is smiling and Molly is glad When the beggar comes in at the door, And Jack and Dick call him a fine lusty lad, And the hostess runs up a great score. Then hey, Willy Waddykin, Stay, Billy Waddykin, And let the brown ale flow free, flow free, The beggar's the man for me_." Robin listened till the song ended in the distance, then he also crossed the stile into the road, but turned his toes away from where the Beggar had gone. The road led up a gentle hill and up the hill Robin walked, a half score or more of bags dangling about his legs. Onward he strolled for a long time, but other adventure he found not. The road was bare of all else but himself, as he went kicking up little clouds of dust at each footstep; for it was noontide, the most peaceful time of all the day, next to twilight. All the earth was silent in the restfulness of eating time; the plowhorses stood in the furrow munching, with great bags over their noses holding sweet food, the plowman sat under the hedge and the plowboy also, and they, too, were munching, each one holding a great piece of bread in one fist and a great piece of cheese in the other. So Robin, with all the empty road to himself, strode along whistling merrily, his bags and pouches bobbing and dangling at his thighs. At last he came to where a little grass-grown path left the road and, passing through a stile and down a hill, led into a little dell and on across a rill in the valley and up the hill on the other side, till it reached a windmill that stood on the cap of the rise where the wind bent the trees in swaying motion. Robin looked at the spot and liked it, and, for no reason but that his fancy led him, he took the little path and walked down the grassy sunny slope of the open meadow, and so came to the little dingle and, ere he knew it, upon four lusty fellows that sat with legs outstretched around a goodly feast spread upon the ground. Four merry beggars were they, and each had slung about his neck a little board that rested upon his breast. One board had written upon it, "I am blind," another, "I am deaf," another, "I am dumb," and the fourth, "Pity the lame one." But although all these troubles written upon the boards seemed so grievous, the four stout fellows sat around feasting as merrily as though Cain's wife had never opened the pottle that held misfortunes and let them forth like a cloud of flies to pester us. The deaf man was the first to hear Robin, for he said, "Hark, brothers, I hear someone coming." And the blind man was the first to see him, for he said, "He is an honest man, brothers, and one of like craft to ourselves." Then the dumb man called to him in a great voice and said, "Welcome, brother; come and sit while there is still some of the feast left and a little Malmsey in the pottle." At this, the lame man, who had taken off his wooden leg and unstrapped his own leg, and was sitting with it stretched out upon the grass so as to rest it, made room for Robin among them. "We are glad to see thee, brother," said he, holding out the flask of Malmsey. "Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, and weighing the flask in his hands ere he drank, "methinks it is no more than seemly of you all to be glad to see me, seeing that I bring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, and such a lusty leg to a lame man. I drink to your happiness, brothers, as I may not drink to your health, seeing ye are already hale, wind and limb." At this all grinned, and the Blind beggar, who was the chief man among them, and was the broadest shouldered and most lusty rascal of all, smote Robin upon the shoulder, swearing he was a right merry wag. "Whence comest thou, lad?" asked the Dumb man. "Why," quoth Robin, "I came this morning from sleeping overnight in Sherwood." "Is it even so?" said the Deaf man. "I would not for all the money we four are carrying to Lincoln Town sleep one night in Sherwood. If Robin Hood caught one of our trade in his woodlands he would, methinks, clip his ears." "Methinks he would, too," quoth Robin, laughing. "But what money is this that ye speak of?" Then up spake the Lame man. "Our king, Peter of York," said he, "hath sent us to Lincoln with those moneys that--" "Stay, brother Hodge," quoth the Blind man, breaking into the talk, "I would not doubt our brother here, but bear in mind we know him not. What art thou, brother? Upright-man, Jurkman, Clapper-dudgeon, Dommerer, or Abraham-man?" At these words Robin looked from one man to the other with mouth agape. "Truly," quoth he, "I trust I am an upright man, at least, I strive to be; but I know not what thou meanest by such jargon, brother. It were much more seemly, methinks, if yon Dumb man, who hath a sweet voice, would give us a song." At these words a silence fell on all, and after a while the Blind man spoke again. Quoth he, "Thou dost surely jest when thou sayest that thou dost not understand such words. Answer me this: Hast thou ever fibbed a chouse quarrons in the Rome pad for the loure in his bung?"[4] [4] I.E., in old beggar's cant, "beaten a man or gallant upon the highway for the money in his purse." Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES. "Now out upon it," quoth Robin Hood testily, "an ye make sport of me by pattering such gibberish, it will be ill for you all, I tell you. I have the best part of a mind to crack the heads of all four of you, and would do so, too, but for the sweet Malmsey ye have given me. Brother, pass the pottle lest it grow cold." But all the four beggars leaped to their feet when Robin had done speaking, and the Blind man snatched up a heavy knotted cudgel that lay beside him on the grass, as did the others likewise. Then Robin, seeing that things were like to go ill with him, albeit he knew not what all the coil was about, leaped to his feet also and, catching up his trusty staff, clapped his back against the tree and stood upon his guard against them. "How, now!" cried he, twirling his staff betwixt his fingers, "would you four stout fellows set upon one man? Stand back, ye rascals, or I will score your pates till they have as many marks upon them as a pothouse door! Are ye mad? I have done you no harm." "Thou liest!" quoth the one who pretended to be blind and who, being the lustiest villain, was the leader of the others, "thou liest! For thou hast come among us as a vile spy. But thine ears have heard too much for thy body's good, and thou goest not forth from this place unless thou goest feet foremost, for this day thou shalt die! Come, brothers, all together! Down with him!" Then, whirling up his cudgel, he rushed upon Robin as an angry bull rushes upon a red rag. But Robin was ready for any happening. "Crick! Crack!" he struck two blows as quick as a wink, and down went the Blind man, rolling over and over upon the grass. At this the others bore back and stood at a little distance scowling upon Robin. "Come on, ye scum!" cried he merrily. "Here be cakes and ale for all. Now, who will be next served?" To this speech the beggars answered never a word, but they looked at Robin as great Blunderbore looked upon stout Jack the slayer of giants, as though they would fain eat him, body and bones; nevertheless, they did not care to come nigher to him and his terrible staff. Then, seeing them so hesitate, Robin of a sudden leaped upon them, striking even as he leaped. Down went the Dumb man, and away flew his cudgel from his hand as he fell. At this the others ducked to avoid another blow, then, taking to their heels, scampered, the one one way and the other the other, as though they had the west wind's boots upon their feet. Robin looked after them, laughing, and thought that never had he seen so fleet a runner as the Lame man; but neither of the beggars stopped nor turned around, for each felt in his mind the wind of Robin's cudgel about his ears. Then Robin turned to the two stout knaves lying upon the ground. Quoth he, "These fellows spake somewhat about certain moneys they were taking to Lincoln; methinks I may find it upon this stout blind fellow, who hath as keen sight as e'er a trained woodsman in Nottingham or Yorkshire. It were a pity to let sound money stay in the pockets of such thieving knaves." So saying, he stooped over the burly rascal and searched among his rags and tatters, till presently his fingers felt a leathern pouch slung around his body beneath his patched and tattered coat. This he stripped away and, weighing it in his hands, bethought himself that it was mighty heavy. "It were a sweet thing," said he to himself, "if this were filled with gold instead of copper pence." Then, sitting down upon the grass, he opened the pocket and looked into it. There he found four round rolls wrapped up in dressed sheepskin; one of these rolls he opened; then his mouth gaped and his eyes stared, I wot, as though they would never close again, for what did he see but fifty pounds of bright golden money? He opened the other pockets and found in each one the same, fifty bright new-stamped golden pounds. Quoth Robin, "I have oft heard that the Beggars' Guild was over-rich, but never did I think that they sent such sums as this to their treasury. I shall take it with me, for it will be better used for charity and the good of my merry band than in the enriching of such knaves as these." So saying, he rolled up the money in the sheepskin again, and putting it back in the purse, he thrust the pouch into his own bosom. Then taking up the flask of Malmsey, he held it toward the two fellows lying on the grass, and quoth he, "Sweet friends, I drink your health and thank you dearly for what ye have so kindly given me this day, and so I wish you good den." Then, taking up his staff, he left the spot and went merrily on his way. But when the two stout beggars that had been rapped upon the head roused themselves and sat up, and when the others had gotten over their fright and come back, they were as sad and woebegone as four frogs in dry weather, for two of them had cracked crowns, their Malmsey was all gone, and they had not so much as a farthing to cross their palms withal. But after Robin left the little dell he strode along merrily, singing as he went; and so blithe was he and such a stout beggar, and, withal, so fresh and clean, that every merry lass he met had a sweet word for him and felt no fear, while the very dogs, that most times hate the sight of a beggar, snuffed at his legs in friendly wise and wagged their tails pleasantly; for dogs know an honest man by his smell, and an honest man Robin was--in his own way. Thus he went along till at last he had come to the wayside cross nigh Ollerton, and, being somewhat tired, he sat him down to rest upon the grassy bank in front of it. "It groweth nigh time," quoth he to himself, "that I were getting back again to Sherwood; yet it would please me well to have one more merry adventure ere I go back again to my jolly band." So he looked up the road and down the road to see who might come, until at last he saw someone drawing near, riding upon a horse. When the traveler came nigh enough for him to see him well, Robin laughed, for a strange enough figure he cut. He was a thin, wizened man, and, to look upon him, you could not tell whether he was thirty years old or sixty, so dried up was he even to skin and bone. As for the nag, it was as thin as the rider, and both looked as though they had been baked in Mother Huddle's Oven, where folk are dried up so that they live forever. But although Robin laughed at the droll sight, he knew the wayfarer to be a certain rich corn engrosser of Worksop, who more than once had bought all the grain in the countryside and held it till it reached even famine prices, thus making much money from the needs of poor people, and for this he was hated far and near by everyone that knew aught of him. So, after a while, the Corn Engrosser came riding up to where Robin sat; whereupon merry Robin stepped straightway forth, in all his rags and tatters, his bags and pouches dangling about him, and laid his hand upon the horse's bridle rein, calling upon the other to stop. "Who art thou, fellow, that doth dare to stop me thus upon the King's highway?" said the lean man, in a dry, sour voice. "Pity a poor beggar," quoth Robin. "Give me but a farthing to buy me a piece of bread." "Now, out upon thee!" snarled the other. "Such sturdy rogues as thou art are better safe in the prisons or dancing upon nothing, with a hempen collar about the neck, than strolling the highways so freely." "Tut," quoth Robin, "how thou talkest! Thou and I are brothers, man. Do we not both take from the poor people that which they can ill spare? Do we not make our livings by doing nought of any good? Do we not both live without touching palm to honest work? Have we either of us ever rubbed thumbs over honestly gained farthings? Go to! We are brothers, I say; only thou art rich and I am poor; wherefore, I prythee once more, give me a penny." "Doss thou prate so to me, sirrah?" cried the Corn Engrosser in a rage. "Now I will have thee soundly whipped if ever I catch thee in any town where the law can lay hold of thee! As for giving thee a penny, I swear to thee that I have not so much as a single groat in my purse. Were Robin Hood himself to take me, he might search me from crown to heel without finding the smallest piece of money upon me. I trust I am too sly to travel so nigh to Sherwood with money in my pouch, and that thief at large in the woods." Then merry Robin looked up and down, as if to see that there was no one nigh, and then, coming close to the Corn Engrosser, he stood on tiptoe and spake in his ear, "Thinkest thou in sooth that I am a beggar, as I seem to be? Look upon me. There is not a grain of dirt upon my hands or my face or my body. Didst thou ever see a beggar so? I tell thee I am as honest a man as thou art. Look, friend." Here he took the purse of money from his breast and showed to the dazzled eyes of the Corn Engrosser the bright golden pieces. "Friend, these rags serve but to hide an honest rich man from the eyes of Robin Hood." "Put up thy money, lad," cried the other quickly. "Art thou a fool, to trust to beggar's rags to shield thee from Robin Hood? If he caught thee, he would strip thee to the skin, for he hates a lusty beggar as he doth a fat priest or those of my kind." "Is it indeed so?" quoth Robin. "Had I known this, mayhap I had not come hereabouts in this garb. But I must go forward now, as much depends upon my journeying. Where goest thou, friend?" "I go to Grantham," said the Corn Engrosser, "but I shall lodge tonight at Newark, if I can get so far upon my way." "Why, I myself am on the way to Newark," quoth merry Robin, "so that, as two honest men are better than one in roads beset by such a fellow as this Robin Hood, I will jog along with thee, if thou hast no dislike to my company." "Why, as thou art an honest fellow and a rich fellow," said the Corn Engrosser, "I mind not thy company; but, in sooth, I have no great fondness for beggars." "Then forward," quoth Robin, "for the day wanes and it will be dark ere we reach Newark." So off they went, the lean horse hobbling along as before, and Robin running beside, albeit he was so quaking with laughter within him that he could hardly stand; yet he dared not laugh aloud, lest the Corn Engrosser should suspect something. So they traveled along till they reached a hill just on the outskirts of Sherwood. Here the lean man checked his lean horse into a walk, for the road was steep, and he wished to save his nag's strength, having far to go ere he reached Newark. Then he turned in his saddle and spake to Robin again, for the first time since they had left the cross. "Here is thy greatest danger, friend," said he, "for here we are nighest to that vile thief Robin Hood, and the place where he dwells. Beyond this we come again to the open honest country, and so are more safe in our journeying." "Alas!" quoth Robin, "I would that I had as little money by me as thou hast, for this day I fear that Robin Hood will get every groat of my wealth." Then the other looked at Robin and winked cunningly. Quoth he, "I tell thee, friend, that I have nigh as much by me as thou hast, but it is hidden so that never a knave in Sherwood could find it." "Thou dost surely jest," quoth Robin. "How could one hide so much as two hundred pounds upon his person?" "Now, as thou art so honest a fellow, and, withal, so much younger than I am, I will tell thee that which I have told to no man in all the world before, and thus thou mayst learn never again to do such a foolish thing as to trust to beggar's garb to guard thee against Robin Hood. Seest thou these clogs upon my feet?" "Yea," quoth Robin, laughing, "truly, they are large enough for any man to see, even were his sight as foggy as that of Peter Patter, who never could see when it was time to go to work." "Peace, friend," said the Corn Engrosser, "for this is no matter for jesting. The soles of these clogs are not what they seem to be, for each one is a sweet little box; and by twisting the second nail from the toe, the upper of the shoe and part of the sole lifts up like a lid, and in the spaces within are fourscore and ten bright golden pounds in each shoe, all wrapped in hair, to keep them from clinking and so telling tales of themselves." When the Corn Engrosser had told this, Robin broke into a roar of laughter and, laying his hands upon the bridle rein, stopped the sad- looking nag. "Stay, good friend," quoth he, between bursts of merriment, "thou art the slyest old fox that e'er I saw in all my life! --In the soles of his shoon, quotha!--If ever I trust a poor-seeming man again, shave my head and paint it blue! A corn factor, a horse jockey, an estate agent, and a jackdaw for cunningness, say I!" And he laughed again till he shook in his shoes with mirth. All this time the Corn Engrosser had been staring at Robin, his mouth agape with wonder. "Art thou mad," quoth he, "to talk in this way, so loud and in such a place? Let us forward, and save thy mirth till we are safe and sound at Newark." "Nay," quoth Robin, the tears of merriment wet on his cheeks, "on second thoughts I go no farther than here, for I have good friends hereabouts. Thou mayst go forward if thou dost list, thou sweet pretty fellow, but thou must go forward barefoot, for I am afraid that thy shoon must be left behind. Off with them, friend, for I tell thee I have taken a great fancy to them." At these words the corn factor grew pale as a linen napkin. "Who art thou that talkest so?" said he. Then merry Robin laughed again, and quoth he, "Men hereabouts call me Robin Hood; so, sweet friend, thou hadst best do my bidding and give me thy shoes, wherefore hasten, I prythee, or else thou wilt not get to fair Newark Town till after dark." At the sound of the name of Robin Hood, the corn factor quaked with fear, so that he had to seize his horse by the mane to save himself from falling off its back. Then straightway, and without more words, he stripped off his clogs and let them fall upon the road. Robin, still holding the bridle rein, stooped and picked them up. Then he said, "Sweet friend, I am used to ask those that I have dealings with to come and feast at Sherwood with me. I will not ask thee, because of our pleasant journey together; for I tell thee there be those in Sherwood that would not be so gentle with thee as I have been. The name of Corn Engrosser leaves a nasty taste upon the tongue of all honest men. Take a fool's advice of me and come no more so nigh to Sherwood, or mayhap some day thou mayst of a sudden find a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs. So, with this, I give thee good den." Hereupon he clapped his hand to the horse's flank and off went nag and rider. But the man's face was all bedewed with the sweat of fright, and never again, I wot, was he found so close to Sherwood Forest as he had been this day. Robin stood and looked after him, and, when he was fairly gone, turned, laughing, and entered the forest carrying the shoes in his hand. That night in sweet Sherwood the red fires glowed brightly in wavering light on tree and bush, and all around sat or lay the stout fellows of the band to hear Robin Hood and Little John tell their adventures. All listened closely, and again and again the woods rang with shouts of laughter. When all was told, Friar Tuck spoke up. "Good master," said he, "thou hast had a pretty time, but still I hold to my saying, that the life of the barefoot friar is the merrier of the two." "Nay," quoth Will Stutely, "I hold with our master, that he hath had the pleasanter doings of the two, for he hath had two stout bouts at quarterstaff this day." So some of the band held with Robin Hood and some with Little John. As for me, I think--But I leave it with you to say for yourselves which you hold with. Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen Eleanor THE HIGHROAD stretched white and dusty in the hot summer afternoon sun, and the trees stood motionless along the roadside. All across the meadow lands the hot air danced and quivered, and in the limpid waters of the lowland brook, spanned by a little stone bridge, the fish hung motionless above the yellow gravel, and the dragonfly sat quite still, perched upon the sharp tip of a spike of the rushes, with its wings glistening in the sun. Along the road a youth came riding upon a fair milk-white barb, and the folk that he passed stopped and turned and looked after him, for never had so lovely a lad or one so gaily clad been seen in Nottingham before. He could not have been more than sixteen years of age, and was as fair as any maiden. His long yellow hair flowed behind him as he rode along, all clad in silk and velvet, with jewels flashing and dagger jingling against the pommel of the saddle. Thus came the Queen's Page, young Richard Partington, from famous London Town down into Nottinghamshire, upon Her Majesty's bidding, to seek Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. The road was hot and dusty and his journey had been long, for that day he had come all the way from Leicester Town, a good twenty miles and more; wherefore young Partington was right glad when he saw before him a sweet little inn, all shady and cool beneath the trees, in front of the door of which a sign hung pendant, bearing the picture of a blue boar. Here he drew rein and called loudly for a pottle of Rhenish wine to be brought him, for stout country ale was too coarse a drink for this young gentleman. Five lusty fellows sat upon the bench beneath the pleasant shade of the wide-spreading oak in front of the inn door, drinking ale and beer, and all stared amain at this fair and gallant lad. Two of the stoutest of them were clothed in Lincoln green, and a great heavy oaken staff leaned against the gnarled oak tree trunk beside each fellow. The landlord came and brought a pottle of wine and a long narrow glass upon a salver, which he held up to the Page as he sat upon his horse. Young Partington poured forth the bright yellow wine and holding the glass aloft, cried, "Here is to the health and long happiness of my royal mistress, the noble Queen Eleanor; and may my journey and her desirings soon have end, and I find a certain stout yeoman men call Robin Hood." At these words all stared, but presently the two stout yeomen in Lincoln green began whispering together. Then one of the two, whom Partington thought to be the tallest and stoutest fellow he had ever beheld, spoke up and said, "What seekest thou of Robin Hood, Sir Page? And what does our good Queen Eleanor wish of him? I ask this of thee, not foolishly, but with reason, for I know somewhat of this stout yeoman." "An thou knowest aught of him, good fellow," said young Partington, "thou wilt do great service to him and great pleasure to our royal Queen by aiding me to find him." Then up spake the other yeoman, who was a handsome fellow with sunburned face and nut-brown, curling hair, "Thou hast an honest look, Sir Page, and our Queen is kind and true to all stout yeomen. Methinks I and my friend here might safely guide thee to Robin Hood, for we know where he may be found. Yet I tell thee plainly, we would not for all merry England have aught of harm befall him." "Set thy mind at ease; I bring nought of ill with me," quoth Richard Partington. "I bring a kind message to him from our Queen, therefore an ye know where he is to be found, I pray you to guide me thither." Then the two yeomen looked at one another again, and the tall man said, "Surely it were safe to do this thing, Will"; whereat the other nodded. Thereupon both arose, and the tall yeoman said, "We think thou art true, Sir Page, and meanest no harm, therefore we will guide thee to Robin Hood as thou dost wish." Then Partington paid his score, and the yeomen coming forward, they all straightway departed upon their way. Under the greenwood tree, in the cool shade that spread all around upon the sward, with flickering lights here and there, Robin Hood and many of his band lay upon the soft green grass, while Allan a Dale sang and played upon his sweetly sounding harp. All listened in silence, for young Allan's singing was one of the greatest joys in all the world to them; but as they so listened there came of a sudden the sound of a horse's feet, and presently Little John and Will Stutely came forth from the forest path into the open glade, young Richard Partington riding between them upon his milk-white horse. The three came toward where Robin Hood sat, all the band staring with might and main, for never had they seen so gay a sight as this young Page, nor one so richly clad in silks and velvets and gold and jewels. Then Robin arose and stepped forth to meet him, and Partington leaped from his horse and doffing his cap of crimson velvet, met Robin as he came. "Now, welcome!" cried Robin. "Now, welcome, fair youth, and tell me, I prythee, what bringeth one of so fair a presence and clad in such noble garb to our poor forest of Sherwood?" Then young Partington said, "If I err not, thou art the famous Robin Hood, and these thy stout band of outlawed yeomen. To thee I bring greetings from our noble Queen Eleanor. Oft hath she heard thee spoken of and thy merry doings hereabouts, and fain would she behold thy face; therefore she bids me tell thee that if thou wilt presently come to London Town, she will do all in her power to guard thee against harm, and will send thee back safe to Sherwood Forest again. Four days hence, in Finsbury Fields, our good King Henry, of great renown, holdeth a grand shooting match, and all the most famous archers of merry England will be thereat. Our Queen would fain see thee strive with these, knowing that if thou wilt come thou wilt, with little doubt, carry off the prize. Therefore she hath sent me with this greeting, and furthermore sends thee, as a sign of great good will, this golden ring from off her own fair thumb, which I give herewith into thy hands." Then Robin Hood bowed his head and taking the ring, kissed it right loyally, and then slipped it upon his little finger. Quoth he, "Sooner would I lose my life than this ring; and ere it departs from me, my hand shall be cold in death or stricken off at the wrist. Fair Sir Page, I will do our Queen's bidding, and will presently hie with thee to London; but, ere we go, I will feast thee here in the woodlands with the very best we have." "It may not be," said the Page; "we have no time to tarry, therefore get thyself ready straightway; and if there be any of thy band that thou wouldst take with thee, our Queen bids me say that she will make them right welcome likewise." "Truly, thou art right," quoth Robin, "and we have but short time to stay; therefore I will get me ready presently. I will choose three of my men, only, to go with me, and these three shall be Little John, mine own true right-hand man, Will Scarlet, my cousin, and Allan a Dale, my minstrel. Go, lads, and get ye ready straightway, and we will presently off with all speed that we may. Thou, Will Stutely, shall be the chief of the band while I am gone." Then Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale ran leaping, full of joy, to make themselves ready, while Robin also prepared himself for the journey. After a while they all four came forth, and a right fair sight they made, for Robin was clad in blue from head to foot, and Little John and Will Scarlet in good Lincoln green, and as for Allan a Dale, he was dressed in scarlet from the crown of his head to the toes of his pointed shoes. Each man wore beneath his cap a little head covering of burnished steel set with rivets of gold, and underneath his jerkin a coat of linked mail, as fine as carded wool, yet so tough that no arrow could pierce it. Then, seeing all were ready, young Partington mounted his horse again, and the yeomen having shaken hands all around, the five departed upon their way. That night they took up their inn in Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire, and the next night they lodged at Kettering, in Northamptonshire; and the next at Bedford Town; and the next at St. Albans, in Hertfordshire. This place they left not long after the middle of the night, and traveling fast through the tender dawning of the summer day, when the dews lay shining on the meadows and faint mists hung in the dales, when the birds sang their sweetest and the cobwebs beneath the hedges glimmered like fairy cloth of silver, they came at last to the towers and walls of famous London Town, while the morn was still young and all golden toward the east. Queen Eleanor sat in her royal bower, through the open casements of which poured the sweet yellow sunshine in great floods of golden light. All about her stood her ladies-in-waiting chatting in low voices, while she herself sat dreamily where the mild air came softly drifting into the room laden with the fresh perfumes of the sweet red roses that bloomed in the great garden beneath the wall. To her came one who said that her page, Richard Partington, and four stout yeomen waited her pleasure in the court below. Then Queen Eleanor arose joyously and bade them be straightway shown into her presence. Thus Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale came before the Queen into her own royal bower. Then Robin kneeled before the Queen with his hands folded upon his breast, saying in simple phrase, "Here am I, Robin Hood. Thou didst bid me come, and lo, I do thy bidding. I give myself to thee as thy true servant, and will do thy commanding, even if it be to the shedding of the last drop of my life's blood." But good Queen Eleanor smiled pleasantly upon him, bidding him to arise. Then she made them all be seated to rest themselves after their long journey. Rich food was brought them and noble wines, and she had her own pages to wait upon the wants of the yeomen. At last, after they had eaten all they could, she began questioning them of their merry adventures. Then they told her all of the lusty doings herein spoken of, and among others that concerning the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Richard of the Lea, and how the Bishop had abided three days in Sherwood Forest. At this, the Queen and the ladies about her laughed again and again, for they pictured to themselves the stout Bishop abiding in the forest and ranging the woods in lusty sport with Robin and his band. Then, when they had told all that they could bring to mind, the Queen asked Allan to sing to her, for his fame as a minstrel had reached even to the court at London Town. So straightway Allan took up his harp in his hand, and, without more asking, touched the strings lightly till they all rang sweetly, then he sang thus: "_Gentle river, gentle river, Bright thy crystal waters flow, Sliding where the aspens shiver, Gliding where the lilies blow, "Singing over pebbled shallows, Kissing blossoms bending low, Breaking 'neath the dipping swallows, Purpling where the breezes blow. "Floating on thy breast forever Down thy current I could glide; Grief and pain should reach me never On thy bright and gentle tide. "So my aching heart seeks thine, love, There to find its rest and peace, For, through loving, bliss is mine, love, And my many troubles cease_." Thus Allan sang, and as he sang all eyes dwelled upon him and not a sound broke the stillness, and even after he had done the silence hung for a short space. So the time passed till the hour drew nigh for the holding of the great archery match in Finsbury Fields. A gay sight were famous Finsbury Fields on that bright and sunny morning of lusty summertime. Along the end of the meadow stood the booths for the different bands of archers, for the King's yeomen were divided into companies of fourscore men, and each company had a captain over it; so on the bright greensward stood ten booths of striped canvas, a booth for each band of the royal archers, and at the peak of each fluttered a flag in the mellow air, and the flag was the color that belonged to the captain of each band. From the center booth hung the yellow flag of Tepus, the famous bow bearer of the King; next to it, on one hand, was the blue flag of Gilbert of the White Hand, and on the other the blood- red pennant of stout young Clifton of Buckinghamshire. The seven other archer captains were also men of great renown; among them were Egbert of Kent and William of Southampton; but those first named were most famous of all. The noise of many voices in talk and laughter came from within the booths, and in and out ran the attendants like ants about an ant-hill. Some bore ale and beer, and some bundles of bowstrings or sheaves of arrows. On each side of the archery range were rows upon rows of seats reaching high aloft, and in the center of the north side was a raised dais for the King and Queen, shaded by canvas of gay colors, and hung about with streaming silken pennants of red and blue and green and white. As yet the King and Queen had not come, but all the other benches were full of people, rising head above head high aloft till it made the eye dizzy to look upon them. Eightscore yards distant from the mark from which the archers were to shoot stood ten fair targets, each target marked by a flag of the color belonging to the band that was to shoot thereat. So all was ready for the coming of the King and Queen. At last a great blast of bugles sounded, and into the meadow came riding six trumpeters with silver trumpets, from which hung velvet banners heavy with rich workings of silver and gold thread. Behind these came stout King Henry upon a dapple-gray stallion, with his Queen beside him upon a milk-white palfrey. On either side of them walked the yeomen of the guard, the bright sunlight flashing from the polished blades of the steel halberds they carried. Behind these came the Court in a great crowd, so that presently all the lawn was alive with bright colors, with silk and velvet, with waving plumes and gleaming gold, with flashing jewels and sword hilts; a gallant sight on that bright summer day. Then all the people arose and shouted, so that their voices sounded like the storm upon the Cornish coast, when the dark waves run upon the shore and leap and break, surging amid the rocks; so, amid the roaring and the surging of the people, and the waving of scarfs and kerchiefs, the King and Queen came to their place, and, getting down from their horses, mounted the broad stairs that led to the raised platform, and there took their seats on two thrones bedecked with purple silks and cloths of silver and of gold. When all was quiet a bugle sounded, and straightway the archers came marching in order from their tents. Fortyscore they were in all, as stalwart a band of yeomen as could be found in all the wide world. So they came in orderly fashion and stood in front of the dais where King Henry and his Queen sat. King Henry looked up and down their ranks right proudly, for his heart warmed within him at the sight of such a gallant band of yeomen. Then he bade his herald Sir Hugh de Mowbray stand forth and proclaim the rules governing the game. So Sir Hugh stepped to the edge of the platform and spoke in a loud clear voice, and thus he said: That each man should shoot seven arrows at the target that belonged to his band, and, of the fourscore yeomen of each band, the three that shot the best should be chosen. These three should shoot three arrows apiece, and the one that shot the best should again be chosen. Then each of these should again shoot three arrows apiece, and the one that shot the best should have the first prize, the one that shot the next best should have the second, and the one that shot the next best should have the third prize. Each of the others should have fourscore silver pennies for his shooting. The first prize was to be twoscore and ten golden pounds, a silver bugle horn inlaid with gold, and a quiver with ten white arrows tipped with gold and feathered with the white swan's-wing therein. The second prize was to be fivescore of the fattest bucks that run on Dallen Lea, to be shot when the yeoman that won them chose. The third prize was to be two tuns of good Rhenish wine. So Sir Hugh spoke, and when he had done all the archers waved their bows aloft and shouted. Then each band turned and marched in order back to its place. And now the shooting began, the captains first taking stand and speeding their shafts and then making room for the men who shot, each in turn, after them. Two hundred and eighty score shafts were shot in all, and so deftly were they sped that when the shooting was done each target looked like the back of a hedgehog when the farm dog snuffs at it. A long time was taken in this shooting, and when it was over the judges came forward, looked carefully at the targets, and proclaimed in a loud voice which three had shot the best from the separate bands. Then a great hubbub of voices arose, each man among the crowd that looked on calling for his favorite archer. Then ten fresh targets were brought forward, and every sound was hushed as the archers took their places once more. This time the shooting was more speedily done, for only nine shafts were shot by each band. Not an arrow missed the targets, but in that of Gilbert of the White Hand five arrows were in the small white spot that marked the center; of these five three were sped by Gilbert. Then the judges came forward again, and looking at the targets, called aloud the names of the archer chosen as the best bowman of each band. Of these Gilbert of the White Hand led, for six of the ten arrows he had shot had lodged in the center; but stout Tepus and young Clifton trod close upon his heels; yet the others stood a fair chance for the second or third place. And now, amid the roaring of the crowd, those ten stout fellows that were left went back to their tents to rest for a while and change their bowstrings, for nought must fail at this next round, and no hand must tremble or eye grow dim because of weariness. Then while the deep buzz and hum of talking sounded all around like the noise of the wind in the leafy forest, Queen Eleanor turned to the King, and quoth she, "Thinkest thou that these yeomen so chosen are the very best archers in all merry England?" "Yea, truly," said the King, smiling, for he was well pleased with the sport that he had seen; "and I tell thee, that not only are they the best archers in all merry England, but in all the wide world beside." "But what wouldst thou say," quoth Queen Eleanor, "if I were to find three archers to match the best three yeomen of all thy guard?" "I would say thou hast done what I could not do," said the King, laughing, "for I tell thee there lives not in all the world three archers to match Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton of Buckinghamshire." "Now," said the Queen, "I know of three yeomen, and in truth I have seen them not long since, that I would not fear to match against any three that thou canst choose from among all thy fortyscore archers; and, moreover, I will match them here this very day. But I will only match them with thy archers providing that thou wilt grant a free pardon to all that may come in my behalf." At this, the King laughed loud and long. "Truly," said he, "thou art taking up with strange matters for a queen. If thou wilt bring those three fellows that thou speakest of, I will promise faithfully to give them free pardon for forty days, to come or to go wheresoever they please, nor will I harm a hair of their heads in all that time. Moreover, if these that thou bringest shoot better than my yeomen, man for man, they shall have the prizes for themselves according to their shooting. But as thou hast so taken up of a sudden with sports of this kind, hast thou a mind for a wager?" "Why, in sooth," said Queen Eleanor, laughing, "I know nought of such matters, but if thou hast a mind to do somewhat in that way, I will strive to pleasure thee. What wilt thou wager upon thy men?" Then the merry King laughed again, for he dearly loved goodly jest; so he said, amidst his laughter, "I will wager thee ten tuns of Rhenish wine, ten tuns of the stoutest ale, and tenscore bows of tempered Spanish yew, with quivers and arrows to match." All that stood around smiled at this, for it seemed a merry wager for a king to give to a queen; but Queen Eleanor bowed her head quietly. "I will take thy wager," said she, "for I know right well where to place those things that thou hast spoken of. Now, who will be on my side in this matter?" And she looked around upon them that stood about; but no one spake or cared to wager upon the Queen's side against such archers as Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton. Then the Queen spoke again, "Now, who will back me in this wager? Wilt thou, my Lord Bishop of Hereford?" "Nay," quoth the Bishop hastily, "it ill befits one of my cloth to deal in such matters. Moreover, there are no such archers as His Majesty's in all the world; therefore I would but lose my money. "Methinks the thought of thy gold weigheth more heavily with thee than the wrong to thy cloth," said the Queen, smiling, and at this a ripple of laughter went around, for everyone knew how fond the Bishop was of his money. Then the Queen turned to a knight who stood near, whose name was Sir Robert Lee. "Wilt thou back me in this manner?" said she. "Thou art surely rich enough to risk so much for the sake of a lady." "To pleasure my Queen I will do it," said Sir Robert Lee, "but for the sake of no other in all the world would I wager a groat, for no man can stand against Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton." Then turning to the King, Queen Eleanor said, "I want no such aid as Sir Robert giveth me; but against thy wine and beer and stout bows of yew I wager this girdle all set with jewels from around my waist; and surely that is worth more than thine." "Now, I take thy wager," quoth the King. "Send for thy archers straightway. But here come forth the others; let them shoot, and then I will match those that win against all the world." "So be it," said the Queen. Thereupon, beckoning to young Richard Partington, she whispered something in his ear, and straightway the Page bowed and left the place, crossing the meadow to the other side of the range, where he was presently lost in the crowd. At this, all that stood around whispered to one another, wondering what it all meant, and what three men the Queen was about to set against those famous archers of the King's guard. And now the ten archers of the King's guard took their stand again, and all the great crowd was hushed to the stillness of death. Slowly and carefully each man shot his shafts, and so deep was the silence that you could hear every arrow rap against the target as it struck it. Then, when the last shaft had sped, a great roar went up; and the shooting, I wot, was well worthy of the sound. Once again Gilbert had lodged three arrows in the white; Tepus came second with two in the white and one in the black ring next to it; but stout Clifton had gone down and Hubert of Suffolk had taken the third place, for, while both those two good yeomen had lodged two in the white, Clifton had lost one shot upon the fourth ring, and Hubert came in with one in the third. All the archers around Gilbert's booth shouted for joy till their throats were hoarse, tossing their caps aloft, and shaking hands with one another. In the midst of all the noise and hubbub five men came walking across the lawn toward the King's pavilion. The first was Richard Partington, and was known to most folk there, but the others were strange to everybody. Beside young Partington walked a yeoman clad in blue, and behind came three others, two in Lincoln green and one in scarlet. This last yeoman carried three stout bows of yew tree, two fancifully inlaid with silver and one with gold. While these five men came walking across the meadow, a messenger came running from the King's booth and summoned Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert to go with him. And now the shouting quickly ceased, for all saw that something unwonted was toward, so the folk stood up in their places and leaned forward to see what was the ado. When Partington and the others came before the spot where the King and Queen sat, the four yeomen bent their knees and doffed their caps unto her. King Henry leaned far forward and stared at them closely, but the Bishop of Hereford, when he saw their faces, started as though stung by a wasp. He opened his mouth as though about to speak, but, looking up, he saw the Queen gazing at him with a smile upon her lips, so he said nothing, but bit his nether lip, while his face was as red as a cherry. Then the Queen leaned forward and spake in a clear voice. "Locksley," said she, "I have made a wager with the King that thou and two of thy men can outshoot any three that he can send against you. Wilt thou do thy best for my sake?" "Yea," quoth Robin Hood, to whom she spake, "I will do my best for thy sake, and, if I fail, I make my vow never to finger bowstring more." Now, although Little John had been somewhat abashed in the Queen's bower, he felt himself the sturdy fellow he was when the soles of his feet pressed green grass again; so he said boldly, "Now, blessings on thy sweet face, say I. An there lived a man that would not do his best for thee--I will say nought, only I would like to have the cracking of his knave's pate! "Peace, Little John!" said Robin Hood hastily, in a low voice; but good Queen Eleanor laughed aloud, and a ripple of merriment sounded all over the booth. The Bishop of Hereford did not laugh, neither did the King, but he turned to the Queen, and quoth he, "Who are these men that thou hast brought before us?" Then up spoke the Bishop hastily, for he could hold his peace no longer: "Your Majesty," quoth he, "yon fellow in blue is a certain outlawed thief of the mid-country, named Robin Hood; yon tall, strapping villain goeth by the name of Little John; the other fellow in green is a certain backsliding gentleman, known as Will Scarlet; the man in red is a rogue of a northern minstrel, named Allan a Dale." At this speech the King's brows drew together blackly, and he turned to the Queen. "Is this true?" said he sternly. "Yea," said the Queen, smiling, "the Bishop hath told the truth; and truly he should know them well, for he and two of his friars spent three days in merry sport with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. I did little think that the good Bishop would so betray his friends. But bear in mind that thou hast pledged thy promise for the safety of these good yeomen for forty days." "I will keep my promise," said the King, in a deep voice that showed the anger in his heart, "but when these forty days are gone let this outlaw look to himself, for mayhap things will not go so smoothly with him as he would like." Then he turned to his archers, who stood near the Sherwood yeomen, listening and wondering at all that passed. Quoth he, "Gilbert, and thou, Tepus, and thou, Hubert, I have pledged myself that ye shall shoot against these three fellows. If ye outshoot the knaves I will fill your caps with silver pennies; if ye fail ye shall lose your prizes that ye have won so fairly, and they go to them that shoot against you, man to man. Do your best, lads, and if ye win this bout ye shall be glad of it to the last days of your life. Go, now, and get you gone to the butts." Then the three archers of the King turned and went back to their booths, and Robin and his men went to their places at the mark from which they were to shoot. Then they strung their bows and made themselves ready, looking over their quivers of arrows, and picking out the roundest and the best feathered. But when the King's archers went to their tents, they told their friends all that had passed, and how that these four men were the famous Robin Hood and three of his band, to wit, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Allan a Dale. The news of this buzzed around among the archers in the booths, for there was not a man there that had not heard of these great mid-country yeomen. From the archers the news was taken up by the crowd that looked on at the shooting, so that at last everybody stood up, craning their necks to catch sight of the famous outlaws. Six fresh targets were now set up, one for each man that was to shoot; whereupon Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert came straightway forth from the booths. Then Robin Hood and Gilbert of the White Hand tossed a farthing aloft to see who should lead in the shooting, and the lot fell to Gilbert's side; thereupon he called upon Hubert of Suffolk to lead. Hubert took his place, planted his foot firmly, and fitted a fair, smooth arrow; then, breathing upon his fingertips, he drew the string slowly and carefully. The arrow sped true, and lodged in the white; again he shot, and again he hit the clout; a third shaft he sped, but this time failed of the center, and but struck the black, yet not more than a finger's-breadth from the white. At this a shout went up, for it was the best shooting that Hubert had yet done that day. Merry Robin laughed, and quoth he, "Thou wilt have an ill time bettering that round, Will, for it is thy turn next. Brace thy thews, lad, and bring not shame upon Sherwood." Then Will Scarlet took his place; but, because of overcaution, he spoiled his target with the very first arrow that he sped, for he hit the next ring to the black, the second from the center. At this Robin bit his lips. "Lad, lad," quoth he, "hold not the string so long! Have I not often told thee what Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, that 'overcaution spilleth the milk'?" To this Will Scarlet took heed, so the next arrow he shot lodged fairly in the center ring; again he shot, and again he smote the center; but, for all that, stout Hubert had outshot him, and showed the better target. Then all those that looked on clapped their hands for joy because that Hubert had overcome the stranger. Quoth the King grimly, to the Queen, "If thy archers shoot no better than that, thou art like to lose thy wager, lady." But Queen Eleanor smiled, for she looked for better things from Robin Hood and Little John. And now Tepus took his place to shoot. He, also, took overheed to what he was about, and so he fell into Will Scarlet's error. The first arrow he struck into the center ring, but the second missed its mark, and smote the black; the last arrow was tipped with luck, for it smote the very center of the clout, upon the black spot that marked it. Quoth Robin Hood, "That is the sweetest shot that hath been sped this day; but, nevertheless, friend Tepus, thy cake is burned, methinks. Little John, it is thy turn next." So Little John took his place as bidden, and shot his three arrows quickly. He never lowered his bow arm in all the shooting, but fitted each shaft with his longbow raised; yet all three of his arrows smote the center within easy distance of the black. At this no sound of shouting was heard, for, although it was the best shooting that had been done that day, the folk of London Town did not like to see the stout Tepus overcome by a fellow from the countryside, even were he as famous as Little John. And now stout Gilbert of the White Hand took his place and shot with the greatest care; and again, for the third time in one day, he struck all three shafts into the clout. "Well done, Gilbert!" quoth Robin Hood, smiting him upon the shoulder. "I make my vow, thou art one of the best archers that ever mine eyes beheld. Thou shouldst be a free and merry ranger like us, lad, for thou art better fitted for the greenwood than for the cobblestones and gray walls of London Town." So saying, he took his place, and drew a fair, round arrow from his quiver, which he turned over and over ere he fitted it to his bowstring. Then the King muttered in his beard, "Now, blessed Saint Hubert, if thou wilt but jog that rogue's elbow so as to make him smite even the second ring, I will give eightscore waxen candles three fingers'-breadth in thickness to thy chapel nigh Matching." But it may be Saint Hubert's ears were stuffed with tow, for he seemed not to hear the King's prayer this day. Having gotten three shafts to his liking, merry Robin looked carefully to his bowstring ere he shot. "Yea," quoth he to Gilbert, who stood nigh him to watch his shooting, "thou shouldst pay us a visit at merry Sherwood." Here he drew the bowstring to his ear. "In London"--here he loosed his shaft--"thou canst find nought to shoot at but rooks and daws; there one can tickle the ribs of the noblest stags in England." So he shot even while he talked, yet the shaft lodged not more than half an inch from the very center. "By my soul!" cried Gilbert. "Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in that wise?" "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing, "not quite so ill as that, I trust." And he took up another shaft and fitted it to the string. Again he shot, and again he smote his arrow close beside the center; a third time he loosed his bowstring and dropped his arrow just betwixt the other two and into the very center, so that the feathers of all three were ruffled together, seeming from a distance to be one thick shaft. And now a low murmur ran all among that great crowd, for never before had London seen such shooting as this; and never again would it see it after Robin Hood's day had gone. All saw that the King's archers were fairly beaten, and stout Gilbert clapped his palm to Robin's, owning that he could never hope to draw such a bowstring as Robin Hood or Little John. But the King, full of wrath, would not have it so, though he knew in his mind that his men could not stand against those fellows. "Nay!" cried he, clenching his hands upon the arms of his seat, "Gilbert is not yet beaten! Did he not strike the clout thrice? Although I have lost my wager, he hath not yet lost the first prize. They shall shoot again, and still again, till either he or that knave Robin Hood cometh off the best. Go thou, Sir Hugh, and bid them shoot another round, and another, until one or the other is overcome." Then Sir Hugh, seeing how wroth the King was, said never a word, but went straightway to do his bidding; so he came to where Robin Hood and the other stood, and told them what the King had said. "With all my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I will shoot from this time till tomorrow day if it can pleasure my most gracious lord and King. Take thy place, Gilbert lad, and shoot." So Gilbert took his place once more, but this time he failed, for, a sudden little wind arising, his shaft missed the center ring, but by not more than the breadth of a barley straw. "Thy eggs are cracked, Gilbert," quoth Robin, laughing; and straightway he loosed a shaft, and once more smote the white circle of the center. Then the King arose from his place, and not a word said he, but he looked around with a baleful look, and it would have been an ill day for anyone that he saw with a joyous or a merry look upon his face. Then he and his Queen and all the court left the place, but the King's heart was brimming full of wrath. After the King had gone, all the yeomen of the archer guard came crowding around Robin, and Little John, and Will, and Allan, to snatch a look at these famous fellows from the mid-country; and with them came many that had been onlookers at the sport, for the same purpose. Thus it happened presently that the yeomen, to whom Gilbert stood talking, were all surrounded by a crowd of people that formed a ring about them. After a while the three judges that had the giving away of the prizes came forward, and the chief of them all spake to Robin and said, "According to agreement, the first prize belongeth rightly to thee; so here I give thee the silver bugle, here the quiver of ten golden arrows, and here a purse of twoscore and ten golden pounds." And as he spake he handed those things to Robin, and then turned to Little John. "To thee," he said, "belongeth the second prize, to wit, fivescore of the finest harts that run on Dallen Lea. Thou mayest shoot them whensoever thou dost list." Last of all he turned to stout Hubert. "Thou," said he, "hast held thine own against the yeomen with whom thou didst shoot, and so thou hast kept the prize duly thine, to wit, two tuns of good Rhenish wine. These shall be delivered to thee whensoever thou dost list." Then he called upon the other seven of the King's archers who had last shot, and gave each fourscore silver pennies. Then up spake Robin, and quoth he, "This silver bugle I keep in honor of this shooting match; but thou, Gilbert, art the best archer of all the King's guard, and to thee I freely give this purse of gold. Take it, man, and would it were ten times as much, for thou art a right yeoman, good and true. Furthermore, to each of the ten that last shot I give one of these golden shafts apiece. Keep them always by you, so that ye may tell your grandchildren, an ye are ever blessed with them, that ye are the very stoutest yeomen in all the wide world." At this all shouted aloud, for it pleased them to hear Robin speak so of them. Then up spake Little John. "Good friend Tepus," said he, "I want not those harts of Dallen Lea that yon stout judge spoke of but now, for in truth we have enow and more than enow in our own country. Twoscore and ten I give to thee for thine own shooting, and five I give to each band for their pleasure." At this another great shout went up, and many tossed their caps aloft, and swore among themselves that no better fellows ever walked the sod than Robin Hood and his stout yeomen. While they so shouted with loud voices, a tall burly yeoman of the King's guard came forward and plucked Robin by the sleeve. "Good master," quoth he, "I have somewhat to tell thee in thine ear; a silly thing, God wot, for one stout yeoman to tell another; but a young peacock of a page, one Richard Partington, was seeking thee without avail in the crowd, and, not being able to find thee, told me that he bore a message to thee from a certain lady that thou wottest of. This message he bade me tell thee privily, word for word, and thus it was. Let me see--I trust I have forgot it not--yea, thus it was: 'The lion growls. Beware thy head.'" "Is it so?" quoth Robin, starting; for he knew right well that it was the Queen sent the message, and that she spake of the King's wrath. "Now, I thank thee, good fellow, for thou hast done me greater service than thou knowest of this day." Then he called his three yeomen together and told them privately that they had best be jogging, as it was like to be ill for them so nigh merry London Town. So, without tarrying longer, they made their way through the crowd until they had come out from the press. Then, without stopping, they left London Town and started away northward. The Chase of Robin Hood SO ROBIN HOOD and the others left the archery range at Finsbury Fields, and, tarrying not, set forth straightway upon their homeward journey. It was well for them that they did so, for they had not gone more than three or four miles upon their way when six of the yeomen of the King's guard came bustling among the crowd that still lingered, seeking for Robin and his men, to seize upon them and make them prisoners. Truly, it was an ill-done thing in the King to break his promise, but it all came about through the Bishop of Hereford's doing, for thus it happened: After the King left the archery ground, he went straightway to his cabinet, and with him went the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Robert Lee; but the King said never a word to these two, but sat gnawing his nether lip, for his heart was galled within him by what had happened. At last the Bishop of Hereford spoke, in a low, sorrowful voice: "It is a sad thing, Your Majesty, that this knavish outlaw should be let to escape in this wise; for, let him but get back to Sherwood Forest safe and sound, and he may snap his fingers at king and king's men." At these words the King raised his eyes and looked grimly upon the Bishop. "Sayst thou so?" quoth he. "Now, I will show thee, in good time, how much thou dost err, for, when the forty days are past and gone, I will seize upon this thieving outlaw, if I have to tear down all of Sherwood to find him. Thinkest thou that the laws of the King of England are to be so evaded by one poor knave without friends or money?" Then the Bishop spoke again, in his soft, smooth voice: "Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty, and believe that I have nought but the good of England and Your Majesty's desirings at heart; but what would it boot though my gracious lord did root up every tree of Sherwood? Are there not other places for Robin Hood's hiding? Cannock Chase is not far from Sherwood, and the great Forest of Arden is not far from Cannock Chase. Beside these are many other woodlands in Nottingham and Derby, Lincoln and York, amid any of which Your Majesty might as well think to seize upon Robin Hood as to lay finger upon a rat among the dust and broken things of a garret. Nay, my gracious lord, if he doth once plant foot in the woodland, he is lost to the law forever." At these words the King tapped his fingertips upon the table beside him with vexation. "What wouldst thou have me do, Bishop?" quoth he. "Didst thou not hear me pledge my word to the Queen? Thy talk is as barren as the wind from the bellows upon dead coals." "Far be it from me," said the cunning Bishop, "to point the way to one so clear-sighted as Your Majesty; but, were I the King of England, I should look upon the matter in this wise: I have promised my Queen, let us say, that for forty days the cunningest rogue in all England shall have freedom to come and go; but, lo! I find this outlaw in my grasp; shall I, then, foolishly cling to a promise so hastily given? Suppose that I had promised to do Her Majesty's bidding, whereupon she bade me to slay myself; should I, then, shut mine eyes and run blindly upon my sword? Thus would I argue within myself. Moreover, I would say unto myself, a woman knoweth nought of the great things appertaining to state government; and, likewise, I know a woman is ever prone to take up a fancy, even as she would pluck a daisy from the roadside, and then throw it away when the savor is gone; therefore, though she hath taken a fancy to this outlaw, it will soon wane away and be forgotten. As for me, I have the greatest villain in all England in my grasp; shall I, then, open my hand and let him slip betwixt my fingers? Thus, Your Majesty, would I say to myself, were I the King of England." So the Bishop talked, and the King lent his ear to his evil counsel, until, after a while, he turned to Sir Robert Lee and bade him send six of the yeomen of the guard to take Robin Hood and his three men prisoners. Now Sir Robert Lee was a gentle and noble knight, and he felt grieved to the heart to see the King so break his promise; nevertheless, he said nothing, for he saw how bitterly the King was set against Robin Hood; but he did not send the yeomen of the guard at once, but went first to the Queen, and told her all that had passed, and bade her send word to Robin of his danger. This he did not for the well-being of Robin Hood, but because he would save his lord's honor if he could. Thus it came about that when, after a while, the yeomen of the guard went to the archery field, they found not Robin and the others, and so got no cakes at that fair. The afternoon was already well-nigh gone when Robin Hood, Little John, Will, and Allan set forth upon their homeward way, trudging along merrily through the yellow slanting light, which speedily changed to rosy red as the sun sank low in the heavens. The shadows grew long, and finally merged into the grayness of the mellow twilight. The dusty highway lay all white betwixt the dark hedgerows, and along it walked four fellows like four shadows, the pat of their feet sounding loud, and their voices, as they talked, ringing clear upon the silence of the air. The great round moon was floating breathlessly up in the eastern sky when they saw before them the twinkling lights of Barnet Town, some ten or twelve miles from London. Down they walked through the stony streets and past the cosy houses with overhanging gables, before the doors of which sat the burghers and craftsmen in the mellow moonlight, with their families about them, and so came at last, on the other side of the hamlet, to a little inn, all shaded with roses and woodbines. Before this inn Robin Hood stopped, for the spot pleased him well. Quoth he, "Here will we take up our inn and rest for the night, for we are well away from London Town and our King's wrath. Moreover, if I mistake not, we will find sweet faring within. What say ye, lads?" "In sooth, good master," quoth Little John, "thy bidding and my doing ever fit together like cakes and ale. Let us in, I say also." Then up spake Will Scarlet: "I am ever ready to do what thou sayest, uncle, yet I could wish that we were farther upon our way ere we rest for the night. Nevertheless, if thou thinkest best, let us in for the night, say I also." So in they went and called for the best that the place afforded. Then a right good feast was set before them, with two stout bottles of old sack to wash it down withal. These things were served by as plump and buxom a lass as you could find in all the land, so that Little John, who always had an eye for a fair lass, even when meat and drink were by, stuck his arms akimbo and fixed his eyes upon her, winking sweetly whenever he saw her looking toward him. Then you should have seen how the lass twittered with laughter, and how she looked at Little John out of the corners of her eyes, a dimple coming in either cheek; for the fellow had always a taking way with the womenfolk. So the feast passed merrily, and never had that inn seen such lusty feeders as these four stout fellows; but at last they were done their eating, though it seemed as though they never would have ended, and sat loitering over the sack. As they so sat, the landlord came in of a sudden, and said that there was one at the door, a certain young esquire, Richard Partington, of the Queen's household, who wished to see the lad in blue, and speak with him, without loss of time. So Robin arose quickly, and, bidding the landlord not to follow him, left the others gazing at one another, and wondering what was about to happen. When Robin came out of the inn, he found young Richard Partington sitting upon his horse in the white moonlight, awaiting his coming. "What news bearest thou, Sir Page?" said Robin. "I trust that it is not of an ill nature." "Why," said young Partington, "for the matter of that, it is ill enow. The King hath been bitterly stirred up against thee by that vile Bishop of Hereford. He sent to arrest thee at the archery butts at Finsbury Fields, but not finding thee there, he hath gathered together his armed men, fiftyscore and more, and is sending them in haste along this very road to Sherwood, either to take thee on the way or to prevent thy getting back to the woodlands again. He hath given the Bishop of Hereford command over all these men, and thou knowest what thou hast to expect of the Bishop of Hereford--short shrift and a long rope. Two bands of horsemen are already upon the road, not far behind me, so thou hadst best get thee gone from this place straightway, for, if thou tarriest longer, thou art like to sleep this night in a cold dungeon. This word the Queen hath bidden me bring to thee." "Now, Richard Partington," quoth Robin, "this is the second time that thou hast saved my life, and if the proper time ever cometh I will show thee that Robin Hood never forgets these things. As for that Bishop of Hereford, if I ever catch him nigh to Sherwood again, things will be like to go ill with him. Thou mayst tell the good Queen that I will leave this place without delay, and will let the landlord think that we are going to Saint Albans; but when we are upon the highroad again, I will go one way through the country and will send my men the other, so that if one falleth into the King's hands the others may haply escape. We will go by devious ways, and so, I hope, will reach Sherwood in safety. And now, Sir Page, I wish thee farewell." "Farewell, thou bold yeoman," said young Partington, "and mayst thou reach thy hiding in safety." So each shook the other's hand, and the lad, turning his horse's head, rode back toward London, while Robin entered the inn once more. There he found his yeomen sitting in silence, waiting his coming; likewise the landlord was there, for he was curious to know what Master Partington had to do with the fellow in blue. "Up, my merry men!" quoth Robin, "this is no place for us, for those are after us with whom we will stand but an ill chance an we fall into their hands. So we will go forward once more, nor will we stop this night till we reach Saint Albans." Hereupon, taking out his purse, he paid the landlord his score, and so they left the inn. When they had come to the highroad without the town, Robin stopped and told them all that had passed between young Partington and himself, and how that the King's men were after them with hot heels. Then he told them that here they should part company; they three going to the eastward and he to the westward, and so, skirting the main highroads, would come by devious paths to Sherwood. "So, be ye wily," said Robin Hood, "and keep well away from the northward roads till ye have gotten well to the eastward. And thou, Will Scarlet, take the lead of the others, for thou hast a cunning turn to thy wits." Then Robin kissed the three upon the cheeks, and they kissed him, and so they parted company. Not long after this, a score or more of the King's men came clattering up to the door of the inn at Barnet Town. Here they leaped from their horses and quickly surrounded the place, the leader of the band and four others entering the room where the yeomen had been. But they found that their birds had flown again, and that the King had been balked a second time. "Methought that they were naughty fellows," said the host, when he heard whom the men-at-arms sought. "But I heard that blue-clad knave say that they would go straight forward to Saint Albans; so, an ye hurry forward, ye may, perchance, catch them on the highroad betwixt here and there." For this news the leader of the band thanked mine host right heartily, and, calling his men together, mounted and set forth again, galloping forward to Saint Albans upon a wild goose chase. After Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale had left the highway near garnet, they traveled toward the eastward, without stopping, as long as their legs could carry them, until they came to Chelmsford, in Essex. Thence they turned northward, and came through Cambridge and Lincolnshire, to the good town of Gainsborough. Then, striking to the westward and the south, they came at last to the northern borders of Sherwood Forest, without in all that time having met so much as a single band of the King's men. Eight days they journeyed thus ere they reached the woodlands in safety, but when they got to the greenwood glade, they found that Robin had not yet returned. For Robin was not as lucky in getting back as his men had been, as you shall presently hear. After having left the great northern road, he turned his face to the westward, and so came past Aylesbury, to fair Woodstock, in Oxfordshire. Thence he turned his footsteps northward, traveling for a great distance by way of Warwick Town, till he came to Dudley, in Staffordshire. Seven days it took him to journey thus far, and then he thought he had gotten far enough to the north, so, turning toward the eastward, shunning the main roads, and choosing byways and grassy lanes, he went, by way of Litchfield and Ashby de la Zouch, toward Sherwood, until he came to a place called Stanton. And now Robin's heart began to laugh aloud, for he thought that his danger had gone by, and that his nostrils would soon snuff the spicy air of the woodlands once again. But there is many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, and this Robin was to find. For thus it was: When the King's men found themselves foiled at Saint Albans, and that Robin and his men were not to be found high nor low, they knew not what to do. Presently another band of horsemen came, and another, until all the moonlit streets were full of armed men. Betwixt midnight and dawn another band came to the town, and with them came the Bishop of Hereford. When he heard that Robin Hood had once more slipped out of the trap, he stayed not a minute, but, gathering his bands together, he pushed forward to the northward with speed, leaving orders for all the troops that came to Saint Albans to follow after him without tarrying. On the evening of the fourth day he reached Nottingham Town, and there straightway divided his men into bands of six or seven, and sent them all through the countryside, blocking every highway and byway to the eastward and the southward and the westward of Sherwood. The Sheriff of Nottingham called forth all his men likewise, and joined with the Bishop, for he saw that this was the best chance that had ever befallen of paying back his score in full to Robin Hood. Will Scarlet and Little John and Allan a Dale had just missed the King's men to the eastward, for the very next day after they had passed the line and entered Sherwood the roads through which they had traveled were blocked, so that, had they tarried in their journeying, they would surely have fallen into the Bishop's hands. But of all this Robin knew not a whit; so he whistled merrily as he trudged along the road beyond Stanton, with his heart as free from care as the yolk of an egg is from cobwebs. At last he came to where a little stream spread across the road in a shallow sheet, tinkling and sparkling as it fretted over its bed of golden gravel. Here Robin stopped, being athirst, and, kneeling down, he made a cup of the palms of his hands, and began to drink. On either side of the road, for a long distance, stood tangled thickets of bushes and young trees, and it pleased Robin's heart to hear the little birds singing therein, for it made him think of Sherwood, and it seemed as though it had been a lifetime since he had breathed the air of the woodlands. But of a sudden, as he thus stooped, drinking, something hissed past his ear, and struck with a splash into the gravel and water beside him. Quick as a wink Robin sprang to his feet, and, at one bound, crossed the stream and the roadside, and plunged headlong into the thicket, without looking around, for he knew right well that that which had hissed so venomously beside his ear was a gray goose shaft, and that to tarry so much as a moment meant death. Even as he leaped into the thicket six more arrows rattled among the branches after him, one of which pierced his doublet, and would have struck deeply into his side but for the tough coat of steel that he wore. Then up the road came riding some of the King's men at headlong speed. They leaped from their horses and plunged straightway into the thicket after Robin. But Robin knew the ground better than they did, so crawling here, stooping there, and, anon, running across some little open, he soon left them far behind, coming out, at last, upon another road about eight hundred paces distant from the one he had left. Here he stood for a moment, listening to the distant shouts of the seven men as they beat up and down in the thickets like hounds that had lost the scent of the quarry. Then, buckling his belt more tightly around his waist, he ran fleetly down the road toward the eastward and Sherwood. But Robin had not gone more than three furlongs in that direction when he came suddenly to the brow of a hill, and saw beneath him another band of the King's men seated in the shade along the roadside in the valley beneath. Then he paused not a moment, but, seeing that they had not caught sight of him, he turned and ran back whence he had come, knowing that it was better to run the chance of escaping those fellows that were yet in the thickets than to rush into the arms of those in the valley. So back he ran with all speed, and had gotten safely past the thickets, when the seven men came forth into the open road. They raised a great shout when they saw him, such as the hunter gives when the deer breaks cover, but Robin was then a quarter of a mile and more away from them, coursing over the ground like a greyhound. He never slackened his pace, but ran along, mile after mile, till he had come nigh to Mackworth, over beyond the Derwent River, nigh to Derby Town. Here, seeing that he was out of present danger, he slackened in his running, and at last sat him down beneath a hedge where the grass was the longest and the shade the coolest, there to rest and catch his wind. "By my soul, Robin," quoth he to himself, "that was the narrowest miss that e'er thou hadst in all thy life. I do say most solemnly that the feather of that wicked shaft tickled mine ear as it whizzed past. This same running hath given me a most craving appetite for victuals and drink. Now I pray Saint Dunstan that he send me speedily some meat and beer." It seemed as though Saint Dunstan was like to answer his prayer, for along the road came plodding a certain cobbler, one Quince, of Derby, who had been to take a pair of shoes to a farmer nigh Kirk Langly, and was now coming back home again, with a fair boiled capon in his pouch and a stout pottle of beer by his side, which same the farmer had given him for joy of such a stout pair of shoon. Good Quince was an honest fellow, but his wits were somewhat of the heavy sort, like unbaked dough, so that the only thing that was in his mind was, "Three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy shoon, good Quince--three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy shoon," and this traveled round and round inside of his head, without another thought getting into his noddle, as a pea rolls round and round inside an empty quart pot. "Halloa, good friend," quoth Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the other had gotten nigh enough, "whither away so merrily this bright day?" Hearing himself so called upon, the Cobbler stopped, and, seeing a well- clad stranger in blue, he spoke to him in seemly wise. "Give ye good den, fair sir, and I would say that I come from Kirk Langly, where I ha' sold my shoon and got three shillings sixpence ha'penny for them in as sweet money as ever thou sawest, and honestly earned too, I would ha' thee know. But an I may be so bold, thou pretty fellow, what dost thou there beneath the hedge?" "Marry," quoth merry Robin, "I sit beneath the hedge here to drop salt on the tails of golden birds; but in sooth thou art the first chick of any worth I ha' seen this blessed day." At these words the Cobbler's eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth grew round with wonder, like a knothole in a board fence. "Slack-a-day," quoth he, "look ye, now! I ha' never seen those same golden birds. And dost thou in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell me, are there many of them? I would fain find them mine own self." "Ay, truly," quoth Robin, "they are as thick here as fresh herring in Cannock Chase." "Look ye, now!" said the Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. "And dost thou in sooth catch them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?" "Yea," quoth Robin, "but this salt is of an odd kind, let me tell thee, for it can only be gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a wooden platter, and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou witty man, what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in that pottle?" At these words the Cobbler looked down at those things of which merry Robin spoke, for the thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from his mind, and it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back again. "Why," said he at last, "in the one is good March beer, and in the other is a fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha' a fine feast this day an I mistake not." "But tell me, good Quince," said Robin, "hast thou a mind to sell those things to me? For the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will give thee these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten shillings to boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy beer and thy capon. What sayst thou, bully boy?" "Nay, thou dost jest with me," said the Cobbler, "for my clothes are coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty." "Never a jest do I speak," quoth Robin. "Come, strip thy jacket off and I will show thee, for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I will be kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things thou hast with thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating." At these words he began slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler, seeing him so in earnest, began pulling off his clothes also, for Robin Hood's garb tickled his eye. So each put on the other fellow's clothes, and Robin gave the honest Cobbler ten bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, "I ha' been a many things in my life before, but never have I been an honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall to and eat, for something within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon." So both sat down and began to feast right lustily, so that when they were done the bones of the capon were picked as bare as charity. Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feeling of comfort within him. Quoth he, "By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou hast a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow. I prythee, turn one of them out for me." "A song or two I ha'," quoth the Cobbler, "poor things, poor things, but such as they are thou art welcome to one of them." So, moistening his throat with a swallow of beer, he sang: "_Of all the joys, the best I love, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, And that which most my soul doth move, It is the clinking can, O. "All other bliss I'd throw away, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, But this_--" The stout Cobbler got no further in his song, for of a sudden six horsemen burst upon them where they sat, and seized roughly upon the honest craftsman, hauling him to his feet, and nearly plucking the clothes from him as they did so. "Ha!" roared the leader of the band in a great big voice of joy, "have we then caught thee at last, thou blue- clad knave? Now, blessed be the name of Saint Hubert, for we are fourscore pounds richer this minute than we were before, for the good Bishop of Hereford hath promised that much to the band that shall bring thee to him. Oho! thou cunning rascal! thou wouldst look so innocent, forsooth! We know thee, thou old fox. But off thou goest with us to have thy brush clipped forthwith." At these words the poor Cobbler gazed all around him with his great blue eyes as round as those of a dead fish, while his mouth gaped as though he had swallowed all his words and so lost his speech. Robin also gaped and stared in a wondering way, just as the Cobbler would have done in his place. "Alack-a-daisy, me," quoth he. "I know not whether I be sitting here or in No-man's-land! What meaneth all this stir i' th' pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest fellow." "'Honest fellow,' sayst thou, clown?" quoth one of the men "Why, I tell thee that this is that same rogue that men call Robin Hood." At this speech the Cobbler stared and gaped more than ever, for there was such a threshing of thoughts going on within his poor head that his wits were all befogged with the dust and chaff thereof. Moreover, as he looked at Robin Hood, and saw the yeoman look so like what he knew himself to be, he began to doubt and to think that mayhap he was the great outlaw in real sooth. Said he in a slow, wondering voice, "Am I in very truth that fellow?--Now I had thought--but nay, Quince, thou art mistook--yet--am I?--Nay, I must indeed be Robin Hood! Yet, truly, I had never thought to pass from an honest craftsman to such a great yeoman." "Alas!" quoth Robin Hood, "look ye there, now! See how your ill- treatment hath curdled the wits of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I, myself, am Quince, the Cobbler of Derby Town." "Is it so?" said Quince. "Then, indeed, I am somebody else, and can be none other than Robin Hood. Take me, fellows; but let me tell you that ye ha' laid hand upon the stoutest yeoman that ever trod the woodlands." "Thou wilt play madman, wilt thou?" said the leader of the band. "Here, Giles, fetch a cord and bind this knave's hands behind him. I warrant we will bring his wits back to him again when we get him safe before our good Bishop at Tutbury Town." Thereupon they tied the Cobbler's hands behind him, and led him off with a rope, as the farmer leads off the calf he hath brought from the fair. Robin stood looking after them, and when they were gone he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks; for he knew that no harm would befall the honest fellow, and he pictured to himself the Bishop's face when good Quince was brought before him as Robin Hood. Then, turning his steps once more to the eastward, he stepped out right foot foremost toward Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest. But Robin Hood had gone through more than he wotted of. His journey from London had been hard and long, and in a se'ennight he had traveled sevenscore and more of miles. He thought now to travel on without stopping until he had come to Sherwood, but ere he had gone a half a score of miles he felt his strength giving way beneath him like a river bank which the waters have undermined. He sat him down and rested, but he knew within himself that he could go no farther that day, for his feet felt like lumps of lead, so heavy were they with weariness. Once more he arose and went forward, but after traveling a couple of miles he was fain to give the matter up, so, coming to an inn just then, he entered and calling the landlord, bade him show him to a room, although the sun was only then just sinking in the western sky. There were but three bedrooms in the place, and to the meanest of these the landlord showed Robin Hood, but little Robin cared for the looks of the place, for he could have slept that night upon a bed of broken stones. So, stripping off his clothes without more ado, he rolled into the bed and was asleep almost ere his head touched the pillow. Not long after Robin had so gone to his rest a great cloud peeped blackly over the hills to the westward. Higher and higher it arose until it piled up into the night like a mountain of darkness. All around beneath it came ever and anon a dull red flash, and presently a short grim mutter of the coming thunder was heard. Then up rode four stout burghers of Nottingham Town, for this was the only inn within five miles' distance, and they did not care to be caught in such a thunderstorm as this that was coming upon them. Leaving their nags to the stableman, they entered the best room of the inn, where fresh green rushes lay all spread upon the floor, and there called for the goodliest fare that the place afforded. After having eaten heartily they bade the landlord show them to their rooms, for they were aweary, having ridden all the way from Dronfield that day. So off they went, grumbling at having to sleep two in a bed, but their troubles on this score, as well as all others, were soon lost in the quietness of sleep. And now came the first gust of wind, rushing past the place, clapping and banging the doors and shutters, smelling of the coming rain, and all wrapped in a cloud of dust and leaves. As though the wind had brought a guest along with it, the door opened of a sudden and in came a friar of Emmet Priory, and one in high degree, as was shown by the softness and sleekness of his robes and the richness of his rosary. He called to the landlord, and bade him first have his mule well fed and bedded in the stable, and then to bring him the very best there was in the house. So presently a savory stew of tripe and onions, with sweet little fat dumplings, was set before him, likewise a good stout pottle of Malmsey, and straightway the holy friar fell to with great courage and heartiness, so that in a short time nought was left but a little pool of gravy in the center of the platter, not large enow to keep the life in a starving mouse. In the meantime the storm broke. Another gust of wind went rushing by, and with it fell a few heavy drops of rain, which presently came rattling down in showers, beating against the casements like a hundred little hands. Bright flashes of lightning lit up every raindrop, and with them came cracks of thunder that went away rumbling and bumping as though Saint Swithin were busy rolling great casks of water across rough ground overhead. The womenfolks screamed, and the merry wags in the taproom put their arms around their waists to soothe them into quietness. At last the holy friar bade the landlord show him to his room; but when he heard that he was to bed with a cobbler, he was as ill contented a fellow as you could find in all England, nevertheless there was nothing for it, and he must sleep there or nowhere; so, taking up his candle, he went off, grumbling like the now distant thunder. When he came to the room where he was to sleep he held the light over Robin and looked at him from top to toe; then he felt better pleased, for, instead, of a rough, dirty-bearded fellow, he beheld as fresh and clean a lad as one could find in a week of Sundays; so, slipping off his clothes, he also huddled into the bed, where Robin, grunting and grumbling in his sleep, made room for him. Robin was more sound asleep, I wot, than he had been for many a day, else he would never have rested so quietly with one of the friar's sort so close beside him. As for the friar, had he known who Robin Hood was, you may well believe he would almost as soon have slept with an adder as with the man he had for a bedfellow. So the night passed comfortably enough, but at the first dawn of day Robin opened his eyes and turned his head upon the pillow. Then how he gaped and how he stared, for there beside him lay one all shaven and shorn, so that he knew that it must be a fellow in holy orders. He pinched himself sharply, but, finding he was awake, sat up in bed, while the other slumbered as peacefully as though he were safe and sound at home in Emmet Priory. "Now," quoth Robin to himself, "I wonder how this thing hath dropped into my bed during the night." So saying, he arose softly, so as not to waken the other, and looking about the room he espied the friar's clothes lying upon a bench near the wall. First he looked at the clothes, with his head on one side, and then he looked at the friar and slowly winked one eye. Quoth he, "Good Brother What-e'er- thy-name-may-be, as thou hast borrowed my bed so freely I'll e'en borrow thy clothes in return." So saying, he straightway donned the holy man's garb, but kindly left the cobbler's clothes in the place of it. Then he went forth into the freshness of the morning, and the stableman that was up and about the stables opened his eyes as though he saw a green mouse before him, for such men as the friars of Emmet were not wont to be early risers; but the man bottled his thoughts, and only asked Robin whether he wanted his mule brought from the stable. "Yea, my son," quoth Robin--albeit he knew nought of the mule--"and bring it forth quickly, I prythee, for I am late and must be jogging." So presently the stableman brought forth the mule, and Robin mounted it and went on his way rejoicing. As for the holy friar, when he arose he was in as pretty a stew as any man in all the world, for his rich, soft robes were gone, likewise his purse with ten golden pounds in it, and nought was left but patched clothes and a leathern apron. He raged and swore like any layman, but as his swearing mended nothing and the landlord could not aid him, and as, moreover, he was forced to be at Emmet Priory that very morning upon matters of business, he was fain either to don the cobbler's clothes or travel the road in nakedness. So he put on the clothes, and, still raging and swearing vengeance against all the cobblers in Derbyshire, he set forth upon his way afoot; but his ills had not yet done with him, for he had not gone far ere he fell into the hands of the King's men, who marched him off, willy-nilly, to Tutbury Town and the Bishop of Hereford. In vain he swore he was a holy man, and showed his shaven crown; off he must go, for nothing would do but that he was Robin Hood. Meanwhile merry Robin rode along contentedly, passing safely by two bands of the King's men, until his heart began to dance within him because of the nearness of Sherwood; so he traveled ever on to the eastward, till, of a sudden, he met a noble knight in a shady lane. Then Robin checked his mule quickly and leaped from off its back. "Now, well met, Sir Richard of the Lea," cried he, "for rather than any other man in England would I see thy good face this day!" Then he told Sir Richard all the happenings that had befallen him, and that now at last he felt himself safe, being so nigh to Sherwood again. But when Robin had done, Sir Richard shook his head sadly. "Thou art in greater danger now, Robin, than thou hast yet been," said he, "for before thee lie bands of the Sheriff's men blocking every road and letting none pass through the lines without examining them closely. I myself know this, having passed them but now. Before thee lie the Sheriffs men and behind thee the King's men, and thou canst not hope to pass either way, for by this time they will know of thy disguise and will be in waiting to seize upon thee. My castle and everything within it are thine, but nought could be gained there, for I could not hope to hold it against such a force as is now in Nottingham of the King's and the Sheriffs men." Having so spoken, Sir Richard bent his head in thought, and Robin felt his heart sink within him like that of the fox that hears the hounds at his heels and finds his den blocked with earth so that there is no hiding for him. But presently Sir Richard spoke again, saying, "One thing thou canst do, Robin, and one only. Go back to London and throw thyself upon the mercy of our good Queen Eleanor. Come with me straightway to my castle. Doff these clothes and put on such as my retainers wear. Then I will hie me to London Town with a troop of men behind me, and thou shalt mingle with them, and thus will I bring thee to where thou mayst see and speak with the Queen. Thy only hope is to get to Sherwood, for there none can reach thee, and thou wilt never get to Sherwood but in this way." So Robin went with Sir Richard of the Lea, and did as he said, for he saw the wisdom of that which the knight advised, and that this was his only chance of safety. Queen Eleanor walked in her royal garden, amid the roses that bloomed sweetly, and with her walked six of her ladies-in-waiting, chattering blithely together. Of a sudden a man leaped up to the top of the wall from the other side, and then, hanging for a moment, dropped lightly upon the grass within. All the ladies-in-waiting shrieked at the suddenness of his coming, but the man ran to the Queen and kneeled at her feet, and she saw that it was Robin Hood. "Why, how now, Robin!" cried she, "dost thou dare to come into the very jaws of the raging lion? Alas, poor fellow! Thou art lost indeed if the King finds thee here. Dost thou not know that he is seeking thee through all the land?" "Yea," quoth Robin, "I do know right well that the King seeks me, and therefore I have come; for, surely, no ill can befall me when he hath pledged his royal word to Your Majesty for my safety. Moreover, I know Your Majesty's kindness and gentleness of heart, and so I lay my life freely in your gracious hands." "I take thy meaning, Robin Hood," said the Queen, "and that thou dost convey reproach to me, as well thou mayst, for I know that I have not done by thee as I ought to have done. I know right well that thou must have been hard pressed by peril to leap so boldly into one danger to escape another. Once more I promise thee mine aid, and will do all I can to send thee back in safety to Sherwood Forest. Bide thou here till I return." So saying, she left Robin in the garden of roses, and was gone a long time. When she came back Sir Robert Lee was with her, and the Queen's cheeks were hot and the Queen's eyes were bright, as though she had been talking with high words. Then Sir Robert came straight forward to where Robin Hood stood, and he spoke to the yeoman in a cold, stern voice. Quoth he, "Our gracious Sovereign the King hath mitigated his wrath toward thee, fellow, and hath once more promised that thou shalt depart in peace and safety. Not only hath he promised this, but in three days he will send one of his pages to go with thee and see that none arrest thy journey back again. Thou mayst thank thy patron saint that thou hast such a good friend in our noble Queen, for, but for her persuasion and arguments, thou hadst been a dead man, I can tell thee. Let this peril that thou hast passed through teach thee two lessons. First, be more honest. Second, be not so bold in thy comings and goings. A man that walketh in the darkness as thou dost may escape for a time, but in the end he will surely fall into the pit. Thou hast put thy head in the angry lion's mouth, and yet thou hast escaped by a miracle. Try it not again." So saying, he turned and left Robin and was gone. For three days Robin abided in London in the Queen's household, and at the end of that time the King's head Page, Edward Cunningham, came, and taking Robin with him, departed northward upon his way to Sherwood. Now and then they passed bands of the King's men coming back again to London, but none of those bands stopped them, and so, at last, they reached the sweet, leafy woodlands. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbourne A LONG TIME passed after the great shooting match, and during that time Robin followed one part of the advice of Sir Robert Lee, to wit, that of being less bold in his comings and his goings; for though mayhap he may not have been more honest (as most folks regard honesty), he took good care not to travel so far from Sherwood that he could not reach it both easily and quickly. Great changes had fallen in this time; for King Henry had died and King Richard had come to the crown that fitted him so well through many hard trials, and through adventures as stirring as any that ever befell Robin Hood. But though great changes came, they did not reach to Sherwood's shades, for there Robin Hood and his men dwelled as merrily as they had ever done, with hunting and feasting and singing and blithe woodland sports; for it was little the outside striving of the world troubled them. The dawning of a summer's day was fresh and bright, and the birds sang sweetly in a great tumult of sound. So loud was their singing that it awakened Robin Hood where he lay sleeping, so that he stirred, and turned, and arose. Up rose Little John also, and all the merry men; then, after they had broken their fast, they set forth hither and thither upon the doings of the day. Robin Hood and Little John walked down a forest path where all around the leaves danced and twinkled as the breeze trembled through them and the sunlight came flickering down. Quoth Robin Hood, "I make my vow, Little John, my blood tickles my veins as it flows through them this gay morn. What sayst thou to our seeking adventures, each one upon his own account?" "With all my heart," said Little John. "We have had more than one pleasant doing in that way, good master. Here are two paths; take thou the one to the right hand, and I will take the one to the left, and then let us each walk straight ahead till he tumble into some merry doing or other." "I like thy plan," quoth Robin, "therefore we will part here. But look thee, Little John, keep thyself out of mischief, for I would not have ill befall thee for all the world." "Marry, come up," quoth Little John, "how thou talkest! Methinks thou art wont to get thyself into tighter coils than I am like to do." At this Robin Hood laughed. "Why, in sooth, Little John," said he, "thou hast a blundering hard-headed way that seemeth to bring thee right side uppermost in all thy troubles; but let us see who cometh out best this day." So saying, he clapped his palm to Little John's and each departed upon his way, the trees quickly shutting the one from the other's sight. Robin Hood strolled onward till he came to where a broad woodland road stretched before him. Overhead the branches of the trees laced together in flickering foliage, all golden where it grew thin to the sunlight; beneath his feet the ground was soft and moist from the sheltering shade. Here in this pleasant spot the sharpest adventure that ever befell Robin Hood came upon him; for, as he walked down the woodland path thinking of nought but the songs of the birds, he came of a sudden to where a man was seated upon the mossy roots beneath the shade of a broad-spreading oak tree. Robin Hood saw that the stranger had not caught sight of him, so he stopped and stood quite still, looking at the other a long time before he came forward. And the stranger, I wot, was well worth looking at, for never had Robin seen a figure like that sitting beneath the tree. From his head to his feet he was clad in a horse's hide, dressed with the hair upon it. Upon his head was a cowl that hid his face from sight, and which was made of the horse's skin, the ears whereof stuck up like those of a rabbit. His body was clad in a jacket made of the hide, and his legs were covered with the hairy skin likewise. By his side was a heavy broadsword and a sharp, double-edged dagger. A quiver of smooth round arrows hung across his shoulders, and his stout bow of yew leaned against the tree beside him. "Halloa, friend," cried Robin, coming forward at last, "who art thou that sittest there? And what is that that thou hast upon thy body? I make my vow I ha' never seen such a sight in all my life before. Had I done an evil thing, or did my conscience trouble me, I would be afraid of thee, thinking that thou wast someone from down below bringing a message bidding me come straightway to King Nicholas." To this speech the other answered not a word, but he pushed the cowl back from his head and showed a knit brow, a hooked nose, and a pair of fierce, restless black eyes, which altogether made Robin think of a hawk as he looked on his face. But beside this there was something about the lines on the stranger's face, and his thin cruel mouth, and the hard glare of his eyes, that made one's flesh creep to look upon. "Who art thou, rascal?" said he at last, in a loud, harsh voice. "Tut, tut," quoth merry Robin, "speak not so sourly, brother. Hast thou fed upon vinegar and nettles this morning that thy speech is so stinging?" "An thou likest not my words," said the other fiercely, "thou hadst best be jogging, for I tell thee plainly, my deeds match them." "Nay, but I do like thy words, thou sweet, pretty thing," quoth Robin, squatting down upon the grass in front of the other. "Moreover, I tell thee thy speech is witty and gamesome as any I ever heard in all my life." The other said not a word, but he glared upon Robin with a wicked and baleful look, such as a fierce dog bestows upon a man ere it springs at his throat. Robin returned the gaze with one of wide-eyed innocence, not a shadow of a smile twinkling in his eyes or twitching at the corners of his mouth. So they sat staring at one another for a long time, until the stranger broke the silence suddenly. "What is thy name, fellow?" said he. "Now," quoth Robin, "I am right glad to hear thee speak, for I began to fear the sight of me had stricken thee dumb. As for my name, it may be this or it may be that; but methinks it is more meet for thee to tell me thine, seeing that thou art the greater stranger in these parts. Prythee, tell me, sweet chuck, why wearest thou that dainty garb upon thy pretty body?" At these words the other broke into a short, harsh roar of laughter. "By the bones of the Daemon Odin," said he, "thou art the boldest-spoken man that ever I have seen in all my life. I know not why I do not smite thee down where thou sittest, for only two days ago I skewered a man over back of Nottingham Town for saying not half so much to me as thou hast done. I wear this garb, thou fool, to keep my body warm; likewise it is near as good as a coat of steel against a common sword-thrust. As for my name, I care not who knoweth it. It is Guy of Gisbourne, and thou mayst have heard it before. I come from the woodlands over in Herefordshire, upon the lands of the Bishop of that ilk. I am an outlaw, and get my living by hook and by crook in a manner it boots not now to tell of. Not long since the Bishop sent for me, and said that if I would do a certain thing that the Sheriff of Nottingham would ask of me, he would get me a free pardon, and give me tenscore pounds to boot. So straightway I came to Nottingham Town and found my sweet Sheriff; and what thinkest thou he wanted of me? Why, forsooth, to come here to Sherwood to hunt up one Robin Hood, also an outlaw, and to take him alive or dead. It seemeth that they have no one here to face that bold fellow, and so sent all the way to Herefordshire, and to me, for thou knowest the old saying, 'Set a thief to catch a thief.' As for the slaying of this fellow, it galleth me not a whit, for I would shed the blood of my own brother for the half of two hundred pounds." To all this Robin listened, and as he listened his gorge rose. Well he knew of this Guy of Gisbourne, and of all the bloody and murderous deeds that he had done in Herefordshire, for his doings were famous throughout all the land. Yet, although he loathed the very presence of the man, he held his peace, for he had an end to serve. "Truly," quoth he, "I have heard of thy gentle doings. Methinks there is no one in all the world that Robin Hood would rather meet than thee." At this Guy of Gisbourne gave another harsh laugh. "Why," quoth he, "it is a merry thing to think of one stout outlaw like Robin Hood meeting another stout outlaw like Guy of Gisbourne. Only in this case it will be an ill happening for Robin Hood, for the day he meets Guy of Gisbourne he shall die." "But thou gentle, merry spirit," quoth Robin, "dost thou not think that mayhap this same Robin Hood may be the better man of the two? I know him right well, and many think that he is one of the stoutest men hereabouts." "He may be the stoutest of men hereabouts," quoth Guy of Gisbourne, "yet, I tell thee, fellow, this sty of yours is not the wide world. I lay my life upon it I am the better man of the two. He an outlaw, forsooth! Why, I hear that he hath never let blood in all his life, saving when he first came to the forest. Some call him a great archer; marry, I would not be afraid to stand against him all the days of the year with a bow in my hand." "Why, truly, some folk do call him a great archer," said Robin Hood, "but we of Nottinghamshire are famous hands with the longbow. Even I, though but a simple hand at the craft, would not fear to try a bout with thee." At these words Guy of Gisbourne looked upon Robin with wondering eyes, and then gave another roar of laughter till the woods rang. "Now," quoth he, "thou art a bold fellow to talk to me in this way. I like thy spirit in so speaking up to me, for few men have dared to do so. Put up a garland, lad, and I will try a bout with thee." "Tut, tut," quoth Robin, "only babes shoot at garlands hereabouts. I will put up a good Nottingham mark for thee." So saying, he arose, and going to a hazel thicket not far off, he cut a wand about twice the thickness of a man's thumb. From this he peeled the bark, and, sharpening the point, stuck it up in the ground in front of a great oak tree. Thence he measured off fourscore paces, which brought him beside the tree where the other sat. "There," quoth he, "is the kind of mark that Nottingham yeomen shoot at. Now let me see thee split that wand if thou art an archer." Then Guy of Gisbourne arose. "Now out upon it!" cried he. "The Devil himself could not hit such a mark as that." "Mayhap he could and mayhap he could not," quoth merry Robin, "but that we shall never know till thou hast shot thereat." At these words Guy of Gisbourne looked upon Robin with knit brows, but, as the yeoman still looked innocent of any ill meaning, he bottled his words and strung his bow in silence. Twice he shot, but neither time did he hit the wand, missing it the first time by a span and the second time by a good palm's-breadth. Robin laughed and laughed. "I see now," quoth he, "that the Devil himself could not hit that mark. Good fellow, if thou art no better with the broadsword than thou art with the bow and arrow, thou wilt never overcome Robin Hood." At these words Guy of Gisbourne glared savagely upon Robin. Quoth he, "Thou hast a merry tongue, thou villain; but take care that thou makest not too free with it, or I may cut it out from thy throat for thee." Robin Hood strung his bow and took his place with never a word, albeit his heartstrings quivered with anger and loathing. Twice he shot, the first time hitting within an inch of the wand, the second time splitting it fairly in the middle. Then, without giving the other a chance for speech, he flung his bow upon the ground. "There, thou bloody villain!" cried he fiercely, "let that show thee how little thou knowest of manly sports. And now look thy last upon the daylight, for the good earth hath been befouled long enough by thee, thou vile beast! This day, Our Lady willing, thou diest--I am Robin Hood." So saying, he flashed forth his bright sword in the sunlight. For a time Guy of Gisbourne stared upon Robin as though bereft of wits; but his wonder quickly passed to a wild rage. "Art thou indeed Robin Hood?" cried he. "Now I am glad to meet thee, thou poor wretch! Shrive thyself, for thou wilt have no time for shriving when I am done with thee." So saying, he also drew his sword. And now came the fiercest fight that ever Sherwood saw; for each man knew that either he or the other must die, and that no mercy was to be had in this battle. Up and down they fought, till all the sweet green grass was crushed and ground beneath the trampling of their heels. More than once the point of Robin Hood's sword felt the softness of flesh, and presently the ground began to be sprinkled with bright red drops, albeit not one of them came from Robin's veins. At last Guy of Gisbourne made a fierce and deadly thrust at Robin Hood, from which he leaped back lightly, but in so leaping he caught his heel in a root and fell heavily upon his back. "Now, Holy Mary aid me!" muttered he, as the other leaped at him, with a grin of rage upon his face. Fiercely Guy of Gisbourne stabbed at the other with his great sword, but Robin caught the blade in his naked hand, and, though it cut his palm, he turned the point away so that it plunged deep into the ground close beside him; then, ere a blow could be struck again, he leaped to his feet, with his good sword in his hand. And now despair fell upon Guy of Gisbourne's heart in a black cloud, and he looked around him wildly, like a wounded hawk. Seeing that his strength was going from him, Robin leaped forward, and, quick as a flash, struck a back-handed blow beneath the sword arm. Down fell the sword from Guy of Gisbourne's grasp, and back he staggered at the stroke, and, ere he could regain himself, Robin's sword passed through and through his body. Round he spun upon his heel, and, flinging his hands aloft with a shrill, wild cry, fell prone upon his face upon the green sod. Then Robin Hood wiped his sword and thrust it back into the scabbard, and, coming to where Guy of Gisbourne lay, he stood over him with folded arms, talking to himself the while. "This is the first man I have slain since I shot the Kings forester in the hot days of my youth. I ofttimes think bitterly, even yet, of that first life I took, but of this I am as glad as though I had slain a wild boar that laid waste a fair country. Since the Sheriff of Nottingham hath sent such a one as this against me, I will put on the fellow's garb and go forth to see whether I may not find his worship, and perchance pay him back some of the debt I owe him upon this score." So saying, Robin Hood stripped the hairy garments from off the dead man, and put them on himself, all bloody as they were. Then, strapping the other's sword and dagger around his body and carrying his own in his hand, together with the two bows of yew, he drew the cowl of horse's hide over his face, so that none could tell who he was, and set forth from the forest, turning his steps toward the eastward and Nottingham Town. As he strode along the country roads, men, women, and children hid away from him, for the terror of Guy of Gisbourne's name and of his doings had spread far and near. And now let us see what befell Little John while these things were happening. Little John walked on his way through the forest paths until he had come to the outskirts of the woodlands, where, here and there, fields of barley, corn, or green meadow lands lay smiling in the sun. So he came to the highroad and to where a little thatched cottage stood back of a cluster of twisted crab trees, with flowers in front of it. Here he stopped of a sudden, for he thought that he heard the sound of someone in sorrow. He listened, and found that it came from the cottage; so, turning his footsteps thither, he pushed open the wicket and entered the place. There he saw a gray-haired dame sitting beside a cold hearthstone, rocking herself to and fro and weeping bitterly. Now Little John had a tender heart for the sorrows of other folk, so, coming to the old woman and patting her kindly upon the shoulder, he spoke comforting words to her, bidding her cheer up and tell him her troubles, for that mayhap he might do something to ease them. At all this the good dame shook her head; but all the same his kind words did soothe her somewhat, so after a while she told him all that bore upon her mind. That that morning she had three as fair, tall sons beside her as one could find in all Nottinghamshire, but that they were now taken from her, and were like to be hanged straightway; that, want having come upon them, her eldest boy had gone out, the night before, into the forest, and had slain a hind in the moonlight; that the King's rangers had followed the blood upon the grass until they had come to her cottage, and had there found the deer's meat in the cupboard; that, as neither of the younger sons would betray their brother, the foresters had taken all three away, in spite of the oldest saying that he alone had slain the deer; that, as they went, she had heard the rangers talking among themselves, saying that the Sheriff had sworn that he would put a check upon the great slaughter of deer that had been going on of late by hanging the very first rogue caught thereat upon the nearest tree, and that they would take the three youths to the King's Head Inn, near Nottingham Town, where the Sheriff was abiding that day, there to await the return of a certain fellow he had sent into Sherwood to seek for Robin Hood. To all this Little John listened, shaking his head sadly now and then. "Alas," quoth he, when the good dame had finished her speech, "this is indeed an ill case. But who is this that goeth into Sherwood after Robin Hood, and why doth he go to seek him? But no matter for that now; only that I would that Robin Hood were here to advise us. Nevertheless, no time may be lost in sending for him at this hour, if we would save the lives of thy three sons. Tell me, hast thou any clothes hereabouts that I may put on in place of these of Lincoln green? Marry, if our stout Sheriff catcheth me without disguise, I am like to be run up more quickly than thy sons, let me tell thee, dame." Then the old woman told him that she had in the house some of the clothes of her good husband, who had died only two years before. These she brought to Little John, who, doffing his garb of Lincoln green, put them on in its stead. Then, making a wig and false beard of uncarded wool, he covered his own brown hair and beard, and, putting on a great, tall hat that had belonged to the old peasant, he took his staff in one hand and his bow in the other, and set forth with all speed to where the Sheriff had taken up his inn. A mile or more from Nottingham Town, and not far from the southern borders of Sherwood Forest, stood the cosy inn bearing the sign of the King's Head. Here was a great bustle and stir on this bright morning, for the Sheriff and a score of his men had come to stop there and await Guy of Gisbourne's return from the forest. Great hiss and fuss of cooking was going on in the kitchen, and great rapping and tapping of wine kegs and beer barrels was going on in the cellar. The Sheriff sat within, feasting merrily of the best the place afforded, and the Sheriff's men sat upon the bench before the door, quaffing ale, or lay beneath the shade of the broad-spreading oak trees, talking and jesting and laughing. All around stood the horses of the band, with a great noise of stamping feet and a great switching of tails. To this inn came the King's rangers, driving the widow's three sons before them. The hands of the three youths were tied tightly behind their backs, and a cord from neck to neck fastened them all together. So they were marched to the room where the Sheriff sat at meat, and stood trembling before him as he scowled sternly upon them. "So," quoth he, in a great, loud, angry voice, "ye have been poaching upon the King's deer, have you? Now I will make short work of you this day, for I will hang up all three of you as a farmer would hang up three crows to scare others of the kind from the field. Our fair county of Nottingham hath been too long a breeding place for such naughty knaves as ye are. I have put up with these things for many years, but now I will stamp them out once for all, and with you I will begin." Then one of the poor fellows opened his mouth to speak, but the Sheriff roared at him in a loud voice to be silent, and bade the rangers to take them away till he had done his eating and could attend to the matters concerning them. So the three poor youths were marched outside, where they stood with bowed heads and despairing hearts, till after a while the Sheriff came forth. Then he called his men about him, and quoth he, "These three villains shall be hanged straightway, but not here, lest they breed ill luck to this goodly inn. We will take them over yonder to that belt of woodlands, for I would fain hang them upon the very trees of Sherwood itself, to show those vile outlaws therein what they may expect of me if I ever have the good luck to lay hands upon them." So saying, he mounted his horse, as did his men-at-arms likewise, and all together they set forth for the belt of woodlands he had spoken of, the poor youths walking in their midst guarded by the rangers. So they came at last to the spot, and here nooses were fastened around the necks of the three, and the ends of the cords flung over the branch of a great oak tree that stood there. Then the three youths fell upon their knees and loudly besought mercy of the Sheriff; but the Sheriff of Nottingham laughed scornfully. "Now," quoth he, "I would that I had a priest here to shrive you; but, as none is nigh, you must e'en travel your road with all your sins packed upon your backs, and trust to Saint Peter to let you in through the gates of Paradise like three peddlers into the town." In the meantime, while all this had been going forward, an old man had drawn near and stood leaning on his staff, looking on. His hair and beard were all curly and white, and across his back was a bow of yew that looked much too strong for him to draw. As the Sheriff looked around ere he ordered his men to string the three youths up to the oak tree, his eyes fell upon this strange old man. Then his worship beckoned to him, saying, "Come hither, father, I have a few words to say to thee." So Little John, for it was none other than he, came forward, and the Sheriff looked upon him, thinking that there was something strangely familiar in the face before him. "How, now," said he, "methinks I have seen thee before. What may thy name be, father?" "Please Your Worship," said Little John, in a cracked voice like that of an old man, "my name is Giles Hobble, at Your Worship's service." "Giles Hobble, Giles Hobble," muttered the Sheriff to himself, turning over the names that he had in his mind to try to find one to fit to this. "I remember not thy name," said he at last, "but it matters not. Hast thou a mind to earn sixpence this bright morn?" "Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "for money is not so plenty with me that I should cast sixpence away an I could earn it by an honest turn. What is it Your Worship would have me do?" "Why, this," said the Sheriff. "Here are three men that need hanging as badly as any e'er I saw. If thou wilt string them up I will pay thee twopence apiece for them. I like not that my men-at-arms should turn hangmen. Wilt thou try thy hand?" "In sooth," said Little John, still in the old man's voice, "I ha' never done such a thing before; but an a sixpence is to be earned so easily I might as well ha' it as anybody. But, Your Worship, are these naughty fellows shrived?" "Nay," said the Sheriff, laughing, "never a whit; but thou mayst turn thy hand to that also if thou art so minded. But hasten, I prythee, for I would get back to mine inn betimes." So Little John came to where the three youths stood trembling, and, putting his face to the first fellow's cheek as though he were listening to him, he whispered softly into his ear, "Stand still, brother, when thou feelest thy bonds cut, but when thou seest me throw my woolen wig and beard from my head and face, cast the noose from thy neck and run for the woodlands." Then he slyly cut the cord that bound the youth's hands; who, upon his part, stood still as though he were yet bound. Then he went to the second fellow, and spoke to him in the same way, and also cut his bonds. This he did to the third likewise, but all so slyly that the Sheriff, who sat upon his horse laughing, wotted not what was being done, nor his men either. Then Little John turned to the Sheriff. "Please Your Worship," said he, "will you give me leave to string my bow? For I would fain help these fellows along the way, when they are swinging, with an arrow beneath the ribs." "With all my heart," said the Sheriff, "only, as I said before, make thou haste in thy doings." Little John put the tip of his bow to his instep, and strung the weapon so deftly that all wondered to see an old man so strong. Next he drew a good smooth arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the string; then, looking all around to see that the way was clear behind him, he suddenly cast away the wool from his head and face, shouting in a mighty voice, "Run!" Quick as a flash the three youths flung the nooses from their necks and sped across the open to the woodlands as the arrow speeds from the bow. Little John also flew toward the covert like a greyhound, while the Sheriff and his men gazed after him all bewildered with the sudden doing. But ere the yeoman had gone far the Sheriff roused himself. "After him!" he roared in a mighty voice; for he knew now who it was with whom he had been talking, and wondered that he had not known him before. Little John heard the Sheriff's words, and seeing that he could not hope to reach the woodlands before they would be upon him, he stopped and turned suddenly, holding his bow as though he were about to shoot. "Stand back!" cried he fiercely. "The first man that cometh a foot forward, or toucheth finger to bowstring, dieth!" At these words the Sheriff's men stood as still as stocks, for they knew right well that Little John would be as good as his word, and that to disobey him meant death. In vain the Sheriff roared at them, calling them cowards, and urging them forward in a body; they would not budge an inch, but stood and watched Little John as he moved slowly away toward the forest, keeping his gaze fixed upon them. But when the Sheriff saw his enemy thus slipping betwixt his fingers he grew mad with his rage, so that his head swam and he knew not what he did. Then of a sudden he turned his horse's head, and plunging his spurs into its sides he gave a great shout, and, rising in his stirrups, came down upon Little John like the wind. Then Little John raised his deadly bow and drew the gray goose feather to his cheek. But alas for him! For, ere he could loose the shaft, the good bow that had served him so long, split in his hands, and the arrow fell harmless at his feet. Seeing what had happened, the Sheriff's men raised a shout, and, following their master, came rushing down upon Little John. But the Sheriff was ahead of the others, and so caught up with the yeoman before he reached the shelter of the woodlands, then leaning forward he struck a mighty blow. Little John ducked and the Sheriff's sword turned in his hand, but the flat of the blade struck the other upon the head and smote him down, stunned and senseless. "Now, I am right glad," said the Sheriff, when the men came up and found that Little John was not dead, "that I have not slain this man in my haste! I would rather lose five hundred pounds than have him die thus instead of hanging, as such a vile thief should do. Go, get some water from yonder fountain, William, and pour it over his head." The man did as he was bidden, and presently Little John opened his eyes and looked around him, all dazed and bewildered with the stun of the blow. Then they tied his hands behind him, and lifting him up set him upon the back of one of the horses, with his face to its tail and his feet strapped beneath its belly. So they took him back to the King's Head Inn, laughing and rejoicing as they went along. But in the meantime the widow's three sons had gotten safely away, and were hidden in the woodlands. Once more the Sheriff of Nottingham sat within the King's Head Inn. His heart rejoiced within him, for he had at last done that which he had sought to do for years, taken Little John prisoner. Quoth he to himself, "This time tomorrow the rogue shall hang upon the gallows tree in front of the great gate of Nottingham Town, and thus shall I make my long score with him even." So saying, he took a deep draught of Canary. But it seemed as if the Sheriff had swallowed a thought with his wine, for he shook his head and put the cup down hastily. "Now," he muttered to himself, "I would not for a thousand pounds have this fellow slip through my fingers; yet, should his master escape that foul Guy of Gisbourne, there is no knowing what he may do, for he is the cunningest knave in all the world--this same Robin Hood. Belike I had better not wait until tomorrow to hang the fellow." So saying, he pushed his chair back hastily, and going forth from the inn called his men together. Quoth he, "I will wait no longer for the hanging of this rogue, but it shall be done forthwith, and that from the very tree whence he saved those three young villains by stepping betwixt them and the law. So get ye ready straightway." Then once more they sat Little John upon the horse, with his face to the tail, and so, one leading the horse whereon he sat and the others riding around him, they went forward to that tree from the branches of which they had thought to hang the poachers. On they went, rattling and jingling along the road till they came to the tree. Here one of the men spake to the Sheriff of a sudden. "Your Worship," cried he, "is not yon fellow coming along toward us that same Guy of Gisbourne whom thou didst send into the forest to seek Robin Hood?" At these words the Sheriff shaded his eyes and looked eagerly. "Why, certes," quoth he, "yon fellow is the same. Now, Heaven send that he hath slain the master thief, as we will presently slay the man!" When Little John heard this speech he looked up, and straightway his heart crumbled away within him, for not only were the man's garments all covered with blood, but he wore Robin Hood's bugle horn and carried his bow and broadsword. "How now!" cried the Sheriff, when Robin Hood, in Guy of Gisbourne's clothes, had come nigh to them. "What luck hath befallen thee in the forest? Why, man, thy clothes are all over blood!" "An thou likest not my clothes," said Robin in a harsh voice like that of Guy of Gisbourne, "thou mayst shut thine eyes. Marry, the blood upon me is that of the vilest outlaw that ever trod the woodlands, and one whom I have slain this day, albeit not without wound to myself." Then out spake Little John, for the first time since he had fallen into the Sheriff's hands. "O thou vile, bloody wretch! I know thee, Guy of Gisbourne, for who is there that hath not heard of thee and cursed thee for thy vile deeds of blood and rapine? Is it by such a hand as thine that the gentlest heart that ever beat is stilled in death? Truly, thou art a fit tool for this coward Sheriff of Nottingham. Now I die joyfully, nor do I care how I die, for life is nought to me!" So spake Little John, the salt tears rolling down his brown cheeks. But the Sheriff of Nottingham clapped his hands for joy. "Now, Guy of Gisbourne," cried he, "if what thou tellest me is true, it will be the best day's doings for thee that ever thou hast done in all thy life." "What I have told thee is sooth, and I lie not," said Robin, still in Guy of Gisbourne's voice. "Look, is not this Robin Hood's sword, and is not this his good bow of yew, and is not this his bugle horn? Thinkest thou he would have given them to Guy of Gisbourne of his own free will?" Then the Sheriff laughed aloud for joy. "This is a good day!" cried he. "The great outlaw dead and his right-hand man in my hands! Ask what thou wilt of me, Guy of Gisbourne, and it is thine!" "Then this I ask of thee," said Robin. "As I have slain the master I would now kill the man. Give this fellow's life into my hands, Sir Sheriff." "Now thou art a fool!" cried the Sheriff. "Thou mightst have had money enough for a knight's ransom if thou hadst asked for it. I like ill to let this fellow pass from my hands, but as I have promised, thou shalt have him." "I thank thee right heartily for thy gift," cried Robin. "Take the rogue down from the horse, men, and lean him against yonder tree, while I show you how we stick a porker whence I come!" At these words some of the Sheriff's men shook their heads; for, though they cared not a whit whether Little John were hanged or not, they hated to see him butchered in cold blood. But the Sheriff called to them in a loud voice, ordering them to take the yeoman down from the horse and lean him against the tree, as the other bade. While they were doing this Robin Hood strung both his bow and that of Guy of Gisbourne, albeit none of them took notice of his doing so. Then, when Little John stood against the tree, he drew Guy of Gisbourne's sharp, double-edged dagger. "Fall back! fall back!" cried he. "Would ye crowd so on my pleasure, ye unmannerly knaves? Back, I say! Farther yet!" So they crowded back, as he ordered, many of them turning their faces away, that they might not see what was about to happen. "Come!" cried Little John. "Here is my breast. It is meet that the same hand that slew my dear master should butcher me also! I know thee, Guy of Gisbourne!" "Peace, Little John!" said Robin in a low voice. "Twice thou hast said thou knowest me, and yet thou knowest me not at all. Couldst thou not tell me beneath this wild beast's hide? Yonder, just in front of thee, lie my bow and arrows, likewise my broadsword. Take them when I cut thy bonds. Now! Get them quickly!" So saying, he cut the bonds, and Little John, quick as a wink, leaped forward and caught up the bow and arrows and the broadsword. At the same time Robin Hood threw back the cowl of horse's hide from his face and bent Guy of Gisbourne's bow, with a keen, barbed arrow fitted to the string. "Stand back!" cried he sternly. "The first man that toucheth finger to bowstring dieth! I have slain thy man, Sheriff; take heed that it is not thy turn next." Then, seeing that Little John had armed himself, he clapped his bugle horn to his lips and blew three blasts both loud and shrill. Now when the Sheriff of Nottingham saw whose face it was beneath Guy of Gisbourne's hood, and when he heard those bugle notes ring in his ear, he felt as if his hour had come. "Robin Hood!" roared he, and without another word he wheeled his horse in the road and went off in a cloud of dust. The Sheriff's men, seeing their master thus fleeing for his life, thought that it was not their business to tarry longer, so, clapping spurs to their horses, they also dashed away after him. But though the Sheriff of Nottingham went fast, he could not outstrip a clothyard arrow. Little John twanged his bowstring with a shout, and when the Sheriff dashed in through the gates of Nottingham Town at full speed, a gray goose shaft stuck out behind him like a moulting sparrow with one feather in its tail. For a month afterward the poor Sheriff could sit upon nought but the softest cushions that could be gotten for him. Thus the Sheriff and a score of men ran away from Robin Hood and Little John; so that when Will Stutely and a dozen or more of stout yeomen burst from out the covert, they saw nought of their master's enemies, for the Sheriff and his men were scurrying away in the distance, hidden within a cloud of dust like a little thunderstorm. Then they all went back into the forest once more, where they found the widow's three sons, who ran to Little John and kissed his hands. But it would not do for them to roam the forest at large any more; so they promised that, after they had gone and told their mother of their escape, they would come that night to the greenwood tree, and thenceforth become men of the band. King Richard Comes to Sherwood Forest NOT MORE than two months had passed and gone since these stirring adventures befell Robin Hood and Little John, when all Nottinghamshire was a mighty stir and tumult, for King Richard of the Lion's Heart was making a royal progress through merry England, and everyone expected him to come to Nottingham Town in his journeying. Messengers went riding back and forth between the Sheriff and the King, until at last the time was fixed upon when His Majesty was to stop in Nottingham, as the guest of his worship. And now came more bustle than ever; a great running hither and thither, a rapping of hammers and a babble of voices sounded everywhere through the place, for the folk were building great arches across the streets, beneath which the King was to pass, and were draping these arches with silken banners and streamers of many colors. Great hubbub was going on in the Guild Hall of the town, also, for here a grand banquet was to be given to the King and the nobles of his train, and the best master carpenters were busy building a throne where the King and the Sheriff were to sit at the head of the table, side by side. It seemed to many of the good folk of the place as if the day that should bring the King into the town would never come; but all the same it did come in its own season, and bright shone the sun down into the stony streets, which were all alive with a restless sea of people. On either side of the way great crowds of town and country folk stood packed as close together as dried herring in a box, so that the Sheriffs men, halberds in hands, could hardly press them back to leave space for the King's riding. "Take care whom thou pushest against!" cried a great, burly friar to one of these men. "Wouldst thou dig thine elbows into me, sirrah? By'r Lady of the Fountain, an thou dost not treat me with more deference I will crack thy knave's pate for thee, even though thou be one of the mighty Sheriff's men." At this a great shout of laughter arose from a number of tall yeomen in Lincoln green that were scattered through the crowd thereabouts; but one that seemed of more authority than the others nudged the holy man with his elbow. "Peace, Tuck," said he, "didst thou not promise me, ere thou camest here, that thou wouldst put a check upon thy tongue?" "Ay, marry," grumbled the other, "but 'a did not think to have a hard- footed knave trample all over my poor toes as though they were no more than so many acorns in the forest." But of a sudden all this bickering ceased, for a clear sound of many bugle horns came winding down the street. Then all the people craned their necks and gazed in the direction whence the sound came, and the crowding and the pushing and the swaying grew greater than ever. And now a gallant array of men came gleaming into sight, and the cheering of the people ran down the crowd as the fire runs in dry grass. Eight and twenty heralds in velvet and cloth of gold came riding forward. Over their heads fluttered a cloud of snow-white feathers, and each herald bore in his hand a long silver trumpet, which he blew musically. From each trumpet hung a heavy banner of velvet and cloth of gold, with the royal arms of England emblazoned thereon. After these came riding fivescore noble knights, two by two, all fully armed, saving that their heads were uncovered. In their hands they bore tall lances, from the tops of which fluttered pennons of many colors and devices. By the side of each knight walked a page clad in rich clothes of silk and velvet, and each page bore in his hands his master's helmet, from which waved long, floating plumes of feathers. Never had Nottingham seen a fairer sight than those fivescore noble knights, from whose armor the sun blazed in dazzling light as they came riding on their great war horses, with clashing of arms and jingling of chains. Behind the knights came the barons and the nobles of the mid-country, in robes of silk and cloth of gold, with golden chains about their necks and jewels at their girdles. Behind these again came a great array of men-at-arms, with spears and halberds in their hands, and, in the midst of these, two riders side by side. One of the horsemen was the Sheriff of Nottingham in his robes of office. The other, who was a head taller than the Sheriff, was clad in a rich but simple garb, with a broad, heavy chain about his neck. His hair and beard were like threads of gold, and his eyes were as blue as the summer sky. As he rode along he bowed to the right hand and the left, and a mighty roar of voices followed him as he passed; for this was King Richard. Then, above all the tumult and the shouting a great voice was heard roaring, "Heaven, its saints bless thee, our gracious King Richard! and likewise Our Lady of the Fountain, bless thee!" Then King Richard, looking toward the spot whence the sound came, saw a tall, burly, strapping priest standing in front of all the crowd with his legs wide apart as he backed against those behind. "By my soul, Sheriff," said the King, laughing, "ye have the tallest priests in Nottinghamshire that e'er I saw in all my life. If Heaven never answered prayers because of deafness, methinks I would nevertheless have blessings bestowed upon me, for that man yonder would make the great stone image of Saint Peter rub its ears and hearken unto him. I would that I had an army of such as he." To this the Sheriff answered never a word, but all the blood left his cheeks, and he caught at the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling; for he also saw the fellow that so shouted, and knew him to be Friar Tuck; and, moreover, behind Friar Tuck he saw the faces of Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Will Stutely and Allan a Dale and others of the band. "How now," said the King hastily, "art thou ill, Sheriff, that thou growest so white?" "Nay, Your Majesty," said the Sheriff, "it was nought but a sudden pain that will soon pass by." Thus he spake, for he was ashamed that the King should know that Robin Hood feared him so little that he thus dared to come within the very gates of Nottingham Town. Thus rode the King into Nottingham Town on that bright afternoon in the early fall season; and none rejoiced more than Robin Hood and his merry men to see him come so royally unto his own. Eventide had come; the great feast in the Guild Hall at Nottingham Town was done, and the wine passed freely. A thousand waxen lights gleamed along the board, at which sat lord and noble and knight and squire in goodly array. At the head of the table, upon a throne all hung with cloth of gold, sat King Richard with the Sheriff of Nottingham beside him. Quoth the King to the Sheriff, laughing as he spoke, "I have heard much spoken concerning the doings of certain fellows hereabouts, one Robin Hood and his band, who are outlaws and abide in Sherwood Forest. Canst thou not tell me somewhat of them, Sir Sheriff? For I hear that thou hast had dealings with them more than once." At these words the Sheriff of Nottingham looked down gloomily, and the Bishop of Hereford, who was present, gnawed his nether lip. Quoth the Sheriff, "I can tell Your Majesty but little concerning the doings of those naughty fellows, saving that they are the boldest lawbreakers in all the land." Then up spake young Sir Henry of the Lea, a great favorite with the King, under whom he had fought in Palestine. "May it please Your Majesty," said he, "when I was away in Palestine I heard ofttimes from my father, and in most cases I heard of this very fellow, Robin Hood. If Your Majesty would like I will tell you a certain adventure of this outlaw." Then the King laughingly bade him tell his tale, whereupon he told how Robin Hood had aided Sir Richard of the Lea with money that he had borrowed from the Bishop of Hereford. Again and again the King and those present roared with laughter, while the poor Bishop waxed cherry red in the face with vexation, for the matter was a sore thing with him. When Sir Henry of the Lea was done, others of those present, seeing how the King enjoyed this merry tale, told other tales concerning Robin and his merry men. "By the hilt of my sword," said stout King Richard, "this is as bold and merry a knave as ever I heard tell of. Marry, I must take this matter in hand and do what thou couldst not do, Sheriff, to wit, clear the forest of him and his band." That night the King sat in the place that was set apart for his lodging while in Nottingham Town. With him were young Sir Henry of the Lea and two other knights and three barons of Nottinghamshire; but the King's mind still dwelled upon Robin Hood. "Now," quoth he, "I would freely give a hundred pounds to meet this roguish fellow, Robin Hood, and to see somewhat of his doings in Sherwood Forest." Then up spake Sir Hubert of gingham, laughing: "If Your Majesty hath such a desire upon you it is not so hard to satisfy. If Your Majesty is willing to lose one hundred pounds, I will engage to cause you not only to meet this fellow, but to feast with him in Sherwood." "Marry, Sir Hubert," quoth the King, "this pleaseth me well. But how wilt thou cause me to meet Robin Hood?" "Why, thus," said Sir Hubert, "let Your Majesty and us here present put on the robes of seven of the Order of Black Friars, and let Your Majesty hang a purse of one hundred pounds beneath your gown; then let us undertake to ride from here to Mansfield Town tomorrow, and, without I am much mistaken, we will both meet with Robin Hood and dine with him before the day be passed." "I like thy plan, Sir Hubert," quoth the King merrily, "and tomorrow we will try it and see whether there be virtue in it." So it happened that when early the next morning the Sheriff came to where his liege lord was abiding, to pay his duty to him, the King told him what they had talked of the night before, and what merry adventure they were set upon undertaking that morning. But when the Sheriff heard this he smote his forehead with his fist. "Alas!" said he, "what evil counsel is this that hath been given thee! O my gracious lord and King, you know not what you do! This villain that you thus go to seek hath no reverence either for king or king's laws." "But did I not hear aright when I was told that this Robin Hood hath shed no blood since he was outlawed, saving only that of that vile Guy of Gisbourne, for whose death all honest men should thank him?" "Yea, Your Majesty," said the Sheriff, "you have heard aright. Nevertheless--" "Then," quoth the King, breaking in on the Sheriffs speech, "what have I to fear in meeting him, having done him no harm? Truly, there is no danger in this. But mayhap thou wilt go with us, Sir Sheriff." "Nay," quoth the Sheriff hastily, "Heaven forbid!" But now seven habits such as Black Friars wear were brought, and the King and those about him having clad themselves therein, and His Majesty having hung a purse with a hundred golden pounds in it beneath his robes, they all went forth and mounted the mules that had been brought to the door for them. Then the King bade the Sheriff be silent as to their doings, and so they set forth upon their way. Onward they traveled, laughing and jesting, until they passed through the open country; between bare harvest fields whence the harvest had been gathered home; through scattered glades that began to thicken as they went farther along, till they came within the heavy shade of the forest itself. They traveled in the forest for several miles without meeting anyone such as they sought, until they had come to that part of the road that lay nearest to Newstead Abbey. "By the holy Saint Martin," quoth the King, "I would that I had a better head for remembering things of great need. Here have we come away and brought never so much as a drop of anything to drink with us. Now I would give half a hundred pounds for somewhat to quench my thirst withal." No sooner had the King so spoken, than out from the covert at the roadside stepped a tall fellow with yellow beard and hair and a pair of merry blue eyes. "Truly, holy brother," said he, laying his hand upon the King's bridle rein, "it were an unchristian thing to not give fitting answer to so fair a bargain. We keep an inn hereabouts, and for fifty pounds we will not only give thee a good draught of wine, but will give thee as noble a feast as ever thou didst tickle thy gullet withal." So saying, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. Then straightway the bushes and branches on either side of the road swayed and crackled, and threescore broad-shouldered yeomen in Lincoln green burst out of the covert. "How now, fellow," quoth the King, "who art thou, thou naughty rogue? Hast thou no regard for such holy men as we are?" "Not a whit," quoth merry Robin Hood, for the fellow was he, "for in sooth all the holiness belonging to rich friars, such as ye are, one could drop into a thimble and the goodwife would never feel it with the tip of her finger. As for my name, it is Robin Hood, and thou mayst have heard it before." "Now out upon thee!" quoth King Richard. "Thou art a bold and naughty fellow and a lawless one withal, as I have often heard tell. Now, prythee, let me, and these brethren of mine, travel forward in peace and quietness." "It may not be," said Robin, "for it would look but ill of us to let such holy men travel onward with empty stomachs. But I doubt not that thou hast a fat purse to pay thy score at our inn since thou offerest freely so much for a poor draught of wine. Show me thy purse, reverend brother, or I may perchance have to strip thy robes from thee to search for it myself." "Nay, use no force," said the King sternly. "Here is my purse, but lay not thy lawless hands upon our person." "Hut, tut," quoth merry Robin, "what proud words are these? Art thou the King of England, to talk so to me? Here, Will, take this purse and see what there is within." Will Scarlet took the purse and counted out the money. Then Robin bade him keep fifty pounds for themselves, and put fifty back into the purse. This he handed to the King. "Here, brother," quoth he, "take this half of thy money, and thank Saint Martin, on whom thou didst call before, that thou hast fallen into the hands of such gentle rogues that they will not strip thee bare, as they might do. But wilt thou not put back thy cowl? For I would fain see thy face." "Nay," said the King, drawing back, "I may not put back my cowl, for we seven have vowed that we will not show our faces for four and twenty hours." "Then keep them covered in peace," said Robin, "and far be it from me to make you break your vows." So he called seven of his yeomen and bade them each one take a mule by the bridle; then, turning their faces toward the depths of the woodlands, they journeyed onward until they came to the open glade and the greenwood tree. Little John, with threescore yeomen at his heels, had also gone forth that morning to wait along the roads and bring a rich guest to Sherwood glade, if such might be his luck, for many with fat purses must travel the roads at this time, when such great doings were going on in Nottinghamshire, but though Little John and so many others were gone, Friar Tuck and twoscore or more stout yeomen were seated or lying around beneath the great tree, and when Robin and the others came they leaped to their feet to meet him. "By my soul," quoth merry King Richard, when he had gotten down from his mule and stood looking about him, "thou hast in very truth a fine lot of young men about thee, Robin. Methinks King Richard himself would be glad of such a bodyguard." "These are not all of my fellows," said Robin proudly, "for threescore more of them are away on business with my good right-hand man, Little John. But, as for King Richard, I tell thee, brother, there is not a man of us all but would pour out our blood like water for him. Ye churchmen cannot rightly understand our King; but we yeomen love him right loyally for the sake of his brave doings which are so like our own." But now Friar Tuck came bustling up. "Gi' ye good den, brothers," said he. "I am right glad to welcome some of my cloth in this naughty place. Truly, methinks these rogues of outlaws would stand but an ill chance were it not for the prayers of Holy Tuck, who laboreth so hard for their well-being." Here he winked one eye slyly and stuck his tongue into his cheek. "Who art thou, mad priest?" said the King in a serious voice, albeit he smiled beneath his cowl. At this Friar Tuck looked all around with a slow gaze. "Look you now," quoth he, "never let me hear you say again that I am no patient man. Here is a knave of a friar calleth me a mad priest, and yet I smite him not. My name is Friar Tuck, fellow--the holy Friar Tuck." "There, Tuck," said Robin, "thou hast said enow. Prythee, cease thy talk and bring some wine. These reverend men are athirst, and sin' they have paid so richly for their score they must e'en have the best." Friar Tuck bridled at being so checked in his speech, nevertheless he went straightway to do Robin's bidding; so presently a great crock was brought, and wine was poured out for all the guests and for Robin Hood. Then Robin held his cup aloft. "Stay!" cried he. "Tarry in your drinking till I give you a pledge. Here is to good King Richard of great renown, and may all enemies to him be confounded." Then all drank the King's health, even the King himself. "Methinks, good fellow," said he, "thou hast drunk to thine own confusion." "Never a whit," quoth merry Robin, "for I tell thee that we of Sherwood are more loyal to our lord the King than those of thine order. We would give up our lives for his benefiting, while ye are content to lie snug in your abbeys and priories let reign who will." At this the King laughed. Quoth he, "Perhaps King Richard's welfare is more to me than thou wottest of, fellow. But enough of that matter. We have paid well for our fare, so canst thou not show us some merry entertainment? I have oft heard that ye are wondrous archers; wilt thou not show us somewhat of your skill?" "With all my heart," said Robin, "we are always pleased to show our guests all the sport that is to be seen. As Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, 'Tis a hard heart that will not give a caged starling of the best'; and caged starlings ye are with us. Ho, lads! Set up a garland at the end of the glade." Then, as the yeomen ran to do their master's bidding, Tuck turned to one of the mock friars. "Hearest thou our master?" quoth he, with a sly wink. "Whenever he cometh across some poor piece of wit he straightway layeth it on the shoulders of this Gaffer Swanthold--whoever he may be-- so that the poor goodman goeth traveling about with all the odds and ends and tags and rags of our master's brain packed on his back." Thus spake Friar Tuck, but in a low voice so that Robin could not hear him, for he felt somewhat nettled at Robin's cutting his talk so short. In the meantime the mark at which they were to shoot was set up at sixscore paces distance. It was a garland of leaves and flowers two spans in width, which same was hung upon a stake in front of a broad tree trunk. "There," quoth Robin, "yon is a fair mark, lads. Each of you shoot three arrows thereat; and if any fellow misseth by so much as one arrow, he shall have a buffet of Will Scarlet's fist." "Hearken to him!" quoth Friar Tuck. "Why, master, thou dost bestow buffets from thy strapping nephew as though they were love taps from some bouncing lass. I warrant thou art safe to hit the garland thyself, or thou wouldst not be so free of his cuffing." First David of Doncaster shot, and lodged all three of his arrows within the garland. "Well done, David!" cried Robin, "thou hast saved thine ears from a warming this day." Next Midge, the Miller, shot, and he, also, lodged his arrows in the garland. Then followed Wat, the Tinker, but alas for him! For one of his shafts missed the mark by the breadth of two fingers. "Come hither, fellow," said Will Scarlet, in his soft, gentle voice, "I owe thee somewhat that I would pay forthwith." Then Wat, the Tinker, came forward and stood in front of Will Scarlet, screwing up his face and shutting his eyes tightly, as though he already felt his ears ringing with the buffet. Will Scarlet rolled up his sleeve, and, standing on tiptoe to give the greater swing to his arm, he struck with might and main. "WHOOF!" came his palm against the Tinker's head, and down went stout Wat to the grass, heels over head, as the wooden image at the fair goes down when the skillful player throws a cudgel at it. Then, as the Tinker sat up upon the grass, rubbing his ear and winking and blinking at the bright stars that danced before his eyes, the yeomen roared with mirth till the forest rang. As for King Richard, he laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. Thus the band shot, each in turn, some getting off scot free, and some winning a buffet that always sent them to the grass. And now, last of all, Robin took his place, and all was hushed as he shot. The first shaft he shot split a piece from the stake on which the garland was hung; the second lodged within an inch of the other. "By my halidom," said King Richard to himself, "I would give a thousand pounds for this fellow to be one of my guard!" And now, for the third time Robin shot; but, alas for him! The arrow was ill- feathered, and, wavering to one side, it smote an inch outside the garland. At this a great roar went up, those of the yeomen who sat upon the grass rolling over and over and shouting with laughter, for never before had they seen their master so miss his mark; but Robin flung his bow upon the ground with vexation. "Now, out upon it!" cried he. "That shaft had an ill feather to it, for I felt it as it left my fingers. Give me a clean arrow, and I will engage to split the wand with it." At these words the yeomen laughed louder than ever. "Nay, good uncle," said Will Scarlet in his soft, sweet voice, "thou hast had thy fair chance and hast missed thine aim out and out. I swear the arrow was as good as any that hath been loosed this day. Come hither; I owe thee somewhat, and would fain pay it." "Go, good master," roared Friar Tuck, "and may my blessing go with thee. Thou hast bestowed these love taps of Will Scarlet's with great freedom. It were pity an thou gottest not thine own share." "It may not be," said merry Robin. "I am king here, and no subject may raise hand against the king. But even our great King Richard may yield to the holy Pope without shame, and even take a tap from him by way of penance; therefore I will yield myself to this holy friar, who seemeth to be one in authority, and will take my punishment from him." Thus saying, he turned to the King, "I prythee, brother, wilt thou take my punishing into thy holy hands?" "With all my heart," quoth merry King Richard, rising from where he was sitting. "I owe thee somewhat for having lifted a heavy weight of fifty pounds from my purse. So make room for him on the green, lads." "An thou makest me tumble," quoth Robin, "I will freely give thee back thy fifty pounds; but I tell thee, brother, if thou makest me not feel grass all along my back, I will take every farthing thou hast for thy boastful speech." "So be it," said the King, "I am willing to venture it." Thereupon he rolled up his sleeve and showed an arm that made the yeomen stare. But Robin, with his feet wide apart, stood firmly planted, waiting the other, smiling. Then the King swung back his arm, and, balancing himself a moment, he delivered a buffet at Robin that fell like a thunderbolt. Down went Robin headlong upon the grass, for the stroke would have felled a stone wall. Then how the yeomen shouted with laughter till their sides ached, for never had they seen such a buffet given in all their lives. As for Robin, he presently sat up and looked all around him, as though he had dropped from a cloud and had lit in a place he had never seen before. After a while, still gazing about him at his laughing yeomen, he put his fingertips softly to his ear and felt all around it tenderly. "Will Scarlet," said he, "count this fellow out his fifty pounds; I want nothing more either of his money or of him. A murrain seize him and his buffeting! I would that I had taken my dues from thee, for I verily believe he hath deafened mine ear from ever hearing again." Then, while gusts of laughter still broke from the band, Will Scarlet counted out the fifty pounds, and the King dropped it back into his purse again. "I give thee thanks, fellow," said he, "and if ever thou shouldst wish for another box of the ear to match the one thou hast, come to me and I will fit thee with it for nought." So spake the merry King; but, even as he ended, there came suddenly the sound of many voices, and out from the covert burst Little John and threescore men, with Sir Richard of the Lea in the midst. Across the glade they came running, and, as they came, Sir Richard shouted to Robin: "Make haste, dear friend, gather thy band together and come with me! King Richard left Nottingham Town this very morning, and cometh to seek thee in the woodlands. I know not how he cometh, for it was but a rumor of this that reached me; nevertheless, I know that it is the truth. Therefore hasten with all thy men, and come to Castle Lea, for there thou mayst lie hidden till thy present danger passeth. Who are these strangers that thou hast with thee?" "Why," quoth merry Robin, rising from the grass, "these are certain gentle guests that came with us from the highroad over by Newstead Abbey. I know not their names, but I have become right well acquaint with this lusty rogue's palm this morning. Marry, the pleasure of this acquaintance hath dost me a deaf ear and fifty pounds to boot!" Sir Richard looked keenly at the tall friar, who, drawing himself up to his full height, looked fixedly back at the knight. Then of a sudden Sir Richard's cheeks grew pale, for he knew who it was that he looked upon. Quickly he leaped from off his horse's back and flung himself upon his knees before the other. At this, the King, seeing that Sir Richard knew him, threw back his cowl, and all the yeomen saw his face and knew him also, for there was not one of them but had been in the crowd in the good town of Nottingham, and had seen him riding side by side with the Sheriff. Down they fell upon their knees, nor could they say a word. Then the King looked all around right grimly, and, last of all, his glance came back and rested again upon Sir Richard of the Lea. "How is this, Sir Richard?" said he sternly. "How darest thou step between me and these fellows? And how darest thou offer thy knightly Castle of the Lea for a refuge to them? Wilt thou make it a hiding place for the most renowned outlaws in England?" Then Sir Richard of the Lea raised his eyes to the King's face. "Far be it from me," said he, "to do aught that could bring Your Majesty's anger upon me. Yet, sooner would I face Your Majesty's wrath than suffer aught of harm that I could stay to fall upon Robin Hood and his band; for to them I owe life, honor, everything. Should I, then, desert him in his hour of need?" Ere the knight had done speaking, one of the mock friars that stood near the King came forward and knelt beside Sir Richard, and throwing back his cowl showed the face of young Sir Henry of the Lea. Then Sir Henry grasped his father's hand and said, "Here kneels one who hath served thee well, King Richard, and, as thou knowest, hath stepped between thee and death in Palestine; yet do I abide by my dear father, and here I say also, that I would freely give shelter to this noble outlaw, Robin Hood, even though it brought thy wrath upon me, for my father's honor and my father's welfare are as dear to me as mine own." King Richard looked from one to the other of the kneeling knights, and at last the frown faded from his brow and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips. "Marry, Sir Richard," quoth the King, "thou art a bold-spoken knight, and thy freedom of speech weigheth not heavily against thee with me. This young son of thine taketh after his sire both in boldness of speech and of deed, for, as he sayeth, he stepped one time betwixt me and death; wherefore I would pardon thee for his sake even if thou hadst done more than thou hast. Rise all of you, for ye shall suffer no harm through me this day, for it were pity that a merry time should end in a manner as to mar its joyousness." Then all arose and the King beckoned Robin Hood to come to him. "How now," quoth he, "is thine ear still too deaf to hear me speak?" "Mine ears would be deafened in death ere they would cease to hear Your Majesty's voice," said Robin. "As for the blow that Your Majesty struck me, I would say that though my sins are haply many, methinks they have been paid up in full thereby." "Thinkest thou so?" said the King with somewhat of sternness in his voice. "Now I tell thee that but for three things, to wit, my mercifulness, my love for a stout woodsman, and the loyalty thou hast avowed for me, thine ears, mayhap, might have been more tightly closed than ever a buffet from me could have shut them. Talk not lightly of thy sins, good Robin. But come, look up. Thy danger is past, for hereby I give thee and all thy band free pardon. But, in sooth, I cannot let you roam the forest as ye have done in the past; therefore I will take thee at thy word, when thou didst say thou wouldst give thy service to me, and thou shalt go back to London with me. We will take that bold knave Little John also, and likewise thy cousin, Will Scarlet, and thy minstrel, Allan a Dale. As for the rest of thy band, we will take their names and have them duly recorded as royal rangers; for methinks it were wiser to have them changed to law-abiding caretakers of our deer in Sherwood than to leave them to run at large as outlawed slayers thereof. But now get a feast ready; I would see how ye live in the woodlands." So Robin bade his men make ready a grand feast. Straightway great fires were kindled and burned brightly, at which savory things roasted sweetly. While this was going forward, the King bade Robin call Allan a Dale, for he would hear him sing. So word was passed for Allan, and presently he came, bringing his harp. "Marry," said King Richard, "if thy singing match thy looks it is fair enough. Prythee, strike up a ditty and let us have a taste of thy skill." Then Allan touched his harp lightly, and all words were hushed while he sang thus: "'_Oh, where has thou been, my daughter? Oh, where hast thou been this day Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, I have been to the river's side, Where the waters lie all gray and wide, And the gray sky broods o'er the leaden tide, And the shrill wind sighs a straining.' "'What sawest thou there, my daughter? What sawest thou there this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, I saw a boat come drifting nigh, Where the quivering rushes hiss and sigh, And the water soughs as it gurgles by, And the shrill wind sighs a straining.' "'What sailed in the boat, my daughter? What sailed in the boat this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, there was one all clad in white, And about his face hung a pallid light, And his eyes gleamed sharp like the stars at night, And the shrill wind sighed a straining.' "'And what said he, my daughter? What said he to thee this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, said he nought, but did he this: Thrice on my lips did he press a kiss, And my heartstrings shrunk with an awful bliss, And the shrill wind sighed a straining.' "'Why growest thou so cold, my daughter? Why growest thou so cold and white, Daughter, my daughter?' Oh, never a word the daughter said, But she sat all straight with a drooping head, For her heart was stilled and her face was dead: And the shrill wind sighed a straining_." All listened in silence; and when Allan a Dale had done King Richard heaved a sigh. "By the breath of my body, Allan," quoth he, "thou hast such a wondrous sweet voice that it strangely moves my heart. But what doleful ditty is this for the lips of a stout yeoman? I would rather hear thee sing a song of love and battle than a sad thing like that. Moreover, I understand it not; what meanest thou by the words?" "I know not, Your Majesty," said Allan, shaking his head, "for ofttimes I sing that which I do not clearly understand mine own self." "Well, well," quoth the King, "let it pass; only I tell thee this, Allan, thou shouldst turn thy songs to such matters as I spoke of, to wit, love or war; for in sooth thou hast a sweeter voice than Blondell, and methought he was the best minstrel that ever I heard." But now one came forward and said that the feast was ready; so Robin Hood brought King Richard and those with him to where it lay all spread out on fair white linen cloths which lay upon the soft green grass. Then King Richard sat him down and feasted and drank, and when he was done he swore roundly that he had never sat at such a lusty repast in all his life before. That night he lay in Sherwood Forest upon a bed of sweet green leaves, and early the next morning he set forth from the woodlands for Nottingham Town, Robin Hood and all of his band going with him. You may guess what a stir there was in the good town when all these famous outlaws came marching into the streets. As for the Sheriff, he knew not what to say nor where to look when he saw Robin Hood in such high favor with the King, while all his heart was filled with gall because of the vexation that lay upon him. The next day the King took leave of Nottingham Town; so Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale shook hands with all the rest of the band, kissing the cheeks of each man, and swearing that they would often come to Sherwood and see them. Then each mounted his horse and rode away in the train of the King. Epilogue THUS END the Merry Adventures of Robin Hood; for, in spite of his promise, it was many a year ere he saw Sherwood again. After a year or two at court Little John came back to Nottinghamshire, where he lived in an orderly way, though within sight of Sherwood, and where he achieved great fame as the champion of all England with the quarterstaff. Will Scarlet after a time came back to his own home, whence he had been driven by his unlucky killing of his father's steward. The rest of the band did their duty as royal rangers right well. But Robin Hood and Allan a Dale did not come again to Sherwood so quickly, for thus it was: Robin, through his great fame as an archer, became a favorite with the King, so that he speedily rose in rank to be the chief of all the yeomen. At last the King, seeing how faithful and how loyal he was, created him Earl of Huntingdon; so Robin followed the King to the wars, and found his time so full that he had no chance to come back to Sherwood for even so much as a day. As for Allan a Dale and his wife, the fair Ellen, they followed Robin Hood and shared in all his ups and downs of life. And now, dear friend, you who have journeyed with me in all these merry doings, I will not bid you follow me further, but will drop your hand here with a "good den," if you wish it; for that which cometh hereafter speaks of the breaking up of things, and shows how joys and pleasures that are dead and gone can never be set upon their feet to walk again. I will not dwell upon the matter overlong, but will tell as speedily as may be of how that stout fellow, Robin Hood, died as he had lived, not at court as Earl of Huntingdon, but with bow in hand, his heart in the greenwood, and he himself a right yeoman. King Richard died upon the battlefield, in such a way as properly became a lion-hearted king, as you yourself, no doubt, know; so, after a time, the Earl of Huntingdon--or Robin Hood, as we still call him as of old-- finding nothing for his doing abroad, came back to merry England again. With him came Allan a Dale and his wife, the fair Ellen, for these two had been chief of Robin's household ever since he had left Sherwood Forest. It was in the springtime when they landed once more on the shores of England. The leaves were green and the small birds sang blithely, just as they used to do in fair Sherwood when Robin Hood roamed the woodland shades with a free heart and a light heel. All the sweetness of the time and the joyousness of everything brought back to Robin's mind his forest life, so that a great longing came upon him to behold the woodlands once more. So he went straightway to King John and besought leave of him to visit Nottingham for a short season. The King gave him leave to come and to go, but bade him not stay longer than three days at Sherwood. So Robin Hood and Allan a Dale set forth without delay to Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest. The first night they took up their inn at Nottingham Town, yet they did not go to pay their duty to the Sheriff, for his worship bore many a bitter grudge against Robin Hood, which grudges had not been lessened by Robin's rise in the world. The next day at an early hour they mounted their horses and set forth for the woodlands. As they passed along the road it seemed to Robin that he knew every stick and stone that his eyes looked upon. Yonder was a path that he had ofttimes trod of a mellow evening, with Little John beside him; here was one, now nigh choked with brambles, along which he and a little band had walked when they went forth to seek a certain curtal friar. Thus they rode slowly onward, talking about these old, familiar things; old and yet new, for they found more in them than they had ever thought of before. Thus at last they came to the open glade, and the broad, wide-spreading greenwood tree which was their home for so many years. Neither of the two spoke when they stood beneath that tree. Robin looked all about him at the well-known things, so like what they used to be and yet so different; for, where once was the bustle of many busy fellows was now the quietness of solitude; and, as he looked, the woodlands, the greensward, and the sky all blurred together in his sight through salt tears, for such a great yearning came upon him as he looked on these things (as well known to him as the fingers of his right hand) that he could not keep back the water from his eyes. That morning he had slung his good old bugle horn over his shoulder, and now, with the yearning, came a great longing to sound his bugle once more. He raised it to his lips; he blew a blast. "Tirila, lirila," the sweet, clear notes went winding down the forest paths, coming back again from the more distant bosky shades in faint echoes of sound, "Tirila, lirila, tirila, lirila," until it faded away and was lost. Now it chanced that on that very morn Little John was walking through a spur of the forest upon certain matters of business, and as he paced along, sunk in meditation, the faint, clear notes of a distant bugle horn came to his ear. As leaps the stag when it feels the arrow at its heart, so leaped Little John when that distant sound met his ear. All the blood in his body seemed to rush like a flame into his cheeks as he bent his head and listened. Again came the bugle note, thin and clear, and yet again it sounded. Then Little John gave a great, wild cry of yearning, of joy, and yet of grief, and, putting down his head, he dashed into the thicket. Onward he plunged, crackling and rending, as the wild boar rushes through the underbrush. Little recked he of thorns and briers that scratched his flesh and tore his clothing, for all he thought of was to get, by the shortest way, to the greenwood glade whence he knew the sound of the bugle horn came. Out he burst from the covert, at last, a shower of little broken twigs falling about him, and, without pausing a moment, rushed forward and flung himself at Robin's feet. Then he clasped his arms around the master's knees, and all his body was shaken with great sobs; neither could Robin nor Allan a Dale speak, but stood looking down at Little John, the tears rolling down their cheeks. While they thus stood, seven royal rangers rushed into the open glade and raised a great shout of joy at the sight of Robin; and at their head was Will Stutely. Then, after a while, came four more, panting with their running, and two of these four were Will Scathelock and Midge, the Miller; for all of these had heard the sound of Robin Hood's horn. All these ran to Robin and kissed his hands and his clothing, with great sound of weeping. After a while Robin looked around him with tear-dimmed eyes and said, in a husky voice, "Now, I swear that never again will I leave these dear woodlands. I have been away from them and from you too long. Now do I lay by the name of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and take upon me once again that nobler title, Robin Hood, the Yeoman." At this a great shout went up, and all the yeomen shook one another's hands for joy. The news that Robin Hood had come back again to dwell in Sherwood as of old spread like wildfire all over the countryside, so that ere a se'ennight had passed nearly all of his old yeomen had gathered about him again. But when the news of all this reached the ears of King John, he swore both loud and deep, and took a solemn vow that he would not rest until he had Robin Hood in his power, dead or alive. Now there was present at court a certain knight, Sir William Dale, as gallant a soldier as ever donned harness. Sir William Dale was well acquainted with Sherwood Forest, for he was head keeper over that part of it that lay nigh to good Mansfield Town; so to him the King turned, and bade him take an army of men and go straightway to seek Robin Hood. Likewise the King gave Sir William his signet ring to show to the Sheriff, that he might raise all his armed men to aid the others in their chase of Robin. So Sir William and the Sheriff set forth to do the King's bidding and to search for Robin Hood; and for seven days they hunted up and down, yet found him not. Now, had Robin Hood been as peaceful as of old, everything might have ended in smoke, as other such ventures had always done before; but he had fought for years under King Richard, and was changed from what he used to be. It galled his pride to thus flee away before those sent against him, as a chased fox flees from the hounds; so thus it came about, at last, that Robin Hood and his yeomen met Sir William and the Sheriff and their men in the forest, and a bloody fight followed. The first man slain in that fight was the Sheriff of Nottingham, for he fell from his horse with an arrow in his brain ere half a score of shafts had been sped. Many a better man than the Sheriff kissed the sod that day, but at last, Sir William Dale being wounded and most of his men slain, he withdrew, beaten, and left the forest. But scores of good fellows were left behind him, stretched out all stiff beneath the sweet green boughs. But though Robin Hood had beaten off his enemies in fair fight, all this lay heavily upon his mind, so that he brooded over it until a fever seized upon him. For three days it held him, and though he strove to fight it off, he was forced to yield at last. Thus it came that, on the morning of the fourth day, he called Little John to him, and told him that he could not shake the fever from him, and that he would go to his cousin, the prioress of the nunnery near Kirklees, in Yorkshire, who was a skillful leech, and he would have her open a vein in his arm and take a little blood from him, for the bettering of his health. Then he bade Little John make ready to go also, for he might perchance need aid in his journeying. So Little John and he took their leave of the others, and Robin Hood bade Will Stutely be the captain of the band until they should come back. Thus they came by easy stages and slow journeying until they reached the Nunnery of Kirklees. Now Robin had done much to aid this cousin of his; for it was through King Richard's love of him that she had been made prioress of the place. But there is nought in the world so easily forgot as gratitude; so, when the Prioress of Kirklees had heard how her cousin, the Earl of Huntingdon, had thrown away his earldom and gone back again to Sherwood, she was vexed to the soul, and feared lest her cousinship with him should bring the King's wrath upon her also. Thus it happened that when Robin came to her and told her how he wished her services as leech, she began plotting ill against him in her mind, thinking that by doing evil to him she might find favor with his enemies. Nevertheless, she kept this well to herself and received Robin with seeming kindness. She led him up the winding stone stair to a room which was just beneath the eaves of a high, round tower; but she would not let Little John come with him. So the poor yeoman turned his feet away from the door of the nunnery, and left his master in the hands of the women. But, though he did not come in, neither did he go far away; for he laid him down in a little glade near by, where he could watch the place that Robin abided, like some great, faithful dog turned away from the door where his master has entered. After the women had gotten Robin Hood to the room beneath the eaves, the Prioress sent all of the others away; then, taking a little cord, she tied it tightly about Robin's arm, as though she were about to bleed him. And so she did bleed him, but the vein she opened was not one of those that lie close and blue beneath the skin; deeper she cut than that, for she opened one of those veins through which the bright red blood runs leaping from the heart. Of this Robin knew not; for, though he saw the blood flow, it did not come fast enough to make him think that there was anything ill in it. Having done this vile deed, the Prioress turned and left her cousin, locking the door behind her. All that livelong day the blood ran from Robin Hood's arm, nor could he check it, though he strove in every way to do so. Again and again he called for help, but no help came, for his cousin had betrayed him, and Little John was too far away to hear his voice. So he bled and bled until he felt his strength slipping away from him. Then he arose, tottering, and bearing himself up by the palms of his hands against the wall, he reached his bugle horn at last. Thrice he sounded it, but weakly and faintly, for his breath was fluttering through sickness and loss of strength; nevertheless, Little John heard it where he lay in the glade, and, with a heart all sick with dread, he came running and leaping toward the nunnery. Loudly he knocked at the door, and in a loud voice shouted for them to let him in, but the door was of massive oak, strongly barred, and studded with spikes, so they felt safe, and bade Little John begone. Then Little John's heart was mad with grief and fear for his master's life. Wildly he looked about him, and his sight fell upon a heavy stone mortar, such as three men could not lift nowadays. Little John took three steps forward, and, bending his back, heaved the stone mortar up from where it stood deeply rooted. Staggering under its weight, he came forward and hurled it crashing against the door. In burst the door, and away fled the frightened nuns, shrieking, at his coming. Then Little John strode in, and never a word said he, but up the winding stone steps he ran till he reached the room wherein his master was. Here he found the door locked also, but, putting his shoulder against it, he burst the locks as though they were made of brittle ice. There he saw his own dear master leaning against the gray stone wall, his face all white and drawn, and his head swaying to and fro with weakness. Then, with a great, wild cry of love and grief and pity, Little John leaped forward and caught Robin Hood in his arms. Up he lifted him as a mother lifts her child, and carrying him to the bed, laid him tenderly thereon. And now the Prioress came in hastily, for she was frightened at what she had done, and dreaded the vengeance of Little John and the others of the band; then she stanched the blood by cunning bandages, so that it flowed no more. All the while Little John stood grimly by, and after she had done he sternly bade her to begone, and she obeyed, pale and trembling. Then, after she had departed, Little John spake cheering words, laughing loudly, and saying that all this was a child's fright, and that no stout yeoman would die at the loss of a few drops of blood. "Why," quoth he, "give thee a se'ennight and thou wilt be roaming the woodlands as boldly as ever." But Robin shook his head and smiled faintly where he lay. "Mine own dear Little John," whispered he, "Heaven bless thy kind, rough heart. But, dear friend, we will never roam the woodlands together again." "Ay, but we will!" quoth Little John loudly. "I say again, ay--out upon it--who dares say that any more harm shall come upon thee? Am I not by? Let me see who dares touch"--Here he stopped of a sudden, for his words choked him. At last he said, in a deep, husky voice, "Now, if aught of harm befalls thee because of this day's doings, I swear by Saint George that the red cock shall crow over the rooftree of this house, for the hot flames shall lick every crack and cranny thereof. As for these women"--here he ground his teeth--"it will be an ill day for them!" But Robin Hood took Little John's rough, brown fist in his white hands, and chid him softly in his low, weak voice, asking him since what time Little John had thought of doing harm to women, even in vengeance. Thus he talked till, at last, the other promised, in a choking voice, that no ill should fall upon the place, no matter what happened. Then a silence fell, and Little John sat with Robin Hood's hand in his, gazing out of the open window, ever and anon swallowing a great lump that came in his throat. Meantime the sun dropped slowly to the west, till all the sky was ablaze with a red glory. Then Robin Hood, in a weak, faltering voice, bade Little John raise him that he might look out once more upon the woodlands; so the yeoman lifted him in his arms, as he bade, and Robin Hood's head lay on his friend's shoulder. Long he gazed, with a wide, lingering look, while the other sat with bowed head, the hot tears rolling one after another from his eyes, and dripping upon his bosom, for he felt that the time of parting was near at hand. Then, presently, Robin Hood bade him string his stout bow for him, and choose a smooth fair arrow from his quiver. This Little John did, though without disturbing his master or rising from where he sat. Robin Hood's fingers wrapped lovingly around his good bow, and he smiled faintly when he felt it in his grasp, then he nocked the arrow on that part of the string that the tips of his fingers knew so well. "Little John," said he, "Little John, mine own dear friend, and him I love better than all others in the world, mark, I prythee, where this arrow lodges, and there let my grave be digged. Lay me with my face toward the East, Little John, and see that my resting place be kept green, and that my weary bones be not disturbed." As he finished speaking, he raised himself of a sudden and sat upright. His old strength seemed to come back to him, and, drawing the bowstring to his ear, he sped the arrow out of the open casement. As the shaft flew, his hand sank slowly with the bow till it lay across his knees, and his body likewise sank back again into Little John's loving arms; but something had sped from that body, even as the winged arrow sped from the bow. For some minutes Little John sat motionless, but presently he laid that which he held gently down, then, folding the hands upon the breast and covering up the face, he turned upon his heel and left the room without a word or a sound. Upon the steep stairway he met the Prioress and some of the chief among the sisters. To them he spoke in a deep, quivering voice, and said he, "An ye go within a score of feet of yonder room, I will tear down your rookery over your heads so that not one stone shall be left upon another. Bear my words well in mind, for I mean them." So saying, he turned and left them, and they presently saw him running rapidly across the open, through the falling of the dusk, until he was swallowed up by the forest. The early gray of the coming morn was just beginning to lighten the black sky toward the eastward when Little John and six more of the band came rapidly across the open toward the nunnery. They saw no one, for the sisters were all hidden away from sight, having been frightened by Little John's words. Up the stone stair they ran, and a great sound of weeping was presently heard. After a while this ceased, and then came the scuffling and shuffling of men's feet as they carried a heavy weight down the steep and winding stairs. So they went forth from the nunnery, and, as they passed through the doors thereof, a great, loud sound of wailing arose from the glade that lay all dark in the dawning, as though many men, hidden in the shadows, had lifted up their voices in sorrow. Thus died Robin Hood, at Kirklees Nunnery, in fair Yorkshire, with mercy in his heart toward those that had been his undoing; for thus he showed mercy for the erring and pity for the weak through all the time of his living. His yeomen were scattered henceforth, but no great ill befell them thereafter, for a more merciful sheriff and one who knew them not so well succeeding the one that had gone, and they being separated here and there throughout the countryside, they abided in peace and quietness, so that many lived to hand down these tales to their children and their children's children. A certain one sayeth that upon a stone at Kirklees is an old inscription. This I give in the ancient English in which it was written, and thus it runs: HEAR UNDERNEAD DIS LAITL STEAN LAIS ROBERT EARL OF HUNTINGTUN NEA ARCIR VER AS HIE SAE GEUD AN PIPL KAULD IM ROBIN HEUD SICK UTLAWS AS HI AN IS MEN VIL ENGLAND NIDIR SI AGEN OBIIT 24 KAL. DEKEMBRIS 1247. And now, dear friend, we also must part, for our merry journeyings have ended, and here, at the grave of Robin Hood, we turn, each going his own way. 
964	----	THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD by Howard Pyle PREFACE FROM THE AUTHOR TO THE READER You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap to the leaves and go no farther than this, for I tell you plainly that if you go farther you will be scandalized by seeing good, sober folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors and motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to them. Here is a stout, lusty fellow with a quick temper, yet none so ill for all that, who goes by the name of Henry II. Here is a fair, gentle lady before whom all the others bow and call her Queen Eleanor. Here is a fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in rich robes of a clerical kind, that all the good folk call my Lord Bishop of Hereford. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and a grim look--the worshipful, the Sheriff of Nottingham. And here, above all, is a great, tall, merry fellow that roams the greenwood and joins in homely sports, and sits beside the Sheriff at merry feast, which same beareth the name of the proudest of the Plantagenets--Richard of the Lion's Heart. Beside these are a whole host of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies, lasses, landlords, beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd strands of certain old ballads (snipped and clipped and tied together again in a score of knots) which draw these jocund fellows here and there, singing as they go. Here you will find a hundred dull, sober, jogging places, all tricked out with flowers and what not, till no one would know them in their fanciful dress. And here is a country bearing a well-known name, wherein no chill mists press upon our spirits, and no rain falls but what rolls off our backs like April showers off the backs of sleek drakes; where flowers bloom forever and birds are always singing; where every fellow hath a merry catch as he travels the roads, and ale and beer and wine (such as muddle no wits) flow like water in a brook. This country is not Fairyland. What is it? 'Tis the land of Fancy, and is of that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it--whisk!--you clap the leaves of this book together and 'tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm done. And now I lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man's-land. Will you come with me, sweet Reader? I thank you. Give me your hand. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I HOW ROBIN HOOD CAME TO BE AN OUTLAW 1 II ROBIN HOOD AND THE TINKER 14 III THE SHOOTING MATCH AT NOTTINGHAM TOWN 27 IV WILL STUTELY RESCUED BY HIS COMPANIONS 38 V ROBIN HOOD TURNS BUTCHER 50 VI LITTLE JOHN GOES TO NOTTINGHAM FAIR 61 VII HOW LITTLE JOHN LIVED AT THE SHERIFF'S 68 VIII LITTLE JOHN AND THE TANNER OF BLYTH 81 IX ROBIN HOOD AND WILL SCARLET 92 X THE ADVENTURE WITH MIDGE, THE MILLER'S SON 102 Xl ROBIN HOOD AND ALLAN A DALE 115 XII ROBIN HOOD SEEKS THE CURTAL FRIAR 129 XIII ROBIN HOOD COMPASSES A MARRIAGE 145 XIV ROBIN HOOD AIDS A SORROWFUL KNIGHT 156 XV HOW SIR RICHARD OF THE LEA PAID HIS DEBTS 172 XVI LITTLE JOHN TURNS BAREFOOT FRIAR 186 XVII ROBIN HOOD TURNS BEGGAR 202 XVIII ROBIN HOOD SHOOTS BEFORE QUEEN ELEANOR 222 XIX THE CHASE OF ROBIN HOOD 243 XX ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBOURNE 262 XXI KING RICHARD COMES TO SHERWOOD FOREST 281 EPILOGUE 300 How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw IN MERRY ENGLAND in the time of old, when good King Henry the Second ruled the land, there lived within the green glades of Sherwood Forest, near Nottingham Town, a famous outlaw whose name was Robin Hood. No archer ever lived that could speed a gray goose shaft with such skill and cunning as his, nor were there ever such yeomen as the sevenscore merry men that roamed with him through the greenwood shades. Right merrily they dwelled within the depths of Sherwood Forest, suffering neither care nor want, but passing the time in merry games of archery or bouts of cudgel play, living upon the King's venison, washed down with draughts of ale of October brewing. Not only Robin himself but all the band were outlaws and dwelled apart from other men, yet they were beloved by the country people round about, for no one ever came to jolly Robin for help in time of need and went away again with an empty fist. And now I will tell how it came about that Robin Hood fell afoul of the law. When Robin was a youth of eighteen, stout of sinew and bold of heart, the Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a shooting match and offered a prize of a butt of ale to whosoever should shoot the best shaft in Nottinghamshire. "Now," quoth Robin, "will I go too, for fain would I draw a string for the bright eyes of my lass and a butt of good October brewing." So up he got and took his good stout yew bow and a score or more of broad clothyard arrows, and started off from Locksley Town through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham. It was at the dawn of day in the merry Maytime, when hedgerows are green and flowers bedeck the meadows; daisies pied and yellow cuckoo buds and fair primroses all along the briery hedges; when apple buds blossom and sweet birds sing, the lark at dawn of day, the throstle cock and cuckoo; when lads and lasses look upon each other with sweet thoughts; when busy housewives spread their linen to bleach upon the bright green grass. Sweet was the greenwood as he walked along its paths, and bright the green and rustling leaves, amid which the little birds sang with might and main: and blithely Robin whistled as he trudged along, thinking of Maid Marian and her bright eyes, for at such times a youth's thoughts are wont to turn pleasantly upon the lass that he loves the best. As thus he walked along with a brisk step and a merry whistle, he came suddenly upon some foresters seated beneath a great oak tree. Fifteen there were in all, making themselves merry with feasting and drinking as they sat around a huge pasty, to which each man helped himself, thrusting his hands into the pie, and washing down that which they ate with great horns of ale which they drew all foaming from a barrel that stood nigh. Each man was clad in Lincoln green, and a fine show they made, seated upon the sward beneath that fair, spreading tree. Then one of them, with his mouth full, called out to Robin, "Hulloa, where goest thou, little lad, with thy one-penny bow and thy farthing shafts?" Then Robin grew angry, for no stripling likes to be taunted with his green years. "Now," quoth he, "my bow and eke mine arrows are as good as shine; and moreover, I go to the shooting match at Nottingham Town, which same has been proclaimed by our good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; there I will shoot with other stout yeomen, for a prize has been offered of a fine butt of ale." Then one who held a horn of ale in his hand said, "Ho! listen to the lad! Why, boy, thy mother's milk is yet scarce dry upon thy lips, and yet thou pratest of standing up with good stout men at Nottingham butts, thou who art scarce able to draw one string of a two-stone bow." "I'll hold the best of you twenty marks," quoth bold Robin, "that I hit the clout at threescore rods, by the good help of Our Lady fair." At this all laughed aloud, and one said, "Well boasted, thou fair infant, well boasted! And well thou knowest that no target is nigh to make good thy wager." And another cried, "He will be taking ale with his milk next." At this Robin grew right mad. "Hark ye," said he, "yonder, at the glade's end, I see a herd of deer, even more than threescore rods distant. I'll hold you twenty marks that, by leave of Our Lady, I cause the best hart among them to die." "Now done!" cried he who had spoken first. "And here are twenty marks. I wager that thou causest no beast to die, with or without the aid of Our Lady." Then Robin took his good yew bow in his hand, and placing the tip at his instep, he strung it right deftly; then he nocked a broad clothyard arrow and, raising the bow, drew the gray goose feather to his ear; the next moment the bowstring rang and the arrow sped down the glade as a sparrowhawk skims in a northern wind. High leaped the noblest hart of all the herd, only to fall dead, reddening the green path with his heart's blood. "Ha!" cried Robin, "how likest thou that shot, good fellow? I wot the wager were mine, an it were three hundred pounds." Then all the foresters were filled with rage, and he who had spoken the first and had lost the wager was more angry than all. "Nay," cried he, "the wager is none of thine, and get thee gone, straightway, or, by all the saints of heaven, I'll baste thy sides until thou wilt ne'er be able to walk again." "Knowest thou not," said another, "that thou hast killed the King's deer, and, by the laws of our gracious lord and sovereign King Harry, thine ears should be shaven close to thy head?" "Catch him!" cried a third. "Nay," said a fourth, "let him e'en go because of his tender years." Never a word said Robin Hood, but he looked at the foresters with a grim face; then, turning on his heel, strode away from them down the forest glade. But his heart was bitterly angry, for his blood was hot and youthful and prone to boil. Now, well would it have been for him who had first spoken had he left Robin Hood alone; but his anger was hot, both because the youth had gotten the better of him and because of the deep draughts of ale that he had been quaffing. So, of a sudden, without any warning, he sprang to his feet, and seized upon his bow and fitted it to a shaft. "Ay," cried he, "and I'll hurry thee anon." And he sent the arrow whistling after Robin. It was well for Robin Hood that that same forester's head was spinning with ale, or else he would never have taken another step. As it was, the arrow whistled within three inches of his head. Then he turned around and quickly drew his own bow, and sent an arrow back in return. "Ye said I was no archer," cried he aloud, "but say so now again!" The shaft flew straight; the archer fell forward with a cry, and lay on his face upon the ground, his arrows rattling about him from out of his quiver, the gray goose shaft wet with his; heart's blood. Then, before the others could gather their wits about them, Robin Hood was gone into the depths of the greenwood. Some started after him, but not with much heart, for each feared to suffer the death of his fellow; so presently they all came and lifted the dead man up and bore him away to Nottingham Town. Meanwhile Robin Hood ran through the greenwood. Gone was all the joy and brightness from everything, for his heart was sick within him, and it was borne in upon his soul that he had slain a man. "Alas!" cried he, "thou hast found me an archer that will make thy wife to wring! I would that thou hadst ne'er said one word to me, or that I had never passed thy way, or e'en that my right forefinger had been stricken off ere that this had happened! In haste I smote, but grieve I sore at leisure!" And then, even in his trouble, he remembered the old saw that "What is done is done; and the egg cracked cannot be cured." And so he came to dwell in the greenwood that was to be his home for many a year to come, never again to see the happy days with the lads and lasses of sweet Locksley Town; for he was outlawed, not only because he had killed a man, but also because he had poached upon the King's deer, and two hundred pounds were set upon his head, as a reward for whoever would bring him to the court of the King. Now the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would bring this knave Robin Hood to justice, and for two reasons: first, because he wanted the two hundred pounds, and next, because the forester that Robin Hood had killed was of kin to him. But Robin Hood lay hidden in Sherwood Forest for one year, and in that time there gathered around him many others like himself, cast out from other folk for this cause and for that. Some had shot deer in hungry wintertime, when they could get no other food, and had been seen in the act by the foresters, but had escaped, thus saving their ears; some had been turned out of their inheritance, that their farms might be added to the King's lands in Sherwood Forest; some had been despoiled by a great baron or a rich abbot or a powerful esquire--all, for one cause or another, had come to Sherwood to escape wrong and oppression. So, in all that year, fivescore or more good stout yeomen gathered about Robin Hood, and chose him to be their leader and chief. Then they vowed that even as they themselves had been despoiled they would despoil their oppressors, whether baron, abbot, knight, or squire, and that from each they would take that which had been wrung from the poor by unjust taxes, or land rents, or in wrongful fines. But to the poor folk they would give a helping hand in need and trouble, and would return to them that which had been unjustly taken from them. Besides this, they swore never to harm a child nor to wrong a woman, be she maid, wife, or widow; so that, after a while, when the people began to find that no harm was meant to them, but that money or food came in time of want to many a poor family, they came to praise Robin and his merry men, and to tell many tales of him and of his doings in Sherwood Forest, for they felt him to be one of themselves. Up rose Robin Hood one merry morn when all the birds were singing blithely among the leaves, and up rose all his merry men, each fellow washing his head and hands in the cold brown brook that leaped laughing from stone to stone. Then said Robin, "For fourteen days have we seen no sport, so now I will go abroad to seek adventures forthwith. But tarry ye, my merry men all, here in the greenwood; only see that ye mind well my call. Three blasts upon the bugle horn I will blow in my hour of need; then come quickly, for I shall want your aid." So saying, he strode away through the leafy forest glades until he had come to the verge of Sherwood. There he wandered for a long time, through highway and byway, through dingly dell and forest skirts. Now he met a fair buxom lass in a shady lane, and each gave the other a merry word and passed their way; now he saw a fair lady upon an ambling pad, to whom he doffed his cap, and who bowed sedately in return to the fair youth; now he saw a fat monk on a pannier-laden ass; now a gallant knight, with spear and shield and armor that flashed brightly in the sunlight; now a page clad in crimson; and now a stout burgher from good Nottingham Town, pacing along with serious footsteps; all these sights he saw, but adventure found he none. At last he took a road by the forest skirts, a bypath that dipped toward a broad, pebbly stream spanned by a narrow bridge made of a log of wood. As he drew nigh this bridge he saw a tall stranger coming from the other side. Thereupon Robin quickened his pace, as did the stranger likewise, each thinking to cross first. "Now stand thou back," quoth Robin, "and let the better man cross first." "Nay," answered the stranger, "then stand back shine own self, for the better man, I wet, am I." "That will we presently see," quoth Robin, "and meanwhile stand thou where thou art, or else, by the bright brow of Saint AElfrida, I will show thee right good Nottingham play with a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs." "Now," quoth the stranger, "I will tan thy hide till it be as many colors as a beggar's cloak, if thou darest so much as touch a string of that same bow that thou holdest in thy hands." "Thou pratest like an ass," said Robin, "for I could send this shaft clean through thy proud heart before a curtal friar could say grace over a roast goose at Michaelmastide." "And thou pratest like a coward," answered the stranger, "for thou standest there with a good yew bow to shoot at my heart, while I have nought in my hand but a plain blackthorn staff wherewith to meet thee." "Now," quoth Robin, "by the faith of my heart, never have I had a coward's name in all my life before. I will lay by my trusty bow and eke my arrows, and if thou darest abide my coming, I will go and cut a cudgel to test thy manhood withal." "Ay, marry, that will I abide thy coming, and joyously, too," quoth the stranger; whereupon he leaned sturdily upon his staff to await Robin. Then Robin Hood stepped quickly to the coverside and cut a good staff of ground oak, straight, without new, and six feet in length, and came back trimming away the tender stems from it, while the stranger waited for him, leaning upon his staff, and whistling as he gazed round about. Robin observed him furtively as he trimmed his staff, measuring him from top to toe from out the corner of his eye, and thought that he had never seen a lustier or a stouter man. Tall was Robin, but taller was the stranger by a head and a neck, for he was seven feet in height. Broad was Robin across the shoulders, but broader was the stranger by twice the breadth of a palm, while he measured at least an ell around the waist. "Nevertheless," said Robin to himself, "I will baste thy hide right merrily, my good fellow;" then, aloud, "Lo, here is my good staff, lusty and tough. Now wait my coming, an thou darest, and meet me an thou fearest not. Then we will fight until one or the other of us tumble into the stream by dint of blows." "Marry, that meeteth my whole heart!" cried the stranger, twirling his staff above his head, betwixt his fingers and thumb, until it whistled again. Never did the Knights of Arthur's Round Table meet in a stouter fight than did these two. In a moment Robin stepped quickly upon the bridge where the stranger stood; first he made a feint, and then delivered a blow at the stranger's head that, had it met its mark, would have tumbled him speedily into the water. But the stranger turned the blow right deftly and in return gave one as stout, which Robin also turned as the stranger had done. So they stood, each in his place, neither moving a finger's-breadth back, for one good hour, and many blows were given and received by each in that time, till here and there were sore bones and bumps, yet neither thought of crying "Enough," nor seemed likely to fall from off the bridge. Now and then they stopped to rest, and each thought that he never had seen in all his life before such a hand at quarterstaff. At last Robin gave the stranger a blow upon the ribs that made his jacket smoke like a damp straw thatch in the sun. So shrewd was the stroke that the stranger came within a hair's-breadth of falling off the bridge, but he regained himself right quickly and, by a dexterous blow, gave Robin a crack on the crown that caused the blood to flow. Then Robin grew mad with anger and smote with all his might at the other. But the stranger warded the blow and once again thwacked Robin, and this time so fairly that he fell heels over head into the water, as the queen pin falls in a game of bowls. "And where art thou now, my good lad?" shouted the stranger, roaring with laughter. "Oh, in the flood and floating adown with the tide," cried Robin, nor could he forbear laughing himself at his sorry plight. Then, gaining his feet, he waded to the bank, the little fish speeding hither and thither, all frightened at his splashing. "Give me thy hand," cried he, when he had reached the bank. "I must needs own thou art a brave and a sturdy soul and, withal, a good stout stroke with the cudgels. By this and by that, my head hummeth like to a hive of bees on a hot June day." Then he clapped his horn to his lips and winded a blast that went echoing sweetly down the forest paths. "Ay, marry," quoth he again, "thou art a tall lad, and eke a brave one, for ne'er, I bow, is there a man betwixt here and Canterbury Town could do the like to me that thou hast done." "And thou," quoth the stranger, laughing, "takest thy cudgeling like a brave heart and a stout yeoman." But now the distant twigs and branches rustled with the coming of men, and suddenly a score or two of good stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, burst from out the covert, with merry Will Stutely at their head. "Good master," cried Will, "how is this? Truly thou art all wet from head to foot, and that to the very skin." "Why, marry," answered jolly Robin, "yon stout fellow hath tumbled me neck and crop into the water and hath given me a drubbing beside." "Then shall he not go without a ducking and eke a drubbing himself!" cried Will Stutely. "Have at him, lads!" Then Will and a score of yeomen leaped upon the stranger, but though they sprang quickly they found him ready and felt him strike right and left with his stout staff, so that, though he went down with press of numbers, some of them rubbed cracked crowns before he was overcome. "Nay, forbear!" cried Robin, laughing until his sore sides ached again. "He is a right good man and true, and no harm shall befall him. Now hark ye, good youth, wilt thou stay with me and be one of my band? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have each year, beside forty marks in fee, and share with us whatsoever good shall befall us. Thou shalt eat sweet venison and quaff the stoutest ale, and mine own good right-hand man shalt thou be, for never did I see such a cudgel player in all my life before. Speak! Wilt thou be one of my good merry men?" "That know I not," quoth the stranger surlily, for he was angry at being so tumbled about. "If ye handle yew bow and apple shaft no better than ye do oaken cudgel, I wot ye are not fit to be called yeomen in my country; but if there be any man here that can shoot a better shaft than I, then will I bethink me of joining with you." "Now by my faith," said Robin, "thou art a right saucy varlet, sirrah; yet I will stoop to thee as I never stooped to man before. Good Stutely, cut thou a fair white piece of bark four fingers in breadth, and set it fourscore yards distant on yonder oak. Now, stranger, hit that fairly with a gray goose shaft and call thyself an archer." "Ay, marry, that will I," answered he. "Give me a good stout bow and a fair broad arrow, and if I hit it not, strip me and beat me blue with bowstrings." Then he chose the stoutest bow among them all, next to Robin's own, and a straight gray goose shaft, well-feathered and smooth, and stepping to the mark--while all the band, sitting or lying upon the greensward, watched to see him shoot--he drew the arrow to his cheek and loosed the shaft right deftly, sending it so straight down the path that it clove the mark in the very center. "Aha!" cried he, "mend thou that if thou canst;" while even the yeomen clapped their hands at so fair a shot. "That is a keen shot indeed," quoth Robin. "Mend it I cannot, but mar it I may, perhaps." Then taking up his own good stout bow and nocking an arrow with care, he shot with his very greatest skill. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it lit fairly upon the stranger's shaft and split it into splinters. Then all the yeomen leaped to their feet and shouted for joy that their master had shot so well. "Now by the lusty yew bow of good Saint Withold," cried the stranger, "that is a shot indeed, and never saw I the like in all my life before! Now truly will I be thy man henceforth and for aye. Good Adam Bell(1) was a fair shot, but never shot he so!" (1) Adam Bell, Clym o' the Clough, and William of Cloudesly were three noted north-country bowmen whose names have been celebrated in many ballads of the olden time. "Then have I gained a right good man this day," quoth jolly Robin. "What name goest thou by, good fellow?" "Men call me John Little whence I came," answered the stranger. Then Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up. "Nay, fair little stranger," said he, "I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise. Little art thou indeed, and small of bone and sinew, therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather." Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry. "An thou make a jest of me," quoth he to Will Stutely, "thou wilt have sore bones and little pay, and that in short season." "Nay, good friend," said Robin Hood, "bottle thine anger, for the name fitteth thee well. Little John shall thou be called henceforth, and Little John shall it be. So come, my merry men, we will prepare a christening feast for this fair infant." So turning their backs upon the stream, they plunged into the forest once more, through which they traced their steps till they reached the spot where they dwelled in the depths of the woodland. There had they built huts of bark and branches of trees, and made couches of sweet rushes spread over with skins of fallow deer. Here stood a great oak tree with branches spreading broadly around, beneath which was a seat of green moss where Robin Hood was wont to sit at feast and at merrymaking with his stout men about him. Here they found the rest of the band, some of whom had come in with a brace of fat does. Then they all built great fires and after a time roasted the does and broached a barrel of humming ale. Then when the feast was ready they all sat down, but Robin placed Little John at his right hand, for he was henceforth to be the second in the band. Then when the feast was done Will Stutely spoke up. "It is now time, I ween, to christen our bonny babe, is it not so, merry boys?" And "Aye! Aye!" cried all, laughing till the woods echoed with their mirth. "Then seven sponsors shall we have," quoth Will Stutely, and hunting among all the band, he chose the seven stoutest men of them all. "Now by Saint Dunstan," cried Little John, springing to his feet, "more than one of you shall rue it an you lay finger upon me." But without a word they all ran upon him at once, seizing him by his legs and arms and holding him tightly in spite of his struggles, and they bore him forth while all stood around to see the sport. Then one came forward who had been chosen to play the priest because he had a bald crown, and in his hand he carried a brimming pot of ale. "Now, who bringeth this babe?" asked he right soberly. "That do I," answered Will Stutely. "And what name callest thou him?" "Little John call I him." "Now Little John," quoth the mock priest, "thou hast not lived heretofore, but only got thee along through the world, but henceforth thou wilt live indeed. When thou livedst not thou wast called John Little, but now that thou dost live indeed, Little John shalt thou be called, so christen I thee." And at these last words he emptied the pot of ale upon Little John's head. Then all shouted with laughter as they saw the good brown ale stream over Little John's beard and trickle from his nose and chin, while his eyes blinked with the smart of it. At first he was of a mind to be angry but found he could not, because the others were so merry; so he, too, laughed with the rest. Then Robin took this sweet, pretty babe, clothed him all anew from top to toe in Lincoln green, and gave him a good stout bow, and so made him a member of the merry band. And thus it was that Robin Hood became outlawed; thus a band of merry companions gathered about him, and thus he gained his right-hand man, Little John; and so the prologue ends. And now I will tell how the Sheriff of Nottingham three times sought to take Robin Hood, and how he failed each time. Robin Hood and the Tinker Now it was told before how two hundred pounds were set upon Robin Hood's head, and how the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would seize Robin, both because he would fain have the two hundred pounds and because the slain man was a kinsman of his own. Now the Sheriff did not yet know what a force Robin had about him in Sherwood, but thought that he might serve a warrant for his arrest as he could upon any other man that had broken the laws; therefore he offered fourscore golden angels to anyone who would serve this warrant. But men of Nottingham Town knew more of Robin Hood and his doings than the Sheriff did, and many laughed to think of serving a warrant upon the bold outlaw, knowing well that all they would get for such service would be cracked crowns; so that no one came forward to take the matter in hand. Thus a fortnight passed, in which time none came forward to do the Sheriff's business. Then said he, "A right good reward have I offered to whosoever would serve my warrant upon Robin Hood, and I marvel that no one has come to undertake the task." Then one of his men who was near him said, "Good master, thou wottest not the force that Robin Hood has about him and how little he cares for warrant of king or sheriff. Truly, no one likes to go on this service, for fear of cracked crowns and broken bones." "Then I hold all Nottingham men to be cowards," said the Sheriff. "And let me see the man in all Nottinghamshire that dare disobey the warrant of our sovereign lord King Harry, for, by the shrine of Saint Edmund, I will hang him forty cubits high! But if no man in Nottingham dare win fourscore angels, I will send elsewhere, for there should be men of mettle somewhere in this land." Then he called up a messenger in whom he placed great trust, and bade him saddle his horse and make ready to go to Lincoln Town to see whether he could find anyone there that would do his bidding and win the reward. So that same morning the messenger started forth upon his errand. Bright shone the sun upon the dusty highway that led from Nottingham to Lincoln, stretching away all white over hill and dale. Dusty was the highway and dusty the throat of the messenger, so that his heart was glad when he saw before him the Sign of the Blue Boar Inn, when somewhat more than half his journey was done. The inn looked fair to his eyes, and the shade of the oak trees that stood around it seemed cool and pleasant, so he alighted from his horse to rest himself for a time, calling for a pot of ale to refresh his thirsty throat. There he saw a party of right jovial fellows seated beneath the spreading oak that shaded the greensward in front of the door. There was a tinker, two barefoot friars, and a party of six of the King's foresters all clad in Lincoln green, and all of them were quaffing humming ale and singing merry ballads of the good old times. Loud laughed the foresters, as jests were bandied about between the singing, and louder laughed the friars, for they were lusty men with beards that curled like the wool of black rams; but loudest of all laughed the Tinker, and he sang more sweetly than any of the rest. His bag and his hammer hung upon a twig of the oak tree, and near by leaned his good stout cudgel, as thick as his wrist and knotted at the end. "Come," cried one of the foresters to the tired messenger, "come join us for this shot. Ho, landlord! Bring a fresh pot of ale for each man." The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good. "Now what news bearest thou so fast?" quoth one, "and whither ridest thou today?" The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly; besides, the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in an easy corner of the inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway and the hostess stood with her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his budget of news with great comfort. He told all from the very first: how Robin Hood had slain the forester, and how he had hidden in the greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived therein, all against the law, God wot, slaying His Majesty's deer and levying toll on fat abbot, knight, and esquire, so that none dare travel even on broad Watling Street or the Fosse Way for fear of him; how that the Sheriff had a mind to serve the King's warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he mind warrant of either king or sheriff, for he was far from being a law-abiding man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham Town to serve this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones, and how that he, the messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to find of what mettle the Lincoln men might be. "Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town," said the jolly Tinker, "and no one nigh Nottingham--nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark--can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o' the Mill, and by mine own name and that's Wat o' the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother's son, and that's myself, will I, even I, Wat o' the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys?" "Now art thou the man for my farthing," cried the messenger. "And back thou goest with me to Nottingham Town." "Nay," quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Go I with no man gin it be not with mine own free will." "Nay, nay," said the messenger, "no man is there in Nottinghamshire could make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow." "Ay, that be I brave," said the Tinker. "Ay, marry," said the messenger, "thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do." "Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag and hammer, and my cudgel. Ay, let' me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether he will not mind the King's warrant." So, after having paid their score, the messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham again. One bright morning soon after this time, Robin Hood started off to Nottingham Town to find what was a-doing there, walking merrily along the roadside where the grass was sweet with daisies, his eyes wandering and his thoughts also. His bugle horn hung at his hip and his bow and arrows at his back, while in his hand he bore a good stout oaken staff, which he twirled with his fingers as he strolled along. As thus he walked down a shady lane he saw a tinker coming, trolling a merry song as he drew nigh. On his back hung his bag and his hammer, and in his hand he carried a right stout crabstaff full six feet long, and thus sang he: "_In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives ear till buck be killed, And little lads with pipes of corn Sit keeping beasts afield_--" "Halloa, good friend!" cried Robin. "I WENT TO GATHER STRAWBERRIES--" "Halloa!" cried Robin again. "BY WOODS AND GROVES FULL FAIR--" "Halloa! Art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!" "And who art thou dost so boldly check a fair song?" quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. "Halloa, shine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be no good friend it were ill for thee." "And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?" quoth Robin. "I come from Banbury," answered the Tinker. "Alas!" quoth Robin, "I hear there is sad news this merry morn." "Ha! Is it indeed so?" cried the Tinker eagerly. "Prythee tell it speedily, for I am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings." "Well then," quoth Robin, "list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself up bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two tinkers are in the stocks for drinking ale and beer!" "Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog," quoth the Tinker, "for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is indeed, gin there be two stout fellows in the stocks." "Nay," said Robin, "thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in the stocks, for the others do roam the country at large." "Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan," cried the Tinker, "I have a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part." Loud laughed Robin and cried, "Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why, thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest--and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks--I will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire." "Now by my faith," said the Tinker, "thou art a right good fellow in spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen." "Tell me thy news, good friend, I prythee," quoth Robin as they trudged along together, "for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat." "Now I love thee as my brother, my bully blade," said the Tinker, "else I would not tell thee my news; for sly am I, man, and I have in hand a grave undertaking that doth call for all my wits, for I come to seek a bold outlaw that men, hereabouts, call Robin Hood. Within my pouch I have a warrant, all fairly written out on parchment, forsooth, with a great red seal for to make it lawful. Could I but meet this same Robin Hood I would serve it upon his dainty body, and if he minded it not I would beat him till every one of his ribs would cry Amen. But thou livest hereabouts, mayhap thou knowest Robin Hood thyself, good fellow." "Ay, marry, that I do somewhat," quoth Robin, "and I have seen him this very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch." "Let him but try!" cried the Tinker. "Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I would I had him here now, man to man!" And he made his heavy cudgel to spin again. "But what manner of man is he, lad? "Much like myself," said Robin, laughing, "and in height and build and age nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too." "Nay," quoth the Tinker, "thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a great bearded man. Nottingham men feared him so." "Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art," said Robin. "But men do call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff." "That may be," said the Tinker right sturdily, "but I am more deft than he, for did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town? But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to him? Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the warrant upon the knave's body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou showest me him." "Ay, that will I," quoth Robin, "but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no." "That will I not do, even to mine own brother," answered the Tinker. "No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow's own body." "So be it," quoth Robin. "And thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it. But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October." No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue Boar. None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such humming ale; nor, in wintertime, when the north wind howled and snow drifted around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar. At such times might be found a goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth, bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs(2) bobbed in bowls of ale upon the hearthstone. Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was filled with snow. As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band were the best of customers and paid their scores without having them chalked up behind the door. So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before. (2) Small sour apples. "Bide thou here," quoth Robin to the Tinker, "while I go and see that mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth." So saying, he went within and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them. "By Our Lady," said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, "yon same Withold of Tamworth--a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know--breweth the most humming ale that e'er passed the lips of Wat o' the Crabstaff." "Drink, man, drink," cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. "Ho, landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my jolly blade." "Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow," quoth the Tinker, "for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song, and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while." Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called "The Marriage of Sir Gawaine," which you may some time read yourself, in stout English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble tale of noble knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the Tinker came to the last verse his tongue began to trip and his head to spin, because of the strong waters mixed with the ale. First his tongue tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then his head wagged from side to side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never would waken again. Then Robin Hood laughed aloud and quickly took the warrant from out the Tinker's pouch with his deft fingers. "Sly art thou, Tinker," quoth he, "but not yet, I bow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief Robin Hood." Then he called the host to him and said, "Here, good man, are ten broad shillings for the entertainment thou hast given us this day. See that thou takest good care of thy fair guest there, and when he wakes thou mayst again charge him ten shillings also, and if he hath it not, thou mayst take his bag and hammer, and even his coat, in payment. Thus do I punish those that come into the greenwood to deal dole to me. As for thine own self, never knew I landlord yet that would not charge twice an he could." At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw, "Teach a magpie to suck eggs." The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows grew long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up, then he looked down, then he looked east, then he looked west, for he was gathering his wits together, like barley straws blown apart by the wind. First he thought of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he thought of his stout crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then of his warrant, and of the fourscore angels he was to gain for serving it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his hand into his pouch, but not a scrap nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to his feet in a rage. "Ho, landlord!" cried he, "whither hath that knave gone that was with me but now?" "What knave meaneth Your Worship?" quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water. "I saw no knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with Your Worship, but I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass him by and know him not." "Now, how should I, that ne'er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?" "Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin Hood, which same--" "Now, by'r Lady!" cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, "thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave's pate for thee!" Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would smite him where he stood. "Nay," cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, "how knew I that thou knewest him not?" "Well and truly thankful mayst thou be," quoth the Tinker, "that I be a patient man and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne'er cheat customer again. But as for this same knave Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him, and if I do not score his knave's pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me woman." So saying, he gathered himself together to depart. "Nay," quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, "thou goest not till thou hast paid me my score." "But did not he pay thee?" "Not so much as one farthing; and ten good shillings' worth of ale have ye drunk this day. Nay, I say, thou goest not away without paying me, else shall our good Sheriff know of it." "But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow," quoth the Tinker. "'Good fellow' not me," said the landlord. "Good fellow am I not when it cometh to lose ten shillings! Pay me that thou owest me in broad money, or else leave thy coat and bag and hammer; yet, I wot they are not worth ten shillings, and I shall lose thereby. Nay, an thou stirrest, I have a great dog within and I will loose him upon thee. Maken, open thou the door and let forth Brian if this fellow stirs one step." "Nay," quoth the Tinker--for, by roaming the country, he had learned what dogs were--"take thou what thou wilt have, and let me depart in peace, and may a murrain go with thee. But oh, landlord! An I catch yon scurvy varlet, I swear he shall pay full with usury for that he hath had!" So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed when he had fairly gone. "Robin and I stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly," quoth the landlord. Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke: "Halloa, my sweet bird," said he, laughing merrily, "how likest thou thine ale? Wilt not sing to me another song?" The Tinker said nothing at first but stood looking at Robin with a grim face. "Now," quoth he at last, "I am right glad I have met thee, and if I do not rattle thy bones within thy hide this day, I give thee leave to put thy foot upon my neck." "With all my heart," cried merry Robin. "Rattle my bones, an thou canst." So saying, he gripped his staff and threw himself upon his guard. Then the Tinker spat upon his hands and, grasping his staff, came straight at the other. He struck two or three blows, but soon found that he had met his match, for Robin warded and parried all of them, and, before the Tinker thought, he gave him a rap upon the ribs in return. At this Robin laughed aloud, and the Tinker grew more angry than ever, and smote again with all his might and main. Again Robin warded two of the strokes, but at the third, his staff broke beneath the mighty blows of the Tinker. "Now, ill betide thee, traitor staff," cried Robin, as it fell from his hands; "a foul stick art thou to serve me thus in mine hour of need." "Now yield thee," quoth the Tinker, "for thou art my captive; and if thou do not, I will beat thy pate to a pudding." To this Robin Hood made no answer, but, clapping his horn to his lips, he blew three blasts, loud and clear. "Ay," quoth the Tinker, "blow thou mayest, but go thou must with me to Nottingham Town, for the Sheriff would fain see thee there. Now wilt thou yield thee, or shall I have to break thy pretty head?" "An I must drink sour ale, I must," quoth Robin, "but never have I yielded me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now. Ho, my merry men! Come quickly!" Then from out the forest leaped Little John and six stout yeomen clad in Lincoln green. "How now, good master," cried Little John, "what need hast thou that thou dost wind thy horn so loudly?" "There stands a tinker," quoth Robin, "that would fain take me to Nottingham, there to hang upon the gallows tree." "Then shall he himself hang forthwith," cried Little John, and he and the others made at the Tinker, to seize him. "Nay, touch him not," said Robin, "for a right stout man is he. A metal man he is by trade, and a mettled man by nature; moreover, he doth sing a lovely ballad. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my merry men all? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have a year, besides forty marks in fee; thou shalt share all with us and lead a right merry life in the greenwood; for cares have we not, and misfortune cometh not upon us within the sweet shades of Sherwood, where we shoot the dun deer and feed upon venison and sweet oaten cakes, and curds and honey. Wilt thou come with me?" "Ay, marry, will I join with you all," quoth the Tinker, "for I love a merry life, and I love thee, good master, though thou didst thwack my ribs and cheat me into the bargain. Fain am I to own thou art both a stouter and a slyer man than I; so I will obey thee and be thine own true servant." So all turned their steps to the forest depths, where the Tinker was to live henceforth. For many a day he sang ballads to the band, until the famous Allan a Dale joined them, before whose sweet voice all others seemed as harsh as a raven's; but of him we will learn hereafter. The Shooting Match at Nottingham Town THEN THE SHERIFF was very wroth because of this failure to take jolly Robin, for it came to his ears, as ill news always does, that the people laughed at him and made a jest of his thinking to serve a warrant upon such a one as the bold outlaw. And a man hates nothing so much as being made a jest of; so he said: "Our gracious lord and sovereign King himself shall know of this, and how his laws are perverted and despised by this band of rebel outlaws. As for yon traitor Tinker, him will I hang, if I catch him, upon the very highest gallows tree in all Nottinghamshire." Then he bade all his servants and retainers to make ready to go to London Town, to see and speak with the King. At this there was bustling at the Sheriff's castle, and men ran hither and thither upon this business and upon that, while the forge fires of Nottingham glowed red far into the night like twinkling stars, for all the smiths of the town were busy making or mending armor for the Sheriff's troop of escort. For two days this labor lasted, then, on the third, all was ready for the journey. So forth they started in the bright sunlight, from Nottingham Town to Fosse Way and thence to Watling Street; and so they journeyed for two days, until they saw at last the spires and towers of great London Town; and many folks stopped, as they journeyed along, and gazed at the show they made riding along the highways with their flashing armor and gay plumes and trappings. In London King Henry and his fair Queen Eleanor held their court, gay with ladies in silks and satins and velvets and cloth of gold, and also brave knights and gallant courtiers. Thither came the Sheriff and was shown into the King's presence. "A boon, a boon," quoth he, as he knelt upon the ground. "Now what wouldst thou have?" said the King. "Let us hear what may be thy desires." "O good my Lord and Sovereign," spake the Sheriff, "in Sherwood Forest in our own good shire of Nottingham, liveth a bold outlaw whose name is Robin Hood." "In good sooth," said the King, "his doings have reached even our own royal ears. He is a saucy, rebellious varlet, yet, I am fain to own, a right merry soul withal." "But hearken, O my most gracious Sovereign," said the Sheriff. "I sent a warrant to him with thine own royal seal attached, by a right lusty knave, but he beat the messenger and stole the warrant. And he killeth thy deer and robbeth thine own liege subjects even upon the great highways." "Why, how now," quoth the King wrathfully. "What wouldst thou have me do? Comest thou not to me with a great array of men-at-arms and retainers, and yet art not able to take a single band of lusty knaves without armor on breast, in thine own county! What wouldst thou have me do? Art thou not my Sheriff? Are not my laws in force in Nottinghamshire? Canst thou not take thine own course against those that break the laws or do any injury to thee or thine? Go, get thee gone, and think well; devise some plan of thine own, but trouble me no further. But look well to it, Master Sheriff, for I will have my laws obeyed by all men within my kingdom, and if thou art not able to enforce them thou art no sheriff for me. So look well to thyself, I say, or ill may befall thee as well as all the thieving knaves in Nottinghamshire. When the flood cometh it sweepeth away grain as well as chaff." Then the Sheriff turned away with a sore and troubled heart, and sadly he rued his fine show of retainers, for he saw that the King was angry because he had so many men about him and yet could not enforce the laws. So, as they all rode slowly back to Nottingham, the Sheriff was thoughtful and full of care. Not a word did he speak to anyone, and no one of his men spoke to him, but all the time he was busy devising some plan to take Robin Hood. "Aha!" cried he suddenly, smiting his hand upon his thigh "I have it now! Ride on, my merry men all, and let us get back to Nottingham Town as speedily as we may. And mark well my words: before a fortnight is passed, that evil knave Robin Hood will be safely clapped into Nottingham gaol." But what was the Sheriff's plan? As a usurer takes each one of a bag of silver angels, feeling each coin to find whether it be clipped or not, so the Sheriff, as all rode slowly and sadly back toward Nottingham, took up thought after thought in turn, feeling around the edges of each but finding in every one some flaw. At last he thought of the daring soul of jolly Robin and how, as he the Sheriff knew, he often came even within the walls of Nottingham. "Now," thought the Sheriff, "could I but persuade Robin nigh to Nottingham Town so that I could find him, I warrant I would lay hands upon him so stoutly that he would never get away again." Then of a sudden it came to him like a flash that were he to proclaim a great shooting match and offer some grand prize, Robin Hood might be overpersuaded by his spirit to come to the butts; and it was this thought which caused him to cry "Aha!" and smite his palm upon his thigh. So, as soon as he had returned safely to Nottingham, he sent messengers north and south, and east and west, to proclaim through town, hamlet, and countryside, this grand shooting match, and everyone was bidden that could draw a longbow, and the prize was to be an arrow of pure beaten gold. When Robin Hood first heard the news of this he was in Lincoln Town, and hastening back to Sherwood Forest he soon called all his merry men about him and spoke to them thus: "Now hearken, my merry men all, to the news that I have brought from Lincoln Town today. Our friend the Sheriff of Nottingham hath proclaimed a shooting match, and hath sent messengers to tell of it through all the countryside, and the prize is to be a bright golden arrow. Now I fain would have one of us win it, both because of the fairness of the prize and because our sweet friend the Sheriff hath offered it. So we will take our bows and shafts and go there to shoot, for I know right well that merriment will be a-going. What say ye, lads?" Then young David of Doncaster spoke up and said, "Now listen, I pray thee, good master, unto what I say. I have come straight from our friend Eadom o' the Blue Boar, and there I heard the full news of this same match. But, master, I know from him, and he got it from the Sheriff's man Ralph o' the Scar, that this same knavish Sheriff hath but laid a trap for thee in this shooting match and wishes nothing so much as to see thee there. So go not, good master, for I know right well he doth seek to beguile thee, but stay within the greenwood lest we all meet dole and woe." "Now," quoth Robin, "thou art a wise lad and keepest thine ears open and thy mouth shut, as becometh a wise and crafty woodsman. But shall we let it be said that the Sheriff of Nottingham did cow bold Robin Hood and sevenscore as fair archers as are in all merry England? Nay, good David, what thou tellest me maketh me to desire the prize even more than I else should do. But what sayeth our good gossip Swanthold? Is it not 'A hasty man burneth his mouth, and the fool that keepeth his eyes shut falleth into the pit'? Thus he says, truly, therefore we must meet guile with guile. Now some of you clothe yourselves as curtal friars, and some as rustic peasants, and some as tinkers, or as beggars, but see that each man taketh a good bow or broadsword, in case need should arise. As for myself, I will shoot for this same golden arrow, and should I win it, we will hang it to the branches of our good greenwood tree for the joy of all the band. How like you the plan, my merry men all?" Then "Good, good!" cried all the band right heartily. A fair sight was Nottingham Town on the day of the shooting match. All along upon the green meadow beneath the town wall stretched a row of benches, one above the other, which were for knight and lady, squire and dame, and rich burghers and their wives; for none but those of rank and quality were to sit there. At the end of the range, near the target, was a raised seat bedecked with ribbons and scarfs and garlands of flowers, for the Sheriff of Nottingham and his dame. The range was twoscore paces broad. At one end stood the target, at the other a tent of striped canvas, from the pole of which fluttered many-colored flags and streamers. In this booth were casks of ale, free to be broached by any of the archers who might wish to quench their thirst. Across the range from where the seats for the better folk were raised was a railing to keep the poorer people from crowding in front of the target. Already, while it was early, the benches were beginning to fill with people of quality, who kept constantly arriving in little carts or upon palfreys that curveted gaily to the merry tinkle of silver bells at bridle reins. With these came also the poorer folk, who sat or lay upon the green grass near the railing that kept them from off the range. In the great tent the archers were gathering by twos and threes; some talking loudly of the fair shots each man had made in his day; some looking well to their bows, drawing a string betwixt the fingers to see that there was no fray upon it, or inspecting arrows, shutting one eye and peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and true, for neither bow nor shaft should fail at such a time and for such a prize. And never was such a company of yeomen as were gathered at Nottingham Town that day, for the very best archers of merry England had come to this shooting match. There was Gill o' the Red Cap, the Sheriff's own head archer, and Diccon Cruikshank of Lincoln Town, and Adam o' the Dell, a man of Tamworth, of threescore years and more, yet hale and lusty still, who in his time had shot in the famous match at Woodstock, and had there beaten that renowned archer, Clym o' the Clough. And many more famous men of the longbow were there, whose names have been handed down to us in goodly ballads of the olden time. But now all the benches were filled with guests, lord and lady, burgher and dame, when at last the Sheriff himself came with his lady, he riding with stately mien upon his milk-white horse and she upon her brown filly. Upon his head he wore a purple velvet cap, and purple velvet was his robe, all trimmed about with rich ermine; his jerkin and hose were of sea-green silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the pointed toes fastened to his garters with golden chains. A golden chain hung about his neck, and at his collar was a great carbuncle set in red gold. His lady was dressed in blue velvet, all trimmed with swan's down. So they made a gallant sight as they rode along side by side, and all the people shouted from where they crowded across the space from the gentlefolk; so the Sheriff and his lady came to their place, where men-at-arms, with hauberk and spear, stood about, waiting for them. Then when the Sheriff and his dame had sat down, he bade his herald wind upon his silver horn; who thereupon sounded three blasts that came echoing cheerily back from the gray walls of Nottingham. Then the archers stepped forth to their places, while all the folks shouted with a mighty voice, each man calling upon his favorite yeoman. "Red Cap!" cried some; "Cruikshank!" cried others; "Hey for William o' Leslie!" shouted others yet again; while ladies waved silken scarfs to urge each yeoman to do his best. Then the herald stood forth and loudly proclaimed the rules of the game as follows: "Shoot each man from yon mark, which is sevenscore yards and ten from the target. One arrow shooteth each man first, and from all the archers shall the ten that shooteth the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Two arrows shooteth each man of these ten, then shall the three that shoot the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Three arrows shooteth each man of those three, and to him that shooteth the fairest shafts shall the prize be given." Then the Sheriff leaned forward, looking keenly among the press of archers to find whether Robin Hood was among them; but no one was there clad in Lincoln green, such as was worn by Robin and his band. "Nevertheless," said the Sheriff to himself, "he may still be there, and I miss him among the crowd of other men. But let me see when but ten men shoot, for I wot he will be among the ten, or I know him not." And now the archers shot, each man in turn, and the good folk never saw such archery as was done that day. Six arrows were within the clout, four within the black, and only two smote the outer ring; so that when the last arrow sped and struck the target, all the people shouted aloud, for it was noble shooting. And now but ten men were left of all those that had shot before, and of these ten, six were famous throughout the land, and most of the folk gathered there knew them. These six men were Gilbert o' the Red Cap, Adam o' the Dell, Diccon Cruikshank, William o' Leslie, Hubert o' Cloud, and Swithin o' Hertford. Two others were yeomen of merry Yorkshire, another was a tall stranger in blue, who said he came from London Town, and the last was a tattered stranger in scarlet, who wore a patch over one eye. "Now," quoth the Sheriff to a man-at-arms who stood near him, "seest thou Robin Hood among those ten?" "Nay, that do I not, Your Worship," answered the man. "Six of them I know right well. Of those Yorkshire yeomen, one is too tall and the other too short for that bold knave. Robin's beard is as yellow as gold, while yon tattered beggar in scarlet hath a beard of brown, besides being blind of one eye. As for the stranger in blue, Robin's shoulders, I ween, are three inches broader than his." "Then," quoth the Sheriff, smiting his thigh angrily, "yon knave is a coward as well as a rogue, and dares not show his face among good men and true." Then, after they had rested a short time, those ten stout men stepped forth to shoot again. Each man shot two arrows, and as they shot, not a word was spoken, but all the crowd watched with scarce a breath of sound; but when the last had shot his arrow another great shout arose, while many cast their caps aloft for joy of such marvelous shooting. "Now by our gracious Lady fair," quoth old Sir Amyas o' the Dell, who, bowed with fourscore years and more, sat near the Sheriff, "ne'er saw I such archery in all my life before, yet have I seen the best hands at the longbow for threescore years and more." And now but three men were left of all those that had shot before. One was Gill o' the Red Cap, one the tattered stranger in scarlet, and one Adam o' the Dell of Tamworth Town. Then all the people called aloud, some crying, "Ho for Gilbert o' the Red Cap!" and some, "Hey for stout Adam o' Tamworth!" But not a single man in the crowd called upon the stranger in scarlet. "Now, shoot thou well, Gilbert," cried the Sheriff, "and if thine be the best shaft, fivescore broad silver pennies will I give to thee beside the prize." "Truly I will do my best," quoth Gilbert right sturdily. "A man cannot do aught but his best, but that will I strive to do this day." So saying, he drew forth a fair smooth arrow with a broad feather and fitted it deftly to the string, then drawing his bow with care he sped the shaft. Straight flew the arrow and lit fairly in the clout, a finger's-breadth from the center. "A Gilbert, a Gilbert!" shouted all the crowd; and, "Now, by my faith," cried the Sheriff, smiting his hands together, "that is a shrewd shot." Then the tattered stranger stepped forth, and all the people laughed as they saw a yellow patch that showed beneath his arm when he raised his elbow to shoot, and also to see him aim with but one eye. He drew the good yew bow quickly, and quickly loosed a shaft; so short was the time that no man could draw a breath betwixt the drawing and the shooting; yet his arrow lodged nearer the center than the other by twice the length of a barleycorn. "Now by all the saints in Paradise!" cried the Sheriff, "that is a lovely shaft in very truth!" Then Adam o' the Dell shot, carefully and cautiously, and his arrow lodged close beside the stranger's. Then after a short space they all three shot again, and once more each arrow lodged within the clout, but this time Adam o' the Dell's was farthest from the center, and again the tattered stranger's shot was the best. Then, after another time of rest, they all shot for the third time. This time Gilbert took great heed to his aim, keenly measuring the distance and shooting with shrewdest care. Straight flew the arrow, and all shouted till the very flags that waved in the breeze shook with the sound, and the rooks and daws flew clamoring about the roofs of the old gray tower, for the shaft had lodged close beside the spot that marked the very center. "Well done, Gilbert!" cried the Sheriff right joyously. "Fain am I to believe the prize is thine, and right fairly won. Now, thou ragged knave, let me see thee shoot a better shaft than that." Nought spake the stranger but took his place, while all was hushed, and no one spoke or even seemed to breathe, so great was the silence for wonder what he would do. Meanwhile, also, quite still stood the stranger, holding his bow in his hand, while one could count five; then he drew his trusty yew, holding it drawn but a moment, then loosed the string. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it smote a gray goose feather from off Gilbert's shaft, which fell fluttering through the sunlit air as the stranger's arrow lodged close beside his of the Red Cap, and in the very center. No one spoke a word for a while and no one shouted, but each man looked into his neighbor's face amazedly. "Nay," quoth old Adam o' the Dell presently, drawing a long breath and shaking his head as he spoke, "twoscore years and more have I shot shaft, and maybe not all times bad, but I shoot no more this day, for no man can match with yon stranger, whosoe'er he may be." Then he thrust his shaft into his quiver, rattling, and unstrung his bow without another word. Then the Sheriff came down from his dais and drew near, in all his silks and velvets, to where the tattered stranger stood leaning upon his stout bow, while the good folk crowded around to see the man who shot so wondrously well. "Here, good fellow," quoth the Sheriff, "take thou the prize, and well and fairly hast thou won it, I bow. What may be thy name, and whence comest thou?" "Men do call me Jock o' Teviotdale, and thence am I come," said the stranger. "Then, by Our Lady, Jock, thou art the fairest archer that e'er mine eyes beheld, and if thou wilt join my service I will clothe thee with a better coat than that thou hast upon thy back; thou shalt eat and drink of the best, and at every Christmastide fourscore marks shall be thy wage. I trow thou drawest better bow than that same coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my service?" "Nay, that will I not," quoth the stranger roughly. "I will be mine own, and no man in all merry England shall be my master." "Then get thee gone, and a murrain seize thee!" cried the Sheriff, and his voice trembled with anger. "And by my faith and troth, I have a good part of a mind to have thee beaten for thine insolence!" Then he turned upon his heel and strode away. It was a right motley company that gathered about the noble greenwood tree in Sherwood's depths that same day. A score and more of barefoot friars were there, and some that looked like tinkers, and some that seemed to be sturdy beggars and rustic hinds; and seated upon a mossy couch was one all clad in tattered scarlet, with a patch over one eye; and in his hand he held the golden arrow that was the prize of the great shooting match. Then, amidst a noise of talking and laughter, he took the patch from off his eye and stripped away the scarlet rags from off his body and showed himself all clothed in fair Lincoln green; and quoth he, "Easy come these things away, but walnut stain cometh not so speedily from yellow hair." Then all laughed louder than before, for it was Robin Hood himself that had won the prize from the Sheriff's very hands. Then all sat down to the woodland feast and talked among themselves of the merry jest that had been played upon the Sheriff, and of the adventures that had befallen each member of the band in his disguise. But when the feast was done, Robin Hood took Little John apart and said, "Truly am I vexed in my blood, for I heard the Sheriff say today, 'Thou shootest better than that coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day.' I would fain let him know who it was who won the golden arrow from out his hand, and also that I am no coward such as he takes me to be." Then Little John said, "Good master, take thou me and Will Stutely, and we will send yon fat Sheriff news of all this by a messenger such as he doth not expect." That day the Sheriff sat at meat in the great hall of his house at Nottingham Town. Long tables stood down the hall, at which sat men-at-arms and household servants and good stout villains,(1) in all fourscore and more. There they talked of the day's shooting as they ate their meat and quaffed their ale. The Sheriff sat at the head of the table upon a raised seat under a canopy, and beside him sat his dame. (1) Bond-servants. "By my troth," said he, "I did reckon full roundly that that knave Robin Hood would be at the game today. I did not think that he was such a coward. But who could that saucy knave be who answered me to my beard so bravely? I wonder that I did not have him beaten; but there was something about him that spoke of other things than rags and tatters." Then, even as he finished speaking, something fell rattling among the dishes on the table, while those that sat near started up wondering what it might be. After a while one of the men-at-arms gathered courage enough to pick it up and bring it to the Sheriff. Then everyone saw that it was a blunted gray goose shaft, with a fine scroll, about the thickness of a goose quill, tied near to its head. The Sheriff opened the scroll and glanced at it, while the veins upon his forehead swelled and his cheeks grew ruddy with rage as he read, for this was what he saw: "_Now Heaven bless Thy Grace this day Say all in sweet Sherwood For thou didst give the prize away To merry Robin Hood_." "Whence came this?" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice. "Even through the window, Your Worship," quoth the man who had handed the shaft to him. Will Stutely Rescued by His Companions NOW WHEN THE SHERIFF found that neither law nor guile could overcome Robin Hood, he was much perplexed, and said to himself, "Fool that I am! Had I not told our King of Robin Hood, I would not have gotten myself into such a coil; but now I must either take him captive or have wrath visited upon my head from his most gracious Majesty. I have tried law, and I have tried guile, and I have failed in both; so I will try what may be done with might." Thus communing within himself, he called his constables together and told them what was in his mind. "Now take ye each four men, all armed in proof," said he, "and get ye gone to the forest, at different points, and lie in wait for this same Robin Hood. But if any constable finds too many men against him, let him sound a horn, and then let each band within hearing come with all speed and join the party that calls them. Thus, I think, shall we take this green-clad knave. Furthermore, to him that first meeteth with Robin Hood shall one hundred pounds of silver money be given, if he be brought to me dead or alive; and to him that meeteth with any of his band shall twoscore pounds be given, if such be brought to me dead or alive. So, be ye bold and be ye crafty." So thus they went in threescore companies of five to Sherwood Forest, to take Robin Hood, each constable wishing that he might be the one to find the bold outlaw, or at least one of his band. For seven days and nights they hunted through the forest glades, but never saw so much as a single man in Lincoln green; for tidings of all this had been brought to Robin Hood by trusty Eadom o' the Blue Boar. When he first heard the news, Robin said, "If the Sheriff dare send force to meet force, woe will it be for him and many a better man besides, for blood will flow and there will be great trouble for all. But fain would I shun blood and battle, and fain would I not deal sorrow to womenfolk and wives because good stout yeomen lose their lives. Once I slew a man, and never do I wish to slay a man again, for it is bitter for the soul to think thereon. So now we will abide silently in Sherwood Forest, so that it may be well for all, but should we be forced to defend ourselves, or any of our band, then let each man draw bow and brand with might and main." At this speech many of the band shook their heads, and said to themselves, "Now the Sheriff will think that we are cowards, and folk will scoff throughout the countryside, saying that we fear to meet these men." But they said nothing aloud, swallowing their words and doing as Robin bade them. Thus they hid in the depths of Sherwood Forest for seven days and seven nights and never showed their faces abroad in all that time; but early in the morning of the eighth day Robin Hood called the band together and said, "Now who will go and find what the Sheriff's men are at by this time? For I know right well they will not bide forever within Sherwood shades." At this a great shout arose, and each man waved his bow aloft and cried that he might be the one to go. Then Robin Hood's heart was proud when he looked around on his stout, brave fellows, and he said, "Brave and true are ye all, my merry men, and a right stout band of good fellows are ye, but ye cannot all go, so I will choose one from among you, and it shall be good Will Stutely, for he is as sly as e'er an old dog fox in Sherwood Forest." Then Will Stutely leaped high aloft and laughed loudly, clapping his hands for pure joy that he should have been chosen from among them all. "Now thanks, good master," quoth he, "and if I bring not news of those knaves to thee, call me no more thy sly Will Stutely." Then he clad himself in a friar's gown, and underneath the robe he hung a good broadsword in such a place that he could easily lay hands upon it. Thus clad, he set forth upon his quest, until he came to the verge of the forest, and so to the highway. He saw two bands of the Sheriff's men, yet he turned neither to the right nor the left, but only drew his cowl the closer over his face, folding his hands as if in meditation. So at last he came to the Sign of the Blue Boar. "For," quoth he to himself, "our good friend Eadom will tell me all the news." At the Sign of the Blue Boar he found a band of the Sheriffs men drinking right lustily; so, without speaking to anyone, he sat down upon a distant bench, his staff in his hand, and his head bowed forward as though he were meditating. Thus he sat waiting until he might see the landlord apart, and Eadom did not know him, but thought him to be some poor tired friar, so he let him sit without saying a word to him or molesting him, though he liked not the cloth. "For," said he to himself, "it is a hard heart that kicks the lame dog from off the sill." As Stutely sat thus, there came a great house cat and rubbed against his knee, raising his robe a palm's-breadth high. Stutely pushed his robe quickly down again, but the constable who commanded the Sheriffs men saw what had passed, and saw also fair Lincoln green beneath the friar's robe. He said nothing at the time, but communed within himself in this wise: "Yon is no friar of orders gray, and also, I wot, no honest yeoman goeth about in priest's garb, nor doth a thief go so for nought. Now I think in good sooth that is one of Robin Hood's own men." So, presently, he said aloud, "O holy father, wilt thou not take a good pot of March beer to slake thy thirsty soul withal?" But Stutely shook his head silently, for he said to himself, "Maybe there be those here who know my voice." Then the constable said again, "Whither goest thou, holy friar, upon this hot summer's day?" "I go a pilgrim to Canterbury Town," answered Will Stutely, speaking gruffly, so that none might know his voice. Then the constable said, for the third time, "Now tell me, holy father, do pilgrims to Canterbury wear good Lincoln green beneath their robes? Ha! By my faith, I take thee to be some lusty thief, and perhaps one of Robin Hood's own band! Now, by Our Lady's grace, if thou movest hand or foot, I will run thee through the body with my sword!" Then he flashed forth his bright sword and leaped upon Will Stutely, thinking he would take him unaware; but Stutely had his own sword tightly held in his hand, beneath his robe, so he drew it forth before the constable came upon him. Then the stout constable struck a mighty blow; but he struck no more in all that fight, for Stutely, parrying the blow right deftly, smote the constable back again with all his might. Then he would have escaped, but could not, for the other, all dizzy with the wound and with the flowing blood, seized him by the knees with his arms even as he reeled and fell. Then the others rushed upon him, and Stutely struck again at another of the Sheriff's men, but the steel cap glanced the blow, and though the blade bit deep, it did not kill. Meanwhile, the constable, fainting as he was, drew Stutely downward, and the others, seeing the yeoman hampered so, rushed upon him again, and one smote him a blow upon the crown so that the blood ran down his face and blinded him. Then, staggering, he fell, and all sprang upon him, though he struggled so manfully that they could hardly hold him fast. Then they bound him with stout hempen cords so that he could not move either hand or foot, and thus they overcame him. Robin Hood stood under the greenwood tree, thinking of Will Stutely and how he might be faring, when suddenly he saw two of his stout yeomen come running down the forest path, and betwixt them ran buxom Maken of the Blue Boar. Then Robin's heart fell, for he knew they were the bearers of ill tidings. "Will Stutely hath been taken," cried they, when they had come to where he stood. "And is it thou that hast brought such doleful news?" said Robin to the lass. "Ay, marry, for I saw it all," cried she, panting as the hare pants when it has escaped the hounds, "and I fear he is wounded sore, for one smote him main shrewdly i' the crown. They have bound him and taken him to Nottingham Town, and ere I left the Blue Boar I heard that he should be hanged tomorrow day." "He shall not be hanged tomorrow day," cried Robin; "or, if he be, full many a one shall gnaw the sod, and many shall have cause to cry Alack-a-day!" Then he clapped his horn to his lips and blew three blasts right loudly, and presently his good yeomen came running through the greenwood until sevenscore bold blades were gathered around him. "Now hark you all!" cried Robin. "Our dear companion Will Stutely hath been taken by that vile Sheriff's men, therefore doth it behoove us to take bow and brand in hand to bring him off again; for I wot that we ought to risk life and limb for him, as he hath risked life and limb for us. Is it not so, my merry men all?" Then all cried, "Ay!" with a great voice. So the next day they all wended their way from Sherwood Forest, but by different paths, for it behooved them to be very crafty; so the band separated into parties of twos and threes, which were all to meet again in a tangled dell that lay near to Nottingham Town. Then, when they had all gathered together at the place of meeting, Robin spoke to them thus: "Now we will lie here in ambush until we can get news, for it doth behoove us to be cunning and wary if we would bring our friend Will Stutely off from the Sheriff's clutches." So they lay hidden a long time, until the sun stood high in the sky. The day was warm and the dusty road was bare of travelers, except an aged palmer who walked slowly along the highroad that led close beside the gray castle wall of Nottingham Town. When Robin saw that no other wayfarer was within sight, he called young David of Doncaster, who was a shrewd man for his years, and said to him, "Now get thee forth, young David, and speak to yonder palmer that walks beside the town wall, for he hath come but now from Nottingham Town, and may tell thee news of good Stutely, perchance." So David strode forth, and when he came up to the pilgrim, he saluted him and said, "Good morrow, holy father, and canst thou tell me when Will Stutely will be hanged upon the gallows tree? I fain would not miss the sight, for I have come from afar to see so sturdy a rogue hanged." "Now, out upon thee, young man," cried the Palmer, "that thou shouldst speak so when a good stout man is to be hanged for nothing but guarding his own life!" And he struck his staff upon the ground in anger. "Alas, say I, that this thing should be! For even this day, toward evening, when the sun falleth low, he shall be hanged, fourscore rods from the great town gate of Nottingham, where three roads meet; for there the Sheriff sweareth he shall die as a warning to all outlaws in Nottinghamshire. But yet, I say again, Alas! For, though Robin Hood and his band may be outlaws, yet he taketh only from the rich and the strong and the dishonest man, while there is not a poor widow nor a peasant with many children, nigh to Sherwood, but has barley flour enough all the year long through him. It grieves my heart to see one as gallant as this Stutely die, for I have been a good Saxon yeoman in my day, ere I turned palmer, and well I know a stout hand and one that smiteth shrewdly at a cruel Norman or a proud abbot with fat moneybags. Had good Stutely's master but known how his man was compassed about with perils, perchance he might send succor to bring him out of the hand of his enemies. "Ay, marry, that is true," cried the young man. "If Robin and his men be nigh this place, I wot right well they will strive to bring him forth from his peril. But fare thee well, thou good old man, and believe me, if Will Stutely die, he shall be right well avenged." Then he turned and strode rapidly away; but the Palmer looked after him, muttering, "I wot that youth is no country hind that hath come to see a good man die. Well, well, perchance Robin Hood is not so far away but that there will be stout doings this day." So he went upon his way, muttering to himself. When David of Doncaster told Robin Hood what the Palmer had said to him, Robin called the band around him and spoke to them thus: "Now let us get straightway into Nottingham Town and mix ourselves with the people there; but keep ye one another in sight, pressing as near the prisoner and his guards as ye can, when they come outside the walls. Strike no man without need, for I would fain avoid bloodshed, but if ye do strike, strike hard, and see that there be no need to strike again. Then keep all together until we come again to Sherwood, and let no man leave his fellows." The sun was low in the western sky when a bugle note sounded from the castle wall. Then all was bustle in Nottingham Town and crowds filled the streets, for all knew that the famous Will Stutely was to be hanged that day. Presently the castle gates opened wide and a great array of men-at-arms came forth with noise and clatter, the Sheriff, all clad in shining mail of linked chain, riding at their head. In the midst of all the guard, in a cart, with a halter about his neck, rode Will Stutely. His face was pale with his wound and with loss of blood, like the moon in broad daylight, and his fair hair was clotted in points upon his forehead, where the blood had hardened. When he came forth from the castle he looked up and he looked down, but though he saw some faces that showed pity and some that showed friendliness, he saw none that he knew. Then his heart sank within him like a plummet of lead, but nevertheless he spoke up boldly. "Give a sword into my hand, Sir Sheriff," said he, "and wounded man though I be, I will fight thee and all thy men till life and strength be gone." "Nay, thou naughty varlet," quoth the Sheriff, turning his head and looking right grimly upon Will Stutely, "thou shalt have no sword but shall die a mean death, as beseemeth a vile thief like thee." "Then do but untie my hands and I will fight thee and thy men with no weapon but only my naked fists. I crave no weapon, but let me not be meanly hanged this day." Then the Sheriff laughed aloud. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is thy proud stomach quailing? Shrive thyself, thou vile knave, for I mean that thou shalt hang this day, and that where three roads meet, so that all men shall see thee hang, for carrion crows and daws to peck at." "O thou dastard heart!" cried Will Stutely, gnashing his teeth at the Sheriff. "Thou coward hind! If ever my good master meet thee thou shalt pay dearly for this day's work! He doth scorn thee, and so do all brave hearts. Knowest thou not that thou and thy name are jests upon the lips of every brave yeoman? Such a one as thou art, thou wretched craven, will never be able to subdue bold Robin Hood." "Ha!" cried the Sheriff in a rage, "is it even so? Am I a jest with thy master, as thou callest him? Now I will make a jest of thee and a sorry jest withal, for I will quarter thee limb from limb, after thou art hanged." Then he spurred his horse forward and said no more to Stutely. At last they came to the great town gate, through which Stutely saw the fair country beyond, with hills and dales all clothed in verdure, and far away the dusky line of Sherwood's skirts. Then when he saw the slanting sunlight lying on field and fallow, shining redly here and there on cot and farmhouse, and when he heard the sweet birds singing their vespers, and the sheep bleating upon the hillside, and beheld the swallows flying in the bright air, there came a great fullness to his heart so that all things blurred to his sight through salt tears, and he bowed his head lest the folk should think him unmanly when they saw the tears in his eyes. Thus he kept his head bowed till they had passed through the gate and were outside the walls of the town. But when he looked up again he felt his heart leap within him and then stand still for pure joy, for he saw the face of one of his own dear companions of merry Sherwood; then glancing quickly around he saw well-known faces upon all sides of him, crowding closely upon the men-at-arms who were guarding him. Then of a sudden the blood sprang to his cheeks, for he saw for a moment his own good master in the press and, seeing him, knew that Robin Hood and all his band were there. Yet betwixt him and them was a line of men-at-arms. "Now, stand back!" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice, for the crowd pressed around on all sides. "What mean ye, varlets, that ye push upon us so? Stand back, I say!" Then came a bustle and a noise, and one strove to push between the men-at-arms so as to reach the cart, and Stutely saw that it was Little John that made all that stir. "Now stand thou back!" cried one of the men-at-arms whom Little John pushed with his elbows. "Now stand thou back thine own self," quoth Little John, and straightway smote the man a buffet beside his head that felled him as a butcher fells an ox, and then he leaped to the cart where Stutely sat. "I pray thee take leave of thy friends ere thou diest, Will," quoth he, "or maybe I will die with thee if thou must die, for I could never have better company." Then with one stroke he cut the bonds that bound the other's arms and legs, and Stutely leaped straightway from the cart. "Now as I live," cried the Sheriff, "yon varlet I know right well is a sturdy rebel! Take him, I bid you all, and let him not go!" So saying, he spurred his horse upon Little John, and rising in his stirrups smote with might and main, but Little John ducked quickly underneath the horse's belly and the blow whistled harmlessly over his head. "Nay, good Sir Sheriff," cried he, leaping up again when the blow had passed, "I must e'en borrow thy most worshipful sword." Thereupon he twitched the weapon deftly from out the Sheriff's hand, "Here, Stutely," he cried, "the Sheriff hath lent thee his sword! Back to back with me, man, and defend thyself, for help is nigh!" "Down with them!" bellowed the Sheriff in a voice like an angry bull; and he spurred his horse upon the two who now stood back to back, forgetting in his rage that he had no weapon with which to defend himself. "Stand back, Sheriff!" cried Little John; and even as he spoke, a bugle horn sounded shrilly and a clothyard shaft whistled within an inch of the Sheriff's head. Then came a swaying hither and thither, and oaths, cries, and groans, and clashing of steel, and swords flashed in the setting sun, and a score of arrows whistled through the air. And some cried, "Help, help!" and some, "A rescue, a rescue!" "Treason!" cried the Sheriff in a loud voice. "Bear back! Bear back! Else we be all dead men!" Thereupon he reined his horse backward through the thickest of the crowd. Now Robin Hood and his band might have slain half of the Sheriff's men had they desired to do so, but they let them push out of the press and get them gone, only sending a bunch of arrows after them to hurry them in their flight. "Oh stay!" shouted Will Stutely after the Sheriff. "Thou wilt never catch bold Robin Hood if thou dost not stand to meet him face to face." But the Sheriff, bowing along his horse's back, made no answer but only spurred the faster. Then Will Stutely turned to Little John and looked him in the face till the tears ran down from his eyes and he wept aloud; and kissing his friend's cheeks, "O Little John!" quoth he, "mine own true friend, and he that I love better than man or woman in all the world beside! Little did I reckon to see thy face this day, or to meet thee this side Paradise." Little John could make no answer, but wept also. Then Robin Hood gathered his band together in a close rank, with Will Stutely in the midst, and thus they moved slowly away toward Sherwood, and were gone, as a storm cloud moves away from the spot where a tempest has swept the land. But they left ten of the Sheriff's men lying along the ground wounded--some more, some less--yet no one knew who smote them down. Thus the Sheriff of Nottingham tried thrice to take Robin Hood and failed each time; and the last time he was frightened, for he felt how near he had come to losing his life; so he said, "These men fear neither God nor man, nor king nor king's officers. I would sooner lose mine office than my life, so I will trouble them no more." So he kept close within his castle for many a day and dared not show his face outside of his own household, and all the time he was gloomy and would speak to no one, for he was ashamed of what had happened that day. Robin Hood Turns Butcher NOW AFTER all these things had happened, and it became known to Robin Hood how the Sheriff had tried three times to make him captive, he said to himself, "If I have the chance, I will make our worshipful Sheriff pay right well for that which he hath done to me. Maybe I may bring him some time into Sherwood Forest and have him to a right merry feast with us." For when Robin Hood caught a baron or a squire, or a fat abbot or bishop, he brought them to the greenwood tree and feasted them before he lightened their purses. But in the meantime Robin Hood and his band lived quietly in Sherwood Forest, without showing their faces abroad, for Robin knew that it would not be wise for him to be seen in the neighborhood of Nottingham, those in authority being very wroth with him. But though they did not go abroad, they lived a merry life within the woodlands, spending the days in shooting at garlands hung upon a willow wand at the end of the glade, the leafy aisles ringing with merry jests and laughter: for whoever missed the garland was given a sound buffet, which, if delivered by Little John, never failed to topple over the unfortunate yeoman. Then they had bouts of wrestling and of cudgel play, so that every day they gained in skill and strength. Thus they dwelled for nearly a year, and in that time Robin Hood often turned over in his mind many means of making an even score with the Sheriff. At last he began to fret at his confinement; so one day he took up his stout cudgel and set forth to seek adventure, strolling blithely along until he came to the edge of Sherwood. There, as he rambled along the sunlit road, he met a lusty young butcher driving a fine mare and riding in a stout new cart, all hung about with meat. Merrily whistled the Butcher as he jogged along, for he was going to the market, and the day was fresh and sweet, making his heart blithe within him. "Good morrow to thee, jolly fellow," quoth Robin, "thou seemest happy this merry morn." "Ay, that am I," quoth the jolly Butcher, "and why should I not be so? Am I not hale in wind and limb? Have I not the bonniest lass in all Nottinghamshire? And lastly, am I not to be married to her on Thursday next in sweet Locksley Town?" "Ha," said Robin, "comest thou from Locksley Town? Well do I know that fair place for miles about, and well do I know each hedgerow and gentle pebbly stream, and even all the bright little fishes therein, for there I was born and bred. Now, where goest thou with thy meat, my fair friend?" "I go to the market at Nottingham Town to sell my beef and my mutton," answered the Butcher. "But who art thou that comest from Locksley Town?" "A yeoman am I, and men do call me Robin Hood." "Now, by Our Lady's grace," cried the Butcher, "well do I know thy name, and many a time have I heard thy deeds both sung and spoken of. But Heaven forbid that thou shouldst take aught of me! An honest man am I, and have wronged neither man nor maid; so trouble me not, good master, as I have never troubled thee." "Nay, Heaven forbid, indeed," quoth Robin, "that I should take from such as thee, jolly fellow! Not so much as one farthing would I take from thee, for I love a fair Saxon face like thine right well--more especially when it cometh from Locksley Town, and most especially when the man that owneth it is to marry a bonny lass on Thursday next. But come, tell me for what price thou wilt sell me all of thy meat and thy horse and cart." "At four marks do I value meat, cart, and mare," quoth the Butcher, "but if I do not sell all my meat I will not have four marks in value." Then Robin Hood plucked the purse from his girdle, and quoth he, "Here in this purse are six marks. Now, I would fain be a butcher for the day and sell my meat in Nottingham Town. Wilt thou close a bargain with me and take six marks for thine outfit?" "Now may the blessings of all the saints fall on thine honest head!" cried the Butcher right joyfully, as he leaped down from his cart and took the purse that Robin held out to him. "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing loudly, "many do like me and wish me well, but few call me honest. Now get thee gone back to thy lass, and give her a sweet kiss from me." So saying, he donned the Butcher's apron, and, climbing into the cart, he took the reins in his hand and drove off through the forest to Nottingham Town. When he came to Nottingham, he entered that part of the market where butchers stood, and took up his inn(2) in the best place he could find. Next, he opened his stall and spread his meat upon the bench, then, taking his cleaver and steel and clattering them together, he trolled aloud in merry tones: (2) Stand for selling. "Now come, ye lasses, and eke ye dames, And buy your meat from me; For three pennyworths of meat I sell For the charge of one penny. "Lamb have I that hath fed upon nought But the dainty dames pied, And the violet sweet, and the daffodil That grow fair streams beside. "And beef have I from the heathery words, And mutton from dales all green, And veal as white as a maiden's brow, With its mother's milk, I ween. "Then come, ye lasses, and eke ye dames, Come, buy your meat from me, For three pennyworths of meat I sell For the charge of one penny." Thus he sang blithely, while all who stood near listened amazedly. Then, when he had finished, he clattered the steel and cleaver still more loudly, shouting lustily, "Now, who'll buy? Who'll buy? Four fixed prices have I. Three pennyworths of meat I sell to a fat friar or priest for sixpence, for I want not their custom; stout aldermen I charge threepence, for it doth not matter to me whether they buy or not; to buxom dames I sell three pennyworths of meat for one penny for I like their custom well; but to the bonny lass that hath a liking for a good tight butcher I charge nought but one fair kiss, for I like her custom the best of all." Then all began to stare and wonder and crowd around, laughing, for never was such selling heard of in all Nottingham Town; but when they came to buy they found it as he had said, for he gave goodwife or dame as much meat for one penny as they could buy elsewhere for three, and when a widow or a poor woman came to him, he gave her flesh for nothing; but when a merry lass came and gave him a kiss, he charged not one penny for his meat; and many such came to his stall, for his eyes were as blue as the skies of June, and he laughed merrily, giving to each full measure. Thus he sold his meat so fast that no butcher that stood near him could sell anything. Then they began to talk among themselves, and some said, "This must be some thief who has stolen cart, horse, and meat;" but others said, "Nay, when did ye ever see a thief who parted with his goods so freely and merrily? This must be some prodigal who hath sold his father's land, and would fain live merrily while the money lasts." And these latter being the greater number, the others came round, one by one to their way of thinking. Then some of the butchers came to him to make his acquaintance. "Come, brother," quoth one who was the head of them all, "we be all of one trade, so wilt thou go dine with us? For this day the Sheriff hath asked all the Butcher Guild to feast with him at the Guild Hall. There will be stout fare and much to drink, and that thou likest, or I much mistake thee." "Now, beshrew his heart," quoth jolly Robin, "that would deny a butcher. And, moreover, I will go dine with you all, my sweet lads, and that as fast as I can hie." Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he closed his stall and went with them to the great Guild Hall. There the Sheriff had already come in state, and with him many butchers. When Robin and those that were with him came in, all laughing at some merry jest he had been telling them, those that were near the Sheriff whispered to him, "Yon is a right mad blade, for he hath sold more meat for one penny this day than we could sell for three, and to whatsoever merry lass gave him a kiss he gave meat for nought." And others said, "He is some prodigal that hath sold his land for silver and gold, and meaneth to spend all right merrily." Then the Sheriff called Robin to him, not knowing him in his butcher's dress, and made him sit close to him on his right hand; for he loved a rich young prodigal--especially when he thought that he might lighten that prodigal's pockets into his own most worshipful purse. So he made much of Robin, and laughed and talked with him more than with any of the others. At last the dinner was ready to be served and the Sheriff bade Robin say grace, so Robin stood up and said, "Now Heaven bless us all and eke good meat and good sack within this house, and may all butchers be and remain as honest men as I am." At this all laughed, the Sheriff loudest of all, for he said to himself, "Surely this is indeed some prodigal, and perchance I may empty his purse of some of the money that the fool throweth about so freely." Then he spake aloud to Robin, saying, "Thou art a jolly young blade, and I love thee mightily;" and he smote Robin upon the shoulder. Then Robin laughed loudly too. "Yea," quoth he, "I know thou dost love a jolly blade, for didst thou not have jolly Robin Hood at thy shooting match and didst thou not gladly give him a bright golden arrow for his own?" At this the Sheriff looked grave and all the guild of butchers too, so that none laughed but Robin, only some winked slyly at each other. "Come, fill us some sack!" cried Robin. "Let us e'er be merry while we may, for man is but dust, and he hath but a span to live here till the worm getteth him, as our good gossip Swanthold sayeth; so let life be merry while it lasts, say I. Nay, never look down i' the mouth, Sir Sheriff. Who knowest but that thou mayest catch Robin Hood yet, if thou drinkest less good sack and Malmsey, and bringest down the fat about thy paunch and the dust from out thy brain. Be merry, man." Then the Sheriff laughed again, but not as though he liked the jest, while the butchers said, one to another, "Before Heaven, never have we seen such a mad rollicking blade. Mayhap, though, he will make the Sheriff mad." "How now, brothers," cried Robin, "be merry! nay, never count over your farthings, for by this and by that I will pay this shot myself, e'en though it cost two hundred pounds. So let no man draw up his lip, nor thrust his forefinger into his purse, for I swear that neither butcher nor Sheriff shall pay one penny for this feast." "Now thou art a right merry soul," quoth the Sheriff, "and I wot thou must have many a head of horned beasts and many an acre of land, that thou dost spend thy money so freely." "Ay, that have I," quoth Robin, laughing loudly again, "five hundred and more horned beasts have I and my brothers, and none of them have we been able to sell, else I might not have turned butcher. As for my land, I have never asked my steward how many acres I have." At this the Sheriff's eyes twinkled, and he chuckled to himself. "Nay, good youth," quoth he, "if thou canst not sell thy cattle, it may be I will find a man that will lift them from thy hands; perhaps that man may be myself, for I love a merry youth and would help such a one along the path of life. Now how much dost thou want for thy horned cattle?" "Well," quoth Robin, "they are worth at least five hundred pounds." "Nay," answered the Sheriff slowly, and as if he were thinking within himself, "well do I love thee, and fain would I help thee along, but five hundred pounds in money is a good round sum; besides I have it not by me. Yet I will give thee three hundred pounds for them all, and that in good hard silver and gold." "Now thou old miser!" quoth Robin, "well thou knowest that so many horned cattle are worth seven hundred pounds and more, and even that is but small for them, and yet thou, with thy gray hairs and one foot in the grave, wouldst trade upon the folly of a wild youth." At this the Sheriff looked grimly at Robin. "Nay," quoth Robin, "look not on me as though thou hadst sour beer in thy mouth, man. I will take thine offer, for I and my brothers do need the money. We lead a merry life, and no one leads a merry life for a farthing, so I will close the bargain with thee. But mind that thou bringest a good three hundred pounds with thee, for I trust not one that driveth so shrewd a bargain." "I will bring the money," said the Sheriff. "But what is thy name, good youth?" "Men call me Robert o' Locksley," quoth bold Robin. "Then, good Robert o' Locksley," quoth the Sheriff, "I will come this day to see thy horned beasts. But first my clerk shall draw up a paper in which thou shalt be bound to the sale, for thou gettest not my money without I get thy beasts in return." Then Robin Hood laughed again. "So be it," he said, smiting his palm upon the Sheriff's hand. "Truly my brothers will be thankful to thee for thy money." Thus the bargain was closed, but many of the butchers talked among themselves of the Sheriff, saying that it was but a scurvy trick to beguile a poor spendthrift youth in this way. The afternoon had come when the Sheriff mounted his horse and joined Robin Hood, who stood outside the gateway of the paved court waiting for him, for he had sold his horse and cart to a trader for two marks. Then they set forth upon their way, the Sheriff riding upon his horse and Robin running beside him. Thus they left Nottingham Town and traveled forward along the dusty highway, laughing and jesting together as though they had been old friends. But all the time the Sheriff said within himself, "Thy jest to me of Robin Hood shall cost thee dear, good fellow, even four hundred pounds, thou fool." For he thought he would make at least that much by his bargain. So they journeyed onward till they came within the verge of Sherwood Forest, when presently the Sheriff looked up and down and to the right and to the left of him, and then grew quiet and ceased his laughter. "Now," quoth he, "may Heaven and its saints preserve us this day from a rogue men call Robin Hood." Then Robin laughed aloud. "Nay," said he, "thou mayst set thy mind at rest, for well do I know Robin Hood and well do I know that thou art in no more danger from him this day than thou art from me." At this the Sheriff looked askance at Robin, saying to himself, "I like not that thou seemest so well acquainted with this bold outlaw, and I wish that I were well out of Sherwood Forest." But still they traveled deeper into the forest shades, and the deeper they went, the more quiet grew the Sheriff. At last they came to where the road took a sudden bend, and before them a herd of dun deer went tripping across the path. Then Robin Hood came close to the Sheriff and pointing his finger, he said, "These are my horned beasts, good Master Sheriff. How dost thou like them? Are they not fat and fair to see?" At this the Sheriff drew rein quickly. "Now fellow," quoth he, "I would I were well out of this forest, for I like not thy company. Go thou thine own path, good friend, and let me but go mine." But Robin only laughed and caught the Sheriff's bridle rein. "Nay," cried he, "stay awhile, for I would thou shouldst see my brothers, who own these fair horned beasts with me." So saying, he clapped his bugle to his mouth and winded three merry notes, and presently up the path came leaping fivescore good stout yeomen with Little John at their head. "What wouldst thou have, good master?" quoth Little John. "Why," answered Robin, "dost thou not see that I have brought goodly company to feast with us today? Fye, for shame! Do you not see our good and worshipful master, the Sheriff of Nottingham? Take thou his bridle, Little John, for he has honored us today by coming to feast with us." Then all doffed their hats humbly, without smiling or seeming to be in jest, while Little John took the bridle rein and led the palfrey still deeper into the forest, all marching in order, with Robin Hood walking beside the Sheriff, hat in hand. All this time the Sheriff said never a word but only looked about him like one suddenly awakened from sleep; but when he found himself going within the very depths of Sherwood his heart sank within him, for he thought, "Surely my three hundred pounds will be taken from me, even if they take not my life itself, for I have plotted against their lives more than once." But all seemed humble and meek and not a word was said of danger, either to life or money. So at last they came to that part of Sherwood Forest where a noble oak spread its branches wide, and beneath it was a seat all made of moss, on which Robin sat down, placing the Sheriff at his right hand. "Now busk ye, my merry men all," quoth he, "and bring forth the best we have, both of meat and wine, for his worship the Sheriff hath feasted me in Nottingham Guild Hall today, and I would not have him go back empty." All this time nothing had been said of the Sheriff's money, so presently he began to pluck up heart. "For," said he to himself, "maybe Robin Hood hath forgotten all about it." Then, while beyond in the forest bright fires crackled and savory smells of sweetly roasting venison and fat capons filled the glade, and brown pasties warmed beside the blaze, did Robin Hood entertain the Sheriff right royally. First, several couples stood forth at quarterstaff, and so shrewd were they at the game, and so quickly did they give stroke and parry, that the Sheriff, who loved to watch all lusty sports of the kind, clapped his hands, forgetting where he was, and crying aloud, "Well struck! Well struck, thou fellow with the black beard!" little knowing that the man he called upon was the Tinker that tried to serve his warrant upon Robin Hood. Then several yeomen came forward and spread cloths upon the green grass, and placed a royal feast; while others still broached barrels of sack and Malmsey and good stout ale, and set them in jars upon the cloth, with drinking horns about them. Then all sat down and feasted and drank merrily together until the sun was low and the half-moon glimmered with a pale light betwixt the leaves of the trees overhead. Then the Sheriff arose and said, "I thank you all, good yeomen, for the merry entertainment ye have given me this day. Right courteously have ye used me, showing therein that ye have much respect for our glorious King and his deputy in brave Nottinghamshire. But the shadows grow long, and I must away before darkness comes, lest I lose myself within the forest." Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose also, and Robin said to the Sheriff, "If thou must go, worshipful sir, go thou must; but thou hast forgotten one thing." "Nay, I forgot nought," said the Sheriff; yet all the same his heart sank within him. "But I say thou hast forgot something," quoth Robin. "We keep a merry inn here in the greenwood, but whoever becometh our guest must pay his reckoning." Then the Sheriff laughed, but the laugh was hollow. "Well, jolly boys," quoth he, "we have had a merry time together today, and even if ye had not asked me, I would have given you a score of pounds for the sweet entertainment I have had." "Nay," quoth Robin seriously, "it would ill beseem us to treat Your Worship so meanly. By my faith, Sir Sheriff, I would be ashamed to show my face if I did not reckon the King's deputy at three hundred pounds. Is it not so, my merry men all?" Then "Ay!" cried all, in a loud voice. "Three hundred devils!" roared the Sheriff. "Think ye that your beggarly feast was worth three pounds, let alone three hundred?" "Nay," quoth Robin gravely. "Speak not so roundly, Your Worship. I do love thee for the sweet feast thou hast given me this day in merry Nottingham Town; but there be those here who love thee not so much. If thou wilt look down the cloth thou wilt see Will Stutely, in whose eyes thou hast no great favor; then two other stout fellows are there here that thou knowest not, that were wounded in a brawl nigh Nottingham Town, some time ago--thou wottest when; one of them was sore hurt in one arm, yet he hath got the use of it again. Good Sheriff, be advised by me; pay thy score without more ado, or maybe it may fare ill with thee." As he spoke the Sheriff's ruddy cheeks grew pale, and he said nothing more but looked upon the ground and gnawed his nether lip. Then slowly he drew forth his fat purse and threw it upon the cloth in front of him. "Now take the purse, Little John," quoth Robin Hood, "and see that the reckoning be right. We would not doubt our Sheriff, but he might not like it if he should find he had not paid his full score." Then Little John counted the money and found that the bag held three hundred pounds in silver and gold. But to the Sheriff it seemed as if every clink of the bright money was a drop of blood from his veins. And when he saw it all counted out in a heap of silver and gold, filling a wooden platter, he turned away and silently mounted his horse. "Never have we had so worshipful a guest before!" quoth Robin, "and, as the day waxeth late, I will send one of my young men to guide thee out of the forest depths." "Nay, Heaven forbid!" cried the Sheriff hastily. "I can find mine own way, good man, without aid." "Then I will put thee on the right track mine own self," quoth Robin, and, taking the Sheriff's horse by the bridle rein, he led him into the main forest path. Then, before he let him go, he said, "Now, fare thee well, good Sheriff, and when next thou thinkest to despoil some poor prodigal, remember thy feast in Sherwood Forest. 'Ne'er buy a horse, good friend, without first looking into its mouth,' as our good gaffer Swanthold says. And so, once more, fare thee well." Then he clapped his hand to the horse's back, and off went nag and Sheriff through the forest glades. Then bitterly the Sheriff rued the day that first he meddled with Robin Hood, for all men laughed at him and many ballads were sung by folk throughout the country, of how the Sheriff went to shear and came home shorn to the very quick. For thus men sometimes overreach themselves through greed and guile. Little John Goes to Nottingham Fair SPRING HAD GONE since the Sheriff's feast in Sherwood, and summer also, and the mellow month of October had come. All the air was cool and fresh; the harvests were gathered home, the young birds were full fledged, the hops were plucked, and apples were ripe. But though time had so smoothed things over that men no longer talked of the horned beasts that the Sheriff wished to buy, he was still sore about the matter and could not bear to hear Robin Hood's name spoken in his presence. With October had come the time for holding the great Fair which was celebrated every five years at Nottingham Town, to which folk came from far and near throughout the country. At such times archery was always the main sport of the day, for the Nottinghamshire yeomen were the best hand at the longbow in all merry England, but this year the Sheriff hesitated a long time before he issued proclamation of the Fair, fearing lest Robin Hood and his band might come to it. At first he had a great part of a mind not to proclaim the Fair, but second thought told him that men would laugh at him and say among themselves that he was afraid of Robin Hood, so he put that thought by. At last he fixed in his mind that he would offer such a prize as they would not care to shoot for. At such times it had been the custom to offer a half score of marks or a tun of ale, so this year he proclaimed that a prize of two fat steers should be given to the best bowman. When Robin Hood heard what had been proclaimed he was vexed, and said, "Now beshrew this Sheriff that he should offer such a prize that none but shepherd hinds will care to shoot for it! I would have loved nothing better than to have had another bout at merry Nottingham Town, but if I should win this prize nought would it pleasure or profit me." Then up spoke Little John: "Nay, but hearken, good master," said he, "only today Will Stutely, young David of Doncaster, and I were at the Sign of the Blue Boar, and there we heard all the news of this merry Fair, and also that the Sheriff hath offered this prize, that we of Sherwood might not care to come to the Fair; so, good master, if thou wilt, I would fain go and strive to win even this poor thing among the stout yeomen who will shoot at Nottingham Town." "Nay, Little John," quoth Robin, "thou art a sound stout fellow, yet thou lackest the cunning that good Stutely hath, and I would not have harm befall thee for all Nottinghamshire. Nevertheless, if thou wilt go, take some disguise lest there be those there who may know thee." "So be it, good master," quoth Little John, "yet all the disguise that I wish is a good suit of scarlet instead of this of Lincoln green. I will draw the cowl of my jacket about my head so that it will hide my brown hair and beard, and then, I trust, no one will know me." "It is much against my will," said Robin Hood, "ne'ertheless, if thou dost wish it, get thee gone, but bear thyself seemingly, Little John, for thou art mine own right-hand man and I could ill bear to have harm befall thee." So Little John clad himself all in scarlet and started off to the Fair at Nottingham Town. Right merry were these Fair days at Nottingham, when the green before the great town gate was dotted with booths standing in rows, with tents of many-colored canvas, hung about with streamers and garlands of flowers, and the folk came from all the countryside, both gentle and common. In some booths there was dancing to merry music, in others flowed ale and beer, and in others yet again sweet cakes and barley sugar were sold; and sport was going outside the booths also, where some minstrel sang ballads of the olden time, playing a second upon the harp, or where the wrestlers struggled with one another within the sawdust ring, but the people gathered most of all around a raised platform where stout fellows played at quarterstaff. So Little John came to the Fair. All scarlet were his hose and jerkin, and scarlet was his cowled cap, with a scarlet feather stuck in the side of it. Over his shoulders was slung a stout bow of yew, and across his back hung a quiver of good round arrows. Many turned to look after such a stout, tall fellow, for his shoulders were broader by a palm's-breadth than any that were there, and he stood a head taller than all the other men. The lasses, also, looked at him askance, thinking they had never seen a lustier youth. First of all he went to the booth where stout ale was sold and, standing aloft on a bench, he called to all that were near to come and drink with him. "Hey, sweet lads!" cried he "who will drink ale with a stout yeoman? Come, all! Come, all! Let us be merry, for the day is sweet and the ale is tingling. Come hither, good yeoman, and thou, and thou; for not a farthing shall one of you pay. Nay, turn hither, thou lusty beggar, and thou jolly tinker, for all shall be merry with me." Thus he shouted, and all crowded around, laughing, while the brown ale flowed; and they called Little John a brave fellow, each swearing that he loved him as his own brother; for when one has entertainment with nothing to pay, one loves the man that gives it to one. Then he strolled to the platform where they were at cudgel play, for he loved a bout at quarterstaff as he loved meat and drink; and here befell an adventure that was sung in ballads throughout the mid-country for many a day. One fellow there was that cracked crowns of everyone who threw cap into the ring. This was Eric o' Lincoln, of great renown, whose name had been sung in ballads throughout the countryside. When Little John reached the stand he found none fighting, but only bold Eric walking up and down the platform, swinging his staff and shouting lustily, "Now, who will come and strike a stroke for the lass he loves the best, with a good Lincolnshire yeoman? How now, lads? Step up! Step up! Or else the lasses' eyes are not bright hereabouts, or the blood of Nottingham youth is sluggish and cold. Lincoln against Nottingham, say I! For no one hath put foot upon the boards this day such as we of Lincoln call a cudgel player." At this, one would nudge another with his elbow, saying, "Go thou, Ned!" or "Go thou, Thomas!" but no lad cared to gain a cracked crown for nothing. Presently Eric saw where Little John stood among the others, a head and shoulders above them all, and he called to him loudly, "Halloa, thou long-legged fellow in scarlet! Broad are thy shoulders and thick thy head; is not thy lass fair enough for thee to take cudgel in hand for her sake? In truth, I believe that Nottingham men do turn to bone and sinew, for neither heart nor courage have they! Now, thou great lout, wilt thou not twirl staff for Nottingham?" "Ay," quoth Little John, "had I but mine own good staff here, it would pleasure me hugely to crack thy knave's pate, thou saucy braggart! I wot it would be well for thee an thy cock's comb were cut!" Thus he spoke, slowly at first, for he was slow to move; but his wrath gathered headway like a great stone rolling down a hill, so that at the end he was full of anger. Then Eric o' Lincoln laughed aloud. "Well spoken for one who fears to meet me fairly, man to man," said he. "Saucy art thou thine own self, and if thou puttest foot upon these boards, I will make thy saucy tongue rattle within thy teeth!" "Now," quoth Little John, "is there never a man here that will lend me a good stout staff till I try the mettle of yon fellow?" At this, half a score reached him their staves, and he took the stoutest and heaviest of them all. Then, looking up and down the cudgel, he said, "Now, I have in my hand but a splint of wood--a barley straw, as it were--yet I trow it will have to serve me, so here goeth." Thereupon he cast the cudgel upon the stand and, leaping lightly after it, snatched it up in his hand again. Then each man stood in his place and measured the other with fell looks until he that directed the sport cried, "Play!" At this they stepped forth, each grasping his staff tightly in the middle. Then those that stood around saw the stoutest game of quarterstaff that e'er Nottingham Town beheld. At first Eric o' Lincoln thought that he would gain an easy advantage, so he came forth as if he would say, "Watch, good people, how that I carve you this cockerel right speedily;" but he presently found it to be no such speedy matter. Right deftly he struck, and with great skill of fence, but he had found his match in Little John. Once, twice, thrice, he struck, and three times Little John turned the blows to the left hand and to the right. Then quickly and with a dainty backhanded blow, he rapped Eric beneath his guard so shrewdly that it made his head ring again. Then Eric stepped back to gather his wits, while a great shout went up and all were glad that Nottingham had cracked Lincoln's crown; and thus ended the first bout of the game. Then presently the director of the sport cried, "Play!" and they came together again; but now Eric played warily, for he found his man was of right good mettle, and also he had no sweet memory of the blow that he had got; so this bout neither Little John nor the Lincoln man caught a stroke within his guard. Then, after a while, they parted again, and this made the second bout. Then for the third time they came together, and at first Eric strove to be wary, as he had been before; but, growing mad at finding himself so foiled, he lost his wits and began to rain blows so fiercely and so fast that they rattled like hail on penthouse roof; but, in spite of all, he did not reach within Little John's guard. Then at last Little John saw his chance and seized it right cleverly. Once more, with a quick blow, he rapped Eric beside the head, and ere he could regain himself, Little John slipped his right hand down to his left and, with a swinging blow, smote the other so sorely upon the crown that down he fell as though he would never move again. Then the people shouted so loud that folk came running from all about to see what was the ado; while Little John leaped down from the stand and gave the staff back to him that had lent it to him. And thus ended the famous bout between Little John and Eric o' Lincoln of great renown. But now the time had come when those who were to shoot with the longbow were to take their places, so the people began flocking to the butts where the shooting was to be. Near the target, in a good place, sat the Sheriff upon a raised dais, with many gentlefolk around him. When the archers had taken their places, the herald came forward and proclaimed the rules of the game, and how each should shoot three shots, and to him that should shoot the best the prize of two fat steers was to belong. A score of brave shots were gathered there, and among them some of the keenest hands at the longbow in Lincoln and Nottinghamshire; and among them Little John stood taller than all the rest. "Who is yon stranger clad all in scarlet?" said some, and others answered, "It is he that hath but now so soundly cracked the crown of Eric o' Lincoln." Thus the people talked among themselves, until at last it reached even the Sheriff's ears. And now each man stepped forward and shot in turn; but though each shot well, Little John was the best of all, for three times he struck the clout, and once only the length of a barleycorn from the center. "Hey for the tall archer!" shouted the crowd, and some among them shouted, "Hey for Reynold Greenleaf!" for this was the name that Little John had called himself that day. Then the Sheriff stepped down from the raised seat and came to where the archers stood, while all doffed their caps that saw him coming. He looked keenly at Little John but did not know him, though he said, after a while, "How now, good fellow, methinks there is that about thy face that I have seen erewhile." "Mayhap it may be so," quoth Little John, "for often have I seen Your Worship." And, as he spoke, he looked steadily into the Sheriff's eyes so that the latter did not suspect who he was. "A brave blade art thou, good friend," said the Sheriff, "and I hear that thou hast well upheld the skill of Nottinghamshire against that of Lincoln this day. What may be thy name, good fellow?" "Men do call me Reynold Greenleaf, Your Worship," said Little John; and the old ballad that tells of this, adds, "So, in truth, was he a green leaf, but of what manner of tree the Sheriff wotted not." "Now, Reynold Greenleaf," quoth the Sheriff, "thou art the fairest hand at the longbow that mine eyes ever beheld, next to that false knave, Robin Hood, from whose wiles Heaven forfend me! Wilt thou join my service, good fellow? Thou shalt be paid right well, for three suits of clothes shalt thou have a year, with good food and as much ale as thou canst drink; and, besides this, I will pay thee forty marks each Michaelmastide." "Then here stand I a free man, and right gladly will I enter thy household," said Little John, for he thought he might find some merry jest, should he enter the Sheriff's service. "Fairly hast thou won the fat steers," said the Sheriff, "and hereunto I will add a butt of good March beer, for joy of having gotten such a man; for, I wot, thou shootest as fair a shaft as Robin Hood himself." "Then," said Little John, "for joy of having gotten myself into thy service, I will give fat steers and brown ale to all these good folk, to make them merry withal." At this arose a great shout, many casting their caps aloft, for joy of the gift. Then some built great fires and roasted the steers, and others broached the butt of ale, with which all made themselves merry. Then, when they had eaten and drunk as much as they could, and when the day faded and the great moon arose, all red and round, over the spires and towers of Nottingham Town, they joined hands and danced around the fires, to the music of bagpipes and harps. But long before this merrymaking had begun, the Sheriff and his new servant Reynold Greenleaf were in the Castle of Nottingham. How Little John Lived at the Sheriff's THUS LITTLE JOHN entered into the Sheriff's service and found the life he led there easy enough, for the Sheriff made him his right-hand man and held him in great favor. He sat nigh the Sheriff at meat, and he ran beside his horse when he went a-hunting; so that, what with hunting and hawking a little, and eating rich dishes and drinking good sack, and sleeping until late hours in the morning, he grew as fat as a stall-fed ox. Thus things floated easily along with the tide, until one day when the Sheriff went a-hunting, there happened that which broke the smooth surface of things. This morning the Sheriff and many of his men set forth to meet certain lords, to go a-hunting. He looked all about him for his good man, Reynold Greenleaf, but, not finding him, was vexed, for he wished to show Little John's skill to his noble friends. As for Little John, he lay abed, snoring lustily, till the sun was high in the heavens. At last he opened his eyes and looked about him but did not move to arise. Brightly shone the sun in at the window, and all the air was sweet with the scent of woodbine that hung in sprays about the wall without, for the cold winter was past and spring was come again, and Little John lay still, thinking how sweet was everything on this fair morn. Just then he heard, faint and far away, a distant bugle note sounding thin and clear. The sound was small, but, like a little pebble dropped into a glassy fountain, it broke all the smooth surface of his thoughts, until his whole soul was filled with disturbance. His spirit seemed to awaken from its sluggishness, and his memory brought back to him all the merry greenwood life--how the birds were singing blithely there this bright morning, and how his loved companions and friends were feasting and making merry, or perhaps talking of him with sober speech; for when he first entered the Sheriff's service he did so in jest; but the hearthstone was warm during the winter, and the fare was full, and so he had abided, putting off from day to day his going back to Sherwood, until six long months had passed. But now he thought of his good master and of Will Stutely, whom he loved better than anyone in all the world, and of young David of Doncaster, whom he had trained so well in all manly sports, till there came over his heart a great and bitter longing for them all, so that his eyes filled with tears. Then he said aloud, "Here I grow fat like a stall-fed ox and all my manliness departeth from me while I become a sluggard and dolt. But I will arouse me and go back to mine own dear friends once more, and never will I leave them again till life doth leave my lips." So saying, he leaped from bed, for he hated his sluggishness now. When he came downstairs he saw the Steward standing near the pantry door--a great, fat man, with a huge bundle of keys hanging to his girdle. Then Little John said, "Ho, Master Steward, a hungry man am I, for nought have I had for all this blessed morn. Therefore, give me to eat." Then the Steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys in his girdle, for he hated Little John because he had found favor with the Sheriff. "So, Master Reynold Greenleaf, thou art anhungered, art thou?" quoth he. "But, fair youth, if thou livest long enough, thou wilt find that he who getteth overmuch sleep for an idle head goeth with an empty stomach. For what sayeth the old saw, Master Greenleaf? Is it not 'The late fowl findeth but ill faring'?" "Now, thou great purse of fat!" cried Little John, "I ask thee not for fool's wisdom, but for bread and meat. Who art thou, that thou shouldst deny me to eat? By Saint Dunstan, thou hadst best tell me where my breakfast is, if thou wouldst save broken bones!" "Thy breakfast, Master Fireblaze, is in the pantry," answered the Steward. "Then fetch it hither!" cried Little John, who waxed angry by this time. "Go thou and fetch it thine own self," quoth the Steward. "Am I thy slave, to fetch and carry for thee?" "I say, go thou, bring it me!" "I say, go thou, fetch it for thyself!" "Ay, marry, that will I, right quickly!" quoth Little John in a rage. And, so saying, he strode to the pantry and tried to open the door but found it locked, whereat the Steward laughed and rattled his keys. Then the wrath of Little John boiled over, and, lifting his clenched fist, he smote the pantry door, bursting out three panels and making so large an opening that he could easily stoop and walk through it. When the Steward saw what was done, he waxed mad with rage; and, as Little John stooped to look within the pantry, he seized him from behind by the nape of the neck, pinching him sorely and smiting him over the head with his keys till the yeoman's ears rang again. At this Little John turned upon the Steward and smote him such a buffet that the fat man fell to the floor and lay there as though he would never move again. "There," quoth Little John, "think well of that stroke and never keep a good breakfast from a hungry man again." So saying, he crept into the pantry and looked about him to see if he could find something to appease his hunger. He saw a great venison pasty and two roasted capons, beside which was a platter of plover's eggs; moreover, there was a flask of sack and one of canary--a sweet sight to a hungry man. These he took down from the shelves and placed upon a sideboard, and prepared to make himself merry. Now the Cook, in the kitchen across the courtyard, heard the loud talking between Little John and the Steward, and also the blow that Little John struck the other, so he came running across the court and up the stairway to where the Steward's pantry was, bearing in his hands the spit with the roast still upon it. Meanwhile the Steward had gathered his wits about him and risen to his feet, so that when the Cook came to the Steward's pantry he saw him glowering through the broken door at Little John, who was making ready for a good repast, as one dog glowers at another that has a bone. When the Steward saw the Cook, he came to him, and, putting one arm over his shoulder, "Alas, sweet friend!" quoth he--for the Cook was a tall, stout man--"seest thou what that vile knave Reynold Greenleaf hath done? He hath broken in upon our master's goods, and hath smitten me a buffet upon the ear, so that I thought I was dead. Good Cook, I love thee well, and thou shalt have a good pottle of our master's best wine every day, for thou art an old and faithful servant. Also, good Cook, I have ten shillings that I mean to give as a gift to thee. But hatest thou not to see a vile upstart like this Reynold Greenleaf taking it upon him so bravely?" "Ay, marry, that do I," quoth the Cook boldly, for he liked the Steward because of his talk of the wine and of the ten shillings. "Get thee gone straightway to thy room, and I will bring out this knave by his ears." So saying, he laid aside his spit and drew the sword that hung by his side; whereupon the Steward left as quickly as he could, for he hated the sight of naked steel. Then the Cook walked straightway to the broken pantry door, through which he saw Little John tucking a napkin beneath his chin and preparing to make himself merry. "Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf?" said the Cook, "thou art no better than a thief, I wot. Come thou straight forth, man, or I will carve thee as I would carve a sucking pig." "Nay, good Cook, bear thou thyself more seemingly, or else I will come forth to thy dole. At most times I am as a yearling lamb, but when one cometh between me and my meat, I am a raging lion, as it were." "Lion or no lion," quoth the valorous Cook, "come thou straight forth, else thou art a coward heart as well as a knavish thief." "Ha!" cried Little John, "coward's name have I never had; so, look to thyself, good Cook, for I come forth straight, the roaring lion I did speak of but now." Then he, too, drew his sword and came out of the pantry; then, putting themselves into position, they came slowly together, with grim and angry looks; but suddenly Little John lowered his point. "Hold, good Cook!" said he. "Now, I bethink me it were ill of us to fight with good victuals standing so nigh, and such a feast as would befit two stout fellows such as we are. Marry, good friend, I think we should enjoy this fair feast ere we fight. What sayest thou, jolly Cook?" At this speech the Cook looked up and down, scratching his head in doubt, for he loved good feasting. At last he drew a long breath and said to Little John, "Well, good friend, I like thy plan right well; so, pretty boy, say I, let us feast, with all my heart, for one of us may sup in Paradise before nightfall." So each thrust his sword back into the scabbard and entered the pantry. Then, after they had seated themselves, Little John drew his dagger and thrust it into the pie. "A hungry man must be fed," quoth he, "so, sweet chuck, I help myself without leave." But the Cook did not lag far behind, for straightway his hands also were deeply thrust within the goodly pasty. After this, neither of them spoke further, but used their teeth to better purpose. But though neither spoke, they looked at one another, each thinking within himself that he had never seen a more lusty fellow than the one across the board. At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep breath, as though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin, for he could eat no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the pasty aside, as though he would say, "I want thee by me no more, good friend." Then he took the pottle of sack, and said he, "Now, good fellow, I swear by all that is bright, that thou art the stoutest companion at eating that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy health." So saying, he clapped the flask to his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while the good wine flooded his throat. Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who also said, "Lo, I drink thy health, sweet fellow!" Nor was he behind Little John in drinking any more than in eating. "Now," quoth Little John, "thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad. I doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?" "Truly, I have trolled one now and then," quoth the Cook, "yet I would not sing alone." "Nay, truly," said Little John, "that were but ill courtesy. Strike up thy ditty, and I will afterward sing one to match it, if I can. "So be it, pretty boy," quoth the Cook. "And hast thou e'er heard the song of the Deserted Shepherdess?" "Truly, I know not," answered Little John, "but sing thou and let me hear." Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his throat, sang right sweetly: THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS "_In Lententime, when leaves wax green, And pretty birds begin to mate, When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween, And stockdove cooeth soon and late, Fair Phillis sat beside a stone, And thus I heard her make her moan: 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair. "'The thrush hath taken him a she, The robin, too, and eke the dove; My Robin hath deserted me, And left me for another love. So here, by brookside, all alone, I sit me down and make my moan. O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair.' "But ne'er came herring from the sea, But good as he were in the tide; Young Corydon came o'er the lea, And sat him Phillis down beside. So, presently, she changed her tone, And 'gan to cease her from her moan, 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! Thou mayst e'en keep thy garlands fair, I want them not to deck my hair_.'" "Now, by my faith," cried Little John, "that same is a right good song, and hath truth in it, also." "Glad am I thou likest it, sweet lad," said the Cook. "Now sing thou one also, for ne'er should a man be merry alone, or sing and list not." "Then I will sing thee a song of a right good knight of Arthur's court, and how he cured his heart's wound without running upon the dart again, as did thy Phillis; for I wot she did but cure one smart by giving herself another. So, list thou while I sing:" THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE "_When Arthur, King, did rule this land, A goodly king was he, And had he of stout knights a band Of merry company. "Among them all, both great and small, A good stout knight was there, A lusty childe, and eke a tall, That loved a lady fair. "But nought would she to do with he, But turned her face away; So gat he gone to far countrye, And left that lady gay. "There all alone he made his moan, And eke did sob and sigh, And weep till it would move a stone, And he was like to die. "But still his heart did feel the smart, And eke the dire distress, And rather grew his pain more sharp As grew his body less. "Then gat he back where was good sack And merry com panye, And soon did cease to cry 'Alack!' When blithe and gay was he. "From which I hold, and feel full bold To say, and eke believe, That gin the belly go not cold The heart will cease to grieve_." "Now, by my faith," cried the Cook, as he rattled the pottle against the sideboard, "I like that same song hugely, and eke the motive of it, which lieth like a sweet kernel in a hazelnut." "Now thou art a man of shrewd opinions," quoth Little John, "and I love thee truly as thou wert my brother." "And I love thee, too. But the day draweth on, and I have my cooking to do ere our master cometh home; so let us e'en go and settle this brave fight we have in hand." "Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "and that right speedily. Never have I been more laggard in fighting than in eating and drinking. So come thou straight forth into the passageway, where there is good room to swing a sword, and I will try to serve thee." Then they both stepped forth into the broad passage that led to the Steward's pantry, where each man drew his sword again and without more ado fell upon the other as though he would hew his fellow limb from limb. Then their swords clashed upon one another with great din, and sparks flew from each blow in showers. So they fought up and down the hall for an hour and more, neither striking the other a blow, though they strove their best to do so; for both were skillful at the fence; so nothing came of all their labor. Ever and anon they rested, panting; then, after getting their wind, at it they would go again more fiercely than ever. At last Little John cried aloud, "Hold, good Cook!" whereupon each rested upon his sword, panting. "Now will I make my vow," quoth Little John, "thou art the very best swordsman that ever mine eyes beheld. Truly, I had thought to carve thee ere now." "And I had thought to do the same by thee," quoth the Cook, "but I have missed the mark somehow." "Now I have been thinking within myself," quoth Little John, "what we are fighting for; but albeit I do not rightly know." "Why, no more do I," said the Cook. "I bear no love for that pursy Steward, but I thought that we had engaged to fight with one another and that it must be done." "Now," quoth Little John, "it doth seem to me that instead of striving to cut one another's throats, it were better for us to be boon companions. What sayst thou, jolly Cook, wilt thou go with me to Sherwood Forest and join with Robin Hood's band? Thou shalt live a merry life within the woodlands, and sevenscore good companions shalt thou have, one of whom is mine own self. Thou shalt have three suits of Lincoln green each year, and forty marks in pay." "Now, thou art a man after mine own heart!" cried the Cook right heartily, "and, as thou speakest of it, that is the very service for me. I will go with thee, and that right gladly. Give me thy palm, sweet fellow, and I will be thine own companion from henceforth. What may be thy name, lad?" "Men do call me Little John, good fellow." "How? And art thou indeed Little John, and Robin Hood's own right-hand man? Many a time and oft I heard of thee, but never did I hope to set eyes upon thee. And thou art indeed the famous Little John!" And the Cook seemed lost in amazement, and looked upon his companion with open eyes. "I am Little John, indeed, and I will bring to Robin Hood this day a right stout fellow to join his merry band. But ere we go, good friend, it seemeth to me to be a vast pity that, as we have had so much of the Sheriff's food, we should not also carry off some of his silver plate to Robin Hood, as a present from his worship." "Ay, marry is it," said the Cook. And so they began hunting about, and took as much silver as they could lay hands upon, clapping it into a bag, and when they had filled the sack they set forth to Sherwood Forest. Plunging into the woods, they came at last to the greenwood tree, where they found Robin Hood and threescore of his merry men lying upon the fresh green grass. When Robin and his men saw who it was that came, they leaped to their feet. "Now welcome!" cried Robin Hood. "Now welcome, Little John! For long hath it been since we have heard from thee, though we all knew that thou hadst joined the Sheriff's service. And how hast thou fared all these long days?" "Right merrily have I lived at the Lord Sheriff's," answered Little John, "and I have come straight thence. See, good master! I have brought thee his cook, and even his silver plate." Thereupon he told Robin Hood and his merry men that were there, all that had befallen him since he had left them to go to the Fair at Nottingham Town. Then all shouted with laughter, except Robin Hood; but he looked grave. "Nay, Little John," said he, "thou art a brave blade and a trusty fellow. I am glad thou hast brought thyself back to us, and with such a good companion as the Cook, whom we all welcome to Sherwood. But I like not so well that thou hast stolen the Sheriff's plate like some paltry thief. The Sheriff hath been punished by us, and hath lost three hundred pounds, even as he sought to despoil another; but he hath done nought that we should steal his household plate from him." Though Little John was vexed with this, he strove to pass it off with a jest. "Nay, good master," quoth he, "if thou thinkest the Sheriff gave us not the plate, I will fetch him, that he may tell us with his own lips he giveth it all to us." So saying he leaped to his feet, and was gone before Robin could call him back. Little John ran for full five miles till he came to where the Sheriff of Nottingham and a gay company were hunting near the forest. When Little John came to the Sheriff he doffed his cap and bent his knee. "God save thee, good master," quoth he. "Why, Reynold Greenleaf!" cried the Sheriff, "whence comest thou and where hast thou been?" "I have been in the forest," answered Little John, speaking amazedly, "and there I saw a sight such as ne'er before man's eyes beheld! Yonder I saw a young hart all in green from top to toe, and about him was a herd of threescore deer, and they, too, were all of green from head to foot. Yet I dared not shoot, good master, for fear lest they should slay me." "Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf," cried the Sheriff, "art thou dreaming or art thou mad, that thou dost bring me such, a tale?" "Nay, I am not dreaming nor am I mad," said Little John, "and if thou wilt come with me, I will show thee this fair sight, for I have seen it with mine own eyes. But thou must come alone, good master, lest the others frighten them and they get away." So the party all rode forward, and Little John led them downward into the forest. "Now, good master," quoth he at last, "we are nigh where I saw this herd." Then the Sheriff descended from his horse and bade them wait for him until he should return; and Little John led him forward through a close copse until suddenly they came to a great open glade, at the end of which Robin Hood sat beneath the shade of the great oak tree, with his merry men all about him. "See, good Master Sheriff," quoth Little John, "yonder is the hart of which I spake to thee." At this the Sheriff turned to Little John and said bitterly, "Long ago I thought I remembered thy face, but now I know thee. Woe betide thee, Little John, for thou hast betrayed me this day." In the meantime Robin Hood had come to them. "Now welcome, Master Sheriff," said he. "Hast thou come today to take another feast with me?" "Nay, Heaven forbid!" said the Sheriff in tones of deep earnest. "I care for no feast and have no hunger today." "Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "if thou hast no hunger, maybe thou hast thirst, and well I know thou wilt take a cup of sack with me. But I am grieved that thou wilt not feast with me, for thou couldst have victuals to thy liking, for there stands thy Cook." Then he led the Sheriff, willy-nilly, to the seat he knew so well beneath the greenwood tree. "Ho, lads!" cried Robin, "fill our good friend the Sheriff a right brimming cup of sack and fetch it hither, for he is faint and weary." Then one of the band brought the Sheriff a cup of sack, bowing low as he handed it to him; but the Sheriff could not touch the wine, for he saw it served in one of his own silver flagons, on one of his own silver plates. "How now," quoth Robin, "dost thou not like our new silver service? We have gotten a bag of it this day." So saying, he held up the sack of silver that Little John and the Cook had brought with them. Then the Sheriff's heart was bitter within him; but, not daring to say anything, he only gazed upon the ground. Robin looked keenly at him for a time before he spoke again. Then said he, "Now, Master Sheriff, the last time thou camest to Sherwood Forest thou didst come seeking to despoil a poor spendthrift, and thou wert despoiled thine own self; but now thou comest seeking to do no harm, nor do I know that thou hast despoiled any man. I take my tithes from fat priests and lordly squires, to help those that they despoil and to raise up those that they bow down; but I know not that thou hast tenants of thine own whom thou hast wronged in any way. Therefore, take thou thine own again, nor will I dispossess thee today of so much as one farthing. Come with me, and I will lead thee from the forest back to thine own party again." Then, slinging the bag upon his shoulder, he turned away, the Sheriff following him, all too perplexed in mind to speak. So they went forward until they came to within a furlong of the spot where the Sheriff's companions were waiting for him. Then Robin Hood gave the sack of silver back to the Sheriff. "Take thou thine own again," he said, "and hearken to me, good Sheriff, take thou a piece of advice with it. Try thy servants well ere thou dost engage them again so readily." Then, turning, he left the other standing bewildered, with the sack in his hands. The company that waited for the Sheriff were all amazed to see him come out of the forest bearing a heavy sack upon his shoulders; but though they questioned him, he answered never a word, acting like one who walks in a dream. Without a word, he placed the bag across his nag's back and then, mounting, rode away, all following him; but all the time there was a great turmoil of thoughts within his head, tumbling one over the other. And thus ends the merry tale of Little John and how he entered the Sheriff's service. Little John and the Tanner of Blyth ONE FINE DAY, not long after Little John had left abiding with the Sheriff and had come back, with his worship's cook, to the merry greenwood, as has just been told, Robin Hood and a few chosen fellows of his band lay upon the soft sward beneath the greenwood tree where they dwelled. The day was warm and sultry, so that while most of the band were scattered through the forest upon this mission and upon that, these few stout fellows lay lazily beneath the shade of the tree, in the soft afternoon, passing jests among themselves and telling merry stories, with laughter and mirth. All the air was laden with the bitter fragrance of the May, and all the bosky shades of the woodlands beyond rang with the sweet song of birds--the throstle cock, the cuckoo, and the wood pigeon--and with the song of birds mingled the cool sound of the gurgling brook that leaped out of the forest shades, and ran fretting amid its rough, gray stones across the sunlit open glade before the trysting tree. And a fair sight was that halfscore of tall, stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, lying beneath the broad-spreading branches of the great oak tree, amid the quivering leaves of which the sunlight shivered and fell in dancing patches upon the grass. Suddenly Robin Hood smote his knee. "By Saint Dunstan," quoth he, "I had nigh forgot that quarter-day cometh on apace, and yet no cloth of Lincoln green in all our store. It must be looked to, and that in quick season. Come, busk thee, Little John! Stir those lazy bones of thine, for thou must get thee straightway to our good gossip, the draper Hugh Longshanks of Ancaster. Bid him send us straightway twenty-score yards of fair cloth of Lincoln green; and mayhap the journey may take some of the fat from off thy bones, that thou hast gotten from lazy living at our dear Sheriff's." "Nay," muttered Little John (for he had heard so much upon this score that he was sore upon the point), "nay, truly, mayhap I have more flesh upon my joints than I once had, yet, flesh or no flesh, I doubt not that I could still hold my place and footing upon a narrow bridge against e'er a yeoman in Sherwood, or Nottinghamshire, for the matter of that, even though he had no more fat about his bones than thou hast, good master." At this reply a great shout of laughter went up, and all looked at Robin Hood, for each man knew that Little John spake of a certain fight that happened between their master and himself, through which they first became acquainted. "Nay," quoth Robin Hood, laughing louder than all. "Heaven forbid that I should doubt thee, for I care for no taste of thy staff myself, Little John. I must needs own that there are those of my band can handle a seven-foot staff more deftly than I; yet no man in all Nottinghamshire can draw gray goose shaft with my fingers. Nevertheless, a journey to Ancaster may not be ill for thee; so go thou, as I bid, and thou hadst best go this very evening, for since thou hast abided at the Sheriff's many know thy face, and if thou goest in broad daylight, thou mayst get thyself into a coil with some of his worship's men-at-arms. Bide thou here till I bring thee money to pay our good Hugh. I warrant he hath no better customers in all Nottinghamshire than we." So saying, Robin left them and entered the forest. Not far from the trysting tree was a great rock in which a chamber had been hewn, the entrance being barred by a massive oaken door two palms'-breadth in thickness, studded about with spikes, and fastened with a great padlock. This was the treasure house of the band, and thither Robin Hood went and, unlocking the door, entered the chamber, from which he brought forth a bag of gold which he gave to Little John, to pay Hugh Longshanks withal, for the cloth of Lincoln green. Then up got Little John, and, taking the bag of gold, which he thrust into his bosom, he strapped a girdle about his loins, took a stout pikestaff full seven feet long in his hand, and set forth upon his journey. So he strode whistling along the leafy forest path that led to Fosse Way, turning neither to the right hand nor the left, until at last he came to where the path branched, leading on the one hand onward to Fosse Way, and on the other, as well Little John knew, to the merry Blue Boar Inn. Here Little John suddenly ceased whistling and stopped in the middle of the path. First he looked up and then he looked down, and then, tilting his cap over one eye, he slowly scratched the back part of his head. For thus it was: at the sight of these two roads, two voices began to alarum within him, the one crying, "There lies the road to the Blue Boar Inn, a can of brown October, and a merry night with sweet companions such as thou mayst find there;" the other, "There lies the way to Ancaster and the duty thou art sent upon." Now the first of these two voices was far the louder, for Little John had grown passing fond of good living through abiding at the Sheriff's house; so, presently, looking up into the blue sky, across which bright clouds were sailing like silver boats, and swallows skimming in circling flight, quoth he, "I fear me it will rain this evening, so I'll e'en stop at the Blue Boar till it passes by, for I know my good master would not have me wet to the skin." So, without more ado, off he strode down the path that lay the way of his likings. Now there was no sign of any foul weather, but when one wishes to do a thing, as Little John did, one finds no lack of reasons for the doing. Four merry wags were at the Blue Boar Inn; a butcher, a beggar, and two barefoot friars. Little John heard them singing from afar, as he walked through the hush of the mellow twilight that was now falling over hill and dale. Right glad were they to welcome such a merry blade as Little John. Fresh cans of ale were brought, and with jest and song and merry tales the hours slipped away on fleeting wings. None thought of time or tide till the night was so far gone that Little John put by the thought of setting forth upon his journey again that night, and so bided at the Blue Boar Inn until the morrow. Now it was an ill piece of luck for Little John that he left his duty for his pleasure, and he paid a great score for it, as we are all apt to do in the same case, as you shall see. Up he rose at the dawn of the next day, and, taking his stout pikestaff in his hand, he set forth upon his journey once more, as though he would make up for lost time. In the good town of Blyth there lived a stout tanner, celebrated far and near for feats of strength and many tough bouts at wrestling and the quarterstaff. For five years he had held the mid-country champion belt for wrestling, till the great Adam o' Lincoln cast him in the ring and broke one of his ribs; but at quarterstaff he had never yet met his match in all the country about. Besides all this, he dearly loved the longbow, and a sly jaunt in the forest when the moon was full and the dun deer in season; so that the King's rangers kept a shrewd eye upon him and his doings, for Arthur a Bland's house was apt to have aplenty of meat in it that was more like venison than the law allowed. Now Arthur had been to Nottingham Town the day before Little John set forth on his errand, there to sell a halfscore of tanned cowhides. At the dawn of the same day that Little John left the inn, he started from Nottingham, homeward for Blyth. His way led, all in the dewy morn, past the verge of Sherwood Forest, where the birds were welcoming the lovely day with a great and merry jubilee. Across the Tanner's shoulders was slung his stout quarterstaff, ever near enough to him to be gripped quickly, and on his head was a cap of doubled cowhide, so tough that it could hardly be cloven even by a broadsword. "Now," quoth Arthur a Bland to himself, when he had come to that part of the road that cut through a corner of the forest, "no doubt at this time of year the dun deer are coming from the forest depths nigher to the open meadow lands. Mayhap I may chance to catch a sight of the dainty brown darlings thus early in the morn." For there was nothing he loved better than to look upon a tripping herd of deer, even when he could not tickle their ribs with a clothyard shaft. Accordingly, quitting the path, he went peeping this way and that through the underbrush, spying now here and now there, with all the wiles of a master of woodcraft, and of one who had more than once donned a doublet of Lincoln green. Now as Little John stepped blithely along, thinking of nothing but of such things as the sweetness of the hawthorn buds that bedecked the hedgerows, or gazing upward at the lark, that, springing from the dewy grass, hung aloft on quivering wings in the yellow sunlight, pouring forth its song that fell like a falling star from the sky, his luck led him away from the highway, not far from the spot where Arthur a Bland was peeping this way and that through the leaves of the thickets. Hearing a rustling of the branches, Little John stopped and presently caught sight of the brown cowhide cap of the Tanner moving among the bushes. "I do much wonder," quoth Little John to himself, "what yon knave is after, that he should go thus peeping and peering about I verily believe that yon scurvy varlet is no better than a thief, and cometh here after our own and the good King's dun deer." For by much roving in the forest, Little John had come to look upon all the deer in Sherwood as belonging to Robin Hood and his band as much as to good King Harry. "Nay," quoth he again, after a time, "this matter must e'en be looked into." So, quitting the highroad, he also entered the thickets, and began spying around after stout Arthur a Bland. So for a long time they both of them went hunting about, Little John after the Tanner, and the Tanner after the deer. At last Little John trod upon a stick, which snapped under his foot, whereupon, hearing the noise, the Tanner turned quickly and caught sight of the yeoman. Seeing that the Tanner had spied him out, Little John put a bold face upon the matter. "Hilloa," quoth he, "what art thou doing here, thou naughty fellow? Who art thou that comest ranging Sherwood's paths? In very sooth thou hast an evil cast of countenance, and I do think, truly, that thou art no better than a thief, and comest after our good King's deer." "Nay," quoth the Tanner boldly--for, though taken by surprise, he was not a man to be frightened by big words--"thou liest in thy teeth. I am no thief, but an honest craftsman. As for my countenance, it is what it is; and, for the matter of that, thine own is none too pretty, thou saucy fellow." "Ha!" quoth Little John in a great loud voice, "wouldst thou give me backtalk? Now I have a great part of a mind to crack thy pate for thee. I would have thee know, fellow, that I am, as it were, one of the King's foresters. Leastwise," muttered he to himself, "I and my friends do take good care of our good sovereign's deer." "I care not who thou art," answered the bold Tanner, "and unless thou hast many more of thy kind by thee, thou canst never make Arthur a Bland cry 'A mercy.'" "Is it so?" cried Little John in a rage. "Now, by my faith, thou saucy rogue, thy tongue hath led thee into a pit thou wilt have a sorry time getting out of; for I will give thee such a drubbing as ne'er hast thou had in all thy life before. Take thy staff in thy hand, fellow, for I will not smite an unarmed man. "Marry come up with a murrain!" cried the Tanner, for he, too, had talked himself into a fume. "Big words ne'er killed so much as a mouse. Who art thou that talkest so freely of cracking the head of Arthur a Bland? If I do not tan thy hide this day as ne'er I tanned a calf's hide in all my life before, split my staff into skewers for lamb's flesh and call me no more brave man! Now look to thyself, fellow!" "Stay!" said Little John. "Let us first measure our cudgels. I do reckon my staff longer than thine, and I would not take vantage of thee by even so much as an inch." "Nay, I pass not for length," answered the Tanner. "My staff is long enough to knock down a calf; so look to thyself, fellow, I say again." So, without more ado, each gripped his staff in the middle, and, with fell and angry looks, they came slowly together. Now news had been brought to Robin Hood how that Little John, instead of doing his bidding, had passed by duty for pleasure, and so had stopped overnight with merry company at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of going straight to Ancaster. So, being vexed to his heart by this, he set forth at dawn of day to seek Little John at the Blue Boar, or at least to meet the yeoman on the way, and ease his heart of what he thought of the matter. As thus he strode along in anger, putting together the words he would use to chide Little John, he heard, of a sudden, loud and angry voices, as of men in a rage, passing fell words back and forth from one to the other. At this, Robin Hood stopped and listened. "Surely," quoth he to himself, "that is Little John's voice, and he is talking in anger also. Methinks the other is strange to my ears. Now Heaven forfend that my good trusty Little John should have fallen into the hands of the King's rangers. I must see to this matter, and that quickly." Thus spoke Robin Hood to himself, all his anger passing away like a breath from the windowpane, at the thought that perhaps his trusty right-hand man was in some danger of his life. So cautiously he made his way through the thickets whence the voices came, and, pushing aside the leaves, peeped into the little open space where the two men, staff in hand, were coming slowly together. "Ha!" quoth Robin to himself, "here is merry sport afoot. Now I would give three golden angels from my own pocket if yon stout fellow would give Little John a right sound drubbing! It would please me to see him well thumped for having failed in my bidding. I fear me, though, there is but poor chance of my seeing such a pleasant sight." So saying, he stretched himself at length upon the ground, that he might not only see the sport the better, but that he might enjoy the merry sight at his ease. As you may have seen two dogs that think to fight, walking slowly round and round each other, neither cur wishing to begin the combat, so those two stout yeomen moved slowly around, each watching for a chance to take the other unaware, and so get in the first blow. At last Little John struck like a flash, and--"rap!"--the Tanner met the blow and turned it aside, and then smote back at Little John, who also turned the blow; and so this mighty battle began. Then up and down and back and forth they trod, the blows falling so thick and fast that, at a distance, one would have thought that half a score of men were fighting. Thus they fought for nigh a half an hour, until the ground was all plowed up with the digging of their heels, and their breathing grew labored like the ox in the furrow. But Little John suffered the most, for he had become unused to such stiff labor, and his joints were not as supple as they had been before he went to dwell with the Sheriff. All this time Robin Hood lay beneath the bush, rejoicing at such a comely bout of quarterstaff. "By my faith!" quoth he to himself, "never had I thought to see Little John so evenly matched in all my life. Belike, though, he would have overcome yon fellow before this had he been in his former trim." At last Little John saw his chance, and, throwing all the strength he felt going from him into one blow that might have felled an ox, he struck at the Tanner with might and main. And now did the Tanner's cowhide cap stand him in good stead, and but for it he might never have held staff in hand again. As it was, the blow he caught beside the head was so shrewd that it sent him staggering across the little glade, so that, if Little John had had the strength to follow up his vantage, it would have been ill for stout Arthur. But he regained himself quickly and, at arm's length, struck back a blow at Little John, and this time the stroke reached its mark, and down went Little John at full length, his cudgel flying from his hand as he fell. Then, raising his staff, stout Arthur dealt him another blow upon the ribs. "Hold!" roared Little John. "Wouldst thou strike a man when he is down?" "Ay, marry would I," quoth the Tanner, giving him another thwack with his staff. "Stop!" roared Little John. "Help! Hold, I say! I yield me! I yield me, I say, good fellow!" "Hast thou had enough?" asked the Tanner grimly, holding his staff aloft. "Ay, marry, and more than enough." "And thou dost own that I am the better man of the two?" "Yea, truly, and a murrain seize thee!" said Little John, the first aloud and the last to his beard. "Then thou mayst go thy ways; and thank thy patron saint that I am a merciful man," said the Tanner. "A plague o' such mercy as thine!" said Little John, sitting up and feeling his ribs where the Tanner had cudgeled him. "I make my vow, my ribs feel as though every one of them were broken in twain. I tell thee, good fellow, I did think there was never a man in all Nottinghamshire could do to me what thou hast done this day." "And so thought I, also," cried Robin Hood, bursting out of the thicket and shouting with laughter till the tears ran down his cheeks. "O man, man!" said he, as well as he could for his mirth, "'a didst go over like a bottle knocked from a wall. I did see the whole merry bout, and never did I think to see thee yield thyself so, hand and foot, to any man in all merry England. I was seeking thee, to chide thee for leaving my bidding undone; but thou hast been paid all I owed thee, full measure, pressed down and overflowing, by this good fellow. Marry, 'a did reach out his arm full length while thou stood gaping at him, and, with a pretty rap, tumbled thee over as never have I seen one tumbled before." So spoke bold Robin, and all the time Little John sat upon the ground, looking as though he had sour curds in his mouth. "What may be thy name, good fellow?" said Robin, next, turning to the Tanner. "Men do call me Arthur a Bland," spoke up the Tanner boldly, "and now what may be thy name?" "Ha, Arthur a Bland!" quoth Robin, "I have heard thy name before, good fellow. Thou didst break the crown of a friend of mine at the fair at Ely last October. The folk there call him Jock o' Nottingham; we call him Will Scathelock. This poor fellow whom thou hast so belabored is counted the best hand at the quarterstaff in all merry England. His name is Little John, and mine Robin Hood." "How!" cried the Tanner, "art thou indeed the great Robin Hood, and is this the famous Little John? Marry, had I known who thou art, I would never have been so bold as to lift my hand against thee. Let me help thee to thy feet, good Master Little John, and let me brush the dust from off thy coat." "Nay," quoth Little John testily, at the same time rising carefully, as though his bones had been made of glass, "I can help myself, good fellow, without thy aid; and let me tell thee, had it not been for that vile cowskin cap of thine, it would have been ill for thee this day." At this Robin laughed again, and, turning to the Tanner, he said, "Wilt thou join my band, good Arthur? For I make my vow thou art one of the stoutest men that ever mine eyes beheld." "Will I join thy band?" cried the Tanner joyfully. "Ay, marry, will I! Hey for a merry life!" cried he, leaping aloft and snapping his fingers, "and hey for the life I love! Away with tanbark and filthy vats and foul cowhides! I will follow thee to the ends of the earth, good master, and not a herd of dun deer in all the forest but shall know the sound of the twang of my bowstring." "As for thee, Little John," said Robin, turning to him and laughing, "thou wilt start once more for Ancaster, and we will go part way with thee, for I will not have thee turn again to either the right hand or the left till thou hast fairly gotten away from Sherwood. There are other inns that thou knowest yet, hereabouts." Thereupon, leaving the thickets, they took once more to the highway and departed upon their business. Robin Hood and Will Scarlet THUS THEY traveled along the sunny road, three stout fellows such as you could hardly match anywhere else in all merry England. Many stopped to gaze after them as they strode along, so broad were their shoulders and so sturdy their gait. Quoth Robin Hood to Little John, "Why didst thou not go straight to Ancaster, yesterday, as I told thee? Thou hadst not gotten thyself into such a coil hadst thou done as I ordered." "I feared the rain that threatened," said Little John in a sullen tone, for he was vexed at being so chaffed by Robin with what had happened to him. "The rain!" cried Robin, stopping of a sudden in the middle of the road, and looking at Little John in wonder. "Why, thou great oaf! not a drop of rain has fallen these three days, neither has any threatened, nor hath there been a sign of foul weather in earth or sky or water." "Nevertheless," growled Little John, "the holy Saint Swithin holdeth the waters of the heavens in his pewter pot, and he could have poured them out, had he chosen, even from a clear sky; and wouldst thou have had me wet to the skin?" At this Robin Hood burst into a roar of laughter. "O Little John!" said he, "what butter wits hast thou in that head of thine! Who could hold anger against such a one as thou art?" So saying, they all stepped out once more, with the right foot foremost, as the saying is. After they had traveled some distance, the day being warm and the road dusty, Robin Hood waxed thirsty; so, there being a fountain of water as cold as ice, just behind the hedgerow, they crossed the stile and came to where the water bubbled up from beneath a mossy stone. Here, kneeling and making cups of the palms of their hands, they drank their fill, and then, the spot being cool and shady, they stretched their limbs and rested them for a space. In front of them, over beyond the hedge, the dusty road stretched away across the plain; behind them the meadow lands and bright green fields of tender young corn lay broadly in the sun, and overhead spread the shade of the cool, rustling leaves of the beechen tree. Pleasantly to their nostrils came the tender fragrance of the purple violets and wild thyme that grew within the dewy moisture of the edge of the little fountain, and pleasantly came the soft gurgle of the water. All was so pleasant and so full of the gentle joy of the bright Maytime, that for a long time no one of the three cared to speak, but each lay on his back, gazing up through the trembling leaves of the trees to the bright sky overhead. At last, Robin, whose thoughts were not quite so busy wool-gathering as those of the others, and who had been gazing around him now and then, broke the silence. "Heyday!" quoth he, "yon is a gaily feathered bird, I take my vow." The others looked and saw a young man walking slowly down the highway. Gay was he, indeed, as Robin had said, and a fine figure he cut, for his doublet was of scarlet silk and his stockings also; a handsome sword hung by his side, the embossed leathern scabbard being picked out with fine threads of gold; his cap was of scarlet velvet, and a broad feather hung down behind and back of one ear. His hair was long and yellow and curled upon his shoulders, and in his hand he bore an early rose, which he smelled at daintily now and then. "By my life!" quoth Robin Hood, laughing, "saw ye e'er such a pretty, mincing fellow?" "Truly, his clothes have overmuch prettiness for my taste," quoth Arthur a Bland, "but, ne'ertheless, his shoulders are broad and his loins are narrow, and seest thou, good master, how that his arms hang from his body? They dangle not down like spindles, but hang stiff and bend at the elbow. I take my vow, there be no bread and milk limbs in those fine clothes, but stiff joints and tough thews." "Methinks thou art right, friend Arthur," said Little John. "I do verily think that yon is no such roseleaf and whipped-cream gallant as he would have one take him to be." "Pah!" quoth Robin Hood, "the sight of such a fellow doth put a nasty taste into my mouth! Look how he doth hold that fair flower betwixt his thumb and finger, as he would say, 'Good rose, I like thee not so ill but I can bear thy odor for a little while.' I take it ye are both wrong, and verily believe that were a furious mouse to run across his path, he would cry, 'La!' or 'Alack-a-day!' and fall straightway into a swoon. I wonder who he may be." "Some great baron's son, I doubt not," answered Little John, "with good and true men's money lining his purse." "Ay, marry, that is true, I make no doubt," quoth Robin. "What a pity that such men as he, that have no thought but to go abroad in gay clothes, should have good fellows, whose shoes they are not fit to tie, dancing at their bidding. By Saint Dunstan, Saint Alfred, Saint Withold, and all the good men in the Saxon calendar, it doth make me mad to see such gay lordlings from over the sea go stepping on the necks of good Saxons who owned this land before ever their great-grandsires chewed rind of brawn! By the bright bow of Heaven, I will have their ill-gotten gains from them, even though I hang for it as high as e'er a forest tree in Sherwood!" "Why, how now, master," quoth Little John, "what heat is this? Thou dost set thy pot a-boiling, and mayhap no bacon to cook! Methinks yon fellow's hair is overlight for Norman locks. He may be a good man and true for aught thou knowest." "Nay," said Robin, "my head against a leaden farthing, he is what I say. So, lie ye both here, I say, till I show you how I drub this fellow." So saying, Robin Hood stepped forth from the shade of the beech tree, crossed the stile, and stood in the middle of the road, with his hands on his hips, in the stranger's path. Meantime the stranger, who had been walking so slowly that all this talk was held before he came opposite the place where they were, neither quickened his pace nor seemed to see that such a man as Robin Hood was in the world. So Robin stood in the middle of the road, waiting while the other walked slowly forward, smelling his rose, and looking this way and that, and everywhere except at Robin. "Hold!" cried Robin, when at last the other had come close to him. "Hold! Stand where thou art!" "Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?" said the stranger in soft and gentle voice. "And wherefore should I stand where I am? Ne'ertheless, as thou dost desire that I should stay, I will abide for a short time, that I may hear what thou mayst have to say to me." "Then," quoth Robin, "as thou dost so fairly do as I tell thee, and dost give me such soft speech, I will also treat thee with all due courtesy. I would have thee know, fair friend, that I am, as it were, a votary at the shrine of Saint Wilfred who, thou mayst know, took, willy-nilly, all their gold from the heathen, and melted it up into candlesticks. Wherefore, upon such as come hereabouts, I levy a certain toll, which I use for a better purpose, I hope, than to make candlesticks withal. Therefore, sweet chuck, I would have thee deliver to me thy purse, that I may look into it, and judge, to the best of my poor powers, whether thou hast more wealth about thee than our law allows. For, as our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, 'He who is fat from overliving must needs lose blood.'" All this time the youth had been sniffing at the rose that he held betwixt his thumb and finger. "Nay," said he with a gentle smile, when Robin Hood had done, "I do love to hear thee talk, thou pretty fellow, and if, haply, thou art not yet done, finish, I beseech thee. I have yet some little time to stay." "I have said all," quoth Robin, "and now, if thou wilt give me thy purse, I will let thee go thy way without let or hindrance so soon as I shall see what it may hold. I will take none from thee if thou hast but little." "Alas! It doth grieve me much," said the other, "that I cannot do as thou dost wish. I have nothing to give thee. Let me go my way, I prythee. I have done thee no harm." "Nay, thou goest not," quoth Robin, "till thou hast shown me thy purse." "Good friend," said the other gently, "I have business elsewhere. I have given thee much time and have heard thee patiently. Prythee, let me depart in peace." "I have spoken to thee, friend," said Robin sternly, "and I now tell thee again, that thou goest not one step forward till thou hast done as I bid thee." So saying, he raised his quarterstaff above his head in a threatening way. "Alas!" said the stranger sadly, "it doth grieve me that this thing must be. I fear much that I must slay thee, thou poor fellow!" So saying, he drew his sword. "Put by thy weapon," quoth Robin. "I would take no vantage of thee. Thy sword cannot stand against an oaken staff such as mine. I could snap it like a barley straw. Yonder is a good oaken thicket by the roadside; take thee a cudgel thence and defend thyself fairly, if thou hast a taste for a sound drubbing." First the stranger measured Robin with his eye, and then he measured the oaken staff. "Thou art right, good fellow," said he presently, "truly, my sword is no match for that cudgel of thine. Bide thee awhile till I get me a staff." So saying, he threw aside the rose that he had been holding all this time, thrust his sword back into the scabbard, and, with a more hasty step than he had yet used, stepped to the roadside where grew the little clump of ground oaks Robin had spoken of. Choosing among them, he presently found a sapling to his liking. He did not cut it, but, rolling up his sleeves a little way, he laid hold of it, placed his heel against the ground, and, with one mighty pull, plucked the young tree up by the roots from out the very earth. Then he came back, trimming away the roots and tender stems with his sword as quietly as if he had done nought to speak of. Little John and the Tanner had been watching all that passed, but when they saw the stranger drag the sapling up from the earth, and heard the rending and snapping of its roots, the Tanner pursed his lips together, drawing his breath between them in a long inward whistle. "By the breath of my body!" said Little John, as soon as he could gather his wits from their wonder, "sawest thou that, Arthur? Marry, I think our poor master will stand but an ill chance with yon fellow. By Our Lady, he plucked up yon green tree as it were a barley straw." Whatever Robin Hood thought, he stood his ground, and now he and the stranger in scarlet stood face to face. Well did Robin Hood hold his own that day as a mid-country yeoman. This way and that they fought, and back and forth, Robin's skill against the stranger's strength. The dust of the highway rose up around them like a cloud, so that at times Little John and the Tanner could see nothing, but only hear the rattle of the staves against one another. Thrice Robin Hood struck the stranger; once upon the arm and twice upon the ribs, and yet had he warded all the other's blows, only one of which, had it met its mark, would have laid stout Robin lower in the dust than he had ever gone before. At last the stranger struck Robin's cudgel so fairly in the middle that he could hardly hold his staff in his hand; again he struck, and Robin bent beneath the blow; a third time he struck, and now not only fairly beat down Robin's guard, but gave him such a rap, also, that down he tumbled into the dusty road. "Hold!" cried Robin Hood, when he saw the stranger raising his staff once more. "I yield me!" "Hold!" cried Little John, bursting from his cover, with the Tanner at his heels. "Hold! give over, I say!" "Nay," answered the stranger quietly, "if there be two more of you, and each as stout as this good fellow, I am like to have my hands full. Nevertheless, come on, and I will strive my best to serve you all." "Stop!" cried Robin Hood, "we will fight no more. I take my vow, this is an ill day for thee and me, Little John. I do verily believe that my wrist, and eke my arm, are palsied by the jar of the blow that this stranger struck me." Then Little John turned to Robin Hood. "Why, how now, good master," said he. "Alas! Thou art in an ill plight. Marry, thy jerkin is all befouled with the dust of the road. Let me help thee to arise." "A plague on thy aid!" cried Robin angrily. "I can get to my feet without thy help, good fellow." "Nay, but let me at least dust thy coat for thee. I fear thy poor bones are mightily sore," quoth Little John soberly, but with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "Give over, I say!" quoth Robin in a fume. "My coat hath been dusted enough already, without aid of thine." Then, turning to the stranger, he said, "What may be thy name, good fellow?" "My name is Gamwell," answered the other. "Ha!" cried Robin, "is it even so? I have near kin of that name. Whence camest thou, fair friend?" "From Maxfield Town I come," answered the stranger. "There was I born and bred, and thence I come to seek my mother's young brother, whom men call Robin Hood. So, if perchance thou mayst direct me--" "Ha! Will Gamwell!" cried Robin, placing both hands upon the other's shoulders and holding him off at arm's length. "Surely, it can be none other! I might have known thee by that pretty maiden air of thine--that dainty, finicking manner of gait. Dost thou not know me, lad? Look upon me well." "Now, by the breath of my body!" cried the other, "I do believe from my heart that thou art mine own Uncle Robin. Nay, certain it is so!" And each flung his arms around the other, kissing him upon the cheek. Then once more Robin held his kinsman off at arm's length and scanned him keenly from top to toe. "Why, how now," quoth he, "what change is here? Verily, some eight or ten years ago I left thee a stripling lad, with great joints and ill-hung limbs, and lo! here thou art, as tight a fellow as e'er I set mine eyes upon. Dost thou not remember, lad, how I showed thee the proper way to nip the goose feather betwixt thy fingers and throw out thy bow arm steadily? Thou gayest great promise of being a keen archer. And dost thou not mind how I taught thee to fend and parry with the cudgel?" "Yea," said young Gamwell, "and I did so look up to thee, and thought thee so above all other men that, I make my vow, had I known who thou wert, I would never have dared to lift hand against thee this day. I trust I did thee no great harm." "No, no," quoth Robin hastily, and looking sideways at Little John, "thou didst not harm me. But say no more of that, I prythee. Yet I will say, lad, that I hope I may never feel again such a blow as thou didst give me. By'r Lady, my arm doth tingle yet from fingernail to elbow. Truly, I thought that I was palsied for life. I tell thee, coz, that thou art the strongest man that ever I laid mine eyes upon. I take my vow, I felt my stomach quake when I beheld thee pluck up yon green tree as thou didst. But tell me, how camest thou to leave Sir Edward and thy mother?" "Alas!" answered young Gamwell, "it is an ill story, uncle, that I have to tell thee. My father's steward, who came to us after old Giles Crookleg died, was ever a saucy varlet, and I know not why my father kept him, saving that he did oversee with great judgment. It used to gall me to hear him speak up so boldly to my father, who, thou knowest, was ever a patient man to those about him, and slow to anger and harsh words. Well, one day--and an ill day it was for that saucy fellow--he sought to berate my father, I standing by. I could stand it no longer, good uncle, so, stepping forth, I gave him a box o' the ear, and--wouldst thou believe it?--the fellow straightway died o't. I think they said I broke his neck, or something o' the like. So off they packed me to seek thee and escape the law. I was on my way when thou sawest me, and here I am." "Well, by the faith of my heart," quoth Robin Hood, "for anyone escaping the law, thou wast taking it the most easily that ever I beheld in all my life. Whenever did anyone in all the world see one who had slain a man, and was escaping because of it, tripping along the highway like a dainty court damsel, sniffing at a rose the while?" "Nay, uncle," answered Will Gamwell, "overhaste never churned good butter, as the old saying hath it. Moreover, I do verily believe that this overstrength of my body hath taken the nimbleness out of my heels. Why, thou didst but just now rap me thrice, and I thee never a once, save by overbearing thee by my strength." "Nay," quoth Robin, "let us say no more on that score. I am right glad to see thee, Will, and thou wilt add great honor and credit to my band of merry fellows. But thou must change thy name, for warrants will be out presently against thee; so, because of thy gay clothes, thou shalt henceforth and for aye be called Will Scarlet." "Will Scarlet," quoth Little John, stepping forward and reaching out his great palm, which the other took, "Will Scarlet, the name fitteth thee well. Right glad am I to welcome thee among us. I am called Little John; and this is a new member who has just joined us, a stout tanner named Arthur a Bland. Thou art like to achieve fame, Will, let me tell thee, for there will be many a merry ballad sung about the country, and many a merry story told in Sherwood of how Robin Hood taught Little John and Arthur a Bland the proper way to use the quarterstaff; likewise, as it were, how our good master bit off so large a piece of cake that he choked on it." "Nay, good Little John," quoth Robin gently, for he liked ill to have such a jest told of him. "Why should we speak of this little matter? Prythee, let us keep this day's doings among ourselves." "With all my heart," quoth Little John. "But, good master, I thought that thou didst love a merry story, because thou hast so often made a jest about a certain increase of fatness on my joints, of flesh gathered by my abiding with the Sheriff of--" "Nay, good Little John," said Robin hastily, "I do bethink me I have said full enough on that score." "It is well," quoth Little John, "for in truth I myself have tired of it somewhat. But now I bethink me, thou didst also seem minded to make a jest of the rain that threatened last night; so--" "Nay, then," said Robin Hood testily, "I was mistaken. I remember me now it did seem to threaten rain." "Truly, I did think so myself," quoth Little John, "therefore, no doubt, thou dost think it was wise of me to abide all night at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of venturing forth in such stormy weather; dost thou not?" "A plague of thee and thy doings!" cried Robin Hood. "If thou wilt have it so, thou wert right to abide wherever thou didst choose." "Once more, it is well," quoth Little John. "As for myself, I have been blind this day. I did not see thee drubbed; I did not see thee tumbled heels over head in the dust; and if any man says that thou wert, I can with a clear conscience rattle his lying tongue betwixt his teeth." "Come," cried Robin, biting his nether lip, while the others could not forbear laughing. "We will go no farther today, but will return to Sherwood, and thou shalt go to Ancaster another time, Little John." So said Robin, for now that his bones were sore, he felt as though a long journey would be an ill thing for him. So, turning their backs, they retraced their steps whence they came. The Adventure with Midge the Miller's Son WHEN THE four yeomen had traveled for a long time toward Sherwood again, high noontide being past, they began to wax hungry. Quoth Robin Hood, "I would that I had somewhat to eat. Methinks a good loaf of white bread, with a piece of snow-white cheese, washed down with a draught of humming ale, were a feast for a king." "Since thou speakest of it," said Will Scarlet, "methinks it would not be amiss myself. There is that within me crieth out, 'Victuals, good friend, victuals!'" "I know a house near by," said Arthur a Bland, "and, had I but the money, I would bring ye that ye speak of; to wit, a sweet loaf of bread, a fair cheese, and a skin of brown ale." "For the matter of that, thou knowest I have money by me, good master," quoth Little John. "Why, so thou hast, Little John," said Robin. "How much money will it take, good Arthur, to buy us meat and drink?" "I think that six broad pennies will buy food enow for a dozen men," said the Tanner. "Then give him six pennies, Little John," quoth Robin, "for methinks food for three men will about fit my need. Now get thee gone, Arthur, with the money, and bring the food here, for there is a sweet shade in that thicket yonder, beside the road, and there will we eat our meal." So Little John gave Arthur the money, and the others stepped to the thicket, there to await the return of the Tanner. After a time he came back, bearing with him a great brown loaf of bread, and a fair, round cheese, and a goatskin full of stout March beer, slung over his shoulders. Then Will Scarlet took his sword and divided the loaf and the cheese into four fair portions, and each man helped himself. Then Robin Hood took a deep pull at the beer. "Aha!" said he, drawing in his breath, "never have I tasted sweeter drink than this." After this no man spake more, but each munched away at his bread and cheese lustily, with ever and anon a pull at the beer. At last Will Scarlet looked at a small piece of bread he still held in his hand, and quoth he, "Methinks I will give this to the sparrows." So, throwing it from him, he brushed the crumbs from his jerkin. "I, too," quoth Robin, "have had enough, I think." As for Little John and the Tanner, they had by this time eaten every crumb of their bread and cheese. "Now," quoth Robin, "I do feel myself another man, and would fain enjoy something pleasant before going farther upon our journey. I do bethink me, Will, that thou didst use to have a pretty voice, and one that tuned sweetly upon a song. Prythee, give us one ere we journey farther." "Truly, I do not mind turning a tune," answered Will Scarlet, "but I would not sing alone." "Nay, others will follow. Strike up, lad," quoth Robin. "In that case, 'tis well," said Will Scarlet. "I do call to mind a song that a certain minstrel used to sing in my father's hall, upon occasion. I know no name for it and so can give you none; but thus it is." Then, clearing his throat, he sang: "_In the merry blossom time, When love longings food the breast, When the flower is on the lime, When the small fowl builds her nest, Sweetly sings the nightingale And the throstle cock so bold; Cuckoo in the dewy dale And the turtle in the word. But the robin I love dear, For he singeth through the year. Robin! Robin! Merry Robin! So I'd have my true love be: Not to fly At the nigh Sign of cold adversity_. "_When the spring brings sweet delights, When aloft the lark doth rise, Lovers woo o' mellow nights, And youths peep in maidens' eyes, That time blooms the eglantine, Daisies pied upon the hill, Cowslips fair and columbine, Dusky violets by the rill. But the ivy green cloth grow When the north wind bringeth snow. Ivy! Ivy! Stanch and true! Thus I'd have her love to be: Not to die At the nigh Breath of cold adversity_." "'Tis well sung," quoth Robin, "but, cousin, I tell thee plain, I would rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some lusty ballad than a finicking song of flowers and birds, and what not. Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and 'tis none so bad a snatch of a song, for the matter of that. Now, Tanner, it is thy turn." "I know not," quoth Arthur, smiling, with his head on one side, like a budding lass that is asked to dance, "I know not that I can match our sweet friend's song; moreover, I do verily think that I have caught a cold and have a certain tickling and huskiness in the windpipe." "Nay, sing up, friend," quoth Little John, who sat next to him, patting him upon the shoulder. "Thou hast a fair, round, mellow voice; let us have a touch of it." "Nay, an ye will ha' a poor thing," said Arthur, "I will do my best. Have ye ever heard of the wooing of Sir Keith, the stout young Cornish knight, in good King Arthur's time?" "Methinks I have heard somewhat of it," said Robin; "but ne'ertheless strike up thy ditty and let us hear it, for, as I do remember me, it is a gallant song; so out with it, good fellow." Thereupon, clearing his throat, the Tanner, without more ado, began to sing: THE WOOING OF SIR KEITH "_King Arthur sat in his royal hall, And about on either hand Was many a noble lordling tall, The greatest in the land. "Sat Lancelot with raven locks, Gawaine with golden hair, Sir Tristram, Kay who kept the locks, And many another there. "And through the stained windows bright, From o'er the red-tiled eaves, The sunlight blazed with colored light On golden helms and greaves. "But suddenly a silence came About the Table Round, For up the hall there walked a dame Bent nigh unto the ground. "Her nose was hooked, her eyes were bleared, Her locks were lank and white; Upon her chin there grew a beard; She was a gruesome sight. "And so with crawling step she came And kneeled at Arthur's feet; Quoth Kay, 'She is the foulest dame That e'er my sight did greet.' "'O mighty King! of thee I crave A boon on bended knee'; 'Twas thus she spoke. 'What wouldst thou have.' Quoth Arthur, King, 'of me_?' "_Quoth she, 'I have a foul disease Doth gnaw my very heart, And but one thing can bring me ease Or cure my bitter smart. "'There is no rest, no ease for me North, east, or west, or south, Till Christian knight will willingly Thrice kiss me on the mouth. "'Nor wedded may this childe have been That giveth ease to me; Nor may he be constrained, I ween, But kiss me willingly. "'So is there here one Christian knight Of such a noble strain That he will give a tortured wight Sweet ease of mortal pain?' "'A wedded man,' quoth Arthur, King, 'A wedded man I be Else would I deem it noble thing To kiss thee willingly. "'Now, Lancelot, in all men's sight Thou art the head and chief Of chivalry. Come, noble knight, And give her quick relief.' "But Lancelot he turned aside And looked upon the ground, For it did sting his haughty pride To hear them laugh around. "'Come thou, Sir Tristram,' quoth the King. Quoth he, 'It cannot be, For ne'er can I my stomach bring To do it willingly.' "'Wilt thou, Sir Kay, thou scornful wight?' Quoth Kay, 'Nay, by my troth! What noble dame would kiss a knight That kissed so foul a mouth_?' "'_Wilt thou, Gawaine?' 'I cannot, King.' 'Sir Geraint?' 'Nay, not I; My kisses no relief could bring, For sooner would I die.' "Then up and spake the youngest man Of all about the board, 'Now such relief as Christian can I'll give to her, my lord.' "It was Sir Keith, a youthful knight, Yet strong of limb and bold, With beard upon his chin as light As finest threads of gold. "Quoth Kay, 'He hath no mistress yet That he may call his own, But here is one that's quick to get, As she herself has shown.' "He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, He kissed her three times o'er, A wondrous change came in a trice, And she was foul no more. "Her cheeks grew red as any rose, Her brow as white as lawn, Her bosom like the winter snows, Her eyes like those of fawn. "Her breath grew sweet as summer breeze That blows the meadows o'er; Her voice grew soft as rustling trees, And cracked and harsh no more. "Her hair grew glittering, like the gold, Her hands as white as milk; Her filthy rags, so foul and old, Were changed to robes of silk. "In great amaze the knights did stare. Quoth Kay, 'I make my vow If it will please thee, lady fair, I'll gladly kiss thee now_.' "_But young Sir Keith kneeled on one knee And kissed her robes so fair. 'O let me be thy slave,' said he, 'For none to thee compare.' "She bent her down, she kissed his brow, She kissed his lips and eyes. Quoth she, 'Thou art my master now, My lord, my love, arise! "'And all the wealth that is mine own, My lands, I give to thee, For never knight hath lady shown Such noble courtesy. "'Bewitched was I, in bitter pain, But thou hast set me free, So now I am myself again, I give myself to thee_.'" "Yea, truly," quoth Robin Hood, when the Tanner had made an end of singing, "it is as I remember it, a fair ditty, and a ballad with a pleasing tune of a song." "It hath oftentimes seemed to me," said Will Scarlet, "that it hath a certain motive in it, e'en such as this: That a duty which seemeth to us sometimes ugly and harsh, when we do kiss it fairly upon the mouth, so to speak, is no such foul thing after all." "Methinks thou art right," quoth Robin, "and, contrariwise, that when we kiss a pleasure that appeareth gay it turneth foul to us; is it not so, Little John? Truly such a thing hath brought thee sore thumps this day. Nay, man, never look down in the mouth. Clear thy pipes and sing us a ditty." "Nay," said Little John, "I have none as fair as that merry Arthur has trolled. They are all poor things that I know. Moreover, my voice is not in tune today, and I would not spoil even a tolerable song by ill singing." Upon this all pressed Little John to sing, so that when he had denied them a proper length of time, such as is seemly in one that is asked to sing, he presently yielded. Quoth he, 'Well, an ye will ha' it so, I will give you what I can. Like to fair Will, I have no title to my ditty, but thus it runs: "_O Lady mine, the spring is here, With a hey nonny nonny; The sweet love season of the year, With a ninny ninny nonny; Now lad and lass Lie in the grass That groweth green With flowers between. The buck doth rest The leaves do start, The cock doth crow, The breeze doth blow, And all things laugh in_--" "Who may yon fellow be coming along the road?" said Robin, breaking into the song. "I know not," quoth Little John in a surly voice. "But this I do know, that it is an ill thing to do to check the flow of a good song." "Nay, Little John," said Robin, "be not vexed, I prythee; but I have been watching him coming along, bent beneath that great bag over his shoulder, ever since thou didst begin thy song. Look, Little John, I pray, and see if thou knowest him." Little John looked whither Robin Hood pointed. "Truly," quoth he, after a time, "I think yon fellow is a certain young miller I have seen now and then around the edge of Sherwood; a poor wight, methinks, to spoil a good song about." "Now thou speakest of him," quoth Robin Hood, "methinks I myself have seen him now and then. Hath he not a mill over beyond Nottingham Town, nigh to the Salisbury road?" "Thou art right; that is the man," said Little John. "A good stout fellow," quoth Robin. "I saw him crack Ned o' Bradford's crown about a fortnight since, and never saw I hair lifted more neatly in all my life before." By this time the young miller had come so near that they could see him clearly. His clothes were dusted with flour, and over his back he carried a great sack of meal, bending so as to bring the whole weight upon his shoulders, and across the sack was a thick quarterstaff. His limbs were stout and strong, and he strode along the dusty road right sturdily with the heavy sack across his shoulders. His cheeks were ruddy as a winter hip, his hair was flaxen in color, and on his chin was a downy growth of flaxen beard. "A good honest fellow," quoth Robin Hood, "and such an one as is a credit to English yeomanrie. Now let us have a merry jest with him. We will forth as though we were common thieves and pretend to rob him of his honest gains. Then will we take him into the forest and give him a feast such as his stomach never held in all his life before. We will flood his throat with good canary and send him home with crowns in his purse for every penny he hath. What say ye, lads?" "Truly, it is a merry thought," said Will Scarlet. "It is well planned," quoth Little John, "but all the saints preserve us from any more drubbings this day! Marry, my poor bones ache so that I--" "Prythee peace, Little John," quoth Robin. "Thy foolish tongue will get us both well laughed at yet." "My foolish tongue, forsooth," growled Little John to Arthur a Bland. "I would it could keep our master from getting us into another coil this day." But now the Miller, plodding along the road, had come opposite to where the yeomen lay hidden, whereupon all four of them ran at him and surrounded him. "Hold, friend!" cried Robin to the Miller; whereupon he turned slowly, with the weight of the bag upon his shoulder, and looked at each in turn all bewildered, for though a good stout man his wits did not skip like roasting chestnuts. "Who bids me stay?" said the Miller in a voice deep and gruff, like the growl of a great dog. "Marry, that do I," quoth Robin; "and let me tell thee, friend, thou hadst best mind my bidding." "And who art thou, good friend?" said the Miller, throwing the great sack of meal from his shoulder to the ground, "and who are those with thee?" "We be four good Christian men," quoth Robin, "and would fain help thee by carrying part of thy heavy load." "I give you all thanks," said the Miller, "but my bag is none that heavy that I cannot carry it e'en by myself." "Nay, thou dost mistake," quoth Robin, "I meant that thou mightest perhaps have some heavy farthings or pence about thee, not to speak of silver and gold. Our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth that gold is an overheavy burden for a two-legged ass to carry; so we would e'en lift some of this load from thee." "Alas!" cried the Miller, "what would ye do to me? I have not about me so much as a clipped groat. Do me no harm, I pray you, but let me depart in peace. Moreover, let me tell you that ye are upon Robin Hood's ground, and should he find you seeking to rob an honest craftsman, he will clip your ears to your heads and scourge you even to the walls of Nottingham. "In truth I fear Robin Hood no more than I do myself," quoth jolly Robin. "Thou must this day give up to me every penny thou hast about thee. Nay, if thou dost budge an inch I will rattle this staff about thine ears." "Nay, smite me not!" cried the Miller, throwing up his elbow as though he feared the blow. "Thou mayst search me if thou wilt, but thou wilt find nothing upon me, pouch, pocket, or skin." "Is it so?" quoth Robin Hood, looking keenly upon him. "Now I believe that what thou tellest is no true tale. If I am not much mistook thou hast somewhat in the bottom of that fat sack of meal. Good Arthur, empty the bag upon the ground; I warrant thou wilt find a shilling or two in the flour." "Alas!" cried the Miller, falling upon his knees, "spoil not all my good meal! It can better you not, and will ruin me. Spare it, and I will give up the money in the bag." "Ha!" quoth Robin, nudging Will Scarlet. "Is it so? And have I found where thy money lies? Marry, I have a wondrous nose for the blessed image of good King Harry. I thought that I smelled gold and silver beneath the barley meal. Bring it straight forth, Miller." Then slowly the Miller arose to his feet, and slowly and unwillingly he untied the mouth of the bag, and slowly thrust his hands into the meal and began fumbling about with his arms buried to the elbows in the barley flour. The others gathered round him, their heads together, looking and wondering what he would bring forth. So they stood, all with their heads close together gazing down into the sack. But while he pretended to be searching for the money, the Miller gathered two great handfuls of meal. "Ha," quoth he, "here they are, the beauties." Then, as the others leaned still more forward to see what he had, he suddenly cast the meal into their faces, filling their eyes and noses and mouths with the flour, blinding and half choking them. Arthur a Bland was worse off than any, for his mouth was open, agape with wonder of what was to come, so that a great cloud of flour flew down his throat, setting him a-coughing till he could scarcely stand. Then, while all four stumbled about, roaring with the smart of the meal in their eyeballs, and while they rubbed their eyes till the tears made great channels on their faces through the meal, the Miller seized another handful of flour and another and another, throwing it in their faces, so that even had they had a glimmering of light before they were now as blind as ever a beggar in Nottinghamshire, while their hair and beards and clothes were as white as snow. Then catching up his great crabstaff, the Miller began laying about him as though he were clean gone mad. This way and that skipped the four, like peas on a drumhead, but they could see neither to defend themselves nor to run away. Thwack! thwack! went the Miller's cudgel across their backs, and at every blow great white clouds of flour rose in the air from their jackets and went drifting down the breeze. "Stop!" roared Robin at last. "Give over, good friend, I am Robin Hood!" "Thou liest, thou knave," cried the Miller, giving him a rap on the ribs that sent up a great cloud of flour like a puff of smoke. "Stout Robin never robbed an honest tradesman. Ha! thou wouldst have my money, wouldst thou?" And he gave him another blow. "Nay, thou art not getting thy share, thou long-legged knave. Share and share alike." And he smote Little John across the shoulders so that he sent him skipping half across the road. "Nay, fear not, it is thy turn now, black beard." And he gave the Tanner a crack that made him roar for all his coughing. "How now, red coat, let me brush the dust from thee!" cried he, smiting Will Scarlet. And so he gave them merry words and blows until they could scarcely stand, and whenever he saw one like to clear his eyes he threw more flour in his face. At last Robin Hood found his horn and clapping it to his lips, blew three loud blasts upon it. Now it chanced that Will Stutely and a party of Robin's men were in the glade not far from where this merry sport was going forward. Hearing the hubbub of voices, and blows that sounded like the noise of a flail in the barn in wintertime, they stopped, listening and wondering what was toward. Quoth Will Stutely, "Now if I mistake not there is some stout battle with cudgels going forward not far hence. I would fain see this pretty sight." So saying, he and the whole party turned their steps whence the noise came. When they had come near where all the tumult sounded they heard the three blasts of Robin's bugle horn. "Quick!" cried young David of Doncaster. "Our master is in sore need!" So, without stopping a moment, they dashed forward with might and main and burst forth from the covert into the highroad. But what a sight was that which they saw! The road was all white with meal, and five men stood there also white with meal from top to toe, for much of the barley flour had fallen back upon the Miller. "What is thy need, master?" cried Will Stutely. "And what doth all this mean?" "Why," quoth Robin in a mighty passion, "yon traitor felt low hath come as nigh slaying me as e'er a man in all the world. Hadst thou not come quickly, good Stutely, thy master had been dead." Hereupon, while he and the three others rubbed the meal from their eyes, and Will Stutely and his men brushed their clothes clean, he told them all; how that he had meant to pass a jest upon the Miller, which same had turned so grievously upon them. "Quick, men, seize the vile Miller!" cried Stutely, who was nigh choking with laughter as were the rest; whereupon several ran upon the stout fellow and seizing him, bound his arms behind his back with bowstrings. "Ha!" cried Robin, when they brought the trembling Miller to him. "Thou wouldst murder me, wouldst thou? By my faith,"--Here he stopped and stood glaring upon the Miller grimly. But Robin's anger could not hold, so first his eyes twinkled, and then in spite of all he broke into a laugh. Now when they saw their master laugh, the yeomen who stood around could contain themselves no longer, and a mighty shout of laughter went up from all. Many could not stand, but rolled upon the ground from pure merriment. "What is thy name, good fellow?" said Robin at last to the Miller, who stood gaping and as though he were in amaze. "Alas, sir, I am Midge, the Miller's son," said he in a frightened voice. "I make my vow," quoth merry Robin, smiting him upon the shoulder, "thou art the mightiest Midge that e'er mine eyes beheld. Now wilt thou leave thy dusty mill and come and join my band? By my faith, thou art too stout a man to spend thy days betwixt the hopper and the till." "Then truly, if thou dost forgive me for the blows I struck, not knowing who thou wast, I will join with thee right merrily," said the Miller. "Then have I gained this day," quoth Robin, "the three stoutest yeomen in all Nottinghamshire. We will get us away to the greenwood tree, and there hold a merry feast in honor of our new friends, and mayhap a cup or two of good sack and canary may mellow the soreness of my poor joints and bones, though I warrant it will be many a day before I am again the man I was." So saying, he turned and led the way, the rest following, and so they entered the forest once more and were lost to sight. So that night all was ablaze with crackling fires in the woodlands, for though Robin and those others spoken of, only excepting Midge, the Miller's son, had many a sore bump and bruise here and there on their bodies, they were still not so sore in the joints that they could not enjoy a jolly feast given all in welcome to the new members of the band. Thus with songs and jesting and laughter that echoed through the deeper and more silent nooks of the forest, the night passed quickly along, as such merry times are wont to do, until at last each man sought his couch and silence fell on all things and all things seemed to sleep. But Little John's tongue was ever one that was not easy of guidance, so that, inch by inch, the whole story of his fight with the Tanner and Robin's fight with Will Scarlet leaked out. And so I have told it that you may laugh at the merry tale along with me. Robin Hood and Allan a Dale IT HAS just been told how three unlucky adventures fell upon Robin Hood and Little John all in one day bringing them sore ribs and aching bones. So next we will tell how they made up for those ill happenings by a good action that came about not without some small pain to Robin. Two days had passed by, and somewhat of the soreness had passed away from Robin Hood's joints, yet still, when he moved of a sudden and without thinking, pain here and there would, as it were, jog him, crying, "Thou hast had a drubbing, good fellow." The day was bright and jocund, and the morning dew still lay upon the grass. Under the greenwood tree sat Robin Hood; on one side was Will Scarlet, lying at full length upon his back, gazing up into the clear sky, with hands clasped behind his head; upon the other side sat Little John, fashioning a cudgel out of a stout crab-tree limb; elsewhere upon the grass sat or lay many others of the band. "By the faith of my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I do bethink me that we have had no one to dine with us for this long time. Our money groweth low in the purse, for no one hath come to pay a reckoning for many a day. Now busk thee, good Stutely, and choose thee six men, and get thee gone to Fosse Way or thereabouts, and see that thou bringest someone to eat with us this evening. Meantime we will prepare a grand feast to do whosoever may come the greater honor. And stay, good Stutely. I would have thee take Will Scarlet with thee, for it is meet that he should become acquaint with the ways of the forest." "Now do I thank thee, good master," quoth Stutely, springing to his feet, "that thou hast chosen me for this adventure. Truly, my limbs do grow slack through abiding idly here. As for two of my six, I will choose Midge the Miller and Arthur a Bland, for, as well thou knowest, good master, they are stout fists at the quarterstaff. Is it not so, Little John?" At this all laughed but Little John and Robin, who twisted up his face. "I can speak for Midge," said he, "and likewise for my cousin Scarlet. This very blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors as a beggar's cloak." So, having chosen four more stout fellows, Will Stutely and his band set forth to Fosse Way, to find whether they might not come across some rich guest to feast that day in Sherwood with Robin and his band. For all the livelong day they abided near this highway. Each man had brought with him a good store of cold meat and a bottle of stout March beer to stay his stomach till the homecoming. So when high noontide had come they sat them down upon the soft grass, beneath a green and wide-spreading hawthorn bush, and held a hearty and jovial feast. After this, one kept watch while the others napped, for it was a still and sultry day. Thus they passed the time pleasantly enow, but no guest such as they desired showed his face in all the time that they lay hidden there. Many passed along the dusty road in the glare of the sun: now it was a bevy of chattering damsels merrily tripping along; now it was a plodding tinker; now a merry shepherd lad; now a sturdy farmer; all gazing ahead along the road, unconscious of the seven stout fellows that lay hidden so near them. Such were the travelers along the way; but fat abbot, rich esquire, or money-laden usurer came there none. At last the sun began to sink low in the heavens; the light grew red and the shadows long. The air grew full of silence, the birds twittered sleepily, and from afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the milkmaid calling the kine home to the milking. Then Stutely arose from where he was lying. "A plague of such ill luck!" quoth he. "Here have we abided all day, and no bird worth the shooting, so to speak, hath come within reach of our bolt. Had I gone forth on an innocent errand, I had met a dozen stout priests or a score of pursy money-lenders. But it is ever thus: the dun deer are never so scarce as when one has a gray goose feather nipped betwixt the fingers. Come, lads, let us pack up and home again, say I." Accordingly, the others arose, and, coming forth from out the thicket, they all turned their toes back again to Sherwood. After they had gone some distance, Will Stutely, who headed the party, suddenly stopped. "Hist!" quoth he, for his ears were as sharp as those of a five-year-old fox. "Hark, lads! Methinks I hear a sound." At this all stopped and listened with bated breath, albeit for a time they could hear nothing, their ears being duller than Stutely's. At length they heard a faint and melancholy sound, like someone in lamentation. "Ha!" quoth Will Scarlet, "this must be looked into. There is someone in distress nigh to us here." "I know not," quoth Will Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, "our master is ever rash about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but, for my part, I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils. Yon is a man's voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always ready to get himself out from his own pothers." Then out spake Will Scarlet boldly. "Now out upon thee, to talk in that manner, Stutely! Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the trouble of this poor creature." "Nay," quoth Stutely, "thou dost leap so quickly, thou'lt tumble into the ditch. Who said I would not go? Come along, say I." Thus saying, he led the way, the others following, till, after they had gone a short distance, they came to a little opening in the woodland, whence a brook, after gurgling out from under the tangle of overhanging bushes, spread out into a broad and glassy-pebbled pool. By the side of this pool, and beneath the branches of a willow, lay a youth upon his face, weeping aloud, the sound of which had first caught the quick ears of Stutely. His golden locks were tangled, his clothes were all awry, and everything about him betokened sorrow and woe. Over his head, from the branches of the osier, hung a beautiful harp of polished wood inlaid with gold and silver in fantastic devices. Beside him lay a stout ashen bow and half a score of fair, smooth arrows. "Halloa!" shouted Will Stutely, when they had come out from the forest into the little open spot. "Who art thou, fellow, that liest there killing all the green grass with salt water?" Hearing the voice, the stranger sprang to his feet and; snatching up his bow and fitting a shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill might befall him. "Truly," said one of the yeomen, when they had seen the young stranger's face, "I do know that lad right well. He is a certain minstrel that I have seen hereabouts more than once. It was only a week ago I saw him skipping across the hill like a yearling doe. A fine sight he was then, with a flower at his ear and a cock's plume stuck in his cap; but now, methinks, our cockerel is shorn of his gay feathers." "Pah!" cried Will Stutely, coming up to the stranger, "wipe thine eyes, man! I do hate to see a tall, stout fellow so sniveling like a girl of fourteen over a dead tomtit. Put down thy bow, man! We mean thee no harm." But Will Scarlet, seeing how the stranger, who had a young and boyish look, was stung by the words that Stutely had spoken, came to him and put his hand upon the youth's shoulder. "Nay, thou art in trouble, poor boy!" said he kindly. "Mind not what these fellows have said. They are rough, but they mean thee well. Mayhap they do not understand a lad like thee. Thou shalt come with us, and perchance we may find a certain one that can aid thee in thy perplexities, whatsoever they may be." "Yea, truly, come along," said Will Stutely gruffly. "I meant thee no harm, and may mean thee some good. Take down thy singing tool from off this fair tree, and away with us." The youth did as he was bidden and, with bowed head and sorrowful step, accompanied the others, walking beside Will Scarlet. So they wended their way through the forest. The bright light faded from the sky and a glimmering gray fell over all things. From the deeper recesses of the forest the strange whispering sounds of night-time came to the ear; all else was silent, saving only for the rattling of their footsteps amid the crisp, dry leaves of the last winter. At last a ruddy glow shone before them here and there through the trees; a little farther and they came to the open glade, now bathed in the pale moonlight. In the center of the open crackled a great fire, throwing a red glow on all around. At the fire were roasting juicy steaks of venison, pheasants, capons, and fresh fish from the river. All the air was filled with the sweet smell of good things cooking. The little band made its way across the glade, many yeomen turning with curious looks and gazing after them, but none speaking or questioning them. So, with Will Scarlet upon one side and Will Stutely upon the other, the stranger came to where Robin Hood sat on a seat of moss under the greenwood tree, with Little John standing beside him. "Good even, fair friend," said Robin Hood, rising as the other drew near. "And hast thou come to feast with me this day?" "Alas! I know not," said the lad, looking around him with dazed eyes, for he was bewildered with all that he saw. "Truly, I know not whether I be in a dream," said he to himself in a low voice. "Nay, marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art awake, as thou wilt presently find, for a fine feast is a-cooking for thee. Thou art our honored guest this day." Still the young stranger looked about him, as though in a dream. Presently he turned to Robin. "Methinks," said he, "I know now where I am and what hath befallen me. Art not thou the great Robin Hood?" "Thou hast hit the bull's eye," quoth Robin, clapping him upon the shoulder. "Men hereabouts do call me by that name. Sin' thou knowest me, thou knowest also that he who feasteth with me must pay his reckoning. I trust thou hast a full purse with thee, fair stranger." "Alas!" said the stranger, "I have no purse nor no money either, saving only the half of a sixpence, the other half of which mine own dear love doth carry in her bosom, hung about her neck by a strand of silken thread." At this speech a great shout of laughter went up from those around, whereat the poor boy looked as he would die of shame; but Robin Hood turned sharply to Will Stutely. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is this the guest that thou hast brought us to fill our purse? Methinks thou hast brought but a lean cock to the market." "Nay, good master," answered Will Stutely, grinning, "he is no guest of mine; it was Will Scarlet that brought him thither." Then up spoke Will Scarlet, and told how they had found the lad in sorrow, and how he had brought him to Robin, thinking that he might perchance aid him in his trouble. Then Robin Hood turned to the youth, and, placing his hand upon the other's shoulder, held him off at arm's length, scanning his face closely. "A young face," quoth he in a low voice, half to himself, "a kind face, a good face. 'Tis like a maiden's for purity, and, withal, the fairest that e'er mine eyes did see; but, if I may judge fairly by thy looks, grief cometh to young as well as to old." At these words, spoken so kindly, the poor lad's eyes brimmed up with tears. "Nay, nay," said Robin hastily, "cheer up, lad; I warrant thy case is not so bad that it cannot be mended. What may be thy name?" "Allen a Dale is my name, good master." "Allen a Dale," repeated Robin, musing. "Allen a Dale. It doth seem to me that the name is not altogether strange to mine ears. Yea, surely thou art the minstrel of whom we have been hearing lately, whose voice so charmeth all men. Dost thou not come from the Dale of Rotherstream, over beyond Stavely?" "Yea, truly," answered Allan, "I do come thence." "How old art thou, Allan?" said Robin. "I am but twenty years of age." "Methinks thou art overyoung to be perplexed with trouble," quoth Robin kindly; then, turning to the others, he cried, "Come, lads, busk ye and get our feast ready; only thou, Will Scarlet, and thou, Little John, stay here with me." Then, when the others had gone, each man about his business, Robin turned once more to the youth. "Now, lad," said he, "tell us thy troubles, and speak freely. A flow of words doth ever ease the heart of sorrows; it is like opening the waste weir when the mill dam is overfull. Come, sit thou here beside me, and speak at thine ease." Then straightway the youth told the three yeomen all that was in his heart; at first in broken words and phrases, then freely and with greater ease when he saw that all listened closely to what he said. So he told them how he had come from York to the sweet vale of Rother, traveling the country through as a minstrel, stopping now at castle, now at hall, and now at farmhouse; how he had spent one sweet evening in a certain broad, low farmhouse, where he sang before a stout franklin and a maiden as pure and lovely as the first snowdrop of spring; how he had played and sung to her, and how sweet Ellen o' the Dale had listened to him and had loved him. Then, in a low, sweet voice, scarcely louder than a whisper, he told how he had watched for her and met her now and then when she went abroad, but was all too afraid in her sweet presence to speak to her, until at last, beside the banks of Rother, he had spoken of his love, and she had whispered that which had made his heartstrings quiver for joy. Then they broke a sixpence between them, and vowed to be true to one another forever. Next he told how her father had discovered what was a-doing, and had taken her away from him so that he never saw her again, and his heart was sometimes like to break; how this morn, only one short month and a half from the time that he had seen her last, he had heard and knew it to be so, that she was to marry old Sir Stephen of Trent, two days hence, for Ellen's father thought it would be a grand thing to have his daughter marry so high, albeit she wished it not; nor was it wonder that a knight should wish to marry his own sweet love, who was the most beautiful maiden in all the world. To all this the yeomen listened in silence, the clatter of many voices, jesting and laughing, sounding around them, and the red light of the fire shining on their faces and in their eyes. So simple were the poor boy's words, and so deep his sorrow, that even Little John felt a certain knotty lump rise in his throat. "I wonder not," said Robin, after a moment's silence, "that thy true love loved thee, for thou hast surely a silver cross beneath thy tongue, even like good Saint Francis, that could charm the birds of the air by his speech." "By the breath of my body," burst forth Little John, seeking to cover his feelings with angry words, "I have a great part of a mind to go straightway and cudgel the nasty life out of the body of that same vile Sir Stephen. Marry, come up, say I--what a plague--does an old weazen think that tender lasses are to be bought like pullets o' a market day? Out upon him!--I--but no matter, only let him look to himself." Then up spoke Will Scarlet. "Methinks it seemeth but ill done of the lass that she should so quickly change at others' bidding, more especially when it cometh to the marrying of a man as old as this same Sir Stephen. I like it not in her, Allan." "Nay," said Allan hotly, "thou dost wrong her. She is as soft and gentle as a stockdove. I know her better than anyone in all the world. She may do her father's bidding, but if she marries Sir Stephen, her heart will break and she will die. My own sweet dear, I--" He stopped and shook his head, for he could say nothing further. While the others were speaking, Robin Hood had been sunk in thought. "Methinks I have a plan might fit thy case, Allan," said he. "But tell me first, thinkest thou, lad, that thy true love hath spirit enough to marry thee were ye together in church, the banns published, and the priest found, even were her father to say her nay?" "Ay, marry would she," cried Allan eagerly. "Then, if her father be the man that I take him to be, I will undertake that he shall give you both his blessing as wedded man and wife, in the place of old Sir Stephen, and upon his wedding morn. But stay, now I bethink me, there is one thing reckoned not upon--the priest. Truly, those of the cloth do not love me overmuch, and when it comes to doing as I desire in such a matter, they are as like as not to prove stiff-necked. As to the lesser clergy, they fear to do me a favor because of abbot or bishop. "Nay," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing, "so far as that goeth, I know of a certain friar that, couldst thou but get on the soft side of him, would do thy business even though Pope Joan herself stood forth to ban him. He is known as the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey, and dwelleth in Fountain Dale." "But," quoth Robin, "Fountain Abbey is a good hundred miles from here. An we would help this lad, we have no time to go thither and back before his true love will be married. Nought is to be gained there, coz." "Yea," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing again, "but this Fountain Abbey is not so far away as the one of which thou speakest, uncle. The Fountain Abbey of which I speak is no such rich and proud place as the other, but a simple little cell; yet, withal, as cosy a spot as ever stout anchorite dwelled within. I know the place well, and can guide thee thither, for, though it is a goodly distance, yet methinks a stout pair of legs could carry a man there and back in one day." "Then give me thy hand, Allan," cried Robin, "and let me tell thee, I swear by the bright hair of Saint AElfrida that this time two days hence Ellen a Dale shall be thy wife. I will seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey tomorrow day, and I warrant I will get upon the soft side of him, even if I have to drub one soft." At this Will Scarlet laughed again. "Be not too sure of that, good uncle," quoth he, "nevertheless, from what I know of him, I think this Curtal Friar will gladly join two such fair lovers, more especially if there be good eating and drinking afoot thereafter." But now one of the band came to say that the feast was spread upon the grass; so, Robin leading the way, the others followed to where the goodly feast was spread. Merry was the meal. Jest and story passed freely, and all laughed till the forest rang again. Allan laughed with the rest, for his cheeks were flushed with the hope that Robin Hood had given him. At last the feast was done, and Robin Hood turned to Allan, who sat beside him. "Now, Allan," quoth he, "so much has been said of thy singing that we would fain have a taste of thy skill ourselves. Canst thou not give us something?" "Surely," answered Allan readily; for he was no third-rate songster that must be asked again and again, but said "yes" or "no" at the first bidding; so, taking up his harp, he ran his fingers lightly over the sweetly sounding strings, and all was hushed about the cloth. Then, backing his voice with sweet music on his harp, he sang: MAY ELLEN'S WEDDING (Giving an account of how she was beloved by a fairy prince, who took her to his own home.) "_May Ellen sat beneath a thorn And in a shower around The blossoms fell at every breeze Like snow upon the ground, And in a lime tree near was heard The sweet song of a strange, wild bird. "O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet, O lingering sweet the strain! May Ellen's heart within her breast Stood still with blissful pain: And so, with listening, upturned face, She sat as dead in that fair place. "'Come down from out the blossoms, bird! Come down from out the tree, And on my heart I'll let thee lie, And love thee tenderly!' Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low, From where the hawthorn shed its snow. "Down dropped the bird on quivering wing, From out the blossoming tree, And nestled in her snowy breast. 'My love! my love!' cried she; Then straightway home, 'mid sun and flower, She bare him to her own sweet bower. "The day hath passed to mellow night, The moon floats o'er the lea, And in its solemn, pallid light A youth stands silently: A youth of beauty strange and rare, Within May Ellen's bower there. "He stood where o'er the pavement cold The glimmering moonbeams lay. May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes, Nor could she turn away, For, as in mystic dreams we see A spirit, stood he silently. "All in a low and breathless voice, 'Whence comest thou?' said she; 'Art thou the creature of a dream, Or a vision that I see?' Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver Through straining reeds beside the river. "'I came, a bird on feathered wing, From distant Faeryland Where murmuring waters softly sing Upon the golden strand, Where sweet trees are forever green; And there my mother is the queen.' "No more May Ellen leaves her bower To grace the blossoms fair; But in the hushed and midnight hour They hear her talking there, Or, when the moon is shining white, They hear her singing through the night. "'Oh, don thy silks and jewels fine,' May Ellen's mother said, 'For hither comes the Lord of Lyne And thou this lord must wed.' May Ellen said, 'It may not be. He ne'er shall find his wife in me.' "Up spoke her brother, dark and grim: 'Now by the bright blue sky, E'er yet a day hath gone for him Thy wicked bird shall die! For he hath wrought thee bitter harm, By some strange art or cunning charm.' "Then, with a sad and mournful song, Away the bird did fly, And o'er the castle eaves, and through The gray and windy sky. 'Come forth!' then cried the brother grim, 'Why dost thou gaze so after him?' "It is May Ellen's wedding day, The sky is blue and fair, And many a lord and lady gay In church are gathered there. The bridegroom was Sir Hugh the Bold, All clad in silk and cloth of gold. "In came the bride in samite white With a white wreath on her head; Her eyes were fixed with a glassy look, Her face was as the dead, And when she stood among the throng, She sang a wild and wondrous song. "Then came a strange and rushing sound Like the coming wind doth bring, And in the open windows shot Nine swans on whistling wing, And high above the heads they flew, In gleaming fight the darkness through. "Around May Ellen's head they flew In wide and windy fight, And three times round the circle drew. The guests shrank in affright, And the priest beside the altar there, Did cross himself with muttered prayer. "But the third time they flew around, Fair Ellen straight was gone, And in her place, upon the ground, There stood a snow-white swan. Then, with a wild and lovely song, It joined the swift and winged throng. "There's ancient men at weddings been, For sixty years and more, But such a wondrous wedding day, They never saw before. But none could check and none could stay, The swans that bore the bride away_." Not a sound broke the stillness when Allan a Dale had done, but all sat gazing at the handsome singer, for so sweet was his voice and the music that each man sat with bated breath, lest one drop more should come and he should lose it. "By my faith and my troth," quoth Robin at last, drawing a deep breath, "lad, thou art--Thou must not leave our company, Allan! Wilt thou not stay with us here in the sweet green forest? Truly, I do feel my heart go out toward thee with great love." Then Allan took Robin's hand and kissed it. "I will stay with thee always, dear master," said he, "for never have I known such kindness as thou hast shown me this day." Then Will Scarlet stretched forth his hand and shook Allan's in token of fellowship, as did Little John likewise. And thus the famous Allan a Dale became one of Robin Hood's band. Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal Friar THE STOUT YEOMEN of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a morn, more especially when the summertime had come, for then in the freshness of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and the song of the small birds the sweetest. Quoth Robin, "Now will I go to seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey of whom we spake yesternight, and I will take with me four of my good men, and these four shall be Little John, Will Scarlet, David of Doncaster, and Arthur a Bland. Bide the rest of you here, and Will Stutely shall be your chief while I am gone." Then straightway Robin Hood donned a fine steel coat of chain mail, over which he put on a light jacket of Lincoln green. Upon his head he clapped a steel cap, and this he covered by one of soft white leather, in which stood a nodding cock's plume. By his side he hung a good broadsword of tempered steel, the bluish blade marked all over with strange figures of dragons, winged women, and what not. A gallant sight was Robin so arrayed, I wot, the glint of steel showing here and there as the sunlight caught brightly the links of polished mail that showed beneath his green coat. So, having arrayed himself, he and the four yeomen set forth upon their way, Will Scarlet taking the lead, for he knew better than the others whither to go. Thus, mile after mile, they strode along, now across a brawling stream, now along a sunlit road, now adown some sweet forest path, over which the trees met in green and rustling canopy, and at the end of which a herd of startled deer dashed away, with rattle of leaves and crackle of branches. Onward they walked with song and jest and laughter till noontide was passed, when at last they came to the banks of a wide, glassy, and lily-padded stream. Here a broad, beaten path stretched along beside the banks, on which path labored the horses that tugged at the slow-moving barges, laden with barley meal or what not, from the countryside to the many-towered town. But now, in the hot silence of the midday, no horse was seen nor any man besides themselves. Behind them and before them stretched the river, its placid bosom ruffled here and there by the purple dusk of a small breeze. "Now, good uncle," quoth Will Scarlet at last, when they had walked for a long time beside this sweet, bright river, "just beyond yon bend ahead of us is a shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh, and upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage hidden amidst the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth the Friar of Fountain Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know the way; albeit it is not overhard to find." "Nay," quoth jolly Robin, stopping suddenly, "had I thought that I should have had to wade water, even were it so crystal a stream as this, I had donned other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for after all a wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be, must. But bide ye here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry adventure alone. Nevertheless, listen well, and if ye hear me sound upon my bugle horn, come quickly." So saying, he turned and left them, striding onward alone. Robin had walked no farther than where the bend of the road hid his good men from his view, when he stopped suddenly, for he thought that he heard voices. He stood still and listened, and presently heard words passed back and forth betwixt what seemed to be two men, and yet the two voices were wondrously alike. The sound came from over behind the bank, that here was steep and high, dropping from the edge of the road a half a score of feet to the sedgy verge of the river. "'Tis strange," muttered Robin to himself after a space, when the voices had ceased their talking, "surely there be two people that spoke the one to the other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make my vow that never have I heard the like in all my life before. Truly, if this twain are to be judged by their voices, no two peas were ever more alike. I will look into this matter." So saying, he came softly to the river bank and laying him down upon the grass, peered over the edge and down below. All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in cool places, and up to Robin's nostrils came the tender odor of the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams. Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree, and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped, curly black hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one's hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a friar. His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e'en a match for those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him. "By my faith," quoth Robin to himself, "I do verily believe that this is the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it must have been this holy man talking to himself." So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he was so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and, having first wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and sweeter napkin ne'er had king in all the world), he took up his flask and began talking to himself as though he were another man, and answering himself as though he were somebody else. "Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee as a lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to me in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take a drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech thee, sweeten the draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from his right hand to his left). An thou wilt force it on me so, I must needs do thy bidding, yet with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very great health (here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad, 'tis thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand back again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here's wishing thee as much good as thou wishest me." Saying this, he took another draught, and truly he drank enough for two. All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm across his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would not have spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire. Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking again in this wise: "Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La, I know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost thou not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that can pipe so well and hath heard so many goodly songs and ballads, ne'ertheless, an thou wilt have it so, I will do my best. But now methinks that thou and I might sing some fair song together; dost thou not know a certain dainty little catch called 'The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid'? Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost thou not think that thou couldst take the lass's part if I take the lad's? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I will follow with the lass." Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high and squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCORNFUL MAID "_Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love? And it's wilt thou, love, be mine? For I will give unto thee, my love, Gay knots and ribbons so fine. I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee, And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee. Then it's hark! hark! hark! To the winged lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, So come thou and be my love. SHE "Now get thee away, young man so fine; Now get thee away, I say; For my true love shall never be thine, And so thou hadst better not stay. Thou art not a fine enough lad for me, So I'll wait till a better young man I see. For it's hark! hark! hark! To the winged lark, And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, Yet never I'll be thy love. HE "Then straight will I seek for another fair she, For many a maid can be found, And as thou wilt never have aught of me, By thee will I never be bound. For never is a blossom in the field so rare, But others are found that are just as fair. So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, And I'll seek me another dear love. SHE "Young man, turn not so very quick away Another fair lass to find. Methinks I have spoken in haste today, Nor have I made up my mind, And if thou only wilt stay with me, I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee_." Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed: "_So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! For the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill And I'll be thine own true love_." So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined in with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music, he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have we here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday." Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout as was Robin's. "Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so sweetly together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down the bank to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October. Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?" "Truly," said the Friar in a glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse any man drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art welcome to a drink of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin. Robin took it without more ado and putting it to his lips, tilted his head back, while that which was within said "glug!" "lug! glug!" for more than three winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the while, and when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman, and straightway placed it at his own lips. When it came away again there was nought within it. "Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked Robin, laughing. "Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly. "And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?" "Yea, somewhat." "Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey." "Yea, somewhat." "Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth Robin, "I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the river or the other." "That," quoth the Friar, "is a practical question upon which the cunning rules appertaining to logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out by the aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not." "I do wish much," quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest, "to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar." "Truly," said the other piously, "it is a goodly wish on the part of one so young. Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend, the river is free to all." "Yea, good father," said Robin, "but thou seest that my clothes are of the finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me across?" "Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!" burst forth the Friar in a mighty rage, "dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou kiss-my-lady-la poppenjay; thou--thou What shall I call thee? Dost thou ask me, the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear--" Here he paused suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little eyes twinkled once more. "But why should I not?" quoth he piously. "Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the river? And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise? Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin, and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself. Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt get thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine own." "Nay, good father," said Robin, "I would not burden thee with aught of mine but myself." "Dost thou think," said the Friar mildly, "that the good Saint Christopher would ha' sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as I bid thee, for I would carry it as a penance to my pride." Upon this, without more ado, Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his side and handed it to the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his arm. Then once more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted upon it, he stepped sturdily into the water and so strode onward, splashing in the shoal, and breaking all the smooth surface into ever-widening rings. At last he reached the other side and Robin leaped lightly from his back. "Many thanks, good father," quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste." At this the stout Friar looked upon Robin for a long time, his head on one side, and with a most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly winked his right eye. "Nay, good youth," said he gently, "I doubt not that thou art in haste with thine affairs, yet thou dost think nothing of mine. Thine are of a carnal nature; mine are of a spiritual nature, a holy work, so to speak; moreover, mine affairs do lie upon the other side of this stream. I see by thy quest of this same holy recluse that thou art a good young man and most reverent to the cloth. I did get wet coming hither, and am sadly afraid that should I wade the water again I might get certain cricks and pains i' the joints that would mar my devotions for many a day to come. I know that since I have so humbly done thy bidding thou wilt carry me back again. Thou seest how Saint Godrick, that holy hermit whose natal day this is, hath placed in my hands two swords and in thine never a one. Therefore be persuaded, good youth, and carry me back again." Robin Hood looked up and he looked down, biting his nether lip. Quoth he, "Thou cunning Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow. Let me tell thee that not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me in all my life before. I might have known from thy looks that thou wert no such holy man as thou didst pretend to be." "Nay," interrupted the Friar, "I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither, lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel." "Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the right to use his tongue as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee." "Marry, come up," quoth the Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back." So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side; then he bent his stout back and took the Friar upon it. Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar than the Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford, so he went stumbling among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now nearly tripping over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his face in beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his load. Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin's sides and bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the while. To all this Robin answered never a word, but, having softly felt around till he found the buckle of the belt that held the Friar's sword, he worked slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them. Thus it came about that, by the time he had reached the other bank with his load, the Friar's sword belt was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin stood on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped hold of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the holy man, leaving him without a weapon. "Now then," quoth merry Robin, panting as he spake and wiping the sweat from his brow, "I have thee, fellow. This time that same saint of whom thou didst speak but now hath delivered two swords into my hand and hath stripped thine away from thee. Now if thou dost not carry me back, and that speedily, I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full of holes as a slashed doublet." The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked at Robin with a grim look. "Now," said he at last, "I did think that thy wits were of the heavy sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against thee save in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy bidding and take thee upon my back and carry thee." So jolly Robin gave him his sword again, which the Friar buckled to his side, and this time looked to it that it was more secure in its fastenings; then tucking up his robes once more, he took Robin Hood upon his back and without a word stepped into the water, and so waded on in silence while Robin sat laughing upon his back. At last he reached the middle of the ford where the water was deepest. Here he stopped for a moment, and then, with a sudden lift of his hand and heave of his shoulders, fairly shot Robin over his head as though he were a sack of grain. Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash. "There," quoth the holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore, "let that cool thy hot spirit, if it may." Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood gazing about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little rills. At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of his mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the stout Friar standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin Hood a mad man. "Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am after thee straight, and if I do not carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never lift finger again!" So saying, he dashed, splashing, to the bank. "Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear not; I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry 'Alack-a-day' ere long time is gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer." And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado, to roll up his sleeves above his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more about him, showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out like humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of before, that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown. "Look to thyself," cried Robin, drawing his good sword. "Ay, marry," quoth the Friar, who held his already in his hand. So, without more ado, they came together, and thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle. Right and left, and up and down and back and forth they fought. The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash that sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout at quarterstaff, but a grim and serious fight of real earnest. Thus they strove for an hour or more, pausing every now and then to rest, at which times each looked at the other with wonder, and thought that never had he seen so stout a fellow; then once again they would go at it more fiercely than ever. Yet in all this time neither had harmed the other nor caused his blood to flow. At last merry Robin cried, "Hold thy hand, good friend!" whereupon both lowered their swords. "Now I crave a boon ere we begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that it would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so stout and brave a fellow. "What wouldst thou have of me?" asked the Friar. "Only this," quoth Robin; "that thou wilt let me blow thrice upon my bugle horn." The Friar bent his brows and looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. "Now I do verily think that thou hast some cunning trick in this," quoth he. "Ne'ertheless, I fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish, providing thou wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle." "With all my heart," quoth Robin, "so, here goes for one." So saying, he raised his silver horn to his lips and blew thrice upon it, clear and high. Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come to pass, holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as knights use for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle always hung at his girdle along with his rosary. Scarcely had the echo of the last note of Robin's bugle come winding back from across the river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came running around the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an arrow ready nocked upon the string. "Ha! Is it thus, thou traitor knave!" cried the Friar. "Then, marry, look to thyself!" So saying, he straightway clapped the hawk's whistle to his lips and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now there came a crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the road, and presently forth from the covert burst four great, shaggy hounds. "At 'em, Sweet Lips! At 'em, Bell Throat! At 'em, Beauty! At 'em, Fangs!" cried the Friar, pointing at Robin. And now it was well for that yeoman that a tree stood nigh him beside the road, else had he had an ill chance of it. Ere one could say "Gaffer Downthedale" the hounds were upon him, and he had only time to drop his sword and leap lightly into the tree, around which the hounds gathered, looking up at him as though he were a cat on the eaves. But the Friar quickly called off his dogs. "At 'em!" cried he, pointing down the road to where the yeomen were standing stock still with wonder of what they saw. As the hawk darts down upon its quarry, so sped the four dogs at the yeomen; but when the four men saw the hounds so coming, all with one accord, saving only Will Scarlet, drew each man his goose feather to his ear and let fly his shaft. And now the old ballad telleth of a wondrous thing that happened, for thus it says, that each dog so shot at leaped lightly aside, and as the arrow passed him whistling, caught it in his mouth and bit it in twain. Now it would have been an ill day for these four good fellows had not Will Scarlet stepped before the others and met the hounds as they came rushing. "Why, how now, Fangs!" cried he sternly. "Down, Beauty! Down, sirrah! What means this?" At the sound of his voice each dog shrank back quickly and then straightway came to him and licked his hands and fawned upon him, as is the wont of dogs that meet one they know. Then the four yeomen came forward, the hounds leaping around Will Scarlet joyously. "Why, how now!" cried the stout Friar, "what means this? Art thou wizard to turn those wolves into lambs? Ha!" cried he, when they had come still nearer, "can I trust mine eyes? What means it that I see young Master William Gamwell in such company?" "Nay, Tuck," said the young man, as the four came forward to where Robin was now clambering down from the tree in which he had been roosting, he having seen that all danger was over for the time; "nay, Tuck, my name is no longer Will Gamwell, but Will Scarlet; and this is my good uncle, Robin Hood, with whom I am abiding just now." "Truly, good master," said the Friar, looking somewhat abashed and reaching out his great palm to Robin, "I ha' oft heard thy name both sung and spoken of, but I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave thy forgiveness, and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against me." "Truly, most holy father," said Little John, "I am more thankful than e'er I was in all my life before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee and thy dogs. I tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away from me when I saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of thine coming straight at me." "Thou mayst indeed be thankful, friend," said the Friar gravely. "But, Master Will, how cometh it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?" "Why, Tuck, dost thou not know of my ill happening with my father's steward?" answered Scarlet. "Yea, truly, yet I knew not that thou wert in hiding because of it. Marry, the times are all awry when a gentleman must lie hidden for so small a thing." "But we are losing time," quoth Robin, "and I have yet to find that same Curtal Friar." "Why, uncle, thou hast not far to go," said Will Scarlet, pointing to the Friar, "for there he stands beside thee." "How?" quoth Robin, "art thou the man that I have been at such pains to seek all day, and have got such a ducking for?" "Why, truly," said the Friar demurely, "some do call me the Curtal Friar of Fountain Dale; others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain Abbey; others still again call me simple Friar Tuck." "I like the last name best," quoth Robin, "for it doth slip more glibly off the tongue. But why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought, instead of sending me searching for black moonbeams?" "Why, truly, thou didst not ask me, good master," quoth stout Tuck; "but what didst thou desire of me?" "Nay," quoth Robin, "the day groweth late, and we cannot stand longer talking here. Come back with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to thee as we travel along." So, without tarrying longer, they all departed, with the stout dogs at their heels, and wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was long past nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree. Now listen, for next I will tell how Robin Hood compassed the happiness of two young lovers, aided by the merry Friar Tuck of Fountain Dale. Robin Hood Compasses a Marriage AND NOW had come the morning when fair Ellen was to be married, and on which merry Robin had sworn that Allan a Dale should, as it were, eat out of the platter that had been filled for Sir Stephen of Trent. Up rose Robin Hood, blithe and gay, up rose his merry men one and all, and up rose last of all stout Friar Tuck, winking the smart of sleep from out his eyes. Then, while the air seemed to brim over with the song of many birds, all blended together and all joying in the misty morn, each man raved face and hands in the leaping brook, and so the day began. "Now," quoth Robin, when they had broken their fast, and each man had eaten his fill, "it is time for us to set forth upon the undertaking that we have in hand for today. I will choose me one score of my good men to go with me, for I may need aid; and thou, Will Scarlet, wilt abide here and be the chief while I am gone." Then searching through all the band, each man of whom crowded forward eager to be chosen, Robin called such as he wished by name, until he had a score of stout fellows, the very flower of his yeomanrie. Besides Little John and Will Stutely were nigh all those famous lads of whom I have already told you. Then, while those so chosen ran leaping, full of joy, to arm themselves with bow and shaft and broadsword, Robin Hood stepped aside into the covert, and there donned a gay, beribboned coat such as might have been worn by some strolling minstrel, and slung a harp across his shoulder, the better to carry out that part. All the band stared and many laughed, for never had they seen their master in such a fantastic guise before. "Truly," quoth Robin, holding up his arms and looking down at himself, "I do think it be somewhat of a gay, gaudy, grasshopper dress; but it is a pretty thing for all that, and doth not ill befit the turn of my looks, albeit I wear it but for the nonce. But stay, Little John, here are two bags that I would have thee carry in thy pouch for the sake of safekeeping. I can ill care for them myself beneath this motley." "Why, master," quoth Little John, taking the bags and weighing them in his hand, "here is the chink of gold." "Well, what an there be," said Robin, "it is mine own coin and the band is none the worse for what is there. Come, busk ye, lads," and he turned quickly away. "Get ye ready straightway." Then gathering the score together in a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar Tuck, he led them forth upon their way from the forest shades. So they walked on for a long time till they had come out of Sherwood and to the vale of Rotherstream. Here were different sights from what one saw in the forest; hedgerows, broad fields of barley corn, pasture lands rolling upward till they met the sky and all dotted over with flocks of white sheep, hayfields whence came the odor of new-mown hay that lay in smooth swathes over which skimmed the swifts in rapid flight; such they saw, and different was it, I wot, from the tangled depths of the sweet woodlands, but full as fair. Thus Robin led his band, walking blithely with chest thrown out and head thrown back, snuffing the odors of the gentle breeze that came drifting from over the hayfields. "Truly," quoth he, "the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland shades. Who calls it a vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness in our minds that bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that merry song thou singest, Little John? Is it not thus? "_For when my love's eyes do thine, do thine, And when her lips smile so rare, The day it is jocund and fine, so fine, Though let it be wet or be fair And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast, Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past_." "Nay," said Friar Tuck piously, "ye do think of profane things and of nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards against care and woe than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation. Look upon me, have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?" At this a great shout of laughter went up from all around, for the night before the stout Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any one of all the merry men. "Truly," quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, "I should say that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness." So they stepped along, talking, singing, jesting, and laughing, until they had come to a certain little church that belonged to the great estates owned by the rich Priory of Emmet. Here it was that fair Ellen was to be married on that morn, and here was the spot toward which the yeomen had pointed their toes. On the other side of the road from where the church stood with waving fields of barley around, ran a stone wall along the roadside. Over the wall from the highway was a fringe of young trees and bushes, and here and there the wall itself was covered by a mass of blossoming woodbine that filled all the warm air far and near with its sweet summer odor. Then straightway the yeomen leaped over the wall, alighting on the tall soft grass upon the other side, frightening a flock of sheep that lay there in the shade so that they scampered away in all directions. Here was a sweet cool shadow both from the wall and from the fair young trees and bushes, and here sat the yeomen down, and glad enough they were to rest after their long tramp of the morning. "Now," quoth Robin, "I would have one of you watch and tell me when he sees anyone coming to the church, and the one I choose shall be young David of Doncaster. So get thee upon the wall, David, and hide beneath the woodbine so as to keep watch." Accordingly young David did as he was bidden, the others stretching themselves at length upon the grass, some talking together and others sleeping. Then all was quiet save only for the low voices of those that talked together, and for Allan's restless footsteps pacing up and down, for his soul was so full of disturbance that he could not stand still, and saving, also, for the mellow snoring of Friar Tuck, who enjoyed his sleep with a noise as of one sawing soft wood very slowly. Robin lay upon his back and gazed aloft into the leaves of the trees, his thought leagues away, and so a long time passed. Then up spoke Robin, "Now tell us, young David of Doncaster, what dost thou see?" Then David answered, "I see the white clouds floating and I feel the wind a-blowing and three black crows are flying over the wold; but nought else do I see, good master." So silence fell again and another time passed, broken only as I have said, till Robin, growing impatient, spake again. "Now tell me, young David, what dost thou see by this?" And David answered, "I see the windmills swinging and three tall poplar trees swaying against the sky, and a flock of fieldfares are flying over the hill; but nought else do I see, good master." So another time passed, till at last Robin asked young David once more what he saw; and David said, "I hear the cuckoo singing, and I see how the wind makes waves in the barley field; and now over the hill to the church cometh an old friar, and in his hands he carries a great bunch of keys; and lo! Now he cometh to the church door." Then up rose Robin Hood and shook Friar Tuck by the shoulder. "Come, rouse thee, holy man!" cried he; whereupon, with much grunting, the stout Tuck got to his feet. "Marry, bestir thyself," quoth Robin, "for yonder, in the church door, is one of thy cloth. Go thou and talk to him, and so get thyself into the church, that thou mayst be there when thou art wanted; meantime, Little John, Will Stutely, and I will follow thee anon." So Friar Tuck clambered over the wall, crossed the road, and came to the church, where the old friar was still laboring with the great key, the lock being somewhat rusty and he somewhat old and feeble. "Hilloa, brother," quoth Tuck, "let me aid thee." So saying, he took the key from the other's hand and quickly opened the door with a turn of it. "Who art thou, good brother?" asked the old friar, in a high, wheezing voice. "Whence comest thou, and whither art thou going?" And he winked and blinked at stout Friar Tuck like an owl at the sun. "Thus do I answer thy questions, brother," said the other. "My name is Tuck, and I go no farther than this spot, if thou wilt haply but let me stay while this same wedding is going forward. I come from Fountain Dale and, in truth, am a certain poor hermit, as one may say, for I live in a cell beside the fountain blessed by that holy Saint Ethelrada. But, if I understand aught, there is to be a gay wedding here today; so, if thou mindest not, I would fain rest me in the cool shade within, for I would like to see this fine sight." "Truly, thou art welcome, brother," said the old man, leading the way within. Meantime, Robin Hood, in his guise of harper, together with Little John and Will Stutely, had come to the church. Robin sat him down on a bench beside the door, but Little John, carrying the two bags of gold, went within, as did Will Stutely. So Robin sat by the door, looking up the road and down the road to see who might come, till, after a time, he saw six horsemen come riding sedately and slowly, as became them, for they were churchmen in high orders. Then, when they had come nearer, Robin saw who they were, and knew them. The first was the Bishop of Hereford, and a fine figure he cut, I wot. His vestments were of the richest silk, and around his neck was a fair chain of beaten gold. The cap that hid his tonsure was of black velvet, and around the edges of it were rows of jewels that flashed in the sunlight, each stone being set in gold. His hose were of flame-colored silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the long, pointed toes being turned up and fastened to his knees, and on either instep was embroidered a cross in gold thread. Beside the Bishop rode the Prior of Emmet upon a mincing palfrey. Rich were his clothes also, but not so gay as the stout Bishop's. Behind these were two of the higher brethren of Emmet, and behind these again two retainers belonging to the Bishop; for the Lord Bishop of Hereford strove to be as like the great barons as was in the power of one in holy orders. When Robin saw this train drawing near, with flash of jewels and silk and jingle of silver bells on the trappings of the nags, he looked sourly upon them. Quoth he to himself, "Yon Bishop is overgaudy for a holy man. I do wonder whether his patron, who, methinks, was Saint Thomas, was given to wearing golden chains about his neck, silk clothing upon his body, and pointed shoes upon his feet; the money for all of which, God wot, hath been wrung from the sweat of poor tenants. Bishop, Bishop, thy pride may have a fall ere thou wottest of it." So the holy men came to the church; the Bishop and the Prior jesting and laughing between themselves about certain fair dames, their words more befitting the lips of laymen, methinks, than holy clerks. Then they dismounted, and the Bishop, looking around, presently caught sight of Robin standing in the doorway. "Hilloa, good fellow," quoth he in a jovial voice, "who art thou that struttest in such gay feathers?" "A harper am I from the north country," quoth Robin, "and I can touch the strings, I wot, as never another man in all merry England can do. Truly, good Lord Bishop, many a knight and burgher, clerk and layman, have danced to my music, willy-nilly, and most times greatly against their will; such is the magic of my harping. Now this day, my Lord Bishop, if I may play at this wedding, I do promise that I will cause the fair bride to love the man she marries with a love that shall last as long as that twain shall live together." "Ha! is it so?" cried the Bishop. "Meanest thou this in sooth?" And he looked keenly at Robin, who gazed boldly back again into his eyes. "Now, if thou wilt cause this maiden (who hath verily bewitched my poor cousin Stephen) thus to love the man she is to marry, as thou sayst thou canst, I will give thee whatsoever thou wilt ask me in due measure. Let me have a taste of thy skill, fellow." "Nay," quoth Robin, "my music cometh not without I choose, even at a lord bishop's bidding. In sooth, I will not play until the bride and bridegroom come." "Now, thou art a saucy varlet to speak so to my crest," quoth the Bishop, frowning on Robin. "Yet, I must needs bear with thee. Look, Prior, hither cometh our cousin Sir Stephen, and his ladylove." And now, around the bend of the highroad, came others, riding upon horses. The first of all was a tall, thin man, of knightly bearing, dressed all in black silk, with a black velvet cap upon his head, turned up with scarlet. Robin looked, and had no doubt that this was Sir Stephen, both because of his knightly carriage and of his gray hairs. Beside him rode a stout Saxon franklin, Ellen's father, Edward of Deirwold; behind those two came a litter borne by two horses, and therein was a maiden whom Robin knew must be Ellen. Behind this litter rode six men-at-arms, the sunlight flashing on their steel caps as they came jingling up the dusty road. So these also came to the church, and there Sir Stephen leaped from his horse and, coming to the litter, handed fair Ellen out therefrom. Then Robin Hood looked at her, and could wonder no longer how it came about that so proud a knight as Sir Stephen of Trent wished to marry a common franklin's daughter; nor did he wonder that no ado was made about the matter, for she was the fairest maiden that ever he had beheld. Now, however, she was all pale and drooping, like a fair white lily snapped at the stem; and so, with bent head and sorrowful look, she went within the church, Sir Stephen leading her by the hand. "Why dost thou not play, fellow?" quoth the Bishop, looking sternly at Robin. "Marry," said Robin calmly, "I will play in greater wise than Your Lordship thinks, but not till the right time hath come." Said the Bishop to himself, while he looked grimly at Robin, "When this wedding is gone by I will have this fellow well whipped for his saucy tongue and bold speech." And now fair Ellen and Sir Stephen stood before the altar, and the Bishop himself came in his robes and opened his book, whereat fair Ellen looked up and about her in bitter despair, like the fawn that finds the hounds on her haunch. Then, in all his fluttering tags and ribbons of red and yellow, Robin Hood strode forward. Three steps he took from the pillar whereby he leaned, and stood between the bride and bridegroom. "Let me look upon this lass," he said in a loud voice. "Why, how now! What have we here? Here be lilies in the cheeks, and not roses such as befit a bonny bride. This is no fit wedding. Thou, Sir Knight, so old, and she so young, and thou thinkest to make her thy wife? I tell thee it may not be, for thou art not her own true love." At this all stood amazed, and knew not where to look nor what to think or say, for they were all bewildered with the happening; so, while everyone looked at Robin as though they had been changed to stone, he clapped his bugle horn to his lips and blew three blasts so loud and clear, they echoed from floor to rafter as though they were sounded by the trump of doom. Then straightway Little John and Will Stutely came leaping and stood upon either side of Robin Hood, and quickly drew their broadswords, the while a mighty voice rolled over the heads of all, "Here be I, good master, when thou wantest me;" for it was Friar Tuck that so called from the organ loft. And now all was hubbub and noise. Stout Edward strode forward raging, and would have seized his daughter to drag her away, but Little John stepped between and thrust him back. "Stand back, old man," said he, "thou art a hobbled horse this day." "Down with the villains!" cried Sir Stephen, and felt for his sword, but it hung not beside him on his wedding day. Then the men-at-arms drew their swords, and it seemed like that blood would wet the stones; but suddenly came a bustle at the door and loud voices, steel flashed in the light, and the crash of blows sounded. The men-at-arms fell back, and up the aisle came leaping eighteen stout yeomen all clad in Lincoln green, with Allan a Dale at their head. In his hand he bore Robin Hood's good stout trusty bow of yew, and this he gave to him, kneeling the while upon one knee. Then up spake Edward of Deirwold in a deep voice of anger, "Is it thou, Allan a Dale, that hath bred all this coil in a church?" "Nay," quoth merry Robin, "that have I done, and I care not who knoweth it, for my name is Robin Hood." At this name a sudden silence fell. The Prior of Emmet and those that belonged to him gathered together like a flock of frightened sheep when the scent of the wolf is nigh, while the Bishop of Hereford, laying aside his book, crossed himself devoutly. "Now Heaven keep us this day," said he, "from that evil man!" "Nay," quoth Robin, "I mean you no harm; but here is fair Ellen's betrothed husband, and she shall marry him or pain will be bred to some of you." Then up spake stout Edward in a loud and angry voice, "Now I say nay! I am her father, and she shall marry Sir Stephen and none other." Now all this time, while everything was in turmoil about him, Sir Stephen had been standing in proud and scornful silence. "Nay, fellow," said he coldly, "thou mayst take thy daughter back again; I would not marry her after this day's doings could I gain all merry England thereby. I tell thee plainly, I loved thy daughter, old as I am, and would have taken her up like a jewel from the sty, yet, truly, I knew not that she did love this fellow, and was beloved by him. Maiden, if thou dost rather choose a beggarly minstrel than a high-born knight, take thy choice. I do feel it shame that I should thus stand talking amid this herd, and so I will leave you." Thus saying, he turned and, gathering his men about him, walked proudly down the aisle. Then all the yeomen were silenced by the scorn of his words. Only Friar Tuck leaned over the edge of the choir loft and called out to him ere he had gone, "Good den, Sir Knight. Thou wottest old bones must alway make room for young blood." Sir Stephen neither answered nor looked up, but passed out from the church as though he had heard nought, his men following him. Then the Bishop of Hereford spoke hastily, "I, too, have no business here, and so will depart." And he made as though he would go. But Robin Hood laid hold of his clothes and held him. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," said he, "I have yet somewhat to say to thee." The Bishop's face fell, but he stayed as Robin bade him, for he saw he could not go. Then Robin Hood turned to stout Edward of Deirwold, and said he, "Give thy blessing on thy daughter's marriage to this yeoman, and all will be well. Little John, give me the bags of gold. Look, farmer. Here are two hundred bright golden angels; give thy blessing, as I say, and I will count them out to thee as thy daughter's dower. Give not thy blessing, and she shall be married all the same, but not so much as a cracked farthing shall cross thy palm. Choose." Then Edward looked upon the ground with bent brows, turning the matter over and over in his mind; but he was a shrewd man and one, withal, that made the best use of a cracked pipkin; so at last he looked up and said, but in no joyous tone, "If the wench will go her own gait, let her go. I had thought to make a lady of her; yet if she chooses to be what she is like to be, I have nought to do with her henceforth. Ne'ertheless I will give her my blessing when she is duly wedded." "It may not be," spake up one of those of Emmet. "The banns have not been duly published, neither is there any priest here to marry them." "How sayst thou?" roared Tuck from the choir loft. "No priest? Marry, here stands as holy a man as thou art, any day of the week, a clerk in orders, I would have thee know. As for the question of banns, stumble not over that straw, brother, for I will publish them." So saying, he called the banns; and, says the old ballad, lest three times should not be enough, he published them nine times o'er. Then straightway he came down from the loft and forthwith performed the marriage service; and so Allan and Ellen were duly wedded. And now Robin counted out two hundred golden angels to Edward of Deirwold, and he, upon his part, gave his blessing, yet not, I wot, as though he meant it with overmuch good will. Then the stout yeomen crowded around and grasped Allan's palm, and he, holding Ellen's hand within his own, looked about him all dizzy with his happiness. Then at last jolly Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford, who had been looking on at all that passed with a grim look. "My Lord Bishop," quoth he, "thou mayst bring to thy mind that thou didst promise me that did I play in such wise as to cause this fair lass to love her husband, thou wouldst give me whatsoever I asked in reason. I have played my play, and she loveth her husband, which she would not have done but for me; so now fulfill thy promise. Thou hast upon thee that which, methinks, thou wouldst be the better without; therefore, I prythee, give me that golden chain that hangeth about thy neck as a wedding present for this fair bride." Then the Bishop's cheeks grew red with rage and his eyes flashed. He looked at Robin with a fell look, but saw that in the yeoman's face which bade him pause. Then slowly he took the chain from about his neck and handed it to Robin, who flung it over Ellen's head so that it hung glittering about her shoulders. Then said merry Robin, "I thank thee, on the bride's part, for thy handsome gift, and truly thou thyself art more seemly without it. Now, shouldst thou ever come nigh to Sherwood I much hope that I shall give thee there such a feast as thou hast ne'er had in all thy life before." "May Heaven forfend!" cried the Bishop earnestly; for he knew right well what manner of feast it was that Robin Hood gave his guests in Sherwood Forest. But now Robin Hood gathered his men together, and, with Allan and his young bride in their midst, they all turned their footsteps toward the woodlands. On the way thither Friar Tuck came close to Robin and plucked him by the sleeve. "Thou dost lead a merry life, good master," quoth he, "but dost thou not think that it would be for the welfare of all your souls to have a good stout chaplain, such as I, to oversee holy matters? Truly, I do love this life mightily." At this merry Robin Hood laughed amain, and bade him stay and become one of their band if he wished. That night there was such a feast held in the greenwood as Nottinghamshire never saw before. To that feast you and I were not bidden, and pity it is that we were not; so, lest we should both feel the matter the more keenly, I will say no more about it. Robin Hood Aids a Sorrowful Knight SO PASSED the gentle springtime away in budding beauty; its silver showers and sunshine, its green meadows and its flowers. So, likewise, passed the summer with its yellow sunlight, its quivering heat and deep, bosky foliage, its long twilights and its mellow nights, through which the frogs croaked and fairy folk were said to be out on the hillsides. All this had passed and the time of fall had come, bringing with it its own pleasures and joyousness; for now, when the harvest was gathered home, merry bands of gleaners roamed the country about, singing along the roads in the daytime, and sleeping beneath the hedgerows and the hay-ricks at night. Now the hips burned red in the tangled thickets and the hews waxed black in the hedgerows, the stubble lay all crisp and naked to the sky, and the green leaves were fast turning russet and brown. Also, at this merry season, good things of the year are gathered in in great store. Brown ale lies ripening in the cellar, hams and bacon hang in the smoke-shed, and crabs are stowed away in the straw for roasting in the wintertime, when the north wind piles the snow in drifts around the gables and the fire crackles warm upon the hearth. So passed the seasons then, so they pass now, and so they will pass in time to come, while we come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are soon forgotten. Quoth Robin Hood, snuffing the air, "Here is a fair day, Little John, and one that we can ill waste in idleness. Choose such men as thou dost need, and go thou east while I will wend to the west, and see that each of us bringeth back some goodly guest to dine this day beneath the greenwood tree." "Marry," cried Little John, clapping his palms together for joy, "thy bidding fitteth my liking like heft to blade. I'll bring thee back a guest this day, or come not back mine own self." Then they each chose such of the band as they wished, and so went forth by different paths from the forest. Now, you and I cannot go two ways at the same time while we join in these merry doings; so we will e'en let Little John follow his own path while we tuck up our skirts and trudge after Robin Hood. And here is good company, too; Robin Hood, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, Will Scathelock, Midge, the Miller's son, and others. A score or more of stout fellows had abided in the forest, with Friar Tuck, to make ready for the homecoming, but all the rest were gone either with Robin Hood or Little John. They traveled onward, Robin following his fancy and the others following Robin. Now they wended their way through an open dale with cottage and farm lying therein, and now again they entered woodlands once more. Passing by fair Mansfield Town, with its towers and battlements and spires all smiling in the sun, they came at last out of the forest lands. Onward they journeyed, through highway and byway, through villages where goodwives and merry lasses peeped through the casements at the fine show of young men, until at last they came over beyond Alverton in Derbyshire. By this time high noontide had come, yet they had met no guest such as was worth their while to take back to Sherwood; so, coming at last to a certain spot where a shrine stood at the crossing of two roads, Robin called upon them to stop, for here on either side was shelter of high hedgerows, behind which was good hiding, whence they could watch the roads at their ease, while they ate their midday meal. Quoth merry Robin, "Here, methinks, is good lodging, where peaceful folk, such as we be, can eat in quietness; therefore we will rest here, and see what may, perchance, fall into our luck-pot." So they crossed a stile and came behind a hedgerow where the mellow sunlight was bright and warm, and where the grass was soft, and there sat them down. Then each man drew from the pouch that hung beside him that which he had brought to eat, for a merry walk such as this had been sharpens the appetite till it is as keen as a March wind. So no more words were spoken, but each man saved his teeth for better use--munching at brown crust and cold meat right lustily. In front of them, one of the highroads crawled up the steep hill and then dipped suddenly over its crest, sharp-cut with hedgerow and shaggy grass against the sky. Over the top of the windy hill peeped the eaves of a few houses of the village that fell back into the valley behind; there, also, showed the top of a windmill, the sails slowly rising and dipping from behind the hill against the clear blue sky, as the light wind moved them with creaking and labored swing. So the yeomen lay behind the hedge and finished their midday meal; but still the time slipped along and no one came. At last, a man came slowly riding over the hill and down the stony road toward the spot where Robin and his band lay hidden. He was a good stout knight, but sorrowful of face and downcast of mien. His clothes were plain and rich, but no chain of gold, such as folk of his stand in life wore at most times, hung around his neck, and no jewel was about him; yet no one could mistake him for aught but one of proud and noble blood. His head was bowed upon his breast and his hands drooped limp on either side; and so he came slowly riding, as though sunk in sad thoughts, while even his good horse, the reins loose upon his neck, walked with hanging head, as though he shared his master's grief. Quoth Robin Hood, "Yon is verily a sorry-looking gallant, and doth seem to have donned ill-content with his jerkin this morning; nevertheless, I will out and talk with him, for there may be some pickings here for a hungry daw. Methinks his dress is rich, though he himself is so downcast. Bide ye here till I look into this matter." So saying, he arose and left them, crossed the road to the shrine, and there stood, waiting for the sorrowful knight to come near him. So, presently, when the knight came riding slowly along, jolly Robin stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle rein. "Hold, Sir Knight," quoth he. "I prythee tarry for a short time, for I have a few words to say to thee." "What art thou, friend, who dost stop a traveler in this manner upon his most gracious Majesty's highway?" said the Knight. "Marry," quoth Robin, "that is a question hard to answer. One man calleth me kind, another calleth me cruel; this one calleth me good honest fellow, and that one, vile thief. Truly, the world hath as many eyes to look upon a man withal as there are spots on a toad; so, with what pair of eyes thou regardest me lieth entirely with thine own self. My name is Robin Hood." "Truly, good Robin," said the Knight, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, "thou hast a quaint conceit. As for the pair of eyes with which I regard thee, I would say that they are as favorable as may be, for I hear much good of thee and little ill. What is thy will of me?" "Now, I make my vow, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "thou hast surely learned thy wisdom of good Gaffer Swanthold, for he sayeth, 'Fair words are as easy spoke as foul, and bring good will in the stead of blows.' Now I will show thee the truth of this saying; for, if thou wilt go with me this day to Sherwood Forest, I will give thee as merry a feast as ever thou hadst in all thy life." "Thou art indeed kind," said the Knight, "but methinks thou wilt find me but an ill-seeming and sorrowful guest. Thou hadst best let me pass on my way in peace." "Nay," quoth Robin, "thou mightst go thine own way but for one thing, and that I will tell thee. We keep an inn, as it were, in the very depths of Sherwood, but so far from highroads and beaten paths that guests do not often come nigh us; so I and my friends set off merrily and seek them when we grow dull of ourselves. Thus the matter stands, Sir Knight; yet I will furthermore tell thee that we count upon our guests paying a reckoning." "I take thy meaning, friend," said the Knight gravely, "but I am not thy man, for I have no money by me." "Is it sooth?" said Robin, looking at the Knight keenly. "I can scarce choose but believe thee; yet, Sir Knight, there be those of thy order whose word is not to be trusted as much as they would have others believe. Thou wilt think no ill if I look for myself in this matter." Then, still holding the horse by the bridle rein, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle, whereupon fourscore yeomen came leaping over the stile and ran to where the Knight and Robin stood. "These," said Robin, looking upon them proudly, "are some of my merry men. They share and share alike with me all joys and troubles, gains and losses. Sir Knight, I prythee tell me what money thou hast about thee." For a time the Knight said not a word, but a slow red arose into his cheeks; at last he looked Robin in the face and said, "I know not why I should be ashamed, for it should be no shame to me; but, friend, I tell thee the truth, when I say that in my purse are ten shillings, and that that is every groat that Sir Richard of the Lea hath in all the wide world." When Sir Richard ended a silence fell, until at last Robin said, "And dost thou pledge me thy knightly word that this is all thou hast with thee?" "Yea," answered Sir Richard, "I do pledge thee my most solemn word, as a true knight, that it is all the money I have in the world. Nay, here is my purse, ye may find for yourselves the truth of what I say." And he held his purse out to Robin. "Put up thy purse, Sir Richard," quoth Robin. "Far be it from me to doubt the word of so gentle a knight. The proud I strive to bring low, but those that walk in sorrow I would aid if I could. Come, Sir Richard, cheer up thy heart and go with us into the greenwood. Even I may perchance aid thee, for thou surely knowest how the good Athelstane was saved by the little blind mole that digged a trench over which he that sought the king's life stumbled." "Truly, friend," said Sir Richard, "methinks thou meanest kindness in thine own way; nevertheless my troubles are such that it is not likely that thou canst cure them. But I will go with thee this day into Sherwood." Hereupon he turned his horse's head, and they all wended their way to the woodlands, Robin walking on one side of the Knight and Will Scarlet on the other, while the rest of the band trudged behind. After they had traveled thus for a time Robin Hood spake. "Sir Knight," said he, "I would not trouble thee with idle questions; but dost thou find it in thy heart to tell me thy sorrows?" "Truly, Robin," quoth the Knight, "I see no reason why I should not do so. Thus it is: My castle and my lands are in pawn for a debt that I owe. Three days hence the money must be paid or else all mine estate is lost forever, for then it falls into the hands of the Priory of Emmet, and what they swallow they never give forth again." Quoth Robin, "I understand not why those of thy kind live in such a manner that all their wealth passeth from them like snow beneath the springtide sun." "Thou wrongest me, Robin," said the Knight, "for listen: I have a son but twenty winters old, nevertheless he has won his spurs as knight. Last year, on a certain evil day, the jousts were held at Chester, and thither my son went, as did I and my lady wife. I wot it was a proud time for us, for he unhorsed each knight that he tilted against. At last he ran a course with a certain great knight, Sir Walter of Lancaster, yet, though my son was so youthful, he kept his seat, albeit both spears were shivered to the heft; but it happened that a splinter of my boy's lance ran through the visor of Sir Walter's helmet and pierced through his eye into his brain, so that he died ere his esquire could unlace his helm. Now, Robin, Sir Walter had great friends at court, therefore his kinsmen stirred up things against my son so that, to save him from prison, I had to pay a ransom of six hundred pounds in gold. All might have gone well even yet, only that, by ins and outs and crookedness of laws, I was shorn like a sheep that is clipped to the quick. So it came that I had to pawn my lands to the Priory of Emmet for more money, and a hard bargain they drove with me in my hour of need. Yet I would have thee understand I grieve so for my lands only because of my dear lady wife." "But where is thy son now?" asked Robin, who had listened closely to all the Knight had said. "In Palestine," said Sir Richard, "battling like a brave Christian soldier for the cross and the holy sepulcher. Truly, England was an ill place for him because of Sir Walter's death and the hate of the Lancastrian's kinsmen." "Truly," said Robin, much moved, "thine is a hard lot. But tell me, what is owing to Emmet for thine estates?" "Only four hundred pounds," said Sir Richard. At this, Robin smote his thigh in anger. "O the bloodsuckers!" cried he. "A noble estate to be forfeit for four hundred pounds! But what will befall thee if thou dost lose thy lands, Sir Richard?" "It is not mine own lot that doth trouble me in that case," said the Knight, "but my dear lady's; for should I lose my land she will have to betake herself to some kinsman and there abide in charity, which, methinks, would break her proud heart. As for me, I will over the salt sea, and so to Palestine to join my son in fight for the holy sepulcher." Then up spake Will Scarlet. "But hast thou no friend that will help thee in thy dire need?" "Never a man," said Sir Richard. "While I was rich enow at home, and had friends, they blew great boasts of how they loved me. But when the oak falls in the forest the swine run from beneath it lest they should be smitten down also. So my friends have left me; for not only am I poor but I have great enemies." Then Robin said, "Thou sayst thou hast no friends, Sir Richard. I make no boast, but many have found Robin Hood a friend in their troubles. Cheer up, Sir Knight, I may help thee yet." The Knight shook his head with a faint smile, but for all that, Robin's words made him more blithe of heart, for in truth hope, be it never so faint, bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat. The day was well-nigh gone when they came near to the greenwood tree. Even at a distance they saw by the number of men that Little John had come back with some guest, but when they came near enough, whom should they find but the Lord Bishop of Hereford! The good Bishop was in a fine stew, I wot. Up and down he walked beneath the tree like a fox caught in a hencoop. Behind him were three Black Friars standing close together in a frightened group, like three black sheep in a tempest. Hitched to the branches of the trees close at hand were six horses, one of them a barb with gay trappings upon which the Bishop was wont to ride, and the others laden with packs of divers shapes and kinds, one of which made Robin's eyes glisten, for it was a box not overlarge, but heavily bound with bands and ribs of iron. When the Bishop saw Robin and those with him come into the open he made as though he would have run toward the yeoman, but the fellow that guarded the Bishop and the three friars thrust his quarterstaff in front, so that his lordship was fain to stand back, though with frowning brow and angry speech. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," cried jolly Robin in a loud voice, when he saw what had passed, "I will come to thee with all speed, for I would rather see thee than any man in merry England." So saying, he quickened his steps and soon came to where the Bishop stood fuming. "How now," quoth the Bishop in a loud and angry voice, when Robin had so come to him, "is this the way that thou and thy band treat one so high in the church as I am? I and these brethren were passing peacefully along the highroad with our pack horses, and a half score of men to guard them, when up comes a great strapping fellow full seven feet high, with fourscore or more men back of him, and calls upon me to stop--me, the Lord Bishop of Hereford, mark thou! Whereupon my armed guards--beshrew them for cowards!--straight ran away. But look ye; not only did this fellow stop me, but he threatened me, saying that Robin Hood would strip me as bare as a winter hedge. Then, besides all this, he called me such vile names as 'fat priest,' 'man-eating bishop,' 'money-gorging usurer,' and what not, as though I were no more than a strolling beggar or tinker." At this, the Bishop glared like an angry cat, while even Sir Richard laughed; only Robin kept a grave face. "Alas! my lord," said he, "that thou hast been so ill-treated by my band! I tell thee truly that we greatly reverence thy cloth. Little John, stand forth straightway." At these words Little John came forward, twisting his face into a whimsical look, as though he would say, "Ha' mercy upon me, good master." Then Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford and said, "Was this the man who spake so boldly to Your Lordship?" "Ay, truly it was the same," said the Bishop, "a naughty fellow, I wot. "And didst thou, Little John," said Robin in a sad voice, "call his lordship a fat priest?" "Ay," said Little John sorrowfully. "And a man-eating bishop?" "Ay," said Little John, more sorrowfully than before. "And a money-gorging usurer?" "Ay," said Little John in so sorrowful a voice that it might have drawn tears from the Dragon of Wentley. "Alas, that these things should be!" said jolly Robin, turning to the Bishop, "for I have ever found Little John a truthful man." At this, a roar of laughter went up, whereat the blood rushed into the Bishop's face till it was cherry red from crown to chin; but he said nothing and only swallowed his words, though they well-nigh choked him. "Nay, my Lord Bishop," said Robin, "we are rough fellows, but I trust not such ill men as thou thinkest, after all. There is not a man here that would harm a hair of thy reverence's head. I know thou art galled by our jesting, but we are all equal here in the greenwood, for there are no bishops nor barons nor earls among us, but only men, so thou must share our life with us while thou dost abide here. Come, busk ye, my merry men, and get the feast ready. Meantime, we will show our guests our woodland sports." So, while some went to kindle the fires for roasting meats, others ran leaping to get their cudgels and longbows. Then Robin brought forward Sir Richard of the Lea. "My Lord Bishop," said he, "here is another guest that we have with us this day. I wish that thou mightest know him better, for I and all my men will strive to honor you both at this merrymaking." "Sir Richard," said the Bishop in a reproachful tone, "methinks thou and I are companions and fellow sufferers in this den of--" He was about to say "thieves," but he stopped suddenly and looked askance at Robin Hood. "Speak out, Bishop," quoth Robin, laughing. "We of Sherwood check not an easy flow of words. 'Den of thieves' thou west about to say." Quoth the Bishop, "Mayhap that was what I meant to say, Sir Richard; but this I will say, that I saw thee just now laugh at the scurrilous jests of these fellows. It would have been more becoming of thee, methinks, to have checked them with frowns instead of spurring them on by laughter." "I meant no harm to thee," said Sir Richard, "but a merry jest is a merry jest, and I may truly say I would have laughed at it had it been against mine own self." But now Robin Hood called upon certain ones of his band who spread soft moss upon the ground and laid deerskins thereon. Then Robin bade his guests be seated, and so they all three sat down, some of the chief men, such as Little John, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, and others, stretching themselves upon the ground near by. Then a garland was set up at the far end of the glade, and thereat the bowmen shot, and such shooting was done that day as it would have made one's heart leap to see. And all the while Robin talked so quaintly to the Bishop and the Knight that, the one forgetting his vexation and the other his troubles, they both laughed aloud again and again. Then Allan a Dale came forth and tuned his harp, and all was hushed around, and he sang in his wondrous voice songs of love, of war, of glory, and of sadness, and all listened without a movement or a sound. So Allan sang till the great round silver moon gleamed with its clear white light amid the upper tangle of the mazy branches of the trees. At last two fellows came to say that the feast was ready spread, so Robin, leading his guests with either hand, brought them to where great smoking dishes that sent savory smells far and near stood along the white linen cloth spread on the grass. All around was a glare of torches that lit everything up with a red light. Then, straightway sitting down, all fell to with noise and hubbub, the rattling of platters blending with the sound of loud talking and laughter. A long time the feast lasted, but at last all was over, and the bright wine and humming ale passed briskly. Then Robin Hood called aloud for silence, and all was hushed till he spoke. "I have a story to tell you all, so listen to what I have to say," quoth he; whereupon, without more ado, he told them all about Sir Richard, and how his lands were in pawn. But, as he went on, the Bishop's face, that had erst been smiling and ruddy with merriment, waxed serious, and he put aside the horn of wine he held in his hand, for he knew the story of Sir Richard, and his heart sank within him with grim forebodings. Then, when Robin Hood had done, he turned to the Bishop of Hereford. "Now, my Lord Bishop," said he, "dost thou not think this is ill done of anyone, much more of a churchman, who should live in humbleness and charity?" To this the Bishop answered not a word but looked upon the ground with moody eyes. Quoth Robin, "Now, thou art the richest bishop in all England; canst thou not help this needy brother?" But still the Bishop answered not a word. Then Robin turned to Little John, and quoth he, "Go thou and Will Stutely and bring forth those five pack horses yonder." Whereupon the two yeomen did as they were bidden, those about the cloth making room on the green, where the light was brightest, for the five horses which Little John and Will Stutely presently led forward. "Who hath the score of the goods?" asked Robin Hood, looking at the Black Friars. Then up spake the smallest of all, in a trembling voice--an old man he was, with a gentle, wrinkled face. "That have I; but, I pray thee, harm me not." "Nay," quoth Robin, "I have never harmed harmless man yet; but give it to me, good father." So the old man did as he was bidden, and handed Robin the tablet on which was marked down the account of the various packages upon the horses. This Robin handed to Will Scarlet, bidding him to read the same. So Will Scarlet, lifting his voice that all might hear, began: "Three bales of silk to Quentin, the mercer at Ancaster." "That we touch not," quoth Robin, "for this Quentin is an honest fellow, who hath risen by his own thrift." So the bales of silk were laid aside unopened. "One bale of silk velvet for the Abbey of Beaumont." "What do these priests want of silk velvet?" quoth Robin. "Nevertheless, though they need it not, I will not take all from them. Measure it off into three lots, one to be sold for charity, one for us, and one for the abbey." So this, too, was done as Robin Hood bade. "Twoscore of great wax candles for the Chapel of Saint Thomas." "That belongeth fairly to the chapel," quoth Robin, "so lay it to one side. Far be it from us to take from the blessed Saint Thomas that which belongeth to him." So this, also, was done according to Robin's bidding, and the candles were laid to one side, along with honest Quentin's unopened bales of silk. So the list was gone through with, and the goods adjudged according to what Robin thought most fit. Some things were laid aside untouched, and many were opened and divided into three equal parts, for charity, for themselves, and for the owners. And now all the ground in the torchlight was covered over with silks and velvets and cloths of gold and cases of rich wines, and so they came to the last line upon the tablet--"A box belonging to the Lord Bishop of Hereford." At these words the Bishop shook as with a chill, and the box was set upon the ground. "My Lord Bishop, hast thou the key of this box?" asked Robin. The Bishop shook his head. "Go, Will Scarlet," said Robin, "thou art the strongest man here--bring a sword straightway, and cut this box open, if thou canst." Then up rose Will Scarlet and left them, coming back in a short time, bearing a great two-handed sword. Thrice he smote that strong, ironbound box, and at the third blow it burst open and a great heap of gold came rolling forth, gleaming red in the light of the torches. At this sight a murmur went all around among the band, like the sound of the wind in distant trees; but no man came forward nor touched the money. Quoth Robin, "Thou, Will Scarlet, thou, Allan a Dale, and thou, Little John, count it over." A long time it took to count all the money, and when it had been duly scored up, Will Scarlet called out that there were fifteen hundred golden pounds in all. But in among the gold they found a paper, and this Will Scarlet read in a loud voice, and all heard that this money was the rental and fines and forfeits from certain estates belonging to the Bishopric of Hereford. "My Lord Bishop," said Robin Hood, "I will not strip thee, as Little John said, like a winter hedge, for thou shalt take back one third of thy money. One third of it thou canst well spare to us for thy entertainment and that of thy train, for thou art very rich; one third of it thou canst better spare for charity, for, Bishop, I hear that thou art a hard master to those beneath thee and a close hoarder of gains that thou couldst better and with more credit to thyself give to charity than spend upon thy own likings." At this the Bishop looked up, but he could say never a word; yet he was thankful to keep some of his wealth. Then Robin turned to Sir Richard of the Lea, and quoth he, "Now, Sir Richard, the church seemed like to despoil thee, therefore some of the overplus of church gains may well be used in aiding thee. Thou shalt take that five hundred pounds laid aside for people more in need than the Bishop is, and shalt pay thy debts to Emmet therewith." Sir Richard looked at Robin until something arose in his eyes that made all the lights and the faces blur together. At last he said, "I thank thee, friend, from my heart, for what thou doest for me; yet, think not ill if I cannot take thy gift freely. But this I will do: I will take the money and pay my debts, and in a year and a day hence will return it safe either to thee or to the Lord Bishop of Hereford. For this I pledge my most solemn knightly word. I feel free to borrow, for I know no man that should be more bound to aid me than one so high in that church that hath driven such a hard bargain." "Truly, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "I do not understand those fine scruples that weigh with those of thy kind; but, nevertheless, it shall all be as thou dost wish. But thou hadst best bring the money to me at the end of the year, for mayhap I may make better use of it than the Bishop." Thereupon, turning to those near him, he gave his orders, and five hundred pounds were counted out and tied up in a leathern bag for Sir Richard. The rest of the treasure was divided, and part taken to the treasurehouse of the band, and part put by with the other things for the Bishop. Then Sir Richard arose. "I cannot stay later, good friends," said he, "for my lady will wax anxious if I come not home; so I crave leave to depart." Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose, and Robin said, "We cannot let thee go hence unattended, Sir Richard." Then up spake Little John, "Good master, let me choose a score of stout fellows from the band, and let us arm ourselves in a seemly manner and so serve as retainers to Sir Richard till he can get others in our stead." "Thou hast spoken well, Little John, and it shall be done," said Robin. Then up spake Will Scarlet, "Let us give him a golden chain to hang about his neck, such as befits one of his blood, and also golden spurs to wear at his heels." Then Robin Hood said, "Thou hast spoken well, Will Scarlet, and it shall be done." Then up spake Will Stutely, "Let us give him yon bale of rich velvet and yon roll of cloth of gold to take home to his noble lady wife as a present from Robin Hood and his merry men all." At this all clapped their hands for joy, and Robin said: "Thou hast well spoken, Will Stutely, and it shall be done." Then Sir Richard of the Lea looked all around and strove to speak, but could scarcely do so for the feelings that choked him; at last he said in a husky, trembling voice, "Ye shall all see, good friends, that Sir Richard o' the Lea will ever remember your kindness this day. And if ye be at any time in dire need or trouble, come to me and my lady, and the walls of Castle Lea shall be battered down ere harm shall befall you. I--" He could say nothing further, but turned hastily away. But now Little John and nineteen stout fellows whom he had chosen for his band, came forth all ready for the journey. Each man wore upon his breast a coat of linked mail, and on his head a cap of steel, and at his side a good stout sword. A gallant show they made as they stood all in a row. Then Robin came and threw a chain of gold about Sir Richard's neck, and Will Scarlet knelt and buckled the golden spurs upon his heel; and now Little John led forward Sir Richard's horse, and the Knight mounted. He looked down at Robin for a little time, then of a sudden stooped and kissed his cheek. All the forest glades rang with the shout that went up as the Knight and the yeomen marched off through the woodland with glare of torches and gleam of steel, and so were gone. Then up spake the Bishop of Hereford in a mournful voice, "I, too, must be jogging, good fellow, for the night waxes late." But Robin laid his hand upon the Bishop's arm and stayed him. "Be not so hasty, Lord Bishop," said he. "Three days hence Sir Richard must pay his debts to Emmet; until that time thou must be content to abide with me lest thou breed trouble for the Knight. I promise thee that thou shalt have great sport, for I know that thou art fond of hunting the dun deer. Lay by thy mantle of melancholy, and strive to lead a joyous yeoman life for three stout days. I promise thee thou shalt be sorry to go when the time has come." So the Bishop and his train abided with Robin for three days, and much sport his lordship had in that time, so that, as Robin had said, when the time had come for him to go he was sorry to leave the greenwood. At the end of three days Robin set him free, and sent him forth from the forest with a guard of yeomen to keep freebooters from taking what was left of the packs and bundles. But, as the Bishop rode away, he vowed within himself that he would sometime make Robin rue the day that he stopped him in Sherwood. But now we shall follow Sir Richard; so listen, and you shall hear what befell him, and how he paid his debts at Emmet Priory, and likewise in due season to Robin Hood. How Sir Richard of the Lea Paid His Debts THE LONG HIGHWAY stretched straight on, gray and dusty in the sun. On either side were dikes full of water bordered by osiers, and far away in the distance stood the towers of Emmet Priory with tall poplar trees around. Along the causeway rode a knight with a score of stout men-at-arms behind him. The Knight was clad in a plain, long robe of gray serge, gathered in at the waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hung a long dagger and a stout sword. But though he was so plainly dressed himself, the horse he rode was a noble barb, and its trappings were rich with silk and silver bells. So thus the band journeyed along the causeway between the dikes, till at last they reached the great gate of Emmet Priory. There the Knight called to one of his men and bade him knock at the porter's lodge with the heft of his sword. The porter was drowsing on his bench within the lodge, but at the knock he roused himself and, opening the wicket, came hobbling forth and greeted the Knight, while a tame starling that hung in a wicker cage within piped out, "_In coelo quies! In coelo quies!_" such being the words that the poor old lame porter had taught him to speak. "Where is thy prior?" asked the Knight of the old porter. "He is at meat, good knight, and he looketh for thy coming," quoth the porter, "for, if I mistake not, thou art Sir Richard of the Lea." "I am Sir Richard of the Lea; then I will go seek him forthwith," said the Knight. "But shall I not send thy horse to stable?" said the porter. "By Our Lady, it is the noblest nag, and the best harnessed, that e'er I saw in all my life before." And he stroked the horse's flank with his palm. "Nay," quoth Sir Richard, "the stables of this place are not for me, so make way, I prythee." So saying, he pushed forward, and, the gates being opened, he entered the stony courtyard of the Priory, his men behind him. In they came with rattle of steel and clashing of swords, and ring of horses' feet on cobblestones, whereat a flock of pigeons that strutted in the sun flew with flapping wings to the high eaves of the round towers. While the Knight was riding along the causeway to Emmet, a merry feast was toward in the refectory there. The afternoon sun streamed in through the great arched windows and lay in broad squares of light upon the stone floor and across the board covered with a snowy linen cloth, whereon was spread a princely feast. At the head of the table sat Prior Vincent of Emmet all clad in soft robes of fine cloth and silk; on his head was a black velvet cap picked out with gold, and around his neck hung a heavy chain of gold, with a great locket pendant therefrom. Beside him, on the arm of his great chair, roosted his favorite falcon, for the Prior was fond of the gentle craft of hawking. On his right hand sat the Sheriff of Nottingham in rich robes of purple all trimmed about with fur, and on his left a famous doctor of law in dark and sober garb. Below these sat the high cellarer of Emmet, and others chief among the brethren. Jest and laughter passed around, and all was as merry as merry could be. The wizened face of the man of law was twisted into a wrinkled smile, for in his pouch were fourscore golden angels that the Prior had paid him in fee for the case betwixt him and Sir Richard of the Lea. The learned doctor had been paid beforehand, for he had not overmuch trust in the holy Vincent of Emmet. Quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "But art thou sure, Sir Prior, that thou hast the lands so safe?" "Ay, marry," said Prior Vincent, smacking his lips after a deep draught of wine, "I have kept a close watch upon him, albeit he was unawares of the same, and I know right well that he hath no money to pay me withal." "Ay, true," said the man of law in a dry, husky voice, "his land is surely forfeit if he cometh not to pay; but, Sir Prior, thou must get a release beneath his sign manual, or else thou canst not hope to hold the land without trouble from him." "Yea," said the Prior, "so thou hast told me ere now, but I know that this knight is so poor that he will gladly sign away his lands for two hundred pounds of hard money." Then up spake the high cellarer, "Methinks it is a shame to so drive a misfortunate knight to the ditch. I think it sorrow that the noblest estate in Derbyshire should so pass away from him for a paltry five hundred pounds. Truly, I--" "How now," broke in the Prior in a quivering voice, his eyes glistening and his cheeks red with anger, "dost thou prate to my very beard, sirrah? By Saint Hubert, thou hadst best save thy breath to cool thy pottage, else it may scald thy mouth." "Nay," said the man of law smoothly, "I dare swear this same knight will never come to settlement this day, but will prove recreant. Nevertheless, we will seek some means to gain his lands from him, so never fear." But even as the doctor spoke, there came a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs and a jingle of iron mail in the courtyard below. Then up spake the Prior and called upon one of the brethren that sat below the salt, and bade him look out of the window and see who was below, albeit he knew right well it could be none but Sir Richard. So the brother arose and went and looked, and he said, "I see below a score of stout men-at-arms and a knight just dismounting from his horse. He is dressed in long robes of gray which, methinks, are of poor seeming; but the horse he rideth upon hath the richest coursing that ever I saw. The Knight dismounts and they come this way, and are even now below in the great hall." "Lo, see ye there now," quoth Prior Vincent. "Here ye have a knight with so lean a purse as scarce to buy him a crust of bread to munch, yet he keeps a band of retainers and puts rich trappings upon his horse's hide, while his own back goeth bare. Is it not well that such men should be brought low?" "But art thou sure," said the little doctor tremulously, "that this knight will do us no harm? Such as he are fierce when crossed, and he hath a band of naughty men at his heels. Mayhap thou hadst better give an extension of his debt." Thus he spake, for he was afraid Sir Richard might do him a harm. "Thou needst not fear," said the Prior, looking down at the little man beside him. "This knight is gentle and would as soon think of harming an old woman as thee." As the Prior finished, a door at the lower end of the refectory swung open, and in came Sir Richard, with folded hands and head bowed upon his breast. Thus humbly he walked slowly up the hall, while his men-at-arms stood about the door. When he had come to where the Prior sat, he knelt upon one knee. "Save and keep thee, Sir Prior," said he, "I am come to keep my day." Then the first word that the Prior said to him was "Hast thou brought my money?" "Alas! I have not so much as one penny upon my body," said the Knight; whereat the Prior's eyes sparkled. "Now, thou art a shrewd debtor, I wot," said he. Then, "Sir Sheriff, I drink to thee." But still the Knight kneeled upon the hard stones, so the Prior turned to him again. "What wouldst thou have?" quoth he sharply. At these words, a slow red mounted into the Knight's cheeks; but still he knelt. "I would crave thy mercy," said he. "As thou hopest for Heaven's mercy, show mercy to me. Strip me not of my lands and so reduce a true knight to poverty." "Thy day is broken and thy lands forfeit," said the man of law, plucking up his spirits at the Knight's humble speech. Quoth Sir Richard, "Thou man of law, wilt thou not befriend me in mine hour of need?" "Nay," said the other, "I hold with this holy Prior, who hath paid me my fees in hard gold, so that I am bounder to him." "Wilt thou not be my friend, Sir Sheriff?" said Sir Richard. "Nay, 'fore Heaven," quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "this is no business of mine, yet I will do what I may," and he nudged the Prior beneath the cloth with his knee. "Wilt thou not ease him of some of his debts, Sir Prior?" At this the Prior smiled grimly. "Pay me three hundred pounds, Sir Richard," said he, "and I will give thee quittance of thy debt." "Thou knowest, Sir Prior, that it is as easy for me to pay four hundred pounds as three hundred," said Sir Richard. "But wilt thou not give me another twelvemonth to pay my debt?" "Not another day," said the Prior sternly. "And is this all thou wilt do for me?" asked the Knight. "Now, out upon thee, false knight!" cried the Prior, bursting forth in anger. "Either pay thy debt as I have said, or release thy land and get thee gone from out my hall." Then Sir Richard arose to his feet. "Thou false, lying priest!" said he in so stern a voice that the man of law shrunk affrighted, "I am no false knight, as thou knowest full well, but have even held my place in the press and the tourney. Hast thou so little courtesy that thou wouldst see a true knight kneel for all this time, or see him come into thy hall and never offer him meat or drink?" Then quoth the man of law in a trembling voice, "This is surely an ill way to talk of matters appertaining to business; let us be mild in speech. What wilt thou pay this knight, Sir Prior, to give thee release of his land?" "I would have given him two hundred pounds," quoth the Prior, "but since he hath spoken so vilely to my teeth, not one groat over one hundred pounds will he get." "Hadst thou offered me a thousand pounds, false prior," said the Knight, "thou wouldst not have got an inch of my land." Then turning to where his men-at-arms stood near the door, he called, "Come hither," and beckoned with his finger; whereupon the tallest of them all came forward and handed him a long leathern bag. Sir Richard took the bag and shot from it upon the table a glittering stream of golden money. "Bear in mind, Sir Prior," said he, "that thou hast promised me quittance for three hundred pounds. Not one farthing above that shalt thou get." So saying, he counted out three hundred pounds and pushed it toward the Prior. But now the Prior's hands dropped at his sides and the Prior's head hung upon his shoulder, for not only had he lost all hopes of the land, but he had forgiven the Knight one hundred pounds of his debt and had needlessly paid the man of law fourscore angels. To him he turned, and quoth he, "Give me back my money that thou hast." "Nay," cried the other shrilly, "it is but my fee that thou didst pay me, and thou gettest it not back again." And he hugged his gown about him. "Now, Sir Prior," quoth Sir Richard, "I have held my day and paid all the dues demanded of me; so, as there is no more betwixt us, I leave this vile place straightway." So saying, he turned upon his heel and strode away. All this time the Sheriff had been staring with wide-open eyes and mouth agape at the tall man-at-arms, who stood as though carved out of stone. At last he gasped out, "Reynold Greenleaf!" At this, the tall man-at-arms, who was no other than Little John, turned, grinning, to the Sheriff. "I give thee good den, fair gossip," quoth he. "I would say, sweet Sheriff, that I have heard all thy pretty talk this day, and it shall be duly told unto Robin Hood. So, farewell for the nonce, till we meet again in Sherwood Forest." Then he, also, turned and followed Sir Richard down the hall, leaving the Sheriff, all pale and amazed, shrunk together upon his chair. A merry feast it was to which Sir Richard came, but a sorry lot he left behind him, and little hunger had they for the princely food spread before them. Only the learned doctor was happy, for he had his fee. Now a twelvemonth and a day passed since Prior Vincent of Emmet sat at feast, and once more the mellow fall of another year had come. But the year had brought great change, I wot, to the lands of Sir Richard of the Lea; for, where before shaggy wild grasses grew upon the meadow lands, now all stretch away in golden stubble, betokening that a rich and plentiful crop had been gathered therefrom. A year had made a great change in the castle, also, for, where were empty moats and the crumbling of neglect, all was now orderly and well kept. Bright shone the sun on battlement and tower, and in the blue air overhead a Hock of clattering jackdaws flew around the gilded weather vane and spire. Then, in the brightness of the morning, the drawbridge fell across the moat with a rattle and clank of chains, the gate of the castle swung slowly open, and a goodly array of steel-clad men-at-arms, with a knight all clothed in chain mail, as white as frost on brier and thorn of a winter morning, came flashing out from the castle courtyard. In his hand the Knight held a great spear, from the point of which fluttered a blood-red pennant as broad as the palm of one's hand. So this troop came forth from the castle, and in the midst of them walked three pack horses laden with parcels of divers shapes and kinds. Thus rode forth good Sir Richard of the Lea to pay his debt to Robin Hood this bright and merry morn. Along the highway they wended their way, with measured tramp of feet and rattle and jingle of sword and harness. Onward they marched till they came nigh to Denby, where, from the top of a hill, they saw, over beyond the town, many gay flags and streamers floating in the bright air. Then Sir Richard turned to the man-at-arms nearest to him. "What is toward yonder at Denby today?" quoth he. "Please Your Worship," answered the man-at-arms, "a merry fair is held there today, and a great wrestling match, to which many folk have come, for a prize hath been offered of a pipe of red wine, a fair golden ring, and a pair of gloves, all of which go to the best wrestler." "Now, by my faith," quoth Sir Richard, who loved good manly sports right well, "this will be a goodly thing to see. Methinks we have to stay a little while on our journey, and see this merry sport." So he turned his horse's head aside toward Denby and the fair, and thither he and his men made their way. There they found a great hubbub of merriment. Flags and streamers were floating, tumblers were tumbling on the green, bagpipes were playing, and lads and lasses were dancing to the music. But the crowd were gathered most of all around a ring where the wrestling was going forward, and thither Sir Richard and his men turned their steps. Now when the judges of the wrestling saw Sir Richard coming and knew who he was, the chief of them came down from the bench where he and the others sat, and went to the Knight and took him by the hand, beseeching him to come and sit with them and judge the sport. So Sir Richard got down from his horse and went with the others to the bench raised beside the ring. Now there had been great doings that morning, for a certain yeoman named Egbert, who came from Stoke over in Staffordshire, had thrown with ease all those that came against him; but a man of Denby, well known through all the countryside as William of the Scar, had been biding his time with the Stoke man; so, when Egbert had thrown everyone else, stout William leaped into the ring. Then a tough bout followed, and at last he threw Egbert heavily, whereat there was a great shouting and shaking of hands, for all the Denby men were proud of their wrestler. When Sir Richard came, he found stout William, puffed up by the shouts of his friends, walking up and down the ring, daring anyone to come and try a throw with him. "Come one, come all!" quoth he. "Here stand I, William of the Scar, against any man. If there is none in Derbyshire to come against me, come all who will, from Nottingham, Stafford, or York, and if I do not make them one and all root the ground with their noses like swine in the forests, call me no more brave William the wrestler." At this all laughed; but above all the laughter a loud voice was heard to cry out, "Sin' thou talkest so big, here cometh one from Nottinghamshire to try a fall with thee, fellow;" and straightway a tall youth with a tough quarterstaff in his hand came pushing his way through the crowd and at last leaped lightly over the rope into the ring. He was not as heavy as stout William, but he was taller and broader in the shoulders, and all his joints were well knit. Sir Richard looked upon him keenly, then, turning to one of the judges, he said, "Knowest thou who this youth is? Methinks I have seen him before." "Nay," said the judge, "he is a stranger to me." Meantime, without a word, the young man, laying aside his quarterstaff, began to take off his jerkin and body clothing until he presently stood with naked arms and body; and a comely sight he was when so bared to the view, for his muscles were cut round and smooth and sharp like swift-running water. And now each man spat upon his hands and, clapping them upon his knees, squatted down, watching the other keenly, so as to take the vantage of him in the grip. Then like a flash they leaped together, and a great shout went up, for William had gotten the better hold of the two. For a short time they strained and struggled and writhed, and then stout William gave his most cunning trip and throw, but the stranger met it with greater skill than his, and so the trip came to nought. Then, of a sudden, with a twist and a wrench, the stranger loosed himself, and he of the scar found himself locked in a pair of arms that fairly made his ribs crack. So, with heavy, hot breathing, they stood for a while straining, their bodies all glistening with sweat, and great drops of sweat trickling down their faces. But the stranger's hug was so close that at last stout William's muscles softened under his grip, and he gave a sob. Then the youth put forth all his strength and gave a sudden trip with his heel and a cast over his right hip, and down stout William went, with a sickening thud, and lay as though he would never move hand nor foot again. But now no shout went up for the stranger, but an angry murmur was heard among the crowd, so easily had he won the match. Then one of the judges, a kinsman to William of the Scar, rose with trembling lip and baleful look. Quoth he, "If thou hath slain that man it will go ill with thee, let me tell thee, fellow." But the stranger answered boldly, "He took his chance with me as I took mine with him. No law can touch me to harm me, even if I slew him, so that it was fairly done in the wrestling ring." "That we shall see," said the judge, scowling upon the youth, while once more an angry murmur ran around the crowd; for, as I have said, the men of Denby were proud of stout William of the Scar. Then up spoke Sir Richard gently. "Nay," said he, "the youth is right; if the other dieth, he dieth in the wrestling ring, where he took his chance, and was cast fairly enow." But in the meantime three men had come forward and lifted stout William from the ground and found that he was not dead, though badly shaken by his heavy fall. Then the chief judge rose and said, "Young man, the prize is duly thine. Here is the red-gold ring, and here the gloves, and yonder stands the pipe of wine to do with whatsoever thou dost list." At this, the youth, who had donned his clothes and taken up his staff again, bowed without a word, then, taking the gloves and the ring, and thrusting the one into his girdle and slipping the other upon his thumb, he turned and, leaping lightly over the ropes again, made his way through the crowd, and was gone. "Now, I wonder who yon youth may be," said the judge, turning to Sir Richard, "he seemeth like a stout Saxon from his red cheeks and fair hair. This William of ours is a stout man, too, and never have I seen him cast in the ring before, albeit he hath not yet striven with such great wrestlers as Thomas of Cornwall, Diccon of York, and young David of Doncaster. Hath he not a firm foot in the ring, thinkest thou, Sir Richard?" "Ay, truly, and yet this youth threw him fairly, and with wondrous ease. I much wonder who he can be." Thus said Sir Richard in a thoughtful voice. For a time the Knight stood talking to those about him, but at last he arose and made ready to depart, so he called his men about him and, tightening the girths of his saddle, he mounted his horse once more. Meanwhile the young stranger had made his way through the crowd, but, as he passed, he heard all around him such words muttered as "Look at the cockerel!" "Behold how he plumeth himself!" "I dare swear he cast good William unfairly!" "Yea, truly, saw ye not birdlime upon his hands?" "It would be well to cut his cock's comb!" To all this the stranger paid no heed, but strode proudly about as though he heard it not. So he walked slowly across the green to where the booth stood wherein was dancing, and standing at the door he looked in on the sport. As he stood thus, a stone struck his arm of a sudden with a sharp jar, and, turning, he saw that an angry crowd of men had followed him from the wrestling ring. Then, when they saw him turn so, a great hooting and yelling arose from all, so that the folk came running out from the dancing booth to see what was to do. At last a tall, broad-shouldered, burly blacksmith strode forward from the crowd swinging a mighty blackthorn club in his hand. "Wouldst thou come here to our fair town of Denby, thou Jack in the Box, to overcome a good honest lad with vile, juggling tricks?" growled he in a deep voice like the bellow of an angry bull. "Take that, then!" And of a sudden he struck a blow at the youth that might have felled an ox. But the other turned the blow deftly aside, and gave back another so terrible that the Denby man went down with a groan, as though he had been smitten by lightning. When they saw their leader fall, the crowd gave another angry shout; but the stranger placed his back against the tent near which he stood, swinging his terrible staff, and so fell had been the blow that he struck the stout smith that none dared to come within the measure of his cudgel, so the press crowded back, like a pack of dogs from a bear at bay. But now some coward hand from behind threw a sharp jagged stone that smote the stranger on the crown, so that he staggered back, and the red blood gushed from the cut and ran down his face and over his jerkin. Then, seeing him dazed with this vile blow, the crowd rushed upon him, so that they overbore him and he fell beneath their feet. Now it might have gone ill with the youth, even to the losing of his young life, had not Sir Richard come to this fair; for of a sudden, shouts were heard, and steel flashed in the air, and blows were given with the flat of swords, while through the midst of the crowd Sir Richard of the Lea came spurring on his white horse. Then the crowd, seeing the steel-clad knight and the armed men, melted away like snow on the warm hearth, leaving the young man all bloody and dusty upon the ground. Finding himself free, the youth arose and, wiping the blood from his face, looked up. Quoth he, "Sir Richard of the Lea, mayhap thou hast saved my life this day." "Who art thou that knowest Sir Richard of the Lea so well?" quoth the Knight. "Methinks I have seen thy face before, young man." "Yea, thou hast," said the youth, "for men call me David of Doncaster." "Ha!" said Sir Richard, "I wonder that I knew thee not, David; but thy beard hath grown longer, and thou thyself art more set in manhood since this day twelvemonth. Come hither into the tent, David, and wash the blood from thy face. And thou, Ralph, bring him straightway a clean jerkin. Now I am sorry for thee, yet I am right glad that I have had a chance to pay a part of my debt of kindness to thy good master Robin Hood, for it might have gone ill with thee had I not come, young man." So saying, the Knight led David into the tent, and there the youth washed the blood from his face and put on the clean jerkin. In the meantime a whisper had gone around from those that stood nearest that this was none other than the great David of Doncaster, the best wrestler in all the mid-country, who only last spring had cast stout Adam o' Lincoln in the ring at Selby, in Yorkshire, and now held the mid-country champion belt, Thus it happened that when young David came forth from the tent along with Sir Richard, the blood all washed from his face, and his soiled jerkin changed for a clean one, no sounds of anger were heard, but all pressed forward to see the young man, feeling proud that one of the great wrestlers of England should have entered the ring at Denby fair. For thus fickle is a mass of men. Then Sir Richard called aloud, "Friends, this is David of Doncaster; so think it no shame that your Denby man was cast by such a wrestler. He beareth you no ill will for what hath passed, but let it be a warning to you how ye treat strangers henceforth. Had ye slain him it would have been an ill day for you, for Robin Hood would have harried your town as the kestrel harries the dovecote. I have bought the pipe of wine from him, and now I give it freely to you to drink as ye list. But never hereafterward fall upon a man for being a stout yeoman." At this all shouted amain; but in truth they thought more of the wine than of the Knight's words. Then Sir Richard, with David beside him and his men-at-arms around, turned about and left the fair. But in after days, when the men that saw that wrestling bout were bent with age, they would shake their heads when they heard of any stalwart game, and say, "Ay, ay; but thou shouldst have seen the great David of Doncaster cast stout William of the Scar at Denby fair." Robin Hood stood in the merry greenwood with Little John and most of his stout yeomen around him, awaiting Sir Richard's coming. At last a glint of steel was seen through the brown forest leaves, and forth from the covert into the open rode Sir Richard at the head of his men. He came straight forward to Robin Hood and leaping from off his horse, clasped the yeoman in his arms. "Why, how now," said Robin, after a time, holding Sir Richard off and looking at him from top to toe, "methinks thou art a gayer bird than when I saw thee last." "Yes, thanks to thee, Robin," said the Knight, laying his hand upon the yeoman's shoulder. "But for thee I would have been wandering in misery in a far country by this time. But I have kept my word, Robin, and have brought back the money that thou didst lend me, and which I have doubled four times over again, and so become rich once more. Along with this money I have brought a little gift to thee and thy brave men from my dear lady and myself." Then, turning to his men, he called aloud, "Bring forth the pack horses." But Robin stopped him. "Nay, Sir Richard," said he, "think it not bold of me to cross thy bidding, but we of Sherwood do no business till after we have eaten and drunk." Whereupon, taking Sir Richard by the hand, he led him to the seat beneath the greenwood tree, while others of the chief men of the band came and seated themselves around. Then quoth Robin, "How cometh it that I saw young David of Doncaster with thee and thy men, Sir Knight?" Then straightway the Knight told all about his stay at Denby and of the happening at the fair, and how it was like to go hard with young David; so he told his tale, and quoth he, "It was this, good Robin, that kept me so late on the way, otherwise I would have been here an hour agone." Then, when he had done speaking, Robin stretched out his hand and grasped the Knight's palm. Quoth he in a trembling voice, "I owe thee a debt I can never hope to repay, Sir Richard, for let me tell thee, I would rather lose my right hand than have such ill befall young David of Doncaster as seemed like to come upon him at Denby." So they talked until after a while one came forward to say that the feast was spread; whereupon all arose and went thereto. When at last it was done, the Knight called upon his men to bring the pack horses forward, which they did according to his bidding. Then one of the men brought the Knight a strongbox, which he opened and took from it a bag and counted out five hundred pounds, the sum he had gotten from Robin. "Sir Richard," quoth Robin, "thou wilt pleasure us all if thou wilt keep that money as a gift from us of Sherwood. Is it not so, my lads?" Then all shouted "Ay" with a mighty voice. "I thank you all deeply," said the Knight earnestly, "but think it not ill of me if I cannot take it. Gladly have I borrowed it from you, but it may not be that I can take it as a gift." Then Robin Hood said no more but gave the money to Little John to put away in the treasury, for he had shrewdness enough to know that nought breeds ill will and heart bitterness like gifts forced upon one that cannot choose but take them. Then Sir Richard had the packs laid upon the ground and opened, whereupon a great shout went up that made the forest ring again, for lo, there were tenscore bows of finest Spanish yew, all burnished till they shone again, and each bow inlaid with fanciful figures in silver, yet not inlaid so as to mar their strength. Beside these were tenscore quivers of leather embroidered with golden thread, and in each quiver were a score of shafts with burnished heads that shone like silver; each shaft was feathered with peacock's plumes, innocked with silver. Sir Richard gave to each yeoman a bow and a quiver of arrows, but to Robin he gave a stout bow inlaid with the cunningest workmanship in gold, while each arrow in his quiver was innocked with gold. Then all shouted again for joy of the fair gift, and all swore among themselves that they would die if need be for Sir Richard and his lady. At last the time came when Sir Richard must go, whereupon Robin Hood called his band around him, and each man of the yeomen took a torch in his hand to light the way through the woodlands. So they came to the edge of Sherwood, and there the Knight kissed Robin upon the cheeks and left him and was gone. Thus Robin Hood helped a noble knight out of his dire misfortunes, that else would have smothered the happiness from his life. Little John Turns Barefoot Friar COLD WINTER had passed and spring had come. No leafy thickness had yet clad the woodlands, but the budding leaves hung like a tender mist about the trees. In the open country the meadow lands lay a sheeny green, the cornfields a dark velvety color, for they were thick and soft with the growing blades. The plowboy shouted in the sun, and in the purple new-turned furrows flocks of birds hunted for fat worms. All the broad moist earth smiled in the warm light, and each little green hill clapped its hand for joy. On a deer's hide, stretched on the ground in the open in front of the greenwood tree, sat Robin Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox. Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread, wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the cord upon his thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to his harp. Quoth Robin at last, "Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the gentle springtime than be King of all merry England. What palace in the broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all the world hath such appetite for plover's eggs and lampreys as I for juicy venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he saith, 'Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.'" "Yea," quoth Little John, as he rubbed his new-made bowstring with yellow beeswax, "the life we lead is the life for me. Thou speakest of the springtime, but methinks even the winter hath its own joys. Thou and I, good master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past, at the Blue Boar. Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will Stutely and Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with the two beggars and the strolling friar?" "Yea," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "that was the night that Will Stutely must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale emptied over his head for his pains." "Truly, it was the same," said Little John, laughing also. "Methinks that was a goodly song that the strolling friar sang. Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick ear for a tune, dost thou not remember it?" "I did have the catch of it one time," said Tuck. "Let me see," and he touched his forefinger to his forehead in thought, humming to himself, and stopping ever and anon to fit what he had got to what he searched for in his mind. At last he found it all and clearing his throat, sang merrily: "_In the blossoming hedge the robin cock sings, For the sun it is merry and bright, And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings, For his heart is all full of delight. For the May bloometh fair, And there's little of care, And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare. When the flowers all die, Then off he will fly, To keep himself warm In some jolly old barn Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm. "And such is the life of the strolling friar, With aplenty to eat and to drink; For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire, And the pretty girls smile at his wink. Then he lustily trolls As he onward strolls, A rollicking song for the saving of souls. When the wind doth blow, With the coming of snow, There's a place by the fire For the fatherly friar, And a crab in the bowl for his heart's desire_." Thus Friar Tuck sang in a rich and mellow voice, rolling his head from side to side in time with the music, and when he had done, all clapped their hands and shouted with laughter, for the song fitted him well. "In very sooth," quoth Little John, "it is a goodly song, and, were I not a yeoman of Sherwood Forest, I had rather be a strolling friar than aught else in the world." "Yea, it is a goodly song," said Robin Hood, "but methought those two burly beggars told the merrier tales and led the merrier life. Dost thou not remember what that great black-bearded fellow told of his begging at the fair in York?" "Yea," said Little John, "but what told the friar of the harvest home in Kentshire? I hold that he led a merrier life than the other two." "Truly, for the honor of the cloth," quoth Friar Tuck, "I hold with my good gossip, Little John." "Now," quoth Robin, "I hold to mine own mind. But what sayst thou, Little John, to a merry adventure this fair day? Take thou a friar's gown from our chest of strange garments, and don the same, and I will stop the first beggar I meet and change clothes with him. Then let us wander the country about, this sweet day, and see what befalls each of us." "That fitteth my mind," quoth Little John, "so let us forth, say I." Thereupon Little John and Friar Tuck went to the storehouse of the band, and there chose for the yeoman the robe of a Gray Friar. Then they came forth again, and a mighty roar of laughter went up, for not only had the band never seen Little John in such guise before, but the robe was too short for him by a good palm's-breadth. But Little John's hands were folded in his loose sleeves, and Little John's eyes were cast upon the ground, and at his girdle hung a great, long string of beads. And now Little John took up his stout staff, at the end of which hung a chubby little leathern pottle, such as palmers carry at the tips of their staves; but in it was something, I wot, more like good Malmsey than cold spring water, such as godly pilgrims carry. Then up rose Robin and took his stout staff in his hand, likewise, and slipped ten golden angels into his pouch; for no beggar's garb was among the stores of the band, so he was fain to run his chance of meeting a beggar and buying his clothes of him. So, all being made ready, the two yeomen set forth on their way, striding lustily along all in the misty morning. Thus they walked down the forest path until they came to the highway, and then along the highway till it split in twain, leading on one hand to Blyth and on the other to Gainsborough. Here the yeomen stopped. Quoth jolly Robin, "Take thou the road to Gainsborough, and I will take that to Blyth. So, fare thee well, holy father, and mayst thou not ha' cause to count thy beads in earnest ere we meet again." "Good den, good beggar that is to be," quoth Little John, "and mayst thou have no cause to beg for mercy ere I see thee next." So each stepped sturdily upon his way until a green hill rose between them, and the one was hid from the sight of the other. Little John walked along, whistling, for no one was nigh upon all the road. In the budding hedges the little birds twittered merrily, and on either hand the green hills swept up to the sky, the great white clouds of springtime sailing slowly over their crowns in lazy flight. Up hill and down dale walked Little John, the fresh wind blowing in his face and his robes fluttering behind him, and so at last he came to a crossroad that led to Tuxford. Here he met three pretty lasses, each bearing a basket of eggs to market. Quoth he, "Whither away, fair maids?" And he stood in their path, holding his staff in front of them, to stop them. Then they huddled together and nudged one another, and one presently spake up and said, "We are going to the Tuxford market, holy friar, to sell our eggs." "Now out upon it!" quoth Little John, looking upon them with his head on one side. "Surely, it is a pity that such fair lasses should be forced to carry eggs to market. Let me tell you, an I had the shaping of things in this world, ye should all three have been clothed in the finest silks, and ride upon milk-white horses, with pages at your side, and feed upon nothing but whipped cream and strawberries; for such a life would surely befit your looks." At this speech all three of the pretty maids looked down, blushing and simpering. One said, "La!" another, "Marry, a' maketh sport of us!" and the third, "Listen, now, to the holy man!" But at the same time they looked at Little John from out the corners of their eyes. "Now, look you," said Little John, "I cannot see such dainty damsels as ye are carrying baskets along a highroad. Let me take them mine own self, and one of you, if ye will, may carry my staff for me." "Nay," said one of the lasses, "but thou canst not carry three baskets all at one time." "Yea, but I can," said Little John, "and that I will show you presently. I thank the good Saint Wilfred that he hath given me a pretty wit. Look ye, now. Here I take this great basket, so; here I tie my rosary around the handle, thus; and here I slip the rosary over my head and sling the basket upon my back, in this wise." And Little John did according to his words, the basket hanging down behind him like a peddler's pack; then, giving his staff to one of the maids, and taking a basket upon either arm, he turned his face toward Tuxford Town and stepped forth merrily, a laughing maid on either side, and one walking ahead, carrying the staff. In this wise they journeyed along, and everyone they met stopped and looked after them, laughing, for never had anybody seen such a merry sight as this tall, strapping Gray Friar, with robes all too short for him, laden with eggs, and tramping the road with three pretty lasses. For this Little John cared not a whit, but when such folks gave jesting words to him he answered back as merrily, speech for speech. So they stepped along toward Tuxford, chatting and laughing, until they came nigh to the town. Here Little John stopped and set down the baskets, for he did not care to go into the town lest he should, perchance, meet some of the Sheriff's men. "Alas! sweet chucks," quoth he, "here I must leave you. I had not thought to come this way, but I am glad that I did so. Now, ere we part, we must drink sweet friendship." So saying, he unslung the leathern pottle from the end of his staff, and, drawing the stopper therefrom, he handed it to the lass who had carried his staff, first wiping the mouth of the pottle upon his sleeve. Then each lass took a fair drink of what was within, and when it had passed all around, Little John finished what was left, so that not another drop could be squeezed from it. Then, kissing each lass sweetly, he wished them all good den, and left them. But the maids stood looking after him as he walked away whistling. "What a pity," quoth one, "that such a stout, lusty lad should be in holy orders." "Marry," quoth Little John to himself, as he strode along, "yon was no such ill happening; Saint Dunstan send me more of the like." After he had trudged along for a time he began to wax thirsty again in the warmth of the day. He shook his leathern pottle beside his ear, but not a sound came therefrom. Then he placed it to his lips and tilted it high aloft, but not a drop was there. "Little John! Little John!" said he sadly to himself, shaking his head the while, "woman will be thy ruin yet, if thou dost not take better care of thyself." But at last he reached the crest of a certain hill, and saw below a sweet little thatched inn lying snugly in the dale beneath him, toward which the road dipped sharply. At the sight of this, a voice within him cried aloud, "I give thee joy, good friend, for yonder is thy heart's delight, to wit, a sweet rest and a cup of brown beer." So he quickened his pace down the hill and so came to the little inn, from which hung a sign with a stag's head painted upon it. In front of the door a clucking hen was scratching in the dust with a brood of chickens about her heels, the sparrows were chattering of household affairs under the eaves, and all was so sweet and peaceful that Little John's heart laughed within him. Beside the door stood two stout cobs with broad soft-padded saddles, well fitted for easy traveling, and speaking of rich guests in the parlor. In front of the door three merry fellows, a tinker, a peddler, and a beggar, were seated on a bench in the sun quaffing stout ale. "I give you good den, sweet friends," quoth Little John, striding up to where they sat. "Give thee good den, holy father," quoth the merry Beggar with a grin. "But look thee, thy gown is too short. Thou hadst best cut a piece off the top and tack it to the bottom, so that it may be long enough. But come, sit beside us here and take a taste of ale, if thy vows forbid thee not." "Nay," quoth Little John, also grinning, "the blessed Saint Dunstan hath given me a free dispensation for all indulgence in that line." And he thrust his hand into his pouch for money to pay his score. "Truly," quoth the Tinker, "without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the good Saint Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is like to ha' many a penance to make. Nay, take thy hand from out thy pouch, brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot. Ho, landlord, a pot of ale!" So the ale was brought and given to Little John. Then, blowing the froth a little way to make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his eyes to keep the dazzle of the sunshine out of them. Then he took the pot away, for there was nothing in it, and heaved a full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist eyes and shaking his head solemnly. "Ho, landlord!" cried the Peddler, "bring this good fellow another pot of ale, for truly it is a credit to us all to have one among us who can empty a canakin so lustily." So they talked among themselves merrily, until after a while quoth Little John, "Who rideth those two nags yonder?" "Two holy men like thee, brother," quoth the Beggar. "They are now having a goodly feast within, for I smelled the steam of a boiled pullet just now. The landlady sayeth they come from Fountain Abbey, in Yorkshire, and go to Lincoln on matters of business." "They are a merry couple," said the Tinker, "for one is as lean as an old wife's spindle, and the other as fat as a suet pudding." "Talking of fatness," said the Peddler, "thou thyself lookest none too ill-fed, holy friar." "Nay, truly," said Little John, "thou seest in me what the holy Saint Dunstan can do for them that serve him upon a handful of parched peas and a trickle of cold water." At this a great shout of laughter went up. "Truly, it is a wondrous thing," quoth the Beggar, "I would have made my vow, to see the masterly manner in which thou didst tuck away yon pot of ale, that thou hadst not tasted clear water for a brace of months. Has not this same holy Saint Dunstan taught thee a goodly song or two?" "Why, as for that," quoth Little John, grinning, "mayhap he hath lent me aid to learn a ditty or so." "Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee," quoth the Tinker. At this Little John cleared his throat and, after a word or two about a certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus: "_Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go? I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also, And we'll gather the rose As it sweetly blows, For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing_." Now it seemed as though Little John's songs were never to get sung, for he had got no farther than this when the door of the inn opened and out came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the landlord following them, and, as the saying is, washing his hands with humble soap. But when the brothers of Fountain Abbey saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad in the robes of a Gray Friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little Brother drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the thin Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in his mouth. Then, as Little John gathered his breath for a new verse, "How, now," roared forth the fat Brother, his voice coming from him like loud thunder from a little cloud, "thou naughty fellow, is this a fit place for one in thy garb to tipple and sing profane songs?" "Nay," quoth Little John, "sin' I cannot tipple and sing, like Your Worship's reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must e'en tipple and sing where I can." "Now, out upon thee," cried the tall lean Brother in a harsh voice, "now, out upon thee, that thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this talk and bearing." "Marry, come up!" quoth Little John. "Disgrace, sayest thou? Methinks it is more disgrace for one of our garb to wring hard-earned farthings out of the gripe of poor lean peasants. It is not so, brother?" At this the Tinker and the Peddler and the Beggar nudged one another, and all grinned, and the friars scowled blackly at Little John; but they could think of nothing further to say, so they turned to their horses. Then Little John arose of a sudden from the bench where he sat, and ran to where the brothers of Fountain Abbey were mounting. Quoth he, "Let me hold your horses' bridles for you. Truly, your words have smitten my sinful heart, so that I will abide no longer in this den of evil, but will go forward with you. No vile temptation, I wot, will fall upon me in such holy company." "Nay, fellow," said the lean Brother harshly, for he saw that Little John made sport of them, "we want none of thy company, so get thee gone." "Alas," quoth Little John, "I am truly sorry that ye like me not nor my company, but as for leaving you, it may not be, for my heart is so moved, that, willy-nilly, I must go with you for the sake of your holy company." Now, at this talk all the good fellows on the bench grinned till their teeth glistened, and even the landlord could not forbear to smile. As for the friars, they looked at one another with a puzzled look, and knew not what to do in the matter. They were so proud that it made them feel sick with shame to think of riding along the highroad with a strolling friar, in robes all too short for him, running beside them, but yet they could not make Little John stay against his will, for they knew he could crack the bones of both of them in a twinkling were he so minded. Then up spake the fat Brother more mildly than he had done before. "Nay, good brother," said he, "we will ride fast, and thou wilt tire to death at the pace." "Truly, I am grateful to thee for the thought of me," quoth Little John, "but have no fear, brother; my limbs are stout, and I could run like a hare from here to Gainsborough." At these words a sound of laughing came from the bench, whereat the lean Brother's wrath boiled over, like water into the fire, with great fuss and noise. "Now, out upon thee, thou naughty fellow!" he cried. "Art thou not ashamed to bring disgrace so upon our cloth? Bide thee here, thou sot, with these porkers. Thou art no fit company for us." "La, ye there now!" quoth Little John. "Thou hearest, landlord; thou art not fit company for these holy men; go back to thine alehouse. Nay, if these most holy brothers of mine do but give me the word, I'll beat thy head with this stout staff till it is as soft as whipped eggs." At these words a great shout of laughter went up from those on the bench, and the landlord's face grew red as a cherry from smothering his laugh in his stomach; but he kept his merriment down, for he wished not to bring the ill-will of the brothers of Fountain Abbey upon him by unseemly mirth. So the two brethren, as they could do nought else, having mounted their nags, turned their noses toward Lincoln and rode away. "I cannot stay longer, sweet friends," quoth Little John, as he pushed in betwixt the two cobs, "therefore I wish you good den. Off we go, we three." So saying, he swung his stout staff over his shoulder and trudged off, measuring his pace with that of the two nags. The two brothers glowered at Little John when he so pushed himself betwixt them, then they drew as far away from him as they could, so that the yeoman walked in the middle of the road, while they rode on the footpath on either side of the way. As they so went away, the Tinker, the Peddler, and the Beggar ran skipping out into the middle of the highway, each with a pot in his hand, and looked after them laughing. While they were in sight of those at the inn, the brothers walked their horses soberly, not caring to make ill matters worse by seeming to run away from Little John, for they could not but think how it would sound in folks' ears when they heard how the brethren of Fountain Abbey scampered away from a strolling friar, like the Ugly One, when the blessed Saint Dunstan loosed his nose from the red-hot tongs where he had held it fast; but when they had crossed the crest of the hill and the inn was lost to sight, quoth the fat Brother to the thin Brother, "Brother Ambrose, had we not better mend our pace?" "Why truly, gossip," spoke up Little John, "methinks it would be well to boil our pot a little faster, for the day is passing on. So it will not jolt thy fat too much, onward, say I." At this the two friars said nothing, but they glared again on Little John with baleful looks; then, without another word, they clucked to their horses, and both broke into a canter. So they galloped for a mile and more, and Little John ran betwixt them as lightly as a stag and never turned a hair with the running. At last the fat Brother drew his horse's rein with a groan, for he could stand the shaking no longer. "Alas," said Little John, with not so much as a catch in his breath, "I did sadly fear that the roughness of this pace would shake thy poor old fat paunch." To this the fat Friar said never a word, but he stared straight before him, and he gnawed his nether lip. And now they traveled forward more quietly, Little John in the middle of the road whistling merrily to himself, and the two friars in the footpath on either side saying never a word. Then presently they met three merry minstrels, all clad in red, who stared amain to see a Gray Friar with such short robes walking in the middle of the road, and two brothers with heads bowed with shame, riding upon richly caparisoned cobs on the footpaths. When they had come near to the minstrels, Little John waved his staff like an usher clearing the way. "Make way!" he cried in a loud voice. "Make way! make way! For here we go, we three!" Then how the minstrels stared, and how they laughed! But the fat Friar shook as with an ague, and the lean Friar bowed his head over his horse's neck. Then next they met two noble knights in rich array, with hawk on wrist, and likewise two fair ladies clad in silks and velvets, all a-riding on noble steeds. These all made room, staring, as Little John and the two friars came along the road. To them Little John bowed humbly. "Give you greetings, lords and ladies," said he. "But here we go, we three." Then all laughed, and one of the fair ladies cried out, "What three meanest thou, merry friend?" Little John looked over his shoulder, for they had now passed each other, and he called back, "Big Jack, lean Jack and fat Jack-pudding." At this the fat Friar gave a groan and seemed as if he were like to fall from his saddle for shame; the other brother said nothing, but he looked before him with a grim and stony look. Just ahead of them the road took a sudden turn around a high hedge, and some twoscore paces beyond the bend another road crossed the one they were riding upon. When they had come to the crossroad and were well away from those they had left, the lean Friar drew rein suddenly. "Look ye, fellow," quoth he in a voice quivering with rage, "we have had enough of thy vile company, and care no longer to be made sport of. Go thy way, and let us go ours in peace." "La there, now!" quoth Little John. "Methought we were such a merry company, and here thou dost blaze up like fat in the pan. But truly, I ha' had enow of you today, though I can ill spare your company. I know ye will miss me, but gin ye want me again, whisper to Goodman Wind, and he will bring news thereof to me. But ye see I am a poor man and ye are rich. I pray you give me a penny or two to buy me bread and cheese at the next inn." "We have no money, fellow," said the lean Friar harshly. "Come, Brother Thomas, let us forward." But Little John caught the horses by the bridle reins, one in either hand. "Ha' ye in truth no money about you whatsoever?" said he. "Now, I pray you, brothers, for charity's sake, give me somewhat to buy a crust of bread, e'en though it be only a penny." "I tell thee, fellow, we have no money," thundered the fat little Friar with the great voice. "Ha' ye, in holy truth, no money?" asked Little John. "Not a farthing," said the lean Friar sourly. "Not a groat," said the fat Friar loudly. "Nay," quoth Little John, "this must not be. Far be it from me to see such holy men as ye are depart from me with no money. Get both of you down straightway from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of the crossroads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us some money to carry us on our journey." "What sayest thou, thou limb of evil!" cried the lean Friar, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "Doss thou bid me, the high cellarer of Fountain Abbey, to get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to pray to some beggarly Saxon saint?" "Now," quoth Little John, "I ha' a great part of a mind to crack thy head for thee for speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan! But get down straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I may forget that ye are both in holy orders." So saying, he twirled his stout staff till it whistled again. At this speech both friars grew as pale as dough. Down slipped the fat Brother from off his horse on one side, and down slipped the lean Brother on the other. "Now, brothers, down on your knees and pray," said Little John; thereupon, putting his heavy hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced them to their knees, he kneeling also. Then Little John began to beseech Saint Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice. After he had so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in their pouches and see if the Saint had sent them anything; so each put his hand slowly in the pouch that hung beside him, but brought nothing thence. "Ha!" quoth Little John, "have your prayers so little virtue? Then let us at it again." Then straightway he began calling on Saint Dunstan again, somewhat in this wise: "O gracious Saint Dunstan! Send some money straightway to these poor folk, lest the fat one waste away and grow as lean as the lean one, and the lean one waste away to nothing at all, ere they get to Lincoln Town; but send them only ten shillings apiece, lest they grow puffed up with pride, Any more than that that thou sendest, send to me. "Now," quoth he, rising, "let us see what each man hath." Then he thrust his hand into his pouch and drew thence four golden angels. "What have ye, brothers?" said he. Then once again each friar slowly thrust his hand into his pouch, and once again brought it out with nothing in it. "Have ye nothing?" quoth Little John. "Nay, I warrant there is somewhat that hath crept into the seams of your pouches, and so ye ha' missed it. Let me look." So he went first to the lean Friar, and, thrusting his hand into the pouch, he drew forth a leathern bag and counted therefrom one hundred and ten pounds of golden money. "I thought," quoth Little John, "that thou hadst missed, in some odd corner of thy pouch, the money that the blessed Saint had sent thee. And now let me see whether thou hast not some, also, brother." Thereupon he thrust his hand into the pouch of the fat Friar and drew thence a bag like the other and counted out from it threescore and ten pounds. "Look ye now," quoth he, "I knew the good Saint had sent thee some pittance that thou, also, hadst missed." Then, giving them one pound between them, he slipped the rest of the money into his own pouch, saying, "Ye pledged me your holy word that ye had no money. Being holy men, I trust that ye would not belie your word so pledged, therefore I know the good Saint Dunstan hath sent this in answer to my prayers. But as I only prayed for ten shillings to be sent to each of you, all over and above that belongeth by rights to me, and so I take it. I give you good den, brothers, and may ye have a pleasant journey henceforth." So saying, he turned and left them, striding away. The friars looked at one another with a woeful look, and slowly and sadly they mounted their horses again and rode away with never a word. But Little John turned his footsteps back again to Sherwood Forest, and merrily he whistled as he strode along. And now we will see what befell Robin Hood in his venture as beggar. Robin Hood Turns Beggar AFTER JOLLY ROBIN had left Little John at the forking of the roads, he walked merrily onward in the mellow sunshine that shone about him. Ever and anon he would skip and leap or sing a snatch of song, for pure joyousness of the day; for, because of the sweetness of the springtide, his heart was as lusty within him as that of a colt newly turned out to grass. Sometimes he would walk a long distance, gazing aloft at the great white swelling clouds that moved slowly across the deep blue sky; anon he would stop and drink in the fullness of life of all things, for the hedgerows were budding tenderly and the grass of the meadows was waxing long and green; again he would stand still and listen to the pretty song of the little birds in the thickets or hearken to the clear crow of the cock daring the sky to rain, whereat he would laugh, for it took but little to tickle Robin's heart into merriment. So he trudged manfully along, ever willing to stop for this reason or for that, and ever ready to chat with such merry lasses as he met now and then. So the morning slipped along, but yet he met no beggar with whom he could change clothes. Quoth he, "If I do not change my luck in haste, I am like to have an empty day of it, for it is well nigh half gone already, and, although I have had a merry walk through the countryside, I know nought of a beggar's life." Then, after a while, he began to grow hungry, whereupon his mind turned from thoughts of springtime and flowers and birds and dwelled upon boiled capons, Malmsey, white bread, and the like, with great tenderness. Quoth he to himself, "I would I had Willie Wynkin's wishing coat; I know right well what I should wish for, and this it should be." Here he marked upon the fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand those things which he wished for. "Firstly, I would have a sweet brown pie of tender larks; mark ye, not dry cooked, but with a good sop of gravy to moisten it withal. Next, I would have a pretty pullet, fairly boiled, with tender pigeons' eggs, cunningly sliced, garnishing the platter around. With these I would have a long, slim loaf of wheaten bread that hath been baked upon the hearth; it should be warm from the fire, with glossy brown crust, the color of the hair of mine own Maid Marian, and this same crust should be as crisp and brittle as the thin white ice that lies across the furrows in the early winter's morning. These will do for the more solid things; but with these I must have three potties, fat and round, one full of Malmsey, one of Canary, and one brimming full of mine own dear lusty sack." Thus spoke Robin to himself, his mouth growing moist at the corners with the thoughts of the good things he had raised in his own mind. So, talking to himself, he came to where the dusty road turned sharply around the hedge, all tender with the green of the coming leaf, and there he saw before him a stout fellow sitting upon a stile, swinging his legs in idleness. All about this lusty rogue dangled divers pouches and bags of different sizes and kinds, a dozen or more, with great, wide, gaping mouths, like a brood of hungry daws. His coat was gathered in at his waist, and was patched with as many colors as there are stripes upon a Maypole in the springtide. On his head he wore a great tall leathern cap, and across his knees rested a stout quarterstaff of blackthorn, full as long and heavy as Robin's. As jolly a beggar was he as ever trod the lanes and byways of Nottinghamshire, for his eyes were as gray as slate, and snapped and twinkled and danced with merriment, and his black hair curled close all over his head in little rings of kinkiness. "Halloa, good fellow," quoth Robin, when he had come nigh to the other, "what art thou doing here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and the buds are swelling?" Then the other winked one eye and straightway trolled forth in a merry voice: "_I sit upon the stile, And I sing a little while As I wait for my own true dear, O, For the sun is shining bright, And the leaves are dancing light, And the little fowl sings she is near, O_. "And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh not." "Now that is a right sweet song," quoth Robin, "and, were I in the right mind to listen to thee, I could bear well to hear more; but I have two things of seriousness to ask of thee; so listen, I prythee." At this the jolly Beggar cocked his head on one side, like a rogue of a magpie. Quoth he, "I am an ill jug to pour heavy things into, good friend, and, if I mistake not, thou hast few serious words to spare at any time." "Nay," quoth jolly Robin, "what I would say first is the most serious of all thoughts to me, to wit, 'Where shall I get somewhat to eat and drink?'" "Sayst thou so?" quoth the Beggar. "Marry, I make no such serious thoughts upon the matter. I eat when I can get it, and munch my crust when I can get no crumb; likewise, when there is no ale to be had I wash the dust from out my throat with a trickle of cold water. I was sitting here, as thou camest upon me, bethinking myself whether I should break my fast or no. I do love to let my hunger grow mightily keen ere I eat, for then a dry crust is as good to me as a venison pasty with suet and raisins is to stout King Harry. I have a sharp hunger upon me now, but methinks in a short while it will ripen to a right mellow appetite." "Now, in good sooth," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "thou hast a quaint tongue betwixt thy teeth. But hast thou truly nought but a dry crust about thee? Methinks thy bags and pouches are fat and lusty for such thin fare." "Why, mayhap there is some other cold fare therein," said the Beggar slyly. "And hast thou nought to drink but cold water?" said Robin. "Never so much as a drop," quoth the Beggar. "Over beyond yon clump of trees is as sweet a little inn as ever thou hast lifted eyelid upon; but I go not thither, for they have a nasty way with me. Once, when the good Prior of Emmet was dining there, the landlady set a dear little tart of stewed crabs and barley sugar upon the window sill to cool, and, seeing it there, and fearing it might be lost, I took it with me till that I could find the owner thereof. Ever since then they have acted very ill toward me; yet truth bids me say that they have the best ale there that ever rolled over my tongue." At this Robin laughed aloud. "Marry," quoth he, "they did ill toward thee for thy kindness. But tell me truly, what hast thou in thy pouches?" "Why," quoth the Beggar, peeping into the mouths of his bags, "I find here a goodly piece of pigeon pie, wrapped in a cabbage leaf to hold the gravy. Here I behold a dainty streaked piece of brawn, and here a fair lump of white bread. Here I find four oaten cakes and a cold knuckle of ham. Ha! In sooth, 'tis strange; but here I behold six eggs that must have come by accident from some poultry yard hereabouts. They are raw, but roasted upon the coals and spread with a piece of butter that I see--" "Peace, good friend!" cried Robin, holding up his hand. "Thou makest my poor stomach quake with joy for what thou tellest me so sweetly. If thou wilt give me to eat, I will straightway hie me to that little inn thou didst tell of but now, and will bring a skin of ale for thy drinking and mine." "Friend, thou hast said enough," said the Beggar, getting down from the stile. "I will feast thee with the best that I have and bless Saint Cedric for thy company. But, sweet chuck, I prythee bring three quarts of ale at least, one for thy drinking and two for mine, for my thirst is such that methinks I can drink ale as the sands of the River Dee drink salt water." So Robin straightway left the Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a budding lime bush back of the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the grass and roasted his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by long labor in that line. After a while back came Robin bearing a goodly skin of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the grass. Then, looking upon the feast spread upon the ground--and a fair sight it was to look upon--he slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed the fairest sight that he had beheld in all his life. "Friend," said the Beggar, "let me feel the weight of that skin. "Yea, truly," quoth Robin, "help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let me see whether thy pigeon pie is fresh or no." So the one seized upon the ale and the other upon the pigeon pie, and nothing was heard for a while but the munching of food and the gurgle of ale as it left the skin. At last, after a long time had passed thus, Robin pushed the food from him and heaved a great sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had been made all over anew. "And now, good friend," quoth he, leaning upon one elbow, "I would have at thee about that other matter of seriousness of which I spoke not long since." "How!" said the Beggar reproachfully, "thou wouldst surely not talk of things appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!" "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing. "I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend; drink while I talk to thee. Thus it is: I would have thee know that I have taken a liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar's life mine own self." Said the Beggar, "I marvel not that thou hast taken a liking to my manner of life, good fellow, but 'to like' and 'to do' are two matters of different sorts. I tell thee, friend, one must serve a long apprenticeship ere one can learn to be even so much as a clapper-dudgeon, much less a crank or an Abraham-man.(3) I tell thee, lad, thou art too old to enter upon that which it may take thee years to catch the hang of." (3) Classes of traveling mendicants that infested England as late as the middle of the seventeenth century. VIDE Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES, etc. "Mayhap that may be so," quoth Robin, "for I bring to mind that Gaffer Swanthold sayeth Jack Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill shoon. Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar's life, and need but the clothing to be as good as any." "I tell thee, fellow," said the Beggar, "if thou wert clad as sweetly as good Saint Wynten, the patron of our craft, thou wouldst never make a beggar. Marry, the first jolly traveler that thou wouldst meet would beat thee to a pudding for thrusting thy nose into a craft that belongeth not to thee." "Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "I would have a try at it; and methinks I shall change clothes with thee, for thy garb seemeth to be pretty, not to say gay. So not only will I change clothes, but I will give thee two golden angels to boot. I have brought my stout staff with me, thinking that I might have to rap some one of the brethren of thy cloth over the head by way of argument in this matter, but I love thee so much for the feast thou hast given me that I would not lift even my little finger against thee, so thou needst not have a crumb of fear." To this the Beggar listened with his knuckles resting against his hips, and when Robin had ended he cocked his head on one side and thrust his tongue into his cheek. "Marry, come up," quoth he at last. "Lift thy finger against me, forsooth! Art thou out of thy wits, man? My name is Riccon Hazel, and I come from Holywell, in Flintshire, over by the River Dee. I tell thee, knave, I have cracked the head of many a better man than thou art, and even now I would scald thy crown for thee but for the ale thou hast given me. Now thou shalt not have so much as one tag-rag of my coat, even could it save thee from hanging." "Now, fellow," said Robin, "it would ill suit me to spoil thy pretty head for thee, but I tell thee plainly, that but for this feast I would do that to thee would stop thy traveling the country for many a day to come. Keep thy lips shut, lad, or thy luck will tumble out of thy mouth with thy speech!" "Now out, and alas for thee, man, for thou hast bred thyself ill this day!" cried the Beggar, rising and taking up his staff. "Take up thy club and defend thyself, fellow, for I will not only beat thee but I will take from thee thy money and leave thee not so much as a clipped groat to buy thyself a lump of goose grease to rub thy cracked crown withal. So defend thyself, I say." Then up leaped merry Robin and snatched up his staff also. "Take my money, if thou canst," quoth he. "I promise freely to give thee every farthing if thou dost touch me." And he twirled his staff in his fingers till it whistled again. Then the Beggar swung his staff also, and struck a mighty blow at Robin, which the yeoman turned. Three blows the Beggar struck, yet never one touched so much as a hair of Robin's head. Then stout Robin saw his chance, and, ere you could count three, Riccon's staff was over the hedge, and Riccon himself lay upon the green grass with no more motion than you could find in an empty pudding bag. "How now!" quoth merry Robin, laughing. "Wilt thou have my hide or my money, sweet chuck?" But to this the other answered never a word. Then Robin, seeing his plight, and that he was stunned with the blow, ran, still laughing, and brought the skin of ale and poured some of it on the Beggar's head and some down his throat, so that presently he opened his eyes and looked around as though wondering why he lay upon his back. Then Robin, seeing that he had somewhat gathered the wits that had just been rapped out of his head, said, "Now, good fellow, wilt thou change clothes with me, or shall I have to tap thee again? Here are two golden angels if thou wilt give me freely all thy rags and bags and thy cap and things. If thou givest them not freely, I much fear me I shall have to--" and he looked up and down his staff. Then Riccon sat up and rubbed the bump on his crown. "Now, out upon it!" quoth he. "I did think to drub thee sweetly, fellow. I know not how it is, but I seem, as it were, to have bought more beer than I can drink. If I must give up my clothes, I must, but first promise me, by thy word as a true yeoman, that thou wilt take nought from me but my clothes." "I promise on the word of a true yeoman," quoth Robin, thinking that the fellow had a few pennies that he would save. Thereupon the Beggar drew a little knife that hung at his side and, ripping up the lining of his coat, drew thence ten bright golden pounds, which he laid upon the ground beside him with a cunning wink at Robin. "Now thou mayst have my clothes and welcome," said he, "and thou mightest have had them in exchange for thine without the cost of a single farthing, far less two golden angels." "Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art a sly fellow, and I tell thee truly, had I known thou hadst so much money by thee maybe thou mightst not have carried it away, for I warrant thou didst not come honestly by it." Then each stripped off his clothes and put on those of the other, and as lusty a beggar was Robin Hood as e'er you could find of a summer's day. But stout Riccon of Holywell skipped and leaped and danced for joy of the fair suit of Lincoln green that he had so gotten. Quoth he, "I am a gay-feathered bird now. Truly, my dear Moll Peascod would never know me in this dress. Thou mayst keep the cold pieces of the feast, friend, for I mean to live well and lustily while my money lasts and my clothes are gay." So he turned and left Robin and, crossing the stile, was gone, but Robin heard him singing from beyond the hedge as he strode away: "_For Polly is smiling and Molly is glad When the beggar comes in at the door, And Jack and Dick call him a fine lusty lad, And the hostess runs up a great score. "Then hey, Willy Waddykin, Stay, Billy Waddykin, And let the brown ale flow free, flow free, The beggar's the man for me_." Robin listened till the song ended in the distance, then he also crossed the stile into the road, but turned his toes away from where the Beggar had gone. The road led up a gentle hill and up the hill Robin walked, a half score or more of bags dangling about his legs. Onward he strolled for a long time, but other adventure he found not. The road was bare of all else but himself, as he went kicking up little clouds of dust at each footstep; for it was noontide, the most peaceful time of all the day, next to twilight. All the earth was silent in the restfulness of eating time; the plowhorses stood in the furrow munching, with great bags over their noses holding sweet food, the plowman sat under the hedge and the plowboy also, and they, too, were munching, each one holding a great piece of bread in one fist and a great piece of cheese in the other. So Robin, with all the empty road to himself, strode along whistling merrily, his bags and pouches bobbing and dangling at his thighs. At last he came to where a little grass-grown path left the road and, passing through a stile and down a hill, led into a little dell and on across a rill in the valley and up the hill on the other side, till it reached a windmill that stood on the cap of the rise where the wind bent the trees in swaying motion. Robin looked at the spot and liked it, and, for no reason but that his fancy led him, he took the little path and walked down the grassy sunny slope of the open meadow, and so came to the little dingle and, ere he knew it, upon four lusty fellows that sat with legs outstretched around a goodly feast spread upon the ground. Four merry beggars were they, and each had slung about his neck a little board that rested upon his breast. One board had written upon it, "I am blind," another, "I am deaf," another, "I am dumb," and the fourth, "Pity the lame one." But although all these troubles written upon the boards seemed so grievous, the four stout fellows sat around feasting as merrily as though Cain's wife had never opened the pottle that held misfortunes and let them forth like a cloud of flies to pester us. The deaf man was the first to hear Robin, for he said, "Hark, brothers, I hear someone coming." And the blind man was the first to see him, for he said, "He is an honest man, brothers, and one of like craft to ourselves." Then the dumb man called to him in a great voice and said, "Welcome, brother; come and sit while there is still some of the feast left and a little Malmsey in the pottle." At this, the lame man, who had taken off his wooden leg and unstrapped his own leg, and was sitting with it stretched out upon the grass so as to rest it, made room for Robin among them. "We are glad to see thee, brother," said he, holding out the flask of Malmsey. "Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, and weighing the flask in his hands ere he drank, "methinks it is no more than seemly of you all to be glad to see me, seeing that I bring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, and such a lusty leg to a lame man. I drink to your happiness, brothers, as I may not drink to your health, seeing ye are already hale, wind and limb." At this all grinned, and the Blind beggar, who was the chief man among them, and was the broadest shouldered and most lusty rascal of all, smote Robin upon the shoulder, swearing he was a right merry wag. "Whence comest thou, lad?" asked the Dumb man. "Why," quoth Robin, "I came this morning from sleeping overnight in Sherwood." "Is it even so?" said the Deaf man. "I would not for all the money we four are carrying to Lincoln Town sleep one night in Sherwood. If Robin Hood caught one of our trade in his woodlands he would, methinks, clip his ears." "Methinks he would, too," quoth Robin, laughing. "But what money is this that ye speak of?" Then up spake the Lame man. "Our king, Peter of York," said he, "hath sent us to Lincoln with those moneys that--" "Stay, brother Hodge," quoth the Blind man, breaking into the talk, "I would not doubt our brother here, but bear in mind we know him not. What art thou, brother? Upright-man, Jurkman, Clapper-dudgeon, Dommerer, or Abraham-man?" At these words Robin looked from one man to the other with mouth agape. "Truly," quoth he, "I trust I am an upright man, at least, I strive to be; but I know not what thou meanest by such jargon, brother. It were much more seemly, methinks, if yon Dumb man, who hath a sweet voice, would give us a song." At these words a silence fell on all, and after a while the Blind man spoke again. Quoth he, "Thou dost surely jest when thou sayest that thou dost not understand such words. Answer me this: Hast thou ever fibbed a chouse quarrons in the Rome pad for the loure in his bung?"(4) (4) I.E., in old beggar's cant, "beaten a man or gallant upon the highway for the money in his purse." Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES. "Now out upon it," quoth Robin Hood testily, "an ye make sport of me by pattering such gibberish, it will be ill for you all, I tell you. I have the best part of a mind to crack the heads of all four of you, and would do so, too, but for the sweet Malmsey ye have given me. Brother, pass the pottle lest it grow cold." But all the four beggars leaped to their feet when Robin had done speaking, and the Blind man snatched up a heavy knotted cudgel that lay beside him on the grass, as did the others likewise. Then Robin, seeing that things were like to go ill with him, albeit he knew not what all the coil was about, leaped to his feet also and, catching up his trusty staff, clapped his back against the tree and stood upon his guard against them. "How, now!" cried he, twirling his staff betwixt his fingers, "would you four stout fellows set upon one man? Stand back, ye rascals, or I will score your pates till they have as many marks upon them as a pothouse door! Are ye mad? I have done you no harm." "Thou liest!" quoth the one who pretended to be blind and who, being the lustiest villain, was the leader of the others, "thou liest! For thou hast come among us as a vile spy. But thine ears have heard too much for thy body's good, and thou goest not forth from this place unless thou goest feet foremost, for this day thou shalt die! Come, brothers, all together! Down with him!" Then, whirling up his cudgel, he rushed upon Robin as an angry bull rushes upon a red rag. But Robin was ready for any happening. "Crick! Crack!" he struck two blows as quick as a wink, and down went the Blind man, rolling over and over upon the grass. At this the others bore back and stood at a little distance scowling upon Robin. "Come on, ye scum!" cried he merrily. "Here be cakes and ale for all. Now, who will be next served?" To this speech the beggars answered never a word, but they looked at Robin as great Blunderbore looked upon stout Jack the slayer of giants, as though they would fain eat him, body and bones; nevertheless, they did not care to come nigher to him and his terrible staff. Then, seeing them so hesitate, Robin of a sudden leaped upon them, striking even as he leaped. Down went the Dumb man, and away flew his cudgel from his hand as he fell. At this the others ducked to avoid another blow, then, taking to their heels, scampered, the one one way and the other the other, as though they had the west wind's boots upon their feet. Robin looked after them, laughing, and thought that never had he seen so fleet a runner as the Lame man; but neither of the beggars stopped nor turned around, for each felt in his mind the wind of Robin's cudgel about his ears. Then Robin turned to the two stout knaves lying upon the ground. Quoth he, "These fellows spake somewhat about certain moneys they were taking to Lincoln; methinks I may find it upon this stout blind fellow, who hath as keen sight as e'er a trained woodsman in Nottingham or Yorkshire. It were a pity to let sound money stay in the pockets of such thieving knaves." So saying, he stooped over the burly rascal and searched among his rags and tatters, till presently his fingers felt a leathern pouch slung around his body beneath his patched and tattered coat. This he stripped away and, weighing it in his hands, bethought himself that it was mighty heavy. "It were a sweet thing," said he to himself, "if this were filled with gold instead of copper pence." Then, sitting down upon the grass, he opened the pocket and looked into it. There he found four round rolls wrapped up in dressed sheepskin; one of these rolls he opened; then his mouth gaped and his eyes stared, I wot, as though they would never close again, for what did he see but fifty pounds of bright golden money? He opened the other pockets and found in each one the same, fifty bright new-stamped golden pounds. Quoth Robin, "I have oft heard that the Beggars' Guild was over-rich, but never did I think that they sent such sums as this to their treasury. I shall take it with me, for it will be better used for charity and the good of my merry band than in the enriching of such knaves as these." So saying, he rolled up the money in the sheepskin again, and putting it back in the purse, he thrust the pouch into his own bosom. Then taking up the flask of Malmsey, he held it toward the two fellows lying on the grass, and quoth he, "Sweet friends, I drink your health and thank you dearly for what ye have so kindly given me this day, and so I wish you good den." Then, taking up his staff, he left the spot and went merrily on his way. But when the two stout beggars that had been rapped upon the head roused themselves and sat up, and when the others had gotten over their fright and come back, they were as sad and woebegone as four frogs in dry weather, for two of them had cracked crowns, their Malmsey was all gone, and they had not so much as a farthing to cross their palms withal. But after Robin left the little dell he strode along merrily, singing as he went; and so blithe was he and such a stout beggar, and, withal, so fresh and clean, that every merry lass he met had a sweet word for him and felt no fear, while the very dogs, that most times hate the sight of a beggar, snuffed at his legs in friendly wise and wagged their tails pleasantly; for dogs know an honest man by his smell, and an honest man Robin was--in his own way. Thus he went along till at last he had come to the wayside cross nigh Ollerton, and, being somewhat tired, he sat him down to rest upon the grassy bank in front of it. "It groweth nigh time," quoth he to himself, "that I were getting back again to Sherwood; yet it would please me well to have one more merry adventure ere I go back again to my jolly band." So he looked up the road and down the road to see who might come, until at last he saw someone drawing near, riding upon a horse. When the traveler came nigh enough for him to see him well, Robin laughed, for a strange enough figure he cut. He was a thin, wizened man, and, to look upon him, you could not tell whether he was thirty years old or sixty, so dried up was he even to skin and bone. As for the nag, it was as thin as the rider, and both looked as though they had been baked in Mother Huddle's Oven, where folk are dried up so that they live forever. But although Robin laughed at the droll sight, he knew the wayfarer to be a certain rich corn engrosser of Worksop, who more than once had bought all the grain in the countryside and held it till it reached even famine prices, thus making much money from the needs of poor people, and for this he was hated far and near by everyone that knew aught of him. So, after a while, the Corn Engrosser came riding up to where Robin sat; whereupon merry Robin stepped straightway forth, in all his rags and tatters, his bags and pouches dangling about him, and laid his hand upon the horse's bridle rein, calling upon the other to stop. "Who art thou, fellow, that doth dare to stop me thus upon the King's highway?" said the lean man, in a dry, sour voice. "Pity a poor beggar," quoth Robin. "Give me but a farthing to buy me a piece of bread." "Now, out upon thee!" snarled the other. "Such sturdy rogues as thou art are better safe in the prisons or dancing upon nothing, with a hempen collar about the neck, than strolling the highways so freely." "Tut," quoth Robin, "how thou talkest! Thou and I are brothers, man. Do we not both take from the poor people that which they can ill spare? Do we not make our livings by doing nought of any good? Do we not both live without touching palm to honest work? Have we either of us ever rubbed thumbs over honestly gained farthings? Go to! We are brothers, I say; only thou art rich and I am poor; wherefore, I prythee once more, give me a penny." "Doss thou prate so to me, sirrah?" cried the Corn Engrosser in a rage. "Now I will have thee soundly whipped if ever I catch thee in any town where the law can lay hold of thee! As for giving thee a penny, I swear to thee that I have not so much as a single groat in my purse. Were Robin Hood himself to take me, he might search me from crown to heel without finding the smallest piece of money upon me. I trust I am too sly to travel so nigh to Sherwood with money in my pouch, and that thief at large in the woods." Then merry Robin looked up and down, as if to see that there was no one nigh, and then, coming close to the Corn Engrosser, he stood on tiptoe and spake in his ear, "Thinkest thou in sooth that I am a beggar, as I seem to be? Look upon me. There is not a grain of dirt upon my hands or my face or my body. Didst thou ever see a beggar so? I tell thee I am as honest a man as thou art. Look, friend." Here he took the purse of money from his breast and showed to the dazzled eyes of the Corn Engrosser the bright golden pieces. "Friend, these rags serve but to hide an honest rich man from the eyes of Robin Hood." "Put up thy money, lad," cried the other quickly. "Art thou a fool, to trust to beggar's rags to shield thee from Robin Hood? If he caught thee, he would strip thee to the skin, for he hates a lusty beggar as he doth a fat priest or those of my kind." "Is it indeed so?" quoth Robin. "Had I known this, mayhap I had not come hereabouts in this garb. But I must go forward now, as much depends upon my journeying. Where goest thou, friend?" "I go to Grantham," said the Corn Engrosser, "but I shall lodge tonight at Newark, if I can get so far upon my way." "Why, I myself am on the way to Newark," quoth merry Robin, "so that, as two honest men are better than one in roads beset by such a fellow as this Robin Hood, I will jog along with thee, if thou hast no dislike to my company." "Why, as thou art an honest fellow and a rich fellow," said the Corn Engrosser, "I mind not thy company; but, in sooth, I have no great fondness for beggars." "Then forward," quoth Robin, "for the day wanes and it will be dark ere we reach Newark." So off they went, the lean horse hobbling along as before, and Robin running beside, albeit he was so quaking with laughter within him that he could hardly stand; yet he dared not laugh aloud, lest the Corn Engrosser should suspect something. So they traveled along till they reached a hill just on the outskirts of Sherwood. Here the lean man checked his lean horse into a walk, for the road was steep, and he wished to save his nag's strength, having far to go ere he reached Newark. Then he turned in his saddle and spake to Robin again, for the first time since they had left the cross. "Here is thy greatest danger, friend," said he, "for here we are nighest to that vile thief Robin Hood, and the place where he dwells. Beyond this we come again to the open honest country, and so are more safe in our journeying." "Alas!" quoth Robin, "I would that I had as little money by me as thou hast, for this day I fear that Robin Hood will get every groat of my wealth." Then the other looked at Robin and winked cunningly. Quoth he, "I tell thee, friend, that I have nigh as much by me as thou hast, but it is hidden so that never a knave in Sherwood could find it." "Thou dost surely jest," quoth Robin. "How could one hide so much as two hundred pounds upon his person?" "Now, as thou art so honest a fellow, and, withal, so much younger than I am, I will tell thee that which I have told to no man in all the world before, and thus thou mayst learn never again to do such a foolish thing as to trust to beggar's garb to guard thee against Robin Hood. Seest thou these clogs upon my feet?" "Yea," quoth Robin, laughing, "truly, they are large enough for any man to see, even were his sight as foggy as that of Peter Patter, who never could see when it was time to go to work." "Peace, friend," said the Corn Engrosser, "for this is no matter for jesting. The soles of these clogs are not what they seem to be, for each one is a sweet little box; and by twisting the second nail from the toe, the upper of the shoe and part of the sole lifts up like a lid, and in the spaces within are fourscore and ten bright golden pounds in each shoe, all wrapped in hair, to keep them from clinking and so telling tales of themselves." When the Corn Engrosser had told this, Robin broke into a roar of laughter and, laying his hands upon the bridle rein, stopped the sad-looking nag. "Stay, good friend," quoth he, between bursts of merriment, "thou art the slyest old fox that e'er I saw in all my life!--In the soles of his shoon, quotha!--If ever I trust a poor-seeming man again, shave my head and paint it blue! A corn factor, a horse jockey, an estate agent, and a jackdaw for cunningness, say I!" And he laughed again till he shook in his shoes with mirth. All this time the Corn Engrosser had been staring at Robin, his mouth agape with wonder. "Art thou mad," quoth he, "to talk in this way, so loud and in such a place? Let us forward, and save thy mirth till we are safe and sound at Newark." "Nay," quoth Robin, the tears of merriment wet on his cheeks, "on second thoughts I go no farther than here, for I have good friends hereabouts. Thou mayst go forward if thou dost list, thou sweet pretty fellow, but thou must go forward barefoot, for I am afraid that thy shoon must be left behind. Off with them, friend, for I tell thee I have taken a great fancy to them." At these words the corn factor grew pale as a linen napkin. "Who art thou that talkest so?" said he. Then merry Robin laughed again, and quoth he, "Men hereabouts call me Robin Hood; so, sweet friend, thou hadst best do my bidding and give me thy shoes, wherefore hasten, I prythee, or else thou wilt not get to fair Newark Town till after dark." At the sound of the name of Robin Hood, the corn factor quaked with fear, so that he had to seize his horse by the mane to save himself from falling off its back. Then straightway, and without more words, he stripped off his clogs and let them fall upon the road. Robin, still holding the bridle rein, stooped and picked them up. Then he said, "Sweet friend, I am used to ask those that I have dealings with to come and feast at Sherwood with me. I will not ask thee, because of our pleasant journey together; for I tell thee there be those in Sherwood that would not be so gentle with thee as I have been. The name of Corn Engrosser leaves a nasty taste upon the tongue of all honest men. Take a fool's advice of me and come no more so nigh to Sherwood, or mayhap some day thou mayst of a sudden find a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs. So, with this, I give thee good den." Hereupon he clapped his hand to the horse's flank and off went nag and rider. But the man's face was all bedewed with the sweat of fright, and never again, I wot, was he found so close to Sherwood Forest as he had been this day. Robin stood and looked after him, and, when he was fairly gone, turned, laughing, and entered the forest carrying the shoes in his hand. That night in sweet Sherwood the red fires glowed brightly in wavering light on tree and bush, and all around sat or lay the stout fellows of the band to hear Robin Hood and Little John tell their adventures. All listened closely, and again and again the woods rang with shouts of laughter. When all was told, Friar Tuck spoke up. "Good master," said he, "thou hast had a pretty time, but still I hold to my saying, that the life of the barefoot friar is the merrier of the two." "Nay," quoth Will Stutely, "I hold with our master, that he hath had the pleasanter doings of the two, for he hath had two stout bouts at quarterstaff this day." So some of the band held with Robin Hood and some with Little John. As for me, I think--But I leave it with you to say for yourselves which you hold with. Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen Eleanor THE HIGHROAD stretched white and dusty in the hot summer afternoon sun, and the trees stood motionless along the roadside. All across the meadow lands the hot air danced and quivered, and in the limpid waters of the lowland brook, spanned by a little stone bridge, the fish hung motionless above the yellow gravel, and the dragonfly sat quite still, perched upon the sharp tip of a spike of the rushes, with its wings glistening in the sun. Along the road a youth came riding upon a fair milk-white barb, and the folk that he passed stopped and turned and looked after him, for never had so lovely a lad or one so gaily clad been seen in Nottingham before. He could not have been more than sixteen years of age, and was as fair as any maiden. His long yellow hair flowed behind him as he rode along, all clad in silk and velvet, with jewels flashing and dagger jingling against the pommel of the saddle. Thus came the Queen's Page, young Richard Partington, from famous London Town down into Nottinghamshire, upon Her Majesty's bidding, to seek Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. The road was hot and dusty and his journey had been long, for that day he had come all the way from Leicester Town, a good twenty miles and more; wherefore young Partington was right glad when he saw before him a sweet little inn, all shady and cool beneath the trees, in front of the door of which a sign hung pendant, bearing the picture of a blue boar. Here he drew rein and called loudly for a pottle of Rhenish wine to be brought him, for stout country ale was too coarse a drink for this young gentleman. Five lusty fellows sat upon the bench beneath the pleasant shade of the wide-spreading oak in front of the inn door, drinking ale and beer, and all stared amain at this fair and gallant lad. Two of the stoutest of them were clothed in Lincoln green, and a great heavy oaken staff leaned against the gnarled oak tree trunk beside each fellow. The landlord came and brought a pottle of wine and a long narrow glass upon a salver, which he held up to the Page as he sat upon his horse. Young Partington poured forth the bright yellow wine and holding the glass aloft, cried, "Here is to the health and long happiness of my royal mistress, the noble Queen Eleanor; and may my journey and her desirings soon have end, and I find a certain stout yeoman men call Robin Hood." At these words all stared, but presently the two stout yeomen in Lincoln green began whispering together. Then one of the two, whom Partington thought to be the tallest and stoutest fellow he had ever beheld, spoke up and said, "What seekest thou of Robin Hood, Sir Page? And what does our good Queen Eleanor wish of him? I ask this of thee, not foolishly, but with reason, for I know somewhat of this stout yeoman." "An thou knowest aught of him, good fellow," said young Partington, "thou wilt do great service to him and great pleasure to our royal Queen by aiding me to find him." Then up spake the other yeoman, who was a handsome fellow with sunburned face and nut-brown, curling hair, "Thou hast an honest look, Sir Page, and our Queen is kind and true to all stout yeomen. Methinks I and my friend here might safely guide thee to Robin Hood, for we know where he may be found. Yet I tell thee plainly, we would not for all merry England have aught of harm befall him." "Set thy mind at ease; I bring nought of ill with me," quoth Richard Partington. "I bring a kind message to him from our Queen, therefore an ye know where he is to be found, I pray you to guide me thither." Then the two yeomen looked at one another again, and the tall man said, "Surely it were safe to do this thing, Will;" whereat the other nodded. Thereupon both arose, and the tall yeoman said, "We think thou art true, Sir Page, and meanest no harm, therefore we will guide thee to Robin Hood as thou dost wish." Then Partington paid his score, and the yeomen coming forward, they all straightway departed upon their way. Under the greenwood tree, in the cool shade that spread all around upon the sward, with flickering lights here and there, Robin Hood and many of his band lay upon the soft green grass, while Allan a Dale sang and played upon his sweetly sounding harp. All listened in silence, for young Allan's singing was one of the greatest joys in all the world to them; but as they so listened there came of a sudden the sound of a horse's feet, and presently Little John and Will Stutely came forth from the forest path into the open glade, young Richard Partington riding between them upon his milk-white horse. The three came toward where Robin Hood sat, all the band staring with might and main, for never had they seen so gay a sight as this young Page, nor one so richly clad in silks and velvets and gold and jewels. Then Robin arose and stepped forth to meet him, and Partington leaped from his horse and doffing his cap of crimson velvet, met Robin as he came. "Now, welcome!" cried Robin. "Now, welcome, fair youth, and tell me, I prythee, what bringeth one of so fair a presence and clad in such noble garb to our poor forest of Sherwood?" Then young Partington said, "If I err not, thou art the famous Robin Hood, and these thy stout band of outlawed yeomen. To thee I bring greetings from our noble Queen Eleanor. Oft hath she heard thee spoken of and thy merry doings hereabouts, and fain would she behold thy face; therefore she bids me tell thee that if thou wilt presently come to London Town, she will do all in her power to guard thee against harm, and will send thee back safe to Sherwood Forest again. Four days hence, in Finsbury Fields, our good King Henry, of great renown, holdeth a grand shooting match, and all the most famous archers of merry England will be thereat. Our Queen would fain see thee strive with these, knowing that if thou wilt come thou wilt, with little doubt, carry off the prize. Therefore she hath sent me with this greeting, and furthermore sends thee, as a sign of great good will, this golden ring from off her own fair thumb, which I give herewith into thy hands." Then Robin Hood bowed his head and taking the ring, kissed it right loyally, and then slipped it upon his little finger. Quoth he, "Sooner would I lose my life than this ring; and ere it departs from me, my hand shall be cold in death or stricken off at the wrist. Fair Sir Page, I will do our Queen's bidding, and will presently hie with thee to London; but, ere we go, I will feast thee here in the woodlands with the very best we have." "It may not be," said the Page; "we have no time to tarry, therefore get thyself ready straightway; and if there be any of thy band that thou wouldst take with thee, our Queen bids me say that she will make them right welcome likewise." "Truly, thou art right," quoth Robin, "and we have but short time to stay; therefore I will get me ready presently. I will choose three of my men, only, to go with me, and these three shall be Little John, mine own true right-hand man, Will Scarlet, my cousin, and Allan a Dale, my minstrel. Go, lads, and get ye ready straightway, and we will presently off with all speed that we may. Thou, Will Stutely, shall be the chief of the band while I am gone." Then Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale ran leaping, full of joy, to make themselves ready, while Robin also prepared himself for the journey. After a while they all four came forth, and a right fair sight they made, for Robin was clad in blue from head to foot, and Little John and Will Scarlet in good Lincoln green, and as for Allan a Dale, he was dressed in scarlet from the crown of his head to the toes of his pointed shoes. Each man wore beneath his cap a little head covering of burnished steel set with rivets of gold, and underneath his jerkin a coat of linked mail, as fine as carded wool, yet so tough that no arrow could pierce it. Then, seeing all were ready, young Partington mounted his horse again, and the yeomen having shaken hands all around, the five departed upon their way. That night they took up their inn in Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire, and the next night they lodged at Kettering, in Northamptonshire; and the next at Bedford Town; and the next at St. Albans, in Hertfordshire. This place they left not long after the middle of the night, and traveling fast through the tender dawning of the summer day, when the dews lay shining on the meadows and faint mists hung in the dales, when the birds sang their sweetest and the cobwebs beneath the hedges glimmered like fairy cloth of silver, they came at last to the towers and walls of famous London Town, while the morn was still young and all golden toward the east. Queen Eleanor sat in her royal bower, through the open casements of which poured the sweet yellow sunshine in great floods of golden light. All about her stood her ladies-in-waiting chatting in low voices, while she herself sat dreamily where the mild air came softly drifting into the room laden with the fresh perfumes of the sweet red roses that bloomed in the great garden beneath the wall. To her came one who said that her page, Richard Partington, and four stout yeomen waited her pleasure in the court below. Then Queen Eleanor arose joyously and bade them be straightway shown into her presence. Thus Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale came before the Queen into her own royal bower. Then Robin kneeled before the Queen with his hands folded upon his breast, saying in simple phrase, "Here am I, Robin Hood. Thou didst bid me come, and lo, I do thy bidding. I give myself to thee as thy true servant, and will do thy commanding, even if it be to the shedding of the last drop of my life's blood." But good Queen Eleanor smiled pleasantly upon him, bidding him to arise. Then she made them all be seated to rest themselves after their long journey. Rich food was brought them and noble wines, and she had her own pages to wait upon the wants of the yeomen. At last, after they had eaten all they could, she began questioning them of their merry adventures. Then they told her all of the lusty doings herein spoken of, and among others that concerning the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Richard of the Lea, and how the Bishop had abided three days in Sherwood Forest. At this, the Queen and the ladies about her laughed again and again, for they pictured to themselves the stout Bishop abiding in the forest and ranging the woods in lusty sport with Robin and his band. Then, when they had told all that they could bring to mind, the Queen asked Allan to sing to her, for his fame as a minstrel had reached even to the court at London Town. So straightway Allan took up his harp in his hand, and, without more asking, touched the strings lightly till they all rang sweetly, then he sang thus: "_Gentle river, gentle river, Bright thy crystal waters flow, Sliding where the aspens shiver, Gliding where the lilies blow, "Singing over pebbled shallows, Kissing blossoms bending low, Breaking 'neath the dipping swallows, Purpling where the breezes blow. "Floating on thy breast forever Down thy current I could glide; Grief and pain should reach me never On thy bright and gentle tide. "So my aching heart seeks thine, love, There to find its rest and peace, For, through loving, bliss is mine, love, And my many troubles cease_." Thus Allan sang, and as he sang all eyes dwelled upon him and not a sound broke the stillness, and even after he had done the silence hung for a short space. So the time passed till the hour drew nigh for the holding of the great archery match in Finsbury Fields. A gay sight were famous Finsbury Fields on that bright and sunny morning of lusty summertime. Along the end of the meadow stood the booths for the different bands of archers, for the King's yeomen were divided into companies of fourscore men, and each company had a captain over it; so on the bright greensward stood ten booths of striped canvas, a booth for each band of the royal archers, and at the peak of each fluttered a flag in the mellow air, and the flag was the color that belonged to the captain of each band. From the center booth hung the yellow flag of Tepus, the famous bow bearer of the King; next to it, on one hand, was the blue flag of Gilbert of the White Hand, and on the other the blood-red pennant of stout young Clifton of Buckinghamshire. The seven other archer captains were also men of great renown; among them were Egbert of Kent and William of Southampton; but those first named were most famous of all. The noise of many voices in talk and laughter came from within the booths, and in and out ran the attendants like ants about an ant-hill. Some bore ale and beer, and some bundles of bowstrings or sheaves of arrows. On each side of the archery range were rows upon rows of seats reaching high aloft, and in the center of the north side was a raised dais for the King and Queen, shaded by canvas of gay colors, and hung about with streaming silken pennants of red and blue and green and white. As yet the King and Queen had not come, but all the other benches were full of people, rising head above head high aloft till it made the eye dizzy to look upon them. Eightscore yards distant from the mark from which the archers were to shoot stood ten fair targets, each target marked by a flag of the color belonging to the band that was to shoot thereat. So all was ready for the coming of the King and Queen. At last a great blast of bugles sounded, and into the meadow came riding six trumpeters with silver trumpets, from which hung velvet banners heavy with rich workings of silver and gold thread. Behind these came stout King Henry upon a dapple-gray stallion, with his Queen beside him upon a milk-white palfrey. On either side of them walked the yeomen of the guard, the bright sunlight flashing from the polished blades of the steel halberds they carried. Behind these came the Court in a great crowd, so that presently all the lawn was alive with bright colors, with silk and velvet, with waving plumes and gleaming gold, with flashing jewels and sword hilts; a gallant sight on that bright summer day. Then all the people arose and shouted, so that their voices sounded like the storm upon the Cornish coast, when the dark waves run upon the shore and leap and break, surging amid the rocks; so, amid the roaring and the surging of the people, and the waving of scarfs and kerchiefs, the King and Queen came to their place, and, getting down from their horses, mounted the broad stairs that led to the raised platform, and there took their seats on two thrones bedecked with purple silks and cloths of silver and of gold. When all was quiet a bugle sounded, and straightway the archers came marching in order from their tents. Fortyscore they were in all, as stalwart a band of yeomen as could be found in all the wide world. So they came in orderly fashion and stood in front of the dais where King Henry and his Queen sat. King Henry looked up and down their ranks right proudly, for his heart warmed within him at the sight of such a gallant band of yeomen. Then he bade his herald Sir Hugh de Mowbray stand forth and proclaim the rules governing the game. So Sir Hugh stepped to the edge of the platform and spoke in a loud clear voice, and thus he said: That each man should shoot seven arrows at the target that belonged to his band, and, of the fourscore yeomen of each band, the three that shot the best should be chosen. These three should shoot three arrows apiece, and the one that shot the best should again be chosen. Then each of these should again shoot three arrows apiece, and the one that shot the best should have the first prize, the one that shot the next best should have the second, and the one that shot the next best should have the third prize. Each of the others should have fourscore silver pennies for his shooting. The first prize was to be twoscore and ten golden pounds, a silver bugle horn inlaid with gold, and a quiver with ten white arrows tipped with gold and feathered with the white swan's-wing therein. The second prize was to be fivescore of the fattest bucks that run on Dallen Lea, to be shot when the yeoman that won them chose. The third prize was to be two tuns of good Rhenish wine. So Sir Hugh spoke, and when he had done all the archers waved their bows aloft and shouted. Then each band turned and marched in order back to its place. And now the shooting began, the captains first taking stand and speeding their shafts and then making room for the men who shot, each in turn, after them. Two hundred and eighty score shafts were shot in all, and so deftly were they sped that when the shooting was done each target looked like the back of a hedgehog when the farm dog snuffs at it. A long time was taken in this shooting, and when it was over the judges came forward, looked carefully at the targets, and proclaimed in a loud voice which three had shot the best from the separate bands. Then a great hubbub of voices arose, each man among the crowd that looked on calling for his favorite archer. Then ten fresh targets were brought forward, and every sound was hushed as the archers took their places once more. This time the shooting was more speedily done, for only nine shafts were shot by each band. Not an arrow missed the targets, but in that of Gilbert of the White Hand five arrows were in the small white spot that marked the center; of these five three were sped by Gilbert. Then the judges came forward again, and looking at the targets, called aloud the names of the archer chosen as the best bowman of each band. Of these Gilbert of the White Hand led, for six of the ten arrows he had shot had lodged in the center; but stout Tepus and young Clifton trod close upon his heels; yet the others stood a fair chance for the second or third place. And now, amid the roaring of the crowd, those ten stout fellows that were left went back to their tents to rest for a while and change their bowstrings, for nought must fail at this next round, and no hand must tremble or eye grow dim because of weariness. Then while the deep buzz and hum of talking sounded all around like the noise of the wind in the leafy forest, Queen Eleanor turned to the King, and quoth she, "Thinkest thou that these yeomen so chosen are the very best archers in all merry England?" "Yea, truly," said the King, smiling, for he was well pleased with the sport that he had seen; "and I tell thee, that not only are they the best archers in all merry England, but in all the wide world beside." "But what wouldst thou say," quoth Queen Eleanor, "if I were to find three archers to match the best three yeomen of all thy guard?" "I would say thou hast done what I could not do," said the King, laughing, "for I tell thee there lives not in all the world three archers to match Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton of Buckinghamshire." "Now," said the Queen, "I know of three yeomen, and in truth I have seen them not long since, that I would not fear to match against any three that thou canst choose from among all thy fortyscore archers; and, moreover, I will match them here this very day. But I will only match them with thy archers providing that thou wilt grant a free pardon to all that may come in my behalf." At this, the King laughed loud and long. "Truly," said he, "thou art taking up with strange matters for a queen. If thou wilt bring those three fellows that thou speakest of, I will promise faithfully to give them free pardon for forty days, to come or to go wheresoever they please, nor will I harm a hair of their heads in all that time. Moreover, if these that thou bringest shoot better than my yeomen, man for man, they shall have the prizes for themselves according to their shooting. But as thou hast so taken up of a sudden with sports of this kind, hast thou a mind for a wager?" "Why, in sooth," said Queen Eleanor, laughing, "I know nought of such matters, but if thou hast a mind to do somewhat in that way, I will strive to pleasure thee. What wilt thou wager upon thy men?" Then the merry King laughed again, for he dearly loved goodly jest; so he said, amidst his laughter, "I will wager thee ten tuns of Rhenish wine, ten tuns of the stoutest ale, and tenscore bows of tempered Spanish yew, with quivers and arrows to match." All that stood around smiled at this, for it seemed a merry wager for a king to give to a queen; but Queen Eleanor bowed her head quietly. "I will take thy wager," said she, "for I know right well where to place those things that thou hast spoken of. Now, who will be on my side in this matter?" And she looked around upon them that stood about; but no one spake or cared to wager upon the Queen's side against such archers as Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton. Then the Queen spoke again, "Now, who will back me in this wager? Wilt thou, my Lord Bishop of Hereford?" "Nay," quoth the Bishop hastily, "it ill befits one of my cloth to deal in such matters. Moreover, there are no such archers as His Majesty's in all the world; therefore I would but lose my money. "Methinks the thought of thy gold weigheth more heavily with thee than the wrong to thy cloth," said the Queen, smiling, and at this a ripple of laughter went around, for everyone knew how fond the Bishop was of his money. Then the Queen turned to a knight who stood near, whose name was Sir Robert Lee. "Wilt thou back me in this manner?" said she. "Thou art surely rich enough to risk so much for the sake of a lady." "To pleasure my Queen I will do it," said Sir Robert Lee, "but for the sake of no other in all the world would I wager a groat, for no man can stand against Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton." Then turning to the King, Queen Eleanor said, "I want no such aid as Sir Robert giveth me; but against thy wine and beer and stout bows of yew I wager this girdle all set with jewels from around my waist; and surely that is worth more than thine." "Now, I take thy wager," quoth the King. "Send for thy archers straightway. But here come forth the others; let them shoot, and then I will match those that win against all the world." "So be it," said the Queen. Thereupon, beckoning to young Richard Partington, she whispered something in his ear, and straightway the Page bowed and left the place, crossing the meadow to the other side of the range, where he was presently lost in the crowd. At this, all that stood around whispered to one another, wondering what it all meant, and what three men the Queen was about to set against those famous archers of the King's guard. And now the ten archers of the King's guard took their stand again, and all the great crowd was hushed to the stillness of death. Slowly and carefully each man shot his shafts, and so deep was the silence that you could hear every arrow rap against the target as it struck it. Then, when the last shaft had sped, a great roar went up; and the shooting, I wot, was well worthy of the sound. Once again Gilbert had lodged three arrows in the white; Tepus came second with two in the white and one in the black ring next to it; but stout Clifton had gone down and Hubert of Suffolk had taken the third place, for, while both those two good yeomen had lodged two in the white, Clifton had lost one shot upon the fourth ring, and Hubert came in with one in the third. All the archers around Gilbert's booth shouted for joy till their throats were hoarse, tossing their caps aloft, and shaking hands with one another. In the midst of all the noise and hubbub five men came walking across the lawn toward the King's pavilion. The first was Richard Partington, and was known to most folk there, but the others were strange to everybody. Beside young Partington walked a yeoman clad in blue, and behind came three others, two in Lincoln green and one in scarlet. This last yeoman carried three stout bows of yew tree, two fancifully inlaid with silver and one with gold. While these five men came walking across the meadow, a messenger came running from the King's booth and summoned Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert to go with him. And now the shouting quickly ceased, for all saw that something unwonted was toward, so the folk stood up in their places and leaned forward to see what was the ado. When Partington and the others came before the spot where the King and Queen sat, the four yeomen bent their knees and doffed their caps unto her. King Henry leaned far forward and stared at them closely, but the Bishop of Hereford, when he saw their faces, started as though stung by a wasp. He opened his mouth as though about to speak, but, looking up, he saw the Queen gazing at him with a smile upon her lips, so he said nothing, but bit his nether lip, while his face was as red as a cherry. Then the Queen leaned forward and spake in a clear voice. "Locksley," said she, "I have made a wager with the King that thou and two of thy men can outshoot any three that he can send against you. Wilt thou do thy best for my sake?" "Yea," quoth Robin Hood, to whom she spake, "I will do my best for thy sake, and, if I fail, I make my vow never to finger bowstring more." Now, although Little John had been somewhat abashed in the Queen's bower, he felt himself the sturdy fellow he was when the soles of his feet pressed green grass again; so he said boldly, "Now, blessings on thy sweet face, say I. An there lived a man that would not do his best for thee--I will say nought, only I would like to have the cracking of his knave's pate! "Peace, Little John!" said Robin Hood hastily, in a low voice; but good Queen Eleanor laughed aloud, and a ripple of merriment sounded all over the booth. The Bishop of Hereford did not laugh, neither did the King, but he turned to the Queen, and quoth he, "Who are these men that thou hast brought before us?" Then up spoke the Bishop hastily, for he could hold his peace no longer: "Your Majesty," quoth he, "yon fellow in blue is a certain outlawed thief of the mid-country, named Robin Hood; yon tall, strapping villain goeth by the name of Little John; the other fellow in green is a certain backsliding gentleman, known as Will Scarlet; the man in red is a rogue of a northern minstrel, named Allan a Dale." At this speech the King's brows drew together blackly, and he turned to the Queen. "Is this true?" said he sternly. "Yea," said the Queen, smiling, "the Bishop hath told the truth; and truly he should know them well, for he and two of his friars spent three days in merry sport with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. I did little think that the good Bishop would so betray his friends. But bear in mind that thou hast pledged thy promise for the safety of these good yeomen for forty days." "I will keep my promise," said the King, in a deep voice that showed the anger in his heart, "but when these forty days are gone let this outlaw look to himself, for mayhap things will not go so smoothly with him as he would like." Then he turned to his archers, who stood near the Sherwood yeomen, listening and wondering at all that passed. Quoth he, "Gilbert, and thou, Tepus, and thou, Hubert, I have pledged myself that ye shall shoot against these three fellows. If ye outshoot the knaves I will fill your caps with silver pennies; if ye fail ye shall lose your prizes that ye have won so fairly, and they go to them that shoot against you, man to man. Do your best, lads, and if ye win this bout ye shall be glad of it to the last days of your life. Go, now, and get you gone to the butts." Then the three archers of the King turned and went back to their booths, and Robin and his men went to their places at the mark from which they were to shoot. Then they strung their bows and made themselves ready, looking over their quivers of arrows, and picking out the roundest and the best feathered. But when the King's archers went to their tents, they told their friends all that had passed, and how that these four men were the famous Robin Hood and three of his band, to wit, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Allan a Dale. The news of this buzzed around among the archers in the booths, for there was not a man there that had not heard of these great mid-country yeomen. From the archers the news was taken up by the crowd that looked on at the shooting, so that at last everybody stood up, craning their necks to catch sight of the famous outlaws. Six fresh targets were now set up, one for each man that was to shoot; whereupon Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert came straightway forth from the booths. Then Robin Hood and Gilbert of the White Hand tossed a farthing aloft to see who should lead in the shooting, and the lot fell to Gilbert's side; thereupon he called upon Hubert of Suffolk to lead. Hubert took his place, planted his foot firmly, and fitted a fair, smooth arrow; then, breathing upon his fingertips, he drew the string slowly and carefully. The arrow sped true, and lodged in the white; again he shot, and again he hit the clout; a third shaft he sped, but this time failed of the center, and but struck the black, yet not more than a finger's-breadth from the white. At this a shout went up, for it was the best shooting that Hubert had yet done that day. Merry Robin laughed, and quoth he, "Thou wilt have an ill time bettering that round, Will, for it is thy turn next. Brace thy thews, lad, and bring not shame upon Sherwood." Then Will Scarlet took his place; but, because of overcaution, he spoiled his target with the very first arrow that he sped, for he hit the next ring to the black, the second from the center. At this Robin bit his lips. "Lad, lad," quoth he, "hold not the string so long! Have I not often told thee what Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, that 'overcaution spilleth the milk'?" To this Will Scarlet took heed, so the next arrow he shot lodged fairly in the center ring; again he shot, and again he smote the center; but, for all that, stout Hubert had outshot him, and showed the better target. Then all those that looked on clapped their hands for joy because that Hubert had overcome the stranger. Quoth the King grimly, to the Queen, "If thy archers shoot no better than that, thou art like to lose thy wager, lady." But Queen Eleanor smiled, for she looked for better things from Robin Hood and Little John. And now Tepus took his place to shoot. He, also, took overheed to what he was about, and so he fell into Will Scarlet's error. The first arrow he struck into the center ring, but the second missed its mark, and smote the black; the last arrow was tipped with luck, for it smote the very center of the clout, upon the black spot that marked it. Quoth Robin Hood, "That is the sweetest shot that hath been sped this day; but, nevertheless, friend Tepus, thy cake is burned, methinks. Little John, it is thy turn next." So Little John took his place as bidden, and shot his three arrows quickly. He never lowered his bow arm in all the shooting, but fitted each shaft with his longbow raised; yet all three of his arrows smote the center within easy distance of the black. At this no sound of shouting was heard, for, although it was the best shooting that had been done that day, the folk of London Town did not like to see the stout Tepus overcome by a fellow from the countryside, even were he as famous as Little John. And now stout Gilbert of the White Hand took his place and shot with the greatest care; and again, for the third time in one day, he struck all three shafts into the clout. "Well done, Gilbert!" quoth Robin Hood, smiting him upon the shoulder. "I make my vow, thou art one of the best archers that ever mine eyes beheld. Thou shouldst be a free and merry ranger like us, lad, for thou art better fitted for the greenwood than for the cobblestones and gray walls of London Town." So saying, he took his place, and drew a fair, round arrow from his quiver, which he turned over and over ere he fitted it to his bowstring. Then the King muttered in his beard, "Now, blessed Saint Hubert, if thou wilt but jog that rogue's elbow so as to make him smite even the second ring, I will give eightscore waxen candles three fingers'-breadth in thickness to thy chapel nigh Matching." But it may be Saint Hubert's ears were stuffed with tow, for he seemed not to hear the King's prayer this day. Having gotten three shafts to his liking, merry Robin looked carefully to his bowstring ere he shot. "Yea," quoth he to Gilbert, who stood nigh him to watch his shooting, "thou shouldst pay us a visit at merry Sherwood." Here he drew the bowstring to his ear. "In London"--here he loosed his shaft--"thou canst find nought to shoot at but rooks and daws; there one can tickle the ribs of the noblest stags in England." So he shot even while he talked, yet the shaft lodged not more than half an inch from the very center. "By my soul!" cried Gilbert. "Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in that wise?" "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing, "not quite so ill as that, I trust." And he took up another shaft and fitted it to the string. Again he shot, and again he smote his arrow close beside the center; a third time he loosed his bowstring and dropped his arrow just betwixt the other two and into the very center, so that the feathers of all three were ruffled together, seeming from a distance to be one thick shaft. And now a low murmur ran all among that great crowd, for never before had London seen such shooting as this; and never again would it see it after Robin Hood's day had gone. All saw that the King's archers were fairly beaten, and stout Gilbert clapped his palm to Robin's, owning that he could never hope to draw such a bowstring as Robin Hood or Little John. But the King, full of wrath, would not have it so, though he knew in his mind that his men could not stand against those fellows. "Nay!" cried he, clenching his hands upon the arms of his seat, "Gilbert is not yet beaten! Did he not strike the clout thrice? Although I have lost my wager, he hath not yet lost the first prize. They shall shoot again, and still again, till either he or that knave Robin Hood cometh off the best. Go thou, Sir Hugh, and bid them shoot another round, and another, until one or the other is overcome." Then Sir Hugh, seeing how wroth the King was, said never a word, but went straightway to do his bidding; so he came to where Robin Hood and the other stood, and told them what the King had said. "With all my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I will shoot from this time till tomorrow day if it can pleasure my most gracious lord and King. Take thy place, Gilbert lad, and shoot." So Gilbert took his place once more, but this time he failed, for, a sudden little wind arising, his shaft missed the center ring, but by not more than the breadth of a barley straw. "Thy eggs are cracked, Gilbert," quoth Robin, laughing; and straightway he loosed a shaft, and once more smote the white circle of the center. Then the King arose from his place, and not a word said he, but he looked around with a baleful look, and it would have been an ill day for anyone that he saw with a joyous or a merry look upon his face. Then he and his Queen and all the court left the place, but the King's heart was brimming full of wrath. After the King had gone, all the yeomen of the archer guard came crowding around Robin, and Little John, and Will, and Allan, to snatch a look at these famous fellows from the mid-country; and with them came many that had been onlookers at the sport, for the same purpose. Thus it happened presently that the yeomen, to whom Gilbert stood talking, were all surrounded by a crowd of people that formed a ring about them. After a while the three judges that had the giving away of the prizes came forward, and the chief of them all spake to Robin and said, "According to agreement, the first prize belongeth rightly to thee; so here I give thee the silver bugle, here the quiver of ten golden arrows, and here a purse of twoscore and ten golden pounds." And as he spake he handed those things to Robin, and then turned to Little John. "To thee," he said, "belongeth the second prize, to wit, fivescore of the finest harts that run on Dallen Lea. Thou mayest shoot them whensoever thou dost list." Last of all he turned to stout Hubert. "Thou," said he, "hast held thine own against the yeomen with whom thou didst shoot, and so thou hast kept the prize duly thine, to wit, two tuns of good Rhenish wine. These shall be delivered to thee whensoever thou dost list." Then he called upon the other seven of the King's archers who had last shot, and gave each fourscore silver pennies. Then up spake Robin, and quoth he, "This silver bugle I keep in honor of this shooting match; but thou, Gilbert, art the best archer of all the King's guard, and to thee I freely give this purse of gold. Take it, man, and would it were ten times as much, for thou art a right yeoman, good and true. Furthermore, to each of the ten that last shot I give one of these golden shafts apiece. Keep them always by you, so that ye may tell your grandchildren, an ye are ever blessed with them, that ye are the very stoutest yeomen in all the wide world." At this all shouted aloud, for it pleased them to hear Robin speak so of them. Then up spake Little John. "Good friend Tepus," said he, "I want not those harts of Dallen Lea that yon stout judge spoke of but now, for in truth we have enow and more than enow in our own country. Twoscore and ten I give to thee for thine own shooting, and five I give to each band for their pleasure." At this another great shout went up, and many tossed their caps aloft, and swore among themselves that no better fellows ever walked the sod than Robin Hood and his stout yeomen. While they so shouted with loud voices, a tall burly yeoman of the King's guard came forward and plucked Robin by the sleeve. "Good master," quoth he, "I have somewhat to tell thee in thine ear; a silly thing, God wot, for one stout yeoman to tell another; but a young peacock of a page, one Richard Partington, was seeking thee without avail in the crowd, and, not being able to find thee, told me that he bore a message to thee from a certain lady that thou wottest of. This message he bade me tell thee privily, word for word, and thus it was. Let me see--I trust I have forgot it not--yea, thus it was: 'The lion growls. Beware thy head.'" "Is it so?" quoth Robin, starting; for he knew right well that it was the Queen sent the message, and that she spake of the King's wrath. "Now, I thank thee, good fellow, for thou hast done me greater service than thou knowest of this day." Then he called his three yeomen together and told them privately that they had best be jogging, as it was like to be ill for them so nigh merry London Town. So, without tarrying longer, they made their way through the crowd until they had come out from the press. Then, without stopping, they left London Town and started away northward. The Chase of Robin Hood SO ROBIN HOOD and the others left the archery range at Finsbury Fields, and, tarrying not, set forth straightway upon their homeward journey. It was well for them that they did so, for they had not gone more than three or four miles upon their way when six of the yeomen of the King's guard came bustling among the crowd that still lingered, seeking for Robin and his men, to seize upon them and make them prisoners. Truly, it was an ill-done thing in the King to break his promise, but it all came about through the Bishop of Hereford's doing, for thus it happened: After the King left the archery ground, he went straightway to his cabinet, and with him went the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Robert Lee; but the King said never a word to these two, but sat gnawing his nether lip, for his heart was galled within him by what had happened. At last the Bishop of Hereford spoke, in a low, sorrowful voice: "It is a sad thing, Your Majesty, that this knavish outlaw should be let to escape in this wise; for, let him but get back to Sherwood Forest safe and sound, and he may snap his fingers at king and king's men." At these words the King raised his eyes and looked grimly upon the Bishop. "Sayst thou so?" quoth he. "Now, I will show thee, in good time, how much thou dost err, for, when the forty days are past and gone, I will seize upon this thieving outlaw, if I have to tear down all of Sherwood to find him. Thinkest thou that the laws of the King of England are to be so evaded by one poor knave without friends or money?" Then the Bishop spoke again, in his soft, smooth voice: "Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty, and believe that I have nought but the good of England and Your Majesty's desirings at heart; but what would it boot though my gracious lord did root up every tree of Sherwood? Are there not other places for Robin Hood's hiding? Cannock Chase is not far from Sherwood, and the great Forest of Arden is not far from Cannock Chase. Beside these are many other woodlands in Nottingham and Derby, Lincoln and York, amid any of which Your Majesty might as well think to seize upon Robin Hood as to lay finger upon a rat among the dust and broken things of a garret. Nay, my gracious lord, if he doth once plant foot in the woodland, he is lost to the law forever." At these words the King tapped his fingertips upon the table beside him with vexation. "What wouldst thou have me do, Bishop?" quoth he. "Didst thou not hear me pledge my word to the Queen? Thy talk is as barren as the wind from the bellows upon dead coals." "Far be it from me," said the cunning Bishop, "to point the way to one so clear-sighted as Your Majesty; but, were I the King of England, I should look upon the matter in this wise: I have promised my Queen, let us say, that for forty days the cunningest rogue in all England shall have freedom to come and go; but, lo! I find this outlaw in my grasp; shall I, then, foolishly cling to a promise so hastily given? Suppose that I had promised to do Her Majesty's bidding, whereupon she bade me to slay myself; should I, then, shut mine eyes and run blindly upon my sword? Thus would I argue within myself. Moreover, I would say unto myself, a woman knoweth nought of the great things appertaining to state government; and, likewise, I know a woman is ever prone to take up a fancy, even as she would pluck a daisy from the roadside, and then throw it away when the savor is gone; therefore, though she hath taken a fancy to this outlaw, it will soon wane away and be forgotten. As for me, I have the greatest villain in all England in my grasp; shall I, then, open my hand and let him slip betwixt my fingers? Thus, Your Majesty, would I say to myself, were I the King of England." So the Bishop talked, and the King lent his ear to his evil counsel, until, after a while, he turned to Sir Robert Lee and bade him send six of the yeomen of the guard to take Robin Hood and his three men prisoners. Now Sir Robert Lee was a gentle and noble knight, and he felt grieved to the heart to see the King so break his promise; nevertheless, he said nothing, for he saw how bitterly the King was set against Robin Hood; but he did not send the yeomen of the guard at once, but went first to the Queen, and told her all that had passed, and bade her send word to Robin of his danger. This he did not for the well-being of Robin Hood, but because he would save his lord's honor if he could. Thus it came about that when, after a while, the yeomen of the guard went to the archery field, they found not Robin and the others, and so got no cakes at that fair. The afternoon was already well-nigh gone when Robin Hood, Little John, Will, and Allan set forth upon their homeward way, trudging along merrily through the yellow slanting light, which speedily changed to rosy red as the sun sank low in the heavens. The shadows grew long, and finally merged into the grayness of the mellow twilight. The dusty highway lay all white betwixt the dark hedgerows, and along it walked four fellows like four shadows, the pat of their feet sounding loud, and their voices, as they talked, ringing clear upon the silence of the air. The great round moon was floating breathlessly up in the eastern sky when they saw before them the twinkling lights of Barnet Town, some ten or twelve miles from London. Down they walked through the stony streets and past the cosy houses with overhanging gables, before the doors of which sat the burghers and craftsmen in the mellow moonlight, with their families about them, and so came at last, on the other side of the hamlet, to a little inn, all shaded with roses and woodbines. Before this inn Robin Hood stopped, for the spot pleased him well. Quoth he, "Here will we take up our inn and rest for the night, for we are well away from London Town and our King's wrath. Moreover, if I mistake not, we will find sweet faring within. What say ye, lads?" "In sooth, good master," quoth Little John, "thy bidding and my doing ever fit together like cakes and ale. Let us in, I say also." Then up spake Will Scarlet: "I am ever ready to do what thou sayest, uncle, yet I could wish that we were farther upon our way ere we rest for the night. Nevertheless, if thou thinkest best, let us in for the night, say I also." So in they went and called for the best that the place afforded. Then a right good feast was set before them, with two stout bottles of old sack to wash it down withal. These things were served by as plump and buxom a lass as you could find in all the land, so that Little John, who always had an eye for a fair lass, even when meat and drink were by, stuck his arms akimbo and fixed his eyes upon her, winking sweetly whenever he saw her looking toward him. Then you should have seen how the lass twittered with laughter, and how she looked at Little John out of the corners of her eyes, a dimple coming in either cheek; for the fellow had always a taking way with the womenfolk. So the feast passed merrily, and never had that inn seen such lusty feeders as these four stout fellows; but at last they were done their eating, though it seemed as though they never would have ended, and sat loitering over the sack. As they so sat, the landlord came in of a sudden, and said that there was one at the door, a certain young esquire, Richard Partington, of the Queen's household, who wished to see the lad in blue, and speak with him, without loss of time. So Robin arose quickly, and, bidding the landlord not to follow him, left the others gazing at one another, and wondering what was about to happen. When Robin came out of the inn, he found young Richard Partington sitting upon his horse in the white moonlight, awaiting his coming. "What news bearest thou, Sir Page?" said Robin. "I trust that it is not of an ill nature." "Why," said young Partington, "for the matter of that, it is ill enow. The King hath been bitterly stirred up against thee by that vile Bishop of Hereford. He sent to arrest thee at the archery butts at Finsbury Fields, but not finding thee there, he hath gathered together his armed men, fifty-score and more, and is sending them in haste along this very road to Sherwood, either to take thee on the way or to prevent thy getting back to the woodlands again. He hath given the Bishop of Hereford command over all these men, and thou knowest what thou hast to expect of the Bishop of Hereford--short shrift and a long rope. Two bands of horsemen are already upon the road, not far behind me, so thou hadst best get thee gone from this place straightway, for, if thou tarriest longer, thou art like to sleep this night in a cold dungeon. This word the Queen hath bidden me bring to thee." "Now, Richard Partington," quoth Robin, "this is the second time that thou hast saved my life, and if the proper time ever cometh I will show thee that Robin Hood never forgets these things. As for that Bishop of Hereford, if I ever catch him nigh to Sherwood again, things will be like to go ill with him. Thou mayst tell the good Queen that I will leave this place without delay, and will let the landlord think that we are going to Saint Albans; but when we are upon the highroad again, I will go one way through the country and will send my men the other, so that if one falleth into the King's hands the others may haply escape. We will go by devious ways, and so, I hope, will reach Sherwood in safety. And now, Sir Page, I wish thee farewell." "Farewell, thou bold yeoman," said young Partington, "and mayst thou reach thy hiding in safety." So each shook the other's hand, and the lad, turning his horse's head, rode back toward London, while Robin entered the inn once more. There he found his yeomen sitting in silence, waiting his coming; likewise the landlord was there, for he was curious to know what Master Partington had to do with the fellow in blue. "Up, my merry men!" quoth Robin, "this is no place for us, for those are after us with whom we will stand but an ill chance an we fall into their hands. So we will go forward once more, nor will we stop this night till we reach Saint Albans." Hereupon, taking out his purse, he paid the landlord his score, and so they left the inn. When they had come to the highroad without the town, Robin stopped and told them all that had passed between young Partington and himself, and how that the King's men were after them with hot heels. Then he told them that here they should part company; they three going to the eastward and he to the westward, and so, skirting the main highroads, would come by devious paths to Sherwood. "So, be ye wily," said Robin Hood, "and keep well away from the northward roads till ye have gotten well to the eastward. And thou, Will Scarlet, take the lead of the others, for thou hast a cunning turn to thy wits." Then Robin kissed the three upon the cheeks, and they kissed him, and so they parted company. Not long after this, a score or more of the King's men came clattering up to the door of the inn at Barnet Town. Here they leaped from their horses and quickly surrounded the place, the leader of the band and four others entering the room where the yeomen had been. But they found that their birds had flown again, and that the King had been balked a second time. "Methought that they were naughty fellows," said the host, when he heard whom the men-at-arms sought. "But I heard that blue-clad knave say that they would go straight forward to Saint Albans; so, an ye hurry forward, ye may, perchance, catch them on the highroad betwixt here and there." For this news the leader of the band thanked mine host right heartily, and, calling his men together, mounted and set forth again, galloping forward to Saint Albans upon a wild goose chase. After Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale had left the highway near garnet, they traveled toward the eastward, without stopping, as long as their legs could carry them, until they came to Chelmsford, in Essex. Thence they turned northward, and came through Cambridge and Lincolnshire, to the good town of Gainsborough. Then, striking to the westward and the south, they came at last to the northern borders of Sherwood Forest, without in all that time having met so much as a single band of the King's men. Eight days they journeyed thus ere they reached the woodlands in safety, but when they got to the greenwood glade, they found that Robin had not yet returned. For Robin was not as lucky in getting back as his men had been, as you shall presently hear. After having left the great northern road, he turned his face to the westward, and so came past Aylesbury, to fair Woodstock, in Oxfordshire. Thence he turned his footsteps northward, traveling for a great distance by way of Warwick Town, till he came to Dudley, in Staffordshire. Seven days it took him to journey thus far, and then he thought he had gotten far enough to the north, so, turning toward the eastward, shunning the main roads, and choosing byways and grassy lanes, he went, by way of Litchfield and Ashby de la Zouch, toward Sherwood, until he came to a place called Stanton. And now Robin's heart began to laugh aloud, for he thought that his danger had gone by, and that his nostrils would soon snuff the spicy air of the woodlands once again. But there is many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, and this Robin was to find. For thus it was: When the King's men found themselves foiled at Saint Albans, and that Robin and his men were not to be found high nor low, they knew not what to do. Presently another band of horsemen came, and another, until all the moonlit streets were full of armed men. Betwixt midnight and dawn another band came to the town, and with them came the Bishop of Hereford. When he heard that Robin Hood had once more slipped out of the trap, he stayed not a minute, but, gathering his bands together, he pushed forward to the northward with speed, leaving orders for all the troops that came to Saint Albans to follow after him without tarrying. On the evening of the fourth day he reached Nottingham Town, and there straightway divided his men into bands of six or seven, and sent them all through the countryside, blocking every highway and byway to the eastward and the southward and the westward of Sherwood. The Sheriff of Nottingham called forth all his men likewise, and joined with the Bishop, for he saw that this was the best chance that had ever befallen of paying back his score in full to Robin Hood. Will Scarlet and Little John and Allan a Dale had just missed the King's men to the eastward, for the very next day after they had passed the line and entered Sherwood the roads through which they had traveled were blocked, so that, had they tarried in their journeying, they would surely have fallen into the Bishop's hands. But of all this Robin knew not a whit; so he whistled merrily as he trudged along the road beyond Stanton, with his heart as free from care as the yolk of an egg is from cobwebs. At last he came to where a little stream spread across the road in a shallow sheet, tinkling and sparkling as it fretted over its bed of golden gravel. Here Robin stopped, being athirst, and, kneeling down, he made a cup of the palms of his hands, and began to drink. On either side of the road, for a long distance, stood tangled thickets of bushes and young trees, and it pleased Robin's heart to hear the little birds singing therein, for it made him think of Sherwood, and it seemed as though it had been a lifetime since he had breathed the air of the woodlands. But of a sudden, as he thus stooped, drinking, something hissed past his ear, and struck with a splash into the gravel and water beside him. Quick as a wink Robin sprang to his feet, and, at one bound, crossed the stream and the roadside, and plunged headlong into the thicket, without looking around, for he knew right well that that which had hissed so venomously beside his ear was a gray goose shaft, and that to tarry so much as a moment meant death. Even as he leaped into the thicket six more arrows rattled among the branches after him, one of which pierced his doublet, and would have struck deeply into his side but for the tough coat of steel that he wore. Then up the road came riding some of the King's men at headlong speed. They leaped from their horses and plunged straightway into the thicket after Robin. But Robin knew the ground better than they did, so crawling here, stooping there, and, anon, running across some little open, he soon left them far behind, coming out, at last, upon another road about eight hundred paces distant from the one he had left. Here he stood for a moment, listening to the distant shouts of the seven men as they beat up and down in the thickets like hounds that had lost the scent of the quarry. Then, buckling his belt more tightly around his waist, he ran fleetly down the road toward the eastward and Sherwood. But Robin had not gone more than three furlongs in that direction when he came suddenly to the brow of a hill, and saw beneath him another band of the King's men seated in the shade along the roadside in the valley beneath. Then he paused not a moment, but, seeing that they had not caught sight of him, he turned and ran back whence he had come, knowing that it was better to run the chance of escaping those fellows that were yet in the thickets than to rush into the arms of those in the valley. So back he ran with all speed, and had gotten safely past the thickets, when the seven men came forth into the open road. They raised a great shout when they saw him, such as the hunter gives when the deer breaks cover, but Robin was then a quarter of a mile and more away from them, coursing over the ground like a greyhound. He never slackened his pace, but ran along, mile after mile, till he had come nigh to Mackworth, over beyond the Derwent River, nigh to Derby Town. Here, seeing that he was out of present danger, he slackened in his running, and at last sat him down beneath a hedge where the grass was the longest and the shade the coolest, there to rest and catch his wind. "By my soul, Robin," quoth he to himself, "that was the narrowest miss that e'er thou hadst in all thy life. I do say most solemnly that the feather of that wicked shaft tickled mine ear as it whizzed past. This same running hath given me a most craving appetite for victuals and drink. Now I pray Saint Dunstan that he send me speedily some meat and beer." It seemed as though Saint Dunstan was like to answer his prayer, for along the road came plodding a certain cobbler, one Quince, of Derby, who had been to take a pair of shoes to a farmer nigh Kirk Langly, and was now coming back home again, with a fair boiled capon in his pouch and a stout pottle of beer by his side, which same the farmer had given him for joy of such a stout pair of shoon. Good Quince was an honest fellow, but his wits were somewhat of the heavy sort, like unbaked dough, so that the only thing that was in his mind was, "Three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy shoon, good Quince--three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy shoon," and this traveled round and round inside of his head, without another thought getting into his noddle, as a pea rolls round and round inside an empty quart pot. "Halloa, good friend," quoth Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the other had gotten nigh enough, "whither away so merrily this bright day?" Hearing himself so called upon, the Cobbler stopped, and, seeing a well-clad stranger in blue, he spoke to him in seemly wise. "Give ye good den, fair sir, and I would say that I come from Kirk Langly, where I ha' sold my shoon and got three shillings sixpence ha'penny for them in as sweet money as ever thou sawest, and honestly earned too, I would ha' thee know. But an I may be so bold, thou pretty fellow, what dost thou there beneath the hedge?" "Marry," quoth merry Robin, "I sit beneath the hedge here to drop salt on the tails of golden birds; but in sooth thou art the first chick of any worth I ha' seen this blessed day." At these words the Cobbler's eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth grew round with wonder, like a knothole in a board fence, "slack-a-day," quoth he, "look ye, now! I ha' never seen those same golden birds. And dost thou in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell me, are there many of them? I would fain find them mine own self." "Ay, truly," quoth Robin, "they are as thick here as fresh herring in Cannock Chase." "Look ye, now!" said the Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. "And dost thou in sooth catch them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?" "Yea," quoth Robin, "but this salt is of an odd kind, let me tell thee, for it can only be gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a wooden platter, and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou witty man, what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in that pottle?" At these words the Cobbler looked down at those things of which merry Robin spoke, for the thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from his mind, and it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back again. "Why," said he at last, "in the one is good March beer, and in the other is a fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha' a fine feast this day an I mistake not." "But tell me, good Quince," said Robin, "hast thou a mind to sell those things to me? For the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will give thee these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten shillings to boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy beer and thy capon. What sayst thou, bully boy?" "Nay, thou dost jest with me," said the Cobbler, "for my clothes are coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty." "Never a jest do I speak," quoth Robin. "Come, strip thy jacket off and I will show thee, for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I will be kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things thou hast with thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating." At these words he began slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler, seeing him so in earnest, began pulling off his clothes also, for Robin Hood's garb tickled his eye. So each put on the other fellow's clothes, and Robin gave the honest Cobbler ten bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, "I ha' been a many things in my life before, but never have I been an honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall to and eat, for something within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon." So both sat down and began to feast right lustily, so that when they were done the bones of the capon were picked as bare as charity. Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feeling of comfort within him. Quoth he, "By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou hast a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow. I prythee, turn one of them out for me." "A song or two I ha'," quoth the Cobbler, "poor things, poor things, but such as they are thou art welcome to one of them." So, moistening his throat with a swallow of beer, he sang: "_Of all the joys, the best I love, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, And that which most my soul doth move, It is the clinking can, O. "All other bliss I'd throw away, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, But this_--" The stout Cobbler got no further in his song, for of a sudden six horsemen burst upon them where they sat, and seized roughly upon the honest craftsman, hauling him to his feet, and nearly plucking the clothes from him as they did so. "Ha!" roared the leader of the band in a great big voice of joy, "have we then caught thee at last, thou blue-clad knave? Now, blessed be the name of Saint Hubert, for we are fourscore pounds richer this minute than we were before, for the good Bishop of Hereford hath promised that much to the band that shall bring thee to him. Oho! thou cunning rascal! thou wouldst look so innocent, forsooth! We know thee, thou old fox. But off thou goest with us to have thy brush clipped forthwith." At these words the poor Cobbler gazed all around him with his great blue eyes as round as those of a dead fish, while his mouth gaped as though he had swallowed all his words and so lost his speech. Robin also gaped and stared in a wondering way, just as the Cobbler would have done in his place. "Alack-a-daisy, me," quoth he. "I know not whether I be sitting here or in No-man's-land! What meaneth all this stir i' th' pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest fellow." "'Honest fellow,' sayst thou, clown?" quoth one of the men "Why, I tell thee that this is that same rogue that men call Robin Hood." At this speech the Cobbler stared and gaped more than ever, for there was such a threshing of thoughts going on within his poor head that his wits were all befogged with the dust and chaff thereof. Moreover, as he looked at Robin Hood, and saw the yeoman look so like what he knew himself to be, he began to doubt and to think that mayhap he was the great outlaw in real sooth. Said he in a slow, wondering voice, "Am I in very truth that fellow?--Now I had thought--but nay, Quince, thou art mistook--yet--am I?--Nay, I must indeed be Robin Hood! Yet, truly, I had never thought to pass from an honest craftsman to such a great yeoman." "Alas!" quoth Robin Hood, "look ye there, now! See how your ill-treatment hath curdled the wits of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I, myself, am Quince, the Cobbler of Derby Town." "Is it so?" said Quince. "Then, indeed, I am somebody else, and can be none other than Robin Hood. Take me, fellows; but let me tell you that ye ha' laid hand upon the stoutest yeoman that ever trod the woodlands." "Thou wilt play madman, wilt thou?" said the leader of the band. "Here, Giles, fetch a cord and bind this knave's hands behind him. I warrant we will bring his wits back to him again when we get him safe before our good Bishop at Tutbury Town." Thereupon they tied the Cobbler's hands behind him, and led him off with a rope, as the farmer leads off the calf he hath brought from the fair. Robin stood looking after them, and when they were gone he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks; for he knew that no harm would befall the honest fellow, and he pictured to himself the Bishop's face when good Quince was brought before him as Robin Hood. Then, turning his steps once more to the eastward, he stepped out right foot foremost toward Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest. But Robin Hood had gone through more than he wotted of. His journey from London had been hard and long, and in a se'ennight he had traveled sevenscore and more of miles. He thought now to travel on without stopping until he had come to Sherwood, but ere he had gone a half a score of miles he felt his strength giving way beneath him like a river bank which the waters have undermined. He sat him down and rested, but he knew within himself that he could go no farther that day, for his feet felt like lumps of lead, so heavy were they with weariness. Once more he arose and went forward, but after traveling a couple of miles he was fain to give the matter up, so, coming to an inn just then, he entered and calling the landlord, bade him show him to a room, although the sun was only then just sinking in the western sky. There were but three bedrooms in the place, and to the meanest of these the landlord showed Robin Hood, but little Robin cared for the looks of the place, for he could have slept that night upon a bed of broken stones. So, stripping off his clothes without more ado, he rolled into the bed and was asleep almost ere his head touched the pillow. Not long after Robin had so gone to his rest a great cloud peeped blackly over the hills to the westward. Higher and higher it arose until it piled up into the night like a mountain of darkness. All around beneath it came ever and anon a dull red flash, and presently a short grim mutter of the coming thunder was heard. Then up rode four stout burghers of Nottingham Town, for this was the only inn within five miles' distance, and they did not care to be caught in such a thunderstorm as this that was coming upon them. Leaving their nags to the stableman, they entered the best room of the inn, where fresh green rushes lay all spread upon the floor, and there called for the goodliest fare that the place afforded. After having eaten heartily they bade the landlord show them to their rooms, for they were aweary, having ridden all the way from Dronfield that day. So off they went, grumbling at having to sleep two in a bed, but their troubles on this score, as well as all others, were soon lost in the quietness of sleep. And now came the first gust of wind, rushing past the place, clapping and banging the doors and shutters, smelling of the coming rain, and all wrapped in a cloud of dust and leaves. As though the wind had brought a guest along with it, the door opened of a sudden and in came a friar of Emmet Priory, and one in high degree, as was shown by the softness and sleekness of his robes and the richness of his rosary. He called to the landlord, and bade him first have his mule well fed and bedded in the stable, and then to bring him the very best there was in the house. So presently a savory stew of tripe and onions, with sweet little fat dumplings, was set before him, likewise a good stout pottle of Malmsey, and straightway the holy friar fell to with great courage and heartiness, so that in a short time nought was left but a little pool of gravy in the center of the platter, not large enow to keep the life in a starving mouse. In the meantime the storm broke. Another gust of wind went rushing by, and with it fell a few heavy drops of rain, which presently came rattling down in showers, beating against the casements like a hundred little hands. Bright flashes of lightning lit up every raindrop, and with them came cracks of thunder that went away rumbling and bumping as though Saint Swithin were busy rolling great casks of water across rough ground overhead. The womenfolks screamed, and the merry wags in the taproom put their arms around their waists to soothe them into quietness. At last the holy friar bade the landlord show him to his room; but when he heard that he was to bed with a cobbler, he was as ill contented a fellow as you could find in all England, nevertheless there was nothing for it, and he must sleep there or nowhere; so, taking up his candle, he went off, grumbling like the now distant thunder. When he came to the room where he was to sleep he held the light over Robin and looked at him from top to toe; then he felt better pleased, for, instead, of a rough, dirty-bearded fellow, he beheld as fresh and clean a lad as one could find in a week of Sundays; so, slipping off his clothes, he also huddled into the bed, where Robin, grunting and grumbling in his sleep, made room for him. Robin was more sound asleep, I wot, than he had been for many a day, else he would never have rested so quietly with one of the friar's sort so close beside him. As for the friar, had he known who Robin Hood was, you may well believe he would almost as soon have slept with an adder as with the man he had for a bedfellow. So the night passed comfortably enough, but at the first dawn of day Robin opened his eyes and turned his head upon the pillow. Then how he gaped and how he stared, for there beside him lay one all shaven and shorn, so that he knew that it must be a fellow in holy orders. He pinched himself sharply, but, finding he was awake, sat up in bed, while the other slumbered as peacefully as though he were safe and sound at home in Emmet Priory. "Now," quoth Robin to himself, "I wonder how this thing hath dropped into my bed during the night." So saying, he arose softly, so as not to waken the other, and looking about the room he espied the friar's clothes lying upon a bench near the wall. First he looked at the clothes, with his head on one side, and then he looked at the friar and slowly winked one eye. Quoth he, "Good Brother What-e'er-thy-name-may-be, as thou hast borrowed my bed so freely I'll e'en borrow thy clothes in return." So saying, he straightway donned the holy man's garb, but kindly left the cobbler's clothes in the place of it. Then he went forth into the freshness of the morning, and the stableman that was up and about the stables opened his eyes as though he saw a green mouse before him, for such men as the friars of Emmet were not wont to be early risers; but the man bottled his thoughts, and only asked Robin whether he wanted his mule brought from the stable. "Yea, my son," quoth Robin--albeit he knew nought of the mule--"and bring it forth quickly, I prythee, for I am late and must be jogging." So presently the stableman brought forth the mule, and Robin mounted it and went on his way rejoicing. As for the holy friar, when he arose he was in as pretty a stew as any man in all the world, for his rich, soft robes were gone, likewise his purse with ten golden pounds in it, and nought was left but patched clothes and a leathern apron. He raged and swore like any layman, but as his swearing mended nothing and the landlord could not aid him, and as, moreover, he was forced to be at Emmet Priory that very morning upon matters of business, he was fain either to don the cobbler's clothes or travel the road in nakedness. So he put on the clothes, and, still raging and swearing vengeance against all the cobblers in Derbyshire, he set forth upon his way afoot; but his ills had not yet done with him, for he had not gone far ere he fell into the hands of the King's men, who marched him off, willy-nilly, to Tutbury Town and the Bishop of Hereford. In vain he swore he was a holy man, and showed his shaven crown; off he must go, for nothing would do but that he was Robin Hood. Meanwhile merry Robin rode along contentedly, passing safely by two bands of the King's men, until his heart began to dance within him because of the nearness of Sherwood; so he traveled ever on to the eastward, till, of a sudden, he met a noble knight in a shady lane. Then Robin checked his mule quickly and leaped from off its back. "Now, well met, Sir Richard of the Lea," cried he, "for rather than any other man in England would I see thy good face this day!" Then he told Sir Richard all the happenings that had befallen him, and that now at last he felt himself safe, being so nigh to Sherwood again. But when Robin had done, Sir Richard shook his head sadly. "Thou art in greater danger now, Robin, than thou hast yet been," said he, "for before thee lie bands of the Sheriff's men blocking every road and letting none pass through the lines without examining them closely. I myself know this, having passed them but now. Before thee lie the Sheriffs men and behind thee the King's men, and thou canst not hope to pass either way, for by this time they will know of thy disguise and will be in waiting to seize upon thee. My castle and everything within it are thine, but nought could be gained there, for I could not hope to hold it against such a force as is now in Nottingham of the King's and the Sheriffs men." Having so spoken, Sir Richard bent his head in thought, and Robin felt his heart sink within him like that of the fox that hears the hounds at his heels and finds his den blocked with earth so that there is no hiding for him. But presently Sir Richard spoke again, saying, "One thing thou canst do, Robin, and one only. Go back to London and throw thyself upon the mercy of our good Queen Eleanor. Come with me straightway to my castle. Doff these clothes and put on such as my retainers wear. Then I will hie me to London Town with a troop of men behind me, and thou shalt mingle with them, and thus will I bring thee to where thou mayst see and speak with the Queen. Thy only hope is to get to Sherwood, for there none can reach thee, and thou wilt never get to Sherwood but in this way." So Robin went with Sir Richard of the Lea, and did as he said, for he saw the wisdom of that which the knight advised, and that this was his only chance of safety. Queen Eleanor walked in her royal garden, amid the roses that bloomed sweetly, and with her walked six of her ladies-in-waiting, chattering blithely together. Of a sudden a man leaped up to the top of the wall from the other side, and then, hanging for a moment, dropped lightly upon the grass within. All the ladies-in-waiting shrieked at the suddenness of his coming, but the man ran to the Queen and kneeled at her feet, and she saw that it was Robin Hood. "Why, how now, Robin!" cried she, "dost thou dare to come into the very jaws of the raging lion? Alas, poor fellow! Thou art lost indeed if the King finds thee here. Dost thou not know that he is seeking thee through all the land?" "Yea," quoth Robin, "I do know right well that the King seeks me, and therefore I have come; for, surely, no ill can befall me when he hath pledged his royal word to Your Majesty for my safety. Moreover, I know Your Majesty's kindness and gentleness of heart, and so I lay my life freely in your gracious hands." "I take thy meaning, Robin Hood," said the Queen, "and that thou dost convey reproach to me, as well thou mayst, for I know that I have not done by thee as I ought to have done. I know right well that thou must have been hard pressed by peril to leap so boldly into one danger to escape another. Once more I promise thee mine aid, and will do all I can to send thee back in safety to Sherwood Forest. Bide thou here till I return." So saying, she left Robin in the garden of roses, and was gone a long time. When she came back Sir Robert Lee was with her, and the Queen's cheeks were hot and the Queen's eyes were bright, as though she had been talking with high words. Then Sir Robert came straight forward to where Robin Hood stood, and he spoke to the yeoman in a cold, stern voice. Quoth he, "Our gracious Sovereign the King hath mitigated his wrath toward thee, fellow, and hath once more promised that thou shalt depart in peace and safety. Not only hath he promised this, but in three days he will send one of his pages to go with thee and see that none arrest thy journey back again. Thou mayst thank thy patron saint that thou hast such a good friend in our noble Queen, for, but for her persuasion and arguments, thou hadst been a dead man, I can tell thee. Let this peril that thou hast passed through teach thee two lessons. First, be more honest. Second, be not so bold in thy comings and goings. A man that walketh in the darkness as thou dost may escape for a time, but in the end he will surely fall into the pit. Thou hast put thy head in the angry lion's mouth, and yet thou hast escaped by a miracle. Try it not again." So saying, he turned and left Robin and was gone. For three days Robin abided in London in the Queen's household, and at the end of that time the King's head Page, Edward Cunningham, came, and taking Robin with him, departed northward upon his way to Sherwood. Now and then they passed bands of the King's men coming back again to London, but none of those bands stopped them, and so, at last, they reached the sweet, leafy woodlands. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbourne A LONG TIME passed after the great shooting match, and during that time Robin followed one part of the advice of Sir Robert Lee, to wit, that of being less bold in his comings and his goings; for though mayhap he may not have been more honest (as most folks regard honesty), he took good care not to travel so far from Sherwood that he could not reach it both easily and quickly. Great changes had fallen in this time; for King Henry had died and King Richard had come to the crown that fitted him so well through many hard trials, and through adventures as stirring as any that ever befell Robin Hood. But though great changes came, they did not reach to Sherwood's shades, for there Robin Hood and his men dwelled as merrily as they had ever done, with hunting and feasting and singing and blithe woodland sports; for it was little the outside striving of the world troubled them. The dawning of a summer's day was fresh and bright, and the birds sang sweetly in a great tumult of sound. So loud was their singing that it awakened Robin Hood where he lay sleeping, so that he stirred, and turned, and arose. Up rose Little John also, and all the merry men; then, after they had broken their fast, they set forth hither and thither upon the doings of the day. Robin Hood and Little John walked down a forest path where all around the leaves danced and twinkled as the breeze trembled through them and the sunlight came flickering down. Quoth Robin Hood, "I make my vow, Little John, my blood tickles my veins as it flows through them this gay morn. What sayst thou to our seeking adventures, each one upon his own account?" "With all my heart," said Little John. "We have had more than one pleasant doing in that way, good master. Here are two paths; take thou the one to the right hand, and I will take the one to the left, and then let us each walk straight ahead till he tumble into some merry doing or other." "I like thy plan," quoth Robin, "therefore we will part here. But look thee, Little John, keep thyself out of mischief, for I would not have ill befall thee for all the world." "Marry, come up," quoth Little John, "how thou talkest! Methinks thou art wont to get thyself into tighter coils than I am like to do." At this Robin Hood laughed. "Why, in sooth, Little John," said he, "thou hast a blundering hard-headed way that seemeth to bring thee right side uppermost in all thy troubles; but let us see who cometh out best this day." So saying, he clapped his palm to Little John's and each departed upon his way, the trees quickly shutting the one from the other's sight. Robin Hood strolled onward till he came to where a broad woodland road stretched before him. Overhead the branches of the trees laced together in flickering foliage, all golden where it grew thin to the sunlight; beneath his feet the ground was soft and moist from the sheltering shade. Here in this pleasant spot the sharpest adventure that ever befell Robin Hood came upon him; for, as he walked down the woodland path thinking of nought but the songs of the birds, he came of a sudden to where a man was seated upon the mossy roots beneath the shade of a broad-spreading oak tree. Robin Hood saw that the stranger had not caught sight of him, so he stopped and stood quite still, looking at the other a long time before he came forward. And the stranger, I wot, was well worth looking at, for never had Robin seen a figure like that sitting beneath the tree. From his head to his feet he was clad in a horse's hide, dressed with the hair upon it. Upon his head was a cowl that hid his face from sight, and which was made of the horse's skin, the ears whereof stuck up like those of a rabbit. His body was clad in a jacket made of the hide, and his legs were covered with the hairy skin likewise. By his side was a heavy broadsword and a sharp, double-edged dagger. A quiver of smooth round arrows hung across his shoulders, and his stout bow of yew leaned against the tree beside him. "Halloa, friend," cried Robin, coming forward at last, "who art thou that sittest there? And what is that that thou hast upon thy body? I make my vow I ha' never seen such a sight in all my life before. Had I done an evil thing, or did my conscience trouble me, I would be afraid of thee, thinking that thou wast someone from down below bringing a message bidding me come straightway to King Nicholas." To this speech the other answered not a word, but he pushed the cowl back from his head and showed a knit brow, a hooked nose, and a pair of fierce, restless black eyes, which altogether made Robin think of a hawk as he looked on his face. But beside this there was something about the lines on the stranger's face, and his thin cruel mouth, and the hard glare of his eyes, that made one's flesh creep to look upon. "Who art thou, rascal?" said he at last, in a loud, harsh voice. "Tut, tut," quoth merry Robin, "speak not so sourly, brother. Hast thou fed upon vinegar and nettles this morning that thy speech is so stinging?" "An thou likest not my words," said the other fiercely, "thou hadst best be jogging, for I tell thee plainly, my deeds match them." "Nay, but I do like thy words, thou sweet, pretty thing," quoth Robin, squatting down upon the grass in front of the other. "Moreover, I tell thee thy speech is witty and gamesome as any I ever heard in all my life." The other said not a word, but he glared upon Robin with a wicked and baleful look, such as a fierce dog bestows upon a man ere it springs at his throat. Robin returned the gaze with one of wide-eyed innocence, not a shadow of a smile twinkling in his eyes or twitching at the corners of his mouth. So they sat staring at one another for a long time, until the stranger broke the silence suddenly. "What is thy name, fellow?" said he. "Now," quoth Robin, "I am right glad to hear thee speak, for I began to fear the sight of me had stricken thee dumb. As for my name, it may be this or it may be that; but methinks it is more meet for thee to tell me thine, seeing that thou art the greater stranger in these parts. Prythee, tell me, sweet chuck, why wearest thou that dainty garb upon thy pretty body?" At these words the other broke into a short, harsh roar of laughter. "By the bones of the Daemon Odin," said he, "thou art the boldest-spoken man that ever I have seen in all my life. I know not why I do not smite thee down where thou sittest, for only two days ago I skewered a man over back of Nottingham Town for saying not half so much to me as thou hast done. I wear this garb, thou fool, to keep my body warm; likewise it is near as good as a coat of steel against a common sword-thrust. As for my name, I care not who knoweth it. It is Guy of Gisbourne, and thou mayst have heard it before. I come from the woodlands over in Herefordshire, upon the lands of the Bishop of that ilk. I am an outlaw, and get my living by hook and by crook in a manner it boots not now to tell of. Not long since the Bishop sent for me, and said that if I would do a certain thing that the Sheriff of Nottingham would ask of me, he would get me a free pardon, and give me tenscore pounds to boot. So straightway I came to Nottingham Town and found my sweet Sheriff; and what thinkest thou he wanted of me? Why, forsooth, to come here to Sherwood to hunt up one Robin Hood, also an outlaw, and to take him alive or dead. It seemeth that they have no one here to face that bold fellow, and so sent all the way to Herefordshire, and to me, for thou knowest the old saying, 'Set a thief to catch a thief.' As for the slaying of this fellow, it galleth me not a whit, for I would shed the blood of my own brother for the half of two hundred pounds." To all this Robin listened, and as he listened his gorge rose. Well he knew of this Guy of Gisbourne, and of all the bloody and murderous deeds that he had done in Herefordshire, for his doings were famous throughout all the land. Yet, although he loathed the very presence of the man, he held his peace, for he had an end to serve. "Truly," quoth he, "I have heard of thy gentle doings. Methinks there is no one in all the world that Robin Hood would rather meet than thee." At this Guy of Gisbourne gave another harsh laugh. "Why," quoth he, "it is a merry thing to think of one stout outlaw like Robin Hood meeting another stout outlaw like Guy of Gisbourne. Only in this case it will be an ill happening for Robin Hood, for the day he meets Guy of Gisbourne he shall die." "But thou gentle, merry spirit," quoth Robin, "dost thou not think that mayhap this same Robin Hood may be the better man of the two? I know him right well, and many think that he is one of the stoutest men hereabouts." "He may be the stoutest of men hereabouts," quoth Guy of Gisbourne, "yet, I tell thee, fellow, this sty of yours is not the wide world. I lay my life upon it I am the better man of the two. He an outlaw, forsooth! Why, I hear that he hath never let blood in all his life, saving when he first came to the forest. Some call him a great archer; marry, I would not be afraid to stand against him all the days of the year with a bow in my hand." "Why, truly, some folk do call him a great archer," said Robin Hood, "but we of Nottinghamshire are famous hands with the longbow. Even I, though but a simple hand at the craft, would not fear to try a bout with thee." At these words Guy of Gisbourne looked upon Robin with wondering eyes, and then gave another roar of laughter till the woods rang. "Now," quoth he, "thou art a bold fellow to talk to me in this way. I like thy spirit in so speaking up to me, for few men have dared to do so. Put up a garland, lad, and I will try a bout with thee." "Tut, tut," quoth Robin, "only babes shoot at garlands hereabouts. I will put up a good Nottingham mark for thee." So saying, he arose, and going to a hazel thicket not far off, he cut a wand about twice the thickness of a man's thumb. From this he peeled the bark, and, sharpening the point, stuck it up in the ground in front of a great oak tree. Thence he measured off fourscore paces, which brought him beside the tree where the other sat. "There," quoth he, "is the kind of mark that Nottingham yeomen shoot at. Now let me see thee split that wand if thou art an archer." Then Guy of Gisbourne arose. "Now out upon it!" cried he. "The Devil himself could not hit such a mark as that." "Mayhap he could and mayhap he could not," quoth merry Robin, "but that we shall never know till thou hast shot thereat." At these words Guy of Gisbourne looked upon Robin with knit brows, but, as the yeoman still looked innocent of any ill meaning, he bottled his words and strung his bow in silence. Twice he shot, but neither time did he hit the wand, missing it the first time by a span and the second time by a good palm's-breadth. Robin laughed and laughed. "I see now," quoth he, "that the Devil himself could not hit that mark. Good fellow, if thou art no better with the broadsword than thou art with the bow and arrow, thou wilt never overcome Robin Hood." At these words Guy of Gisbourne glared savagely upon Robin. Quoth he, "Thou hast a merry tongue, thou villain; but take care that thou makest not too free with it, or I may cut it out from thy throat for thee." Robin Hood strung his bow and took his place with never a word, albeit his heartstrings quivered with anger and loathing. Twice he shot, the first time hitting within an inch of the wand, the second time splitting it fairly in the middle. Then, without giving the other a chance for speech, he flung his bow upon the ground. "There, thou bloody villain!" cried he fiercely, "let that show thee how little thou knowest of manly sports. And now look thy last upon the daylight, for the good earth hath been befouled long enough by thee, thou vile beast! This day, Our Lady willing, thou diest--I am Robin Hood." So saying, he flashed forth his bright sword in the sunlight. For a time Guy of Gisbourne stared upon Robin as though bereft of wits; but his wonder quickly passed to a wild rage. "Art thou indeed Robin Hood?" cried he. "Now I am glad to meet thee, thou poor wretch! Shrive thyself, for thou wilt have no time for shriving when I am done with thee." So saying, he also drew his sword. And now came the fiercest fight that ever Sherwood saw; for each man knew that either he or the other must die, and that no mercy was to be had in this battle. Up and down they fought, till all the sweet green grass was crushed and ground beneath the trampling of their heels. More than once the point of Robin Hood's sword felt the softness of flesh, and presently the ground began to be sprinkled with bright red drops, albeit not one of them came from Robin's veins. At last Guy of Gisbourne made a fierce and deadly thrust at Robin Hood, from which he leaped back lightly, but in so leaping he caught his heel in a root and fell heavily upon his back. "Now, Holy Mary aid me!" muttered he, as the other leaped at him, with a grin of rage upon his face. Fiercely Guy of Gisbourne stabbed at the other with his great sword, but Robin caught the blade in his naked hand, and, though it cut his palm, he turned the point away so that it plunged deep into the ground close beside him; then, ere a blow could be struck again, he leaped to his feet, with his good sword in his hand. And now despair fell upon Guy of Gisbourne's heart in a black cloud, and he looked around him wildly, like a wounded hawk. Seeing that his strength was going from him, Robin leaped forward, and, quick as a flash, struck a back-handed blow beneath the sword arm. Down fell the sword from Guy of Gisbourne's grasp, and back he staggered at the stroke, and, ere he could regain himself, Robin's sword passed through and through his body. Round he spun upon his heel, and, flinging his hands aloft with a shrill, wild cry, fell prone upon his face upon the green sod. Then Robin Hood wiped his sword and thrust it back into the scabbard, and, coming to where Guy of Gisbourne lay, he stood over him with folded arms, talking to himself the while. "This is the first man I have slain since I shot the Kings forester in the hot days of my youth. I ofttimes think bitterly, even yet, of that first life I took, but of this I am as glad as though I had slain a wild boar that laid waste a fair country. Since the Sheriff of Nottingham hath sent such a one as this against me, I will put on the fellow's garb and go forth to see whether I may not find his worship, and perchance pay him back some of the debt I owe him upon this score." So saying, Robin Hood stripped the hairy garments from off the dead man, and put them on himself, all bloody as they were. Then, strapping the other's sword and dagger around his body and carrying his own in his hand, together with the two bows of yew, he drew the cowl of horse's hide over his face, so that none could tell who he was, and set forth from the forest, turning his steps toward the eastward and Nottingham Town. As he strode along the country roads, men, women, and children hid away from him, for the terror of Guy of Gisbourne's name and of his doings had spread far and near. And now let us see what befell Little John while these things were happening. Little John walked on his way through the forest paths until he had come to the outskirts of the woodlands, where, here and there, fields of barley, corn, or green meadow lands lay smiling in the sun. So he came to the highroad and to where a little thatched cottage stood back of a cluster of twisted crab trees, with flowers in front of it. Here he stopped of a sudden, for he thought that he heard the sound of someone in sorrow. He listened, and found that it came from the cottage; so, turning his footsteps thither, he pushed open the wicket and entered the place. There he saw a gray-haired dame sitting beside a cold hearthstone, rocking herself to and fro and weeping bitterly. Now Little John had a tender heart for the sorrows of other folk, so, coming to the old woman and patting her kindly upon the shoulder, he spoke comforting words to her, bidding her cheer up and tell him her troubles, for that mayhap he might do something to ease them. At all this the good dame shook her head; but all the same his kind words did soothe her somewhat, so after a while she told him all that bore upon her mind. That that morning she had three as fair, tall sons beside her as one could find in all Nottinghamshire, but that they were now taken from her, and were like to be hanged straightway; that, want having come upon them, her eldest boy had gone out, the night before, into the forest, and had slain a hind in the moonlight; that the King's rangers had followed the blood upon the grass until they had come to her cottage, and had there found the deer's meat in the cupboard; that, as neither of the younger sons would betray their brother, the foresters had taken all three away, in spite of the oldest saying that he alone had slain the deer; that, as they went, she had heard the rangers talking among themselves, saying that the Sheriff had sworn that he would put a check upon the great slaughter of deer that had been going on of late by hanging the very first rogue caught thereat upon the nearest tree, and that they would take the three youths to the King's Head Inn, near Nottingham Town, where the Sheriff was abiding that day, there to await the return of a certain fellow he had sent into Sherwood to seek for Robin Hood. To all this Little John listened, shaking his head sadly now and then. "Alas," quoth he, when the good dame had finished her speech, "this is indeed an ill case. But who is this that goeth into Sherwood after Robin Hood, and why doth he go to seek him? But no matter for that now; only that I would that Robin Hood were here to advise us. Nevertheless, no time may be lost in sending for him at this hour, if we would save the lives of thy three sons. Tell me, hast thou any clothes hereabouts that I may put on in place of these of Lincoln green? Marry, if our stout Sheriff catcheth me without disguise, I am like to be run up more quickly than thy sons, let me tell thee, dame." Then the old woman told him that she had in the house some of the clothes of her good husband, who had died only two years before. These she brought to Little John, who, doffing his garb of Lincoln green, put them on in its stead. Then, making a wig and false beard of uncarded wool, he covered his own brown hair and beard, and, putting on a great, tall hat that had belonged to the old peasant, he took his staff in one hand and his bow in the other, and set forth with all speed to where the Sheriff had taken up his inn. A mile or more from Nottingham Town, and not far from the southern borders of Sherwood Forest, stood the cosy inn bearing the sign of the King's Head. Here was a great bustle and stir on this bright morning, for the Sheriff and a score of his men had come to stop there and await Guy of Gisbourne's return from the forest. Great hiss and fuss of cooking was going on in the kitchen, and great rapping and tapping of wine kegs and beer barrels was going on in the cellar. The Sheriff sat within, feasting merrily of the best the place afforded, and the Sheriff's men sat upon the bench before the door, quaffing ale, or lay beneath the shade of the broad-spreading oak trees, talking and jesting and laughing. All around stood the horses of the band, with a great noise of stamping feet and a great switching of tails. To this inn came the King's rangers, driving the widow's three sons before them. The hands of the three youths were tied tightly behind their backs, and a cord from neck to neck fastened them all together. So they were marched to the room where the Sheriff sat at meat, and stood trembling before him as he scowled sternly upon them. "So," quoth he, in a great, loud, angry voice, "ye have been poaching upon the King's deer, have you? Now I will make short work of you this day, for I will hang up all three of you as a farmer would hang up three crows to scare others of the kind from the field. Our fair county of Nottingham hath been too long a breeding place for such naughty knaves as ye are. I have put up with these things for many years, but now I will stamp them out once for all, and with you I will begin." Then one of the poor fellows opened his mouth to speak, but the Sheriff roared at him in a loud voice to be silent, and bade the rangers to take them away till he had done his eating and could attend to the matters concerning them. So the three poor youths were marched outside, where they stood with bowed heads and despairing hearts, till after a while the Sheriff came forth. Then he called his men about him, and quoth he, "These three villains shall be hanged straightway, but not here, lest they breed ill luck to this goodly inn. We will take them over yonder to that belt of woodlands, for I would fain hang them upon the very trees of Sherwood itself, to show those vile outlaws therein what they may expect of me if I ever have the good luck to lay hands upon them." So saying, he mounted his horse, as did his men-at-arms likewise, and all together they set forth for the belt of woodlands he had spoken of, the poor youths walking in their midst guarded by the rangers. So they came at last to the spot, and here nooses were fastened around the necks of the three, and the ends of the cords flung over the branch of a great oak tree that stood there. Then the three youths fell upon their knees and loudly besought mercy of the Sheriff; but the Sheriff of Nottingham laughed scornfully. "Now," quoth he, "I would that I had a priest here to shrive you; but, as none is nigh, you must e'en travel your road with all your sins packed upon your backs, and trust to Saint Peter to let you in through the gates of Paradise like three peddlers into the town." In the meantime, while all this had been going forward, an old man had drawn near and stood leaning on his staff, looking on. His hair and beard were all curly and white, and across his back was a bow of yew that looked much too strong for him to draw. As the Sheriff looked around ere he ordered his men to string the three youths up to the oak tree, his eyes fell upon this strange old man. Then his worship beckoned to him, saying, "Come hither, father, I have a few words to say to thee." So Little John, for it was none other than he, came forward, and the Sheriff looked upon him, thinking that there was something strangely familiar in the face before him. "How, now," said he, "methinks I have seen thee before. What may thy name be, father?" "Please Your Worship," said Little John, in a cracked voice like that of an old man, "my name is Giles Hobble, at Your Worship's service." "Giles Hobble, Giles Hobble," muttered the Sheriff to himself, turning over the names that he had in his mind to try to find one to fit to this. "I remember not thy name," said he at last, "but it matters not. Hast thou a mind to earn sixpence this bright morn?" "Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "for money is not so plenty with me that I should cast sixpence away an I could earn it by an honest turn. What is it Your Worship would have me do?" "Why, this," said the Sheriff. "Here are three men that need hanging as badly as any e'er I saw. If thou wilt string them up I will pay thee twopence apiece for them. I like not that my men-at-arms should turn hangmen. Wilt thou try thy hand?" "In sooth," said Little John, still in the old man's voice, "I ha' never done such a thing before; but an a sixpence is to be earned so easily I might as well ha' it as anybody. But, Your Worship, are these naughty fellows shrived?" "Nay," said the Sheriff, laughing, "never a whit; but thou mayst turn thy hand to that also if thou art so minded. But hasten, I prythee, for I would get back to mine inn betimes." So Little John came to where the three youths stood trembling, and, putting his face to the first fellow's cheek as though he were listening to him, he whispered softly into his ear, "Stand still, brother, when thou feelest thy bonds cut, but when thou seest me throw my woolen wig and beard from my head and face, cast the noose from thy neck and run for the woodlands." Then he slyly cut the cord that bound the youth's hands; who, upon his part, stood still as though he were yet bound. Then he went to the second fellow, and spoke to him in the same way, and also cut his bonds. This he did to the third likewise, but all so slyly that the Sheriff, who sat upon his horse laughing, wotted not what was being done, nor his men either. Then Little John turned to the Sheriff. "Please Your Worship," said he, "will you give me leave to string my bow? For I would fain help these fellows along the way, when they are swinging, with an arrow beneath the ribs." "With all my heart," said the Sheriff, "only, as I said before, make thou haste in thy doings." Little John put the tip of his bow to his instep, and strung the weapon so deftly that all wondered to see an old man so strong. Next he drew a good smooth arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the string; then, looking all around to see that the way was clear behind him, he suddenly cast away the wool from his head and face, shouting in a mighty voice, "Run!" Quick as a flash the three youths flung the nooses from their necks and sped across the open to the woodlands as the arrow speeds from the bow. Little John also flew toward the covert like a greyhound, while the Sheriff and his men gazed after him all bewildered with the sudden doing. But ere the yeoman had gone far the Sheriff roused himself. "After him!" he roared in a mighty voice; for he knew now who it was with whom he had been talking, and wondered that he had not known him before. Little John heard the Sheriff's words, and seeing that he could not hope to reach the woodlands before they would be upon him, he stopped and turned suddenly, holding his bow as though he were about to shoot. "Stand back!" cried he fiercely. "The first man that cometh a foot forward, or toucheth finger to bowstring, dieth!" At these words the Sheriff's men stood as still as stocks, for they knew right well that Little John would be as good as his word, and that to disobey him meant death. In vain the Sheriff roared at them, calling them cowards, and urging them forward in a body; they would not budge an inch, but stood and watched Little John as he moved slowly away toward the forest, keeping his gaze fixed upon them. But when the Sheriff saw his enemy thus slipping betwixt his fingers he grew mad with his rage, so that his head swam and he knew not what he did. Then of a sudden he turned his horse's head, and plunging his spurs into its sides he gave a great shout, and, rising in his stirrups, came down upon Little John like the wind. Then Little John raised his deadly bow and drew the gray goose feather to his cheek. But alas for him! For, ere he could loose the shaft, the good bow that had served him so long, split in his hands, and the arrow fell harmless at his feet. Seeing what had happened, the Sheriff's men raised a shout, and, following their master, came rushing down upon Little John. But the Sheriff was ahead of the others, and so caught up with the yeoman before he reached the shelter of the woodlands, then leaning forward he struck a mighty blow. Little John ducked and the Sheriff's sword turned in his hand, but the flat of the blade struck the other upon the head and smote him down, stunned and senseless. "Now, I am right glad," said the Sheriff, when the men came up and found that Little John was not dead, "that I have not slain this man in my haste! I would rather lose five hundred pounds than have him die thus instead of hanging, as such a vile thief should do. Go, get some water from yonder fountain, William, and pour it over his head." The man did as he was bidden, and presently Little John opened his eyes and looked around him, all dazed and bewildered with the stun of the blow. Then they tied his hands behind him, and lifting him up set him upon the back of one of the horses, with his face to its tail and his feet strapped beneath its belly. So they took him back to the King's Head Inn, laughing and rejoicing as they went along. But in the meantime the widow's three sons had gotten safely away, and were hidden in the woodlands. Once more the Sheriff of Nottingham sat within the King's Head Inn. His heart rejoiced within him, for he had at last done that which he had sought to do for years, taken Little John prisoner. Quoth he to himself, "This time tomorrow the rogue shall hang upon the gallows tree in front of the great gate of Nottingham Town, and thus shall I make my long score with him even." So saying, he took a deep draught of Canary. But it seemed as if the Sheriff had swallowed a thought with his wine, for he shook his head and put the cup down hastily. "Now," he muttered to himself, "I would not for a thousand pounds have this fellow slip through my fingers; yet, should his master escape that foul Guy of Gisbourne, there is no knowing what he may do, for he is the cunningest knave in all the world--this same Robin Hood. Belike I had better not wait until tomorrow to hang the fellow." So saying, he pushed his chair back hastily, and going forth from the inn called his men together. Quoth he, "I will wait no longer for the hanging of this rogue, but it shall be done forthwith, and that from the very tree whence he saved those three young villains by stepping betwixt them and the law. So get ye ready straightway." Then once more they sat Little John upon the horse, with his face to the tail, and so, one leading the horse whereon he sat and the others riding around him, they went forward to that tree from the branches of which they had thought to hang the poachers. On they went, rattling and jingling along the road till they came to the tree. Here one of the men spake to the Sheriff of a sudden. "Your Worship," cried he, "is not yon fellow coming along toward us that same Guy of Gisbourne whom thou didst send into the forest to seek Robin Hood?" At these words the Sheriff shaded his eyes and looked eagerly. "Why, certes," quoth he, "yon fellow is the same. Now, Heaven send that he hath slain the master thief, as we will presently slay the man!" When Little John heard this speech he looked up, and straightway his heart crumbled away within him, for not only were the man's garments all covered with blood, but he wore Robin Hood's bugle horn and carried his bow and broadsword. "How now!" cried the Sheriff, when Robin Hood, in Guy of Gisbourne's clothes, had come nigh to them. "What luck hath befallen thee in the forest? Why, man, thy clothes are all over blood!" "An thou likest not my clothes," said Robin in a harsh voice like that of Guy of Gisbourne, "thou mayst shut thine eyes. Marry, the blood upon me is that of the vilest outlaw that ever trod the woodlands, and one whom I have slain this day, albeit not without wound to myself." Then out spake Little John, for the first time since he had fallen into the Sheriff's hands. "O thou vile, bloody wretch! I know thee, Guy of Gisbourne, for who is there that hath not heard of thee and cursed thee for thy vile deeds of blood and rapine? Is it by such a hand as thine that the gentlest heart that ever beat is stilled in death? Truly, thou art a fit tool for this coward Sheriff of Nottingham. Now I die joyfully, nor do I care how I die, for life is nought to me!" So spake Little John, the salt tears rolling down his brown cheeks. But the Sheriff of Nottingham clapped his hands for joy. "Now, Guy of Gisbourne," cried he, "if what thou tellest me is true, it will be the best day's doings for thee that ever thou hast done in all thy life." "What I have told thee is sooth, and I lie not," said Robin, still in Guy of Gisbourne's voice. "Look, is not this Robin Hood's sword, and is not this his good bow of yew, and is not this his bugle horn? Thinkest thou he would have given them to Guy of Gisbourne of his own free will?" Then the Sheriff laughed aloud for joy. "This is a good day!" cried he. "The great outlaw dead and his right-hand man in my hands! Ask what thou wilt of me, Guy of Gisbourne, and it is thine!" "Then this I ask of thee," said Robin. "As I have slain the master I would now kill the man. Give this fellow's life into my hands, Sir Sheriff." "Now thou art a fool!" cried the Sheriff. "Thou mightst have had money enough for a knight's ransom if thou hadst asked for it. I like ill to let this fellow pass from my hands, but as I have promised, thou shalt have him." "I thank thee right heartily for thy gift," cried Robin. "Take the rogue down from the horse, men, and lean him against yonder tree, while I show you how we stick a porker whence I come!" At these words some of the Sheriff's men shook their heads; for, though they cared not a whit whether Little John were hanged or not, they hated to see him butchered in cold blood. But the Sheriff called to them in a loud voice, ordering them to take the yeoman down from the horse and lean him against the tree, as the other bade. While they were doing this Robin Hood strung both his bow and that of Guy of Gisbourne, albeit none of them took notice of his doing so. Then, when Little John stood against the tree, he drew Guy of Gisbourne's sharp, double-edged dagger. "Fall back! fall back!" cried he. "Would ye crowd so on my pleasure, ye unmannerly knaves? Back, I say! Farther yet!" So they crowded back, as he ordered, many of them turning their faces away, that they might not see what was about to happen. "Come!" cried Little John. "Here is my breast. It is meet that the same hand that slew my dear master should butcher me also! I know thee, Guy of Gisbourne!" "Peace, Little John!" said Robin in a low voice. "Twice thou hast said thou knowest me, and yet thou knowest me not at all. Couldst thou not tell me beneath this wild beast's hide? Yonder, just in front of thee, lie my bow and arrows, likewise my broadsword. Take them when I cut thy bonds. Now! Get them quickly!" So saying, he cut the bonds, and Little John, quick as a wink, leaped forward and caught up the bow and arrows and the broadsword. At the same time Robin Hood threw back the cowl of horse's hide from his face and bent Guy of Gisbourne's bow, with a keen, barbed arrow fitted to the string. "Stand back!" cried he sternly. "The first man that toucheth finger to bowstring dieth! I have slain thy man, Sheriff; take heed that it is not thy turn next." Then, seeing that Little John had armed himself, he clapped his bugle horn to his lips and blew three blasts both loud and shrill. Now when the Sheriff of Nottingham saw whose face it was beneath Guy of Gisbourne's hood, and when he heard those bugle notes ring in his ear, he felt as if his hour had come. "Robin Hood!" roared he, and without another word he wheeled his horse in the road and went off in a cloud of dust. The Sheriff's men, seeing their master thus fleeing for his life, thought that it was not their business to tarry longer, so, clapping spurs to their horses, they also dashed away after him. But though the Sheriff of Nottingham went fast, he could not outstrip a clothyard arrow. Little John twanged his bowstring with a shout, and when the Sheriff dashed in through the gates of Nottingham Town at full speed, a gray goose shaft stuck out behind him like a moulting sparrow with one feather in its tail. For a month afterward the poor Sheriff could sit upon nought but the softest cushions that could be gotten for him. Thus the Sheriff and a score of men ran away from Robin Hood and Little John; so that when Will Stutely and a dozen or more of stout yeomen burst from out the covert, they saw nought of their master's enemies, for the Sheriff and his men were scurrying away in the distance, hidden within a cloud of dust like a little thunderstorm. Then they all went back into the forest once more, where they found the widow's three sons, who ran to Little John and kissed his hands. But it would not do for them to roam the forest at large any more; so they promised that, after they had gone and told their mother of their escape, they would come that night to the greenwood tree, and thenceforth become men of the band. King Richard Comes to Sherwood Forest NOT MORE than two months had passed and gone since these stirring adventures befell Robin Hood and Little John, when all Nottinghamshire was a mighty stir and tumult, for King Richard of the Lion's Heart was making a royal progress through merry England, and everyone expected him to come to Nottingham Town in his journeying. Messengers went riding back and forth between the Sheriff and the King, until at last the time was fixed upon when His Majesty was to stop in Nottingham, as the guest of his worship. And now came more bustle than ever; a great running hither and thither, a rapping of hammers and a babble of voices sounded everywhere through the place, for the folk were building great arches across the streets, beneath which the King was to pass, and were draping these arches with silken banners and streamers of many colors. Great hubbub was going on in the Guild Hall of the town, also, for here a grand banquet was to be given to the King and the nobles of his train, and the best master carpenters were busy building a throne where the King and the Sheriff were to sit at the head of the table, side by side. It seemed to many of the good folk of the place as if the day that should bring the King into the town would never come; but all the same it did come in its own season, and bright shone the sun down into the stony streets, which were all alive with a restless sea of people. On either side of the way great crowds of town and country folk stood packed as close together as dried herring in a box, so that the Sheriffs men, halberds in hands, could hardly press them back to leave space for the King's riding. "Take care whom thou pushest against!" cried a great, burly friar to one of these men. "Wouldst thou dig thine elbows into me, sirrah? By'r Lady of the Fountain, an thou dost not treat me with more deference I will crack thy knave's pate for thee, even though thou be one of the mighty Sheriff's men." At this a great shout of laughter arose from a number of tall yeomen in Lincoln green that were scattered through the crowd thereabouts; but one that seemed of more authority than the others nudged the holy man with his elbow. "Peace, Tuck," said he, "didst thou not promise me, ere thou camest here, that thou wouldst put a check upon thy tongue?" "Ay, marry," grumbled the other, "but 'a did not think to have a hard-footed knave trample all over my poor toes as though they were no more than so many acorns in the forest." But of a sudden all this bickering ceased, for a clear sound of many bugle horns came winding down the street. Then all the people craned their necks and gazed in the direction whence the sound came, and the crowding and the pushing and the swaying grew greater than ever. And now a gallant array of men came gleaming into sight, and the cheering of the people ran down the crowd as the fire runs in dry grass. Eight and twenty heralds in velvet and cloth of gold came riding forward. Over their heads fluttered a cloud of snow-white feathers, and each herald bore in his hand a long silver trumpet, which he blew musically. From each trumpet hung a heavy banner of velvet and cloth of gold, with the royal arms of England emblazoned thereon. After these came riding fivescore noble knights, two by two, all fully armed, saving that their heads were uncovered. In their hands they bore tall lances, from the tops of which fluttered pennons of many colors and devices. By the side of each knight walked a page clad in rich clothes of silk and velvet, and each page bore in his hands his master's helmet, from which waved long, floating plumes of feathers. Never had Nottingham seen a fairer sight than those fivescore noble knights, from whose armor the sun blazed in dazzling light as they came riding on their great war horses, with clashing of arms and jingling of chains. Behind the knights came the barons and the nobles of the mid-country, in robes of silk and cloth of gold, with golden chains about their necks and jewels at their girdles. Behind these again came a great array of men-at-arms, with spears and halberds in their hands, and, in the midst of these, two riders side by side. One of the horsemen was the Sheriff of Nottingham in his robes of office. The other, who was a head taller than the Sheriff, was clad in a rich but simple garb, with a broad, heavy chain about his neck. His hair and beard were like threads of gold, and his eyes were as blue as the summer sky. As he rode along he bowed to the right hand and the left, and a mighty roar of voices followed him as he passed; for this was King Richard. Then, above all the tumult and the shouting a great voice was heard roaring, "Heaven, its saints bless thee, our gracious King Richard! and likewise Our Lady of the Fountain, bless thee!" Then King Richard, looking toward the spot whence the sound came, saw a tall, burly, strapping priest standing in front of all the crowd with his legs wide apart as he backed against those behind. "By my soul, Sheriff," said the King, laughing, "ye have the tallest priests in Nottinghamshire that e'er I saw in all my life. If Heaven never answered prayers because of deafness, methinks I would nevertheless have blessings bestowed upon me, for that man yonder would make the great stone image of Saint Peter rub its ears and hearken unto him. I would that I had an army of such as he." To this the Sheriff answered never a word, but all the blood left his cheeks, and he caught at the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling; for he also saw the fellow that so shouted, and knew him to be Friar Tuck; and, moreover, behind Friar Tuck he saw the faces of Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Will Stutely and Allan a Dale and others of the band. "How now," said the King hastily, "art thou ill, Sheriff, that thou growest so white?" "Nay, Your Majesty," said the Sheriff, "it was nought but a sudden pain that will soon pass by." Thus he spake, for he was ashamed that the King should know that Robin Hood feared him so little that he thus dared to come within the very gates of Nottingham Town. Thus rode the King into Nottingham Town on that bright afternoon in the early fall season; and none rejoiced more than Robin Hood and his merry men to see him come so royally unto his own. Eventide had come; the great feast in the Guild Hall at Nottingham Town was done, and the wine passed freely. A thousand waxen lights gleamed along the board, at which sat lord and noble and knight and squire in goodly array. At the head of the table, upon a throne all hung with cloth of gold, sat King Richard with the Sheriff of Nottingham beside him. Quoth the King to the Sheriff, laughing as he spoke, "I have heard much spoken concerning the doings of certain fellows hereabouts, one Robin Hood and his band, who are outlaws and abide in Sherwood Forest. Canst thou not tell me somewhat of them, Sir Sheriff? For I hear that thou hast had dealings with them more than once." At these words the Sheriff of Nottingham looked down gloomily, and the Bishop of Hereford, who was present, gnawed his nether lip. Quoth the Sheriff, "I can tell Your Majesty but little concerning the doings of those naughty fellows, saving that they are the boldest lawbreakers in all the land." Then up spake young Sir Henry of the Lea, a great favorite with the King, under whom he had fought in Palestine. "May it please Your Majesty," said he, "when I was away in Palestine I heard ofttimes from my father, and in most cases I heard of this very fellow, Robin Hood. If Your Majesty would like I will tell you a certain adventure of this outlaw." Then the King laughingly bade him tell his tale, whereupon he told how Robin Hood had aided Sir Richard of the Lea with money that he had borrowed from the Bishop of Hereford. Again and again the King and those present roared with laughter, while the poor Bishop waxed cherry red in the face with vexation, for the matter was a sore thing with him. When Sir Henry of the Lea was done, others of those present, seeing how the King enjoyed this merry tale, told other tales concerning Robin and his merry men. "By the hilt of my sword," said stout King Richard, "this is as bold and merry a knave as ever I heard tell of. Marry, I must take this matter in hand and do what thou couldst not do, Sheriff, to wit, clear the forest of him and his band." That night the King sat in the place that was set apart for his lodging while in Nottingham Town. With him were young Sir Henry of the Lea and two other knights and three barons of Nottinghamshire; but the King's mind still dwelled upon Robin Hood. "Now," quoth he, "I would freely give a hundred pounds to meet this roguish fellow, Robin Hood, and to see somewhat of his doings in Sherwood Forest." Then up spake Sir Hubert of gingham, laughing: "If Your Majesty hath such a desire upon you it is not so hard to satisfy. If Your Majesty is willing to lose one hundred pounds, I will engage to cause you not only to meet this fellow, but to feast with him in Sherwood." "Marry, Sir Hubert," quoth the King, "this pleaseth me well. But how wilt thou cause me to meet Robin Hood?" "Why, thus," said Sir Hubert, "let Your Majesty and us here present put on the robes of seven of the Order of Black Friars, and let Your Majesty hang a purse of one hundred pounds beneath your gown; then let us undertake to ride from here to Mansfield Town tomorrow, and, without I am much mistaken, we will both meet with Robin Hood and dine with him before the day be passed." "I like thy plan, Sir Hubert," quoth the King merrily, "and tomorrow we will try it and see whether there be virtue in it." So it happened that when early the next morning the Sheriff came to where his liege lord was abiding, to pay his duty to him, the King told him what they had talked of the night before, and what merry adventure they were set upon undertaking that morning. But when the Sheriff heard this he smote his forehead with his fist. "Alas!" said he, "what evil counsel is this that hath been given thee! O my gracious lord and King, you know not what you do! This villain that you thus go to seek hath no reverence either for king or king's laws." "But did I not hear aright when I was told that this Robin Hood hath shed no blood since he was outlawed, saving only that of that vile Guy of Gisbourne, for whose death all honest men should thank him?" "Yea, Your Majesty," said the Sheriff, "you have heard aright. Nevertheless--" "Then," quoth the King, breaking in on the Sheriffs speech, "what have I to fear in meeting him, having done him no harm? Truly, there is no danger in this. But mayhap thou wilt go with us, Sir Sheriff." "Nay," quoth the Sheriff hastily, "Heaven forbid!" But now seven habits such as Black Friars wear were brought, and the King and those about him having clad themselves therein, and His Majesty having hung a purse with a hundred golden pounds in it beneath his robes, they all went forth and mounted the mules that had been brought to the door for them. Then the King bade the Sheriff be silent as to their doings, and so they set forth upon their way. Onward they traveled, laughing and jesting, until they passed through the open country; between bare harvest fields whence the harvest had been gathered home; through scattered glades that began to thicken as they went farther along, till they came within the heavy shade of the forest itself. They traveled in the forest for several miles without meeting anyone such as they sought, until they had come to that part of the road that lay nearest to Newstead Abbey. "By the holy Saint Martin," quoth the King, "I would that I had a better head for remembering things of great need. Here have we come away and brought never so much as a drop of anything to drink with us. Now I would give half a hundred pounds for somewhat to quench my thirst withal." No sooner had the King so spoken, than out from the covert at the roadside stepped a tall fellow with yellow beard and hair and a pair of merry blue eyes. "Truly, holy brother," said he, laying his hand upon the King's bridle rein, "it were an unchristian thing to not give fitting answer to so fair a bargain. We keep an inn hereabouts, and for fifty pounds we will not only give thee a good draught of wine, but will give thee as noble a feast as ever thou didst tickle thy gullet withal." So saying, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. Then straightway the bushes and branches on either side of the road swayed and crackled, and threescore broad-shouldered yeomen in Lincoln green burst out of the covert. "How now, fellow," quoth the King, "who art thou, thou naughty rogue? Hast thou no regard for such holy men as we are?" "Not a whit," quoth merry Robin Hood, for the fellow was he, "for in sooth all the holiness belonging to rich friars, such as ye are, one could drop into a thimble and the goodwife would never feel it with the tip of her finger. As for my name, it is Robin Hood, and thou mayst have heard it before." "Now out upon thee!" quoth King Richard. "Thou art a bold and naughty fellow and a lawless one withal, as I have often heard tell. Now, prythee, let me, and these brethren of mine, travel forward in peace and quietness." "It may not be," said Robin, "for it would look but ill of us to let such holy men travel onward with empty stomachs. But I doubt not that thou hast a fat purse to pay thy score at our inn since thou offerest freely so much for a poor draught of wine. Show me thy purse, reverend brother, or I may perchance have to strip thy robes from thee to search for it myself." "Nay, use no force," said the King sternly. "Here is my purse, but lay not thy lawless hands upon our person." "Hut, tut," quoth merry Robin, "what proud words are these? Art thou the King of England, to talk so to me? Here, Will, take this purse and see what there is within." Will Scarlet took the purse and counted out the money. Then Robin bade him keep fifty pounds for themselves, and put fifty back into the purse. This he handed to the King. "Here, brother," quoth he, "take this half of thy money, and thank Saint Martin, on whom thou didst call before, that thou hast fallen into the hands of such gentle rogues that they will not strip thee bare, as they might do. But wilt thou not put back thy cowl? For I would fain see thy face." "Nay," said the King, drawing back, "I may not put back my cowl, for we seven have vowed that we will not show our faces for four and twenty hours." "Then keep them covered in peace," said Robin, "and far be it from me to make you break your vows." So he called seven of his yeomen and bade them each one take a mule by the bridle; then, turning their faces toward the depths of the woodlands, they journeyed onward until they came to the open glade and the greenwood tree. Little John, with threescore yeomen at his heels, had also gone forth that morning to wait along the roads and bring a rich guest to Sherwood glade, if such might be his luck, for many with fat purses must travel the roads at this time, when such great doings were going on in Nottinghamshire, but though Little John and so many others were gone, Friar Tuck and twoscore or more stout yeomen were seated or lying around beneath the great tree, and when Robin and the others came they leaped to their feet to meet him. "By my soul," quoth merry King Richard, when he had gotten down from his mule and stood looking about him, "thou hast in very truth a fine lot of young men about thee, Robin. Methinks King Richard himself would be glad of such a bodyguard." "These are not all of my fellows," said Robin proudly, "for threescore more of them are away on business with my good right-hand man, Little John. But, as for King Richard, I tell thee, brother, there is not a man of us all but would pour out our blood like water for him. Ye churchmen cannot rightly understand our King; but we yeomen love him right loyally for the sake of his brave doings which are so like our own." But now Friar Tuck came bustling up. "Gi' ye good den, brothers," said he. "I am right glad to welcome some of my cloth in this naughty place. Truly, methinks these rogues of outlaws would stand but an ill chance were it not for the prayers of Holy Tuck, who laboreth so hard for their well-being." Here he winked one eye slyly and stuck his tongue into his cheek. "Who art thou, mad priest?" said the King in a serious voice, albeit he smiled beneath his cowl. At this Friar Tuck looked all around with a slow gaze. "Look you now," quoth he, "never let me hear you say again that I am no patient man. Here is a knave of a friar calleth me a mad priest, and yet I smite him not. My name is Friar Tuck, fellow--the holy Friar Tuck." "There, Tuck," said Robin, "thou hast said enow. Prythee, cease thy talk and bring some wine. These reverend men are athirst, and sin' they have paid so richly for their score they must e'en have the best." Friar Tuck bridled at being so checked in his speech, nevertheless he went straightway to do Robin's bidding; so presently a great crock was brought, and wine was poured out for all the guests and for Robin Hood. Then Robin held his cup aloft. "Stay!" cried he. "Tarry in your drinking till I give you a pledge. Here is to good King Richard of great renown, and may all enemies to him be confounded." Then all drank the King's health, even the King himself. "Methinks, good fellow," said he, "thou hast drunk to thine own confusion." "Never a whit," quoth merry Robin, "for I tell thee that we of Sherwood are more loyal to our lord the King than those of thine order. We would give up our lives for his benefiting, while ye are content to lie snug in your abbeys and priories let reign who will." At this the King laughed. Quoth he, "Perhaps King Richard's welfare is more to me than thou wottest of, fellow. But enough of that matter. We have paid well for our fare, so canst thou not show us some merry entertainment? I have oft heard that ye are wondrous archers; wilt thou not show us somewhat of your skill?" "With all my heart," said Robin, "we are always pleased to show our guests all the sport that is to be seen. As Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, ''Tis a hard heart that will not give a caged starling of the best'; and caged starlings ye are with us. Ho, lads! Set up a garland at the end of the glade." Then, as the yeomen ran to do their master's bidding, Tuck turned to one of the mock friars. "Hearest thou our master?" quoth he, with a sly wink. "Whenever he cometh across some poor piece of wit he straightway layeth it on the shoulders of this Gaffer Swanthold--whoever he may be--so that the poor goodman goeth traveling about with all the odds and ends and tags and rags of our master's brain packed on his back." Thus spake Friar Tuck, but in a low voice so that Robin could not hear him, for he felt somewhat nettled at Robin's cutting his talk so short. In the meantime the mark at which they were to shoot was set up at sixscore paces distance. It was a garland of leaves and flowers two spans in width, which same was hung upon a stake in front of a broad tree trunk. "There," quoth Robin, "yon is a fair mark, lads. Each of you shoot three arrows thereat; and if any fellow misseth by so much as one arrow, he shall have a buffet of Will Scarlet's fist." "Hearken to him!" quoth Friar Tuck. "Why, master, thou dost bestow buffets from thy strapping nephew as though they were love taps from some bouncing lass. I warrant thou art safe to hit the garland thyself, or thou wouldst not be so free of his cuffing." First David of Doncaster shot, and lodged all three of his arrows within the garland. "Well done, David!" cried Robin, "thou hast saved thine ears from a warming this day." Next Midge, the Miller, shot, and he, also, lodged his arrows in the garland. Then followed Wat, the Tinker, but alas for him! For one of his shafts missed the mark by the breadth of two fingers. "Come hither, fellow," said Will Scarlet, in his soft, gentle voice, "I owe thee somewhat that I would pay forthwith." Then Wat, the Tinker, came forward and stood in front of Will Scarlet, screwing up his face and shutting his eyes tightly, as though he already felt his ears ringing with the buffet. Will Scarlet rolled up his sleeve, and, standing on tiptoe to give the greater swing to his arm, he struck with might and main. "WHOOF!" came his palm against the Tinker's head, and down went stout Wat to the grass, heels over head, as the wooden image at the fair goes down when the skillful player throws a cudgel at it. Then, as the Tinker sat up upon the grass, rubbing his ear and winking and blinking at the bright stars that danced before his eyes, the yeomen roared with mirth till the forest rang. As for King Richard, he laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. Thus the band shot, each in turn, some getting off scot free, and some winning a buffet that always sent them to the grass. And now, last of all, Robin took his place, and all was hushed as he shot. The first shaft he shot split a piece from the stake on which the garland was hung; the second lodged within an inch of the other. "By my halidom," said King Richard to himself, "I would give a thousand pounds for this fellow to be one of my guard!" And now, for the third time Robin shot; but, alas for him! The arrow was ill-feathered, and, wavering to one side, it smote an inch outside the garland. At this a great roar went up, those of the yeomen who sat upon the grass rolling over and over and shouting with laughter, for never before had they seen their master so miss his mark; but Robin flung his bow upon the ground with vexation. "Now, out upon it!" cried he. "That shaft had an ill feather to it, for I felt it as it left my fingers. Give me a clean arrow, and I will engage to split the wand with it." At these words the yeomen laughed louder than ever. "Nay, good uncle," said Will Scarlet in his soft, sweet voice, "thou hast had thy fair chance and hast missed thine aim out and out. I swear the arrow was as good as any that hath been loosed this day. Come hither; I owe thee somewhat, and would fain pay it." "Go, good master," roared Friar Tuck, "and may my blessing go with thee. Thou hast bestowed these love taps of Will Scarlet's with great freedom. It were pity an thou gottest not thine own share." "It may not be," said merry Robin. "I am king here, and no subject may raise hand against the king. But even our great King Richard may yield to the holy Pope without shame, and even take a tap from him by way of penance; therefore I will yield myself to this holy friar, who seemeth to be one in authority, and will take my punishment from him." Thus saying, he turned to the King, "I prythee, brother, wilt thou take my punishing into thy holy hands?" "With all my heart," quoth merry King Richard, rising from where he was sitting. "I owe thee somewhat for having lifted a heavy weight of fifty pounds from my purse. So make room for him on the green, lads." "An thou makest me tumble," quoth Robin, "I will freely give thee back thy fifty pounds; but I tell thee, brother, if thou makest me not feel grass all along my back, I will take every farthing thou hast for thy boastful speech." "So be it," said the King, "I am willing to venture it." Thereupon he rolled up his sleeve and showed an arm that made the yeomen stare. But Robin, with his feet wide apart, stood firmly planted, waiting the other, smiling. Then the King swung back his arm, and, balancing himself a moment, he delivered a buffet at Robin that fell like a thunderbolt. Down went Robin headlong upon the grass, for the stroke would have felled a stone wall. Then how the yeomen shouted with laughter till their sides ached, for never had they seen such a buffet given in all their lives. As for Robin, he presently sat up and looked all around him, as though he had dropped from a cloud and had lit in a place he had never seen before. After a while, still gazing about him at his laughing yeomen, he put his fingertips softly to his ear and felt all around it tenderly. "Will Scarlet," said he, "count this fellow out his fifty pounds; I want nothing more either of his money or of him. A murrain seize him and his buffeting! I would that I had taken my dues from thee, for I verily believe he hath deafened mine ear from ever hearing again." Then, while gusts of laughter still broke from the band, Will Scarlet counted out the fifty pounds, and the King dropped it back into his purse again. "I give thee thanks, fellow," said he, "and if ever thou shouldst wish for another box of the ear to match the one thou hast, come to me and I will fit thee with it for nought." So spake the merry King; but, even as he ended, there came suddenly the sound of many voices, and out from the covert burst Little John and threescore men, with Sir Richard of the Lea in the midst. Across the glade they came running, and, as they came, Sir Richard shouted to Robin: "Make haste, dear friend, gather thy band together and come with me! King Richard left Nottingham Town this very morning, and cometh to seek thee in the woodlands. I know not how he cometh, for it was but a rumor of this that reached me; nevertheless, I know that it is the truth. Therefore hasten with all thy men, and come to Castle Lea, for there thou mayst lie hidden till thy present danger passeth. Who are these strangers that thou hast with thee?" "Why," quoth merry Robin, rising from the grass, "these are certain gentle guests that came with us from the highroad over by Newstead Abbey. I know not their names, but I have become right well acquaint with this lusty rogue's palm this morning. Marry, the pleasure of this acquaintance hath dost me a deaf ear and fifty pounds to boot!" Sir Richard looked keenly at the tall friar, who, drawing himself up to his full height, looked fixedly back at the knight. Then of a sudden Sir Richard's cheeks grew pale, for he knew who it was that he looked upon. Quickly he leaped from off his horse's back and flung himself upon his knees before the other. At this, the King, seeing that Sir Richard knew him, threw back his cowl, and all the yeomen saw his face and knew him also, for there was not one of them but had been in the crowd in the good town of Nottingham, and had seen him riding side by side with the Sheriff. Down they fell upon their knees, nor could they say a word. Then the King looked all around right grimly, and, last of all, his glance came back and rested again upon Sir Richard of the Lea. "How is this, Sir Richard?" said he sternly. "How darest thou step between me and these fellows? And how darest thou offer thy knightly Castle of the Lea for a refuge to them? Wilt thou make it a hiding place for the most renowned outlaws in England?" Then Sir Richard of the Lea raised his eyes to the King's face. "Far be it from me," said he, "to do aught that could bring Your Majesty's anger upon me. Yet, sooner would I face Your Majesty's wrath than suffer aught of harm that I could stay to fall upon Robin Hood and his band; for to them I owe life, honor, everything. Should I, then, desert him in his hour of need?" Ere the knight had done speaking, one of the mock friars that stood near the King came forward and knelt beside Sir Richard, and throwing back his cowl showed the face of young Sir Henry of the Lea. Then Sir Henry grasped his father's hand and said, "Here kneels one who hath served thee well, King Richard, and, as thou knowest, hath stepped between thee and death in Palestine; yet do I abide by my dear father, and here I say also, that I would freely give shelter to this noble outlaw, Robin Hood, even though it brought thy wrath upon me, for my father's honor and my father's welfare are as dear to me as mine own." King Richard looked from one to the other of the kneeling knights, and at last the frown faded from his brow and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips. "Marry, Sir Richard," quoth the King, "thou art a bold-spoken knight, and thy freedom of speech weigheth not heavily against thee with me. This young son of thine taketh after his sire both in boldness of speech and of deed, for, as he sayeth, he stepped one time betwixt me and death; wherefore I would pardon thee for his sake even if thou hadst done more than thou hast. Rise all of you, for ye shall suffer no harm through me this day, for it were pity that a merry time should end in a manner as to mar its joyousness." Then all arose and the King beckoned Robin Hood to come to him. "How now," quoth he, "is thine ear still too deaf to hear me speak?" "Mine ears would be deafened in death ere they would cease to hear Your Majesty's voice," said Robin. "As for the blow that Your Majesty struck me, I would say that though my sins are haply many, methinks they have been paid up in full thereby." "Thinkest thou so?" said the King with somewhat of sternness in his voice. "Now I tell thee that but for three things, to wit, my mercifulness, my love for a stout woodsman, and the loyalty thou hast avowed for me, thine ears, mayhap, might have been more tightly closed than ever a buffet from me could have shut them. Talk not lightly of thy sins, good Robin. But come, look up. Thy danger is past, for hereby I give thee and all thy band free pardon. But, in sooth, I cannot let you roam the forest as ye have done in the past; therefore I will take thee at thy word, when thou didst say thou wouldst give thy service to me, and thou shalt go back to London with me. We will take that bold knave Little John also, and likewise thy cousin, Will Scarlet, and thy minstrel, Allan a Dale. As for the rest of thy band, we will take their names and have them duly recorded as royal rangers; for methinks it were wiser to have them changed to law-abiding caretakers of our deer in Sherwood than to leave them to run at large as outlawed slayers thereof. But now get a feast ready; I would see how ye live in the woodlands." So Robin bade his men make ready a grand feast. Straightway great fires were kindled and burned brightly, at which savory things roasted sweetly. While this was going forward, the King bade Robin call Allan a Dale, for he would hear him sing. So word was passed for Allan, and presently he came, bringing his harp. "Marry," said King Richard, "if thy singing match thy looks it is fair enough. Prythee, strike up a ditty and let us have a taste of thy skill." Then Allan touched his harp lightly, and all words were hushed while he sang thus: "'_Oh, where has thou been, my daughter? Oh, where hast thou been this day Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, I have been to the river's side, Where the waters lie all gray and wide, And the gray sky broods o'er the leaden tide, And the shrill wind sighs a straining.' "'What sawest thou there, my daughter? What sawest thou there this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, I saw a boat come drifting nigh, Where the quivering rushes hiss and sigh, And the water soughs as it gurgles by, And the shrill wind sighs a straining.' "'What sailed in the boat, my daughter? What sailed in the boat this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, there was one all clad in white, And about his face hung a pallid light, And his eyes gleamed sharp like the stars at night, And the shrill wind sighed a straining.' "'And what said he, my daughter? What said he to thee this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, said he nought, but did he this: Thrice on my lips did he press a kiss, And my heartstrings shrunk with an awful bliss, And the shrill wind sighed a straining.' "'Why growest thou so cold, my daughter? Why growest thou so cold and white, Daughter, my daughter?' Oh, never a word the daughter said, But she sat all straight with a drooping head, For her heart was stilled and her face was dead: And the shrill wind sighed a straining_." All listened in silence; and when Allan a Dale had done King Richard heaved a sigh. "By the breath of my body, Allan," quoth he, "thou hast such a wondrous sweet voice that it strangely moves my heart. But what doleful ditty is this for the lips of a stout yeoman? I would rather hear thee sing a song of love and battle than a sad thing like that. Moreover, I understand it not; what meanest thou by the words?" "I know not, Your Majesty," said Allan, shaking his head, "for ofttimes I sing that which I do not clearly understand mine own self." "Well, well," quoth the King, "let it pass; only I tell thee this, Allan, thou shouldst turn thy songs to such matters as I spoke of, to wit, love or war; for in sooth thou hast a sweeter voice than Blondell, and methought he was the best minstrel that ever I heard." But now one came forward and said that the feast was ready; so Robin Hood brought King Richard and those with him to where it lay all spread out on fair white linen cloths which lay upon the soft green grass. Then King Richard sat him down and feasted and drank, and when he was done he swore roundly that he had never sat at such a lusty repast in all his life before. That night he lay in Sherwood Forest upon a bed of sweet green leaves, and early the next morning he set forth from the woodlands for Nottingham Town, Robin Hood and all of his band going with him. You may guess what a stir there was in the good town when all these famous outlaws came marching into the streets. As for the Sheriff, he knew not what to say nor where to look when he saw Robin Hood in such high favor with the King, while all his heart was filled with gall because of the vexation that lay upon him. The next day the King took leave of Nottingham Town; so Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale shook hands with all the rest of the band, kissing the cheeks of each man, and swearing that they would often come to Sherwood and see them. Then each mounted his horse and rode away in the train of the King. Epilogue THUS END the Merry Adventures of Robin Hood; for, in spite of his promise, it was many a year ere he saw Sherwood again. After a year or two at court Little John came back to Nottinghamshire, where he lived in an orderly way, though within sight of Sherwood, and where he achieved great fame as the champion of all England with the quarterstaff. Will Scarlet after a time came back to his own home, whence he had been driven by his unlucky killing of his father's steward. The rest of the band did their duty as royal rangers right well. But Robin Hood and Allan a Dale did not come again to Sherwood so quickly, for thus it was: Robin, through his great fame as an archer, became a favorite with the King, so that he speedily rose in rank to be the chief of all the yeomen. At last the King, seeing how faithful and how loyal he was, created him Earl of Huntingdon; so Robin followed the King to the wars, and found his time so full that he had no chance to come back to Sherwood for even so much as a day. As for Allan a Dale and his wife, the fair Ellen, they followed Robin Hood and shared in all his ups and downs of life. And now, dear friend, you who have journeyed with me in all these merry doings, I will not bid you follow me further, but will drop your hand here with a "good den," if you wish it; for that which cometh hereafter speaks of the breaking up of things, and shows how joys and pleasures that are dead and gone can never be set upon their feet to walk again. I will not dwell upon the matter overlong, but will tell as speedily as may be of how that stout fellow, Robin Hood, died as he had lived, not at court as Earl of Huntingdon, but with bow in hand, his heart in the greenwood, and he himself a right yeoman. King Richard died upon the battlefield, in such a way as properly became a lion-hearted king, as you yourself, no doubt, know; so, after a time, the Earl of Huntingdon--or Robin Hood, as we still call him as of old--finding nothing for his doing abroad, came back to merry England again. With him came Allan a Dale and his wife, the fair Ellen, for these two had been chief of Robin's household ever since he had left Sherwood Forest. It was in the springtime when they landed once more on the shores of England. The leaves were green and the small birds sang blithely, just as they used to do in fair Sherwood when Robin Hood roamed the woodland shades with a free heart and a light heel. All the sweetness of the time and the joyousness of everything brought back to Robin's mind his forest life, so that a great longing came upon him to behold the woodlands once more. So he went straightway to King John and besought leave of him to visit Nottingham for a short season. The King gave him leave to come and to go, but bade him not stay longer than three days at Sherwood. So Robin Hood and Allan a Dale set forth without delay to Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest. The first night they took up their inn at Nottingham Town, yet they did not go to pay their duty to the Sheriff, for his worship bore many a bitter grudge against Robin Hood, which grudges had not been lessened by Robin's rise in the world. The next day at an early hour they mounted their horses and set forth for the woodlands. As they passed along the road it seemed to Robin that he knew every stick and stone that his eyes looked upon. Yonder was a path that he had ofttimes trod of a mellow evening, with Little John beside him; here was one, now nigh choked with brambles, along which he and a little band had walked when they went forth to seek a certain curtal friar. Thus they rode slowly onward, talking about these old, familiar things; old and yet new, for they found more in them than they had ever thought of before. Thus at last they came to the open glade, and the broad, wide-spreading greenwood tree which was their home for so many years. Neither of the two spoke when they stood beneath that tree. Robin looked all about him at the well-known things, so like what they used to be and yet so different; for, where once was the bustle of many busy fellows was now the quietness of solitude; and, as he looked, the woodlands, the greensward, and the sky all blurred together in his sight through salt tears, for such a great yearning came upon him as he looked on these things (as well known to him as the fingers of his right hand) that he could not keep back the water from his eyes. That morning he had slung his good old bugle horn over his shoulder, and now, with the yearning, came a great longing to sound his bugle once more. He raised it to his lips; he blew a blast. "Tirila, lirila," the sweet, clear notes went winding down the forest paths, coming back again from the more distant bosky shades in faint echoes of sound, "Tirila, lirila, tirila, lirila," until it faded away and was lost. Now it chanced that on that very morn Little John was walking through a spur of the forest upon certain matters of business, and as he paced along, sunk in meditation, the faint, clear notes of a distant bugle horn came to his ear. As leaps the stag when it feels the arrow at its heart, so leaped Little John when that distant sound met his ear. All the blood in his body seemed to rush like a flame into his cheeks as he bent his head and listened. Again came the bugle note, thin and clear, and yet again it sounded. Then Little John gave a great, wild cry of yearning, of joy, and yet of grief, and, putting down his head, he dashed into the thicket. Onward he plunged, crackling and rending, as the wild boar rushes through the underbrush. Little recked he of thorns and briers that scratched his flesh and tore his clothing, for all he thought of was to get, by the shortest way, to the greenwood glade whence he knew the sound of the bugle horn came. Out he burst from the covert, at last, a shower of little broken twigs falling about him, and, without pausing a moment, rushed forward and flung himself at Robin's feet. Then he clasped his arms around the master's knees, and all his body was shaken with great sobs; neither could Robin nor Allan a Dale speak, but stood looking down at Little John, the tears rolling down their cheeks. While they thus stood, seven royal rangers rushed into the open glade and raised a great shout of joy at the sight of Robin; and at their head was Will Stutely. Then, after a while, came four more, panting with their running, and two of these four were Will Scathelock and Midge, the Miller; for all of these had heard the sound of Robin Hood's horn. All these ran to Robin and kissed his hands and his clothing, with great sound of weeping. After a while Robin looked around him with tear-dimmed eyes and said, in a husky voice, "Now, I swear that never again will I leave these dear woodlands. I have been away from them and from you too long. Now do I lay by the name of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and take upon me once again that nobler title, Robin Hood, the Yeoman." At this a great shout went up, and all the yeomen shook one another's hands for joy. The news that Robin Hood had come back again to dwell in Sherwood as of old spread like wildfire all over the countryside, so that ere a se'ennight had passed nearly all of his old yeomen had gathered about him again. But when the news of all this reached the ears of King John, he swore both loud and deep, and took a solemn vow that he would not rest until he had Robin Hood in his power, dead or alive. Now there was present at court a certain knight, Sir William Dale, as gallant a soldier as ever donned harness. Sir William Dale was well acquainted with Sherwood Forest, for he was head keeper over that part of it that lay nigh to good Mansfield Town; so to him the King turned, and bade him take an army of men and go straightway to seek Robin Hood. Likewise the King gave Sir William his signet ring to show to the Sheriff, that he might raise all his armed men to aid the others in their chase of Robin. So Sir William and the Sheriff set forth to do the King's bidding and to search for Robin Hood; and for seven days they hunted up and down, yet found him not. Now, had Robin Hood been as peaceful as of old, everything might have ended in smoke, as other such ventures had always done before; but he had fought for years under King Richard, and was changed from what he used to be. It galled his pride to thus flee away before those sent against him, as a chased fox flees from the hounds; so thus it came about, at last, that Robin Hood and his yeomen met Sir William and the Sheriff and their men in the forest, and a bloody fight followed. The first man slain in that fight was the Sheriff of Nottingham, for he fell from his horse with an arrow in his brain ere half a score of shafts had been sped. Many a better man than the Sheriff kissed the sod that day, but at last, Sir William Dale being wounded and most of his men slain, he withdrew, beaten, and left the forest. But scores of good fellows were left behind him, stretched out all stiff beneath the sweet green boughs. But though Robin Hood had beaten off his enemies in fair fight, all this lay heavily upon his mind, so that he brooded over it until a fever seized upon him. For three days it held him, and though he strove to fight it off, he was forced to yield at last. Thus it came that, on the morning of the fourth day, he called Little John to him, and told him that he could not shake the fever from him, and that he would go to his cousin, the prioress of the nunnery near Kirklees, in Yorkshire, who was a skillful leech, and he would have her open a vein in his arm and take a little blood from him, for the bettering of his health. Then he bade Little John make ready to go also, for he might perchance need aid in his journeying. So Little John and he took their leave of the others, and Robin Hood bade Will Stutely be the captain of the band until they should come back. Thus they came by easy stages and slow journeying until they reached the Nunnery of Kirklees. Now Robin had done much to aid this cousin of his; for it was through King Richard's love of him that she had been made prioress of the place. But there is nought in the world so easily forgot as gratitude; so, when the Prioress of Kirklees had heard how her cousin, the Earl of Huntingdon, had thrown away his earldom and gone back again to Sherwood, she was vexed to the soul, and feared lest her cousinship with him should bring the King's wrath upon her also. Thus it happened that when Robin came to her and told her how he wished her services as leech, she began plotting ill against him in her mind, thinking that by doing evil to him she might find favor with his enemies. Nevertheless, she kept this well to herself and received Robin with seeming kindness. She led him up the winding stone stair to a room which was just beneath the eaves of a high, round tower; but she would not let Little John come with him. So the poor yeoman turned his feet away from the door of the nunnery, and left his master in the hands of the women. But, though he did not come in, neither did he go far away; for he laid him down in a little glade near by, where he could watch the place that Robin abided, like some great, faithful dog turned away from the door where his master has entered. After the women had gotten Robin Hood to the room beneath the eaves, the Prioress sent all of the others away; then, taking a little cord, she tied it tightly about Robin's arm, as though she were about to bleed him. And so she did bleed him, but the vein she opened was not one of those that lie close and blue beneath the skin; deeper she cut than that, for she opened one of those veins through which the bright red blood runs leaping from the heart. Of this Robin knew not; for, though he saw the blood flow, it did not come fast enough to make him think that there was anything ill in it. Having done this vile deed, the Prioress turned and left her cousin, locking the door behind her. All that livelong day the blood ran from Robin Hood's arm, nor could he check it, though he strove in every way to do so. Again and again he called for help, but no help came, for his cousin had betrayed him, and Little John was too far away to hear his voice. So he bled and bled until he felt his strength slipping away from him. Then he arose, tottering, and bearing himself up by the palms of his hands against the wall, he reached his bugle horn at last. Thrice he sounded it, but weakly and faintly, for his breath was fluttering through sickness and loss of strength; nevertheless, Little John heard it where he lay in the glade, and, with a heart all sick with dread, he came running and leaping toward the nunnery. Loudly he knocked at the door, and in a loud voice shouted for them to let him in, but the door was of massive oak, strongly barred, and studded with spikes, so they felt safe, and bade Little John begone. Then Little John's heart was mad with grief and fear for his master's life. Wildly he looked about him, and his sight fell upon a heavy stone mortar, such as three men could not lift nowadays. Little John took three steps forward, and, bending his back, heaved the stone mortar up from where it stood deeply rooted. Staggering under its weight, he came forward and hurled it crashing against the door. In burst the door, and away fled the frightened nuns, shrieking, at his coming. Then Little John strode in, and never a word said he, but up the winding stone steps he ran till he reached the room wherein his master was. Here he found the door locked also, but, putting his shoulder against it, he burst the locks as though they were made of brittle ice. There he saw his own dear master leaning against the gray stone wall, his face all white and drawn, and his head swaying to and fro with weakness. Then, with a great, wild cry of love and grief and pity, Little John leaped forward and caught Robin Hood in his arms. Up he lifted him as a mother lifts her child, and carrying him to the bed, laid him tenderly thereon. And now the Prioress came in hastily, for she was frightened at what she had done, and dreaded the vengeance of Little John and the others of the band; then she stanched the blood by cunning bandages, so that it flowed no more. All the while Little John stood grimly by, and after she had done he sternly bade her to begone, and she obeyed, pale and trembling. Then, after she had departed, Little John spake cheering words, laughing loudly, and saying that all this was a child's fright, and that no stout yeoman would die at the loss of a few drops of blood. "Why," quoth he, "give thee a se'ennight and thou wilt be roaming the woodlands as boldly as ever." But Robin shook his head and smiled faintly where he lay. "Mine own dear Little John," whispered he, "Heaven bless thy kind, rough heart. But, dear friend, we will never roam the woodlands together again." "Ay, but we will!" quoth Little John loudly. "I say again, ay--out upon it--who dares say that any more harm shall come upon thee? Am I not by? Let me see who dares touch--" Here he stopped of a sudden, for his words choked him. At last he said, in a deep, husky voice, "Now, if aught of harm befalls thee because of this day's doings, I swear by Saint George that the red cock shall crow over the rooftree of this house, for the hot flames shall lick every crack and cranny thereof. As for these women"--here he ground his teeth--"it will be an ill day for them!" But Robin Hood took Little John's rough, brown fist in his white hands, and chid him softly in his low, weak voice, asking him since what time Little John had thought of doing harm to women, even in vengeance. Thus he talked till, at last, the other promised, in a choking voice, that no ill should fall upon the place, no matter what happened. Then a silence fell, and Little John sat with Robin Hood's hand in his, gazing out of the open window, ever and anon swallowing a great lump that came in his throat. Meantime the sun dropped slowly to the west, till all the sky was ablaze with a red glory. Then Robin Hood, in a weak, faltering voice, bade Little John raise him that he might look out once more upon the woodlands; so the yeoman lifted him in his arms, as he bade, and Robin Hood's head lay on his friend's shoulder. Long he gazed, with a wide, lingering look, while the other sat with bowed head, the hot tears rolling one after another from his eyes, and dripping upon his bosom, for he felt that the time of parting was near at hand. Then, presently, Robin Hood bade him string his stout bow for him, and choose a smooth fair arrow from his quiver. This Little John did, though without disturbing his master or rising from where he sat. Robin Hood's fingers wrapped lovingly around his good bow, and he smiled faintly when he felt it in his grasp, then he nocked the arrow on that part of the string that the tips of his fingers knew so well. "Little John," said he, "Little John, mine own dear friend, and him I love better than all others in the world, mark, I prythee, where this arrow lodges, and there let my grave be digged. Lay me with my face toward the East, Little John, and see that my resting place be kept green, and that my weary bones be not disturbed." As he finished speaking, he raised himself of a sudden and sat upright. His old strength seemed to come back to him, and, drawing the bowstring to his ear, he sped the arrow out of the open casement. As the shaft flew, his hand sank slowly with the bow till it lay across his knees, and his body likewise sank back again into Little John's loving arms; but something had sped from that body, even as the winged arrow sped from the bow. For some minutes Little John sat motionless, but presently he laid that which he held gently down, then, folding the hands upon the breast and covering up the face, he turned upon his heel and left the room without a word or a sound. Upon the steep stairway he met the Prioress and some of the chief among the sisters. To them he spoke in a deep, quivering voice, and said he, "An ye go within a score of feet of yonder room, I will tear down your rookery over your heads so that not one stone shall be left upon another. Bear my words well in mind, for I mean them." So saying, he turned and left them, and they presently saw him running rapidly across the open, through the falling of the dusk, until he was swallowed up by the forest. The early gray of the coming morn was just beginning to lighten the black sky toward the eastward when Little John and six more of the band came rapidly across the open toward the nunnery. They saw no one, for the sisters were all hidden away from sight, having been frightened by Little John's words. Up the stone stair they ran, and a great sound of weeping was presently heard. After a while this ceased, and then came the scuffling and shuffling of men's feet as they carried a heavy weight down the steep and winding stairs. So they went forth from the nunnery, and, as they passed through the doors thereof, a great, loud sound of wailing arose from the glade that lay all dark in the dawning, as though many men, hidden in the shadows, had lifted up their voices in sorrow. Thus died Robin Hood, at Kirklees Nunnery, in fair Yorkshire, with mercy in his heart toward those that had been his undoing; for thus he showed mercy for the erring and pity for the weak through all the time of his living. His yeomen were scattered henceforth, but no great ill befell them thereafter, for a more merciful sheriff and one who knew them not so well succeeding the one that had gone, and they being separated here and there throughout the countryside, they abided in peace and quietness, so that many lived to hand down these tales to their children and their children's children. A certain one sayeth that upon a stone at Kirklees is an old inscription. This I give in the ancient English in which it was written, and thus it runs: HEAR UNDERNEAD DIS LAITL STEAN LAIS ROBERT EARL OF HUNTINGTUN NEA ARCIR VER AS HIE SAE GEUD AN PIPL KAULD IM ROBIN HEUD SICK UTLAWS AS HI AN IS MEN VIL ENGLAND NIDIR SI AGEN OBIIT 24 KAL. DEKEMBRIS 1247. And now, dear friend, we also must part, for our merry journeyings have ended, and here, at the grave of Robin Hood, we turn, each going his own way. 
49987	----	Google Books (the Bavarian State Library) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=5fZLAAAAcAAJ COLLECTION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN BRITISH AUTHORS. VOL. CCCLXXXVI. ================================================== FOREST DAYS A ROMANCE OF OLD TIMES. ----------------------------------------- PRINTED BY CRAPELET, 9, RUE DE VAUGIRARD. FOREST DAYS A ROMANCE OF OLD TIMES. BY G. P. R. JAMES, AUTHOR OF "MORLEY ERNSTEIN," "THE ROBBER," ETC. PARIS, BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, 3, QUAI MALAQUAIS, NEAR THE PONT DES ARTS; AND STASSIN ET XAVIER, 9, RUE DU COQ. SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS; BROCKHAUS AND AVENARIUS, RUE RICHELIEU; LEOPOLD MICHELSEN, LEIPZIG; AND BY ALL THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS ON THE CONTINENT. 1843. TO JAMES MILNES HASKILL, ESQ. M P. ETC. MY DEAR SIR, In offering you a book, which I fear is little worthy of your acceptance, and a compliment which has become valueless, I cannot help expressing my regret at having no other means of testifying my esteem and respect for one, who has not only always shown a most kindly feeling towards myself and my works, but has ever advocated the true interests of literature. You will, nevertheless, I am sure, receive the tribute not unwillingly, however inadequate it may be to convey my thanks for many an act of kindness, or to express a feeling of high esteem founded on no light basis. In the volumes I send, you will find many scenes with which you are familiar, both in history and in nature; but one thing, perhaps, will strike you with some surprise. We have been so much accustomed, in ballad and story, to see the hero of the forest, Robin Hood, placed in the days of Richard I., that it will seem, perhaps, somewhat bold in me to depict him as living and acting in the reign of Henry III. But I think, if you will turn to those old historians, with whose writings you are not unfamiliar, you will find that he was, as I have represented, an English yeoman, of a very superior mind, living in the times in which I have placed him, outlawed, in all probability, for his adherence to the popular party of the day, and taking a share in the important struggle between the weak and tyrannical, though accomplished, Henry III., and that great and extraordinary leader, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. In regard to the conduct of my story, I have nothing to say, but that I wish it were better. I think, however, that it will be found to contain some striking scenes of those times; and I trust that the struggle of feelings, depicted in the third volume, may afford you matter of some interest. Believe me to be, My Dear Sir, With the highest esteem, Your most faithful servant, G. P. R. JAMES. FOREST DAYS. CHAPTER I. Merry England!--Oh, merry England! What a difference has there always been between thee and every other land! What a cheerfulness there seems to hang about thy very name! What yeoman-like hilarity is there in all the thoughts of the past! What a spirit of sylvan cheer and rustic hardihood in all the tales of thy old times! When England was altogether an agricultural land--when a rude plough produced an abundant harvest, and a thin, but hardy and generous peasantry, devoted themselves totally to the cultivation of the earth,--when wide forests waved their green boughs over many of the richest manufacturing districts of Great Britain, and the lair of the fawn and the burrow of the coney were found, where now appear the fabric and the mill, there stood, in a small town, or rather, I should call it, village, some fourteen miles from Pontefract, a neat little inn, well known to all the wayfarers on the road as a comfortable resting place, where they could dine on their journey to or from the larger city. The house was constructed of wood, and was but of two stories; but let it not be supposed on that account that it was devoid of ornament, for manifold were the quaint carvings and rude pieces of sculpture with which it was decorated, and not small had been the pains which had been bestowed upon mouldings and cornices, and lintels and door-posts by the hand of more than one laborious artisan. Indeed, altogether, it was a very elaborate piece of work, and had probably been originally built for other purposes than that which it now served; for many were the changes which had taken place in that part of the country, as well as over the rest of England, between the days I speak of, and those of a century before. Any one who examined the house closely, would have seen that it must have been constructed before the year 1180, for there was very strong proof, in the forms of the windows, and the cutting across of several of the beams which traversed the front, that at the period of its erection the use of glazed casements in private houses was not known. At the time I speak of, however, glass had become plentiful in England, and, though cottages were seldom ornamented with anything like a lattice, yet no house with the rank and dignity of an inn, where travellers might stop in rainy and boisterous weather, was now without windows, formed of manifold small lozenge-shaped pieces of glass, like those still frequently employed in churches, only of a smaller size. The inn was a gay-looking, cheerful place, either in fine weather or in foul; for, as there are some men who, clothe them as you will, have a distinguished and graceful air, so are there some dwellings which look sunshiny and bright, let the aspect of the sky be what it will. The upper story of the house projected beyond the lower, and formed of itself a sort of portico, giving a shelter to two long benches placed beneath it, either from the heat of the summer sun, or the rain of the spring and autumn; and it need not be said that these benches formed the favourite resting place of sundry old men on bright summer evenings; and that many a time, in fine weather, a table would be put out upon the green before the house, the bench offering seats on one side, while settles and stools gave accommodation on the other, to many a merry party round the good roast beef and humming ale. Before the door of the inn, spread out one of those pleasant open pieces of ground, which generally found room for themselves in every country village in England; on which the sports of the place were held; to which the jockey brought his horse for sale, and tried his paces up and down; on which many a wrestler took a fall, and cudgel-player got a broken head. There too, in their season, were the merry maypole and the dance, the tabor and the pipe. There was many a maiden wooed and won; and there passed along all the three processions of life--the infant to the font, the bride to the altar, the corpse to the grave. Various were the memories attached to that village green in the hearts of all the neighbourhood; various were the associations which it called up in every bosom and various were the romances, probably much better worth listening to than this that we are going to tell, which that village green could have related. It had all the things pertaining to its character and profession: it had a dry, clear, sandy horse-road running at one side, it had two foot-paths crossing each other in the middle, it had a tall clump of elms on the south side, with a well, and an iron ladle underneath. It had a pond, which was kept clear by a spring at the bottom, welling constantly over at the side next the road, and forming a little rivulet, full of pricklebacks, flowing on towards a small river at some distance. It had its row of trees on the side next to the church, with the priest's house at the corner. The surface was irregular, just sufficiently so to let some of the young people, in any of their merry meetings, get out of sight of their elders for a minute or two; and the whole was covered with that short, dry, green turf, which is only to be found upon a healthy sandy soil. In short, dear reader, it was as perfect a village green as ever was seen, and I should like very much, if such a thing were possible, to transport you and me to the bench before the inn door on some fine afternoon in the end of the month of June, and there, with a white jug of clear Nottingham ale before us, while the sun sunk down behind the forest, and the sky began to glow with his slant rays, to tell you the tale which is about to follow, marking in your face the signs of interest which you would doubtless show--the hope, the fear, the expectation, perhaps the smile of surprise, perhaps the glistening drop of sympathy--suffering you to interrupt and ask a question here and there, but not too often--forgiving a moment's impatience when the tale was dull, and thanking you in the end for your friendship towards the good and noble who lived and died more than five centuries ago. In truth, reader, you know not what a pleasure there is--when the mind is clear from care or sorrow, the heart well attuned, the object a good one, and the tale interesting--you know not what a pleasure there is, to sit down and tell a long story to those who are worthy of hearing one. And now, having made a somewhat wide excursion, and finding it difficult to get back again to the tale by any easy and gradual process, I will even in this place, close the first chapter, which, by your leave, shall serve for a Preface and Introduction both. CHAPTER II. It was in the spring of the year, somewhere about the period which good old Chaucer describes in the beginning of his Canterbury Tales, "Whanne that April with his shoures sote, The droughte of March hath perced to the rote, And bathed every veine in swiche licour, Of whiche vertue engendred is the flow'r:" it was also towards the decline of the day, and the greater part of the travellers who visited the inn for an hour, on their way homeward from the neighbouring towns, had betaken themselves to the road, in order to get under the shelter of their own roof ere the night fell, when, at one of the tables in the low-pitched parlour--the beams of which must have caused any wayfarer of six feet high to bend his head--might still be seen a man in the garb of a countryman, sitting with a great, black leathern jug before him, and one or two horns round about, besides the one out of which he himself was drinking. A slice of a brown loaf toasted at the embers, and which he dipped from time to time in his cup, was the only solid food that he seemed inclined to take; and, to say sooth, it probably might not have been very convenient for him to call for any very costly viands--at least, if one might judge by his dress, which, though good, and not very old, was of the poorest and the homeliest kind--plain hodden-grey cloth, of a coarse fabric, with leathern leggings and wooden-soled shoes. The garb of the countryman, however, was not the only thing worthy of remark in his appearance. His form had that peculiarity which is not usually considered a perfection, and is termed a hump; not that there was exactly, upon either shoulder, one of those large knobs which is sometimes so designated, but there was a general roundness above his bladebones--a sort of domineering effort of his neck to keep down his head--which gave him a clear title to the appellation of hunchback. In other respects he was not an unseemly man--his legs were stout and well turned, his arms brawny and long, his chest singularly wide for a deformed person, and his grey eyes large, bright and sparkling. His nose was somewhat long and pointed, and was not only a prominent feature, but a very distinguished one in his countenance. It was one of those noses which have a great deal of expression in them. There was a good deal of fun and sly merriment about the corners of his mouth and under his eyelids, but his nose was decidedly the point of the epigram, standing out a sort of sharp apex to a shrewd, merry ferret-like face; and, as high mountains generally catch the sunshine either in the rise or the decline of the day, and glow with the rosy hue of morning before the rest of the country round obtains the rays, so had the light of the vine settled in purple brightness on the highest feature of his face, gradually melting away into a healthy red over the rest of his countenance. He wore his beard close shaven, as if he had been a priest; but his eyebrows, which were very prominent, and his hair, which hung in three or four detached locks over his sun-burnt brow and upon his aspiring neck, though they had once been as black as a raven's wing, were now very nearly white. With this face and form sat the peasant at the table, sopping his bread in the contents of his jug, and from time to time looking down into the bottom of the pot with one eye, as if to ascertain how much was left. He stirred not from his seat, nor even turned his head away from the window, though a very pretty girl of some eighteen years of age looked in at him from time to time, and his was a face which announced that the owner thereof had at one time of his life had sweet things to say to all the black eyes he met with. At length, however, the sound of a trotting horse was heard, and the peasant exclaimed, eagerly--"Here, Kate! Kate!--you merry compound of the woman and the serpent, take away the jack; they're coming now. Away with it, good girl! I mustn't be found drinking wine of Bourdeaux. Give me a tankard of ale, girl. How does the room smell?" "Like a friar's cell," said the girl, taking up the black jack with a laugh. "Grape juice, well fermented, and a brown toast beside." "Get thee gone, slut!" cried the peasant, "what dost thou know of friars' cells? Too much, I misdoubt me. Bring the ale, I say--and spill a drop on the floor, to give a new flavour to the room." "I'll bring thee a sprig of rue, Hardy," said the girl; "it will give out odour enough. Put it in thy posset when thou gett'st home; it will sweeten thy blood, and whiten thy nose." "Away with thee," cried the man she called Hardy, "or I'll kiss thee before company." The girl darted away as her companion rose from his seat with an appearance of putting, at least, one part of his threat in execution, and returned a minute after, bearing in her hand the ale he had demanded. "Spill some--spill some!" cried the peasant. But as she seemed to think such a proceeding, in respect to good liquor, a sin and a shame, the peasant was obliged to bring it about himself in a way which the manners of those days rendered not uncommon. The girl set down the tankard on the table, and, with her pretty brown fingers still wet with a portion of the ale which had gone over, bestowed a buffet on the side of the peasant's head which made his ear tingle for a moment, and then carefully wiped her mouth with the corner of her apron, as if to remove every vestige of his salute. As nearly as possible at the same moment that she was thus clearing her lips, the feet of the horse which had been heard coming, stopped at the door of the inn; and loud applications for attendance called the girl away from her coquettish sparring with Hardy, who, resuming his seat, put the tankard of ale to his lips, and did not seem to find it unpalatable, notwithstanding the Bourdeaux by which it had been preceded. At the same time, however, a considerable change took place in his appearance. His neck became more bent, his shoulders were thrown more forward; he untied the points at the back of his doublet, so that it appeared somewhat too loose for his figure; he drew the hair, too, more over his forehead, suffered his cheeks to fall in, and by these and other slight operations he contrived to make himself look fully fifteen years older than he had done the minute before. While this was going on, there had been all that little bustle and noise at the door of the inn which usually accompanied the reception of a guest in those days, when landlords thought they could not testify sufficient honour and respect to an arriving customer without mingling their gratulations with scoldings of the horse-boys and tapsters, and manifold loud-tongued directions to chamberlains and maids. At length the good host, with his stout, round person clothed in close-fitting garments, which displayed every weal of fat under his skin, led in a portly well-looking man, of about thirty, or five-and-thirty years of age, bearing the cognizance of some noble house embroidered on his shoulder. He was evidently, to judge by his dress and appearance, one of the favourite servants of some great man, and a stout, frank, hearty, English yeoman he seemed to be; a little consequential withal, and having a decidedly high opinion of his own powers, mental and corporeal, but good-humoured and gay, and as ready to take as to give. "Not come!" he said, as he entered, talking over his shoulder to the landlord--"not come! That is strange enough. Why, I was kept more than half an hour at Barnsley Green to be the judge of a wrestling match. They would have me, God help us, so I was afraid they would be here before me. Well, give us a stoup of good liquor to discuss the time; I must not say give it of the best--the best is for my lord--but I do not see why the second best should not be for my lord's man; so let us have it quick, before these people come, and use your discretion as to the quality." The wine that he demanded was soon supplied, and being set upon the table at which the peasant was seated, the lord's man took his place on the other side, and naturally looked for a moment in the face of his table-fellow; while the landlord stood by, with his fat stomach, over-hanging the board, and his eyes fixed upon the countenance of his new guest, to mark therein the approbation of his wine which he anticipated. The lord's man was not slow in proving the goodness of the liquor; but, without employing the horn cup, which the host set down beside the tankard, he lifted the latter to his mouth, drank a good deep draught, took a long sigh, drank again, and then nodded his head to the landlord, with a look expressive of perfect satisfaction. After a few words between my host and his guest, in which Hardy took no part, but sat with his head bent over his ale, with the look of a man both tired and weakly, the landlord withdrew to his avocations, and the lord's man, fixing his eyes for a moment upon his opposite; neighbour, asked, in a kindly but patronising tone-- "What have you got there, ploughman? Thin ale,--isn't it? Come, take a cup of something better, to cheer thee. These are bad times, ar'n't they? Ay, I never yet met a delver in the earth that did not find fault with God's seasons. Here, drink that; it will make your wheat look ten times greener! Were I a ploughman, I'd water my fields with such showers as this, taken daily down my own throat. We should have no grumbling at bad crops then." "I grumble not," replied the hunchback, taking the horn, and draining it slowly, sip by sip, "my crops grow green and plentiful. Little's the labour that my land costs in tillage, and yet I get a fat harvest in the season; and moreover, no offence, good sir, but I would rather be my own man and Heaven's, than any other person's." "Not if you had as good a lord as I have," answered the serving-man, colouring a little, notwithstanding. "One is as free in his house as on Salisbury-plain; it's a pleasure to do his bidding. He's a friend, too, of the peasant and the citizen, and the good De Montfort. He's no foreign minion, but a true Englishman." "Here's his health, then," said the peasant. "Is your lord down in these parts?" "Ay, is he," replied the lord's man--"no farther off than Doncaster, and I am here to meet sundry gentlemen, who are riding down this way to York, to tell them that their assembling may not be quite safe there, so that they must fix upon another place." "Ho, ho!" said the peasant, "some new outbreak toward, against the foreigners. Well, down with them, I say, and up with the English yeomen. But who have we here?--Some of those you come to seek, I'll warrant.--Let us look at their faces." And going round the table, with a slow, and somewhat feeble step, he placed his eye to one of the small lozenges of glass in the casement, and gazed out for a minute or two, while the serving-man followed his example, and took a survey of some new travellers who had arrived, before they were ushered into the general reception room. "Do you know him?" asked the peasant. "I think I have seen that dark face down here before." "Ay, I know him," answered the serving-man. "He's a kinsman of the Earl of Ashby, one of our people, whom I came principally to meet. He's a handsome gentleman, and fair spoken, though somewhat black about the muzzle." "If his heart be as black as his face," said the peasant, "I would keep what I had got to say for the Earl's ears, before I gave it to his, were I in your place." "Ha! say you so?" demanded the lord's man. "Methinks you know more of him, ploughman, than you tell us." "Not much," replied the other, "and what I do know is not very good, so one must be careful in the telling." "What keeps him, I wonder?" said the serving-man, after having returned to the table, and sipped some more of his wine. "He's toying without, I'll aver," said the peasant, "with pretty Kate, the landlord's daughter. He had better not let young Harland, the franklin's son, see him, or his poll and a crab-stick cudgel may be better acquainted. It had well-nigh been so three months ago, when he was down here last." These words were said in an undertone, for while one of two servants, who had accompanied the subject of their discourse, led away the horses to the stable, and the other kept the landlord talking before the inn, there was a sound of whispering and suppressed laughter behind the door of the room, which seemed to show that the Earl of Ashby's kinsman was not far off, and was employed in the precise occupation which the peasant had assigned to him. The serving-man wisely held his tongue, and, in a minute after, the door opened, and gave entrance to a man somewhat above the middle size, of a slim and graceful figure, the thinness of which did not seem to indicate weakness, but rather sinewy activity. He was dressed in close-fitting garments of a dark marone tint, with riding-boots, and spurs without rowels. Over the tight coat I have mentioned, coming halfway down his thigh, was a loose garment called a tabard, of philimot colour, apparently to keep his dress from the dust, and above it again a green hood, which was now thrown back upon his shoulders. His sword peeped from under his tabard, and the hilt of his dagger showed itself, also, on the other side. His air was easy and self-possessed, but there was a quick and furtive glance of the eye from object to object, as he entered the room, which gave the impression that there was a cunning and inquisitive spirit within. His face was certainly handsome, though pale and dark; his beard was short and black, and his hair, which was remarkably fine and glossy, had been left to grow long, and was platted like that of a woman. His hand was white and fine, and it was evident that he paid no slight attention to his dress, by the tremendous length of the points of his boots, which were embroidered to represent a serpent, and buttoned to his knees with a small loop of gold. His hood, too, was strangely ornamented with various figures embroidered round the edge; and yet so great was the extravagance of the period, that his apparel would then have been considered much less costly than that of most men of his rank, for his revenues were by far too limited, and his other expenses too many and too frequent, to permit of his indulging to the full his taste for splendid garments. As this personage entered the room, the sharp glance of the serving-man detected the figure of Kate, the host's daughter, gliding away from the opening door, but, turning his head discreetly, he fixed his eyes upon the new-comer with a low reverence, advancing at the same time towards him. The Earl's kinsman, however, either did not, or affected not to know the person who approached him, and the lord's man was obliged to enter into explanations as to who he was, and what was his errand. "Ha!" said Richard de Ashby, "danger at York, is there? My good lord, your master, has brought us down here for nothing, then, it seems. I know not how my kinsman, the Earl of Ashby, will take this, for he loves not journeying to be disappointed." "My lord does not intend to disappoint the Earl," replied the serving-man; "he will give him the meeting in the course of to-morrow--somewhere." "Know you not where?" demanded the gentleman; and, as the servant turned his eyes, with a doubtful glance, to the spot where the peasant was seated, the other added, "Come hither with me upon the green, where there are no idle ears to overhear." If his words were meant as a hint for Hardy to quit the room, it was not taken; for the hunchback remained fixed to the table, having recourse from time to time to his jug of ale, and looking towards the door more than once, after Sir Richard and the lord's man had quitted the chamber. Their conference was apparently long, and at length, first one of the gentleman's servants, and then another, entered the little low-roofed room, and approached the table at which the peasant sat. "Hallo! what hast thou got here, bumpkin?" cried one of them--"wine for such a carle as thou art!" and, as he spoke, he took up the tankard from which the serving-man had been drinking. "That is neither thine nor mine," replied Hardy, "so you had better let it alone." "Heyday!" cried the servant of the great man's kinsman; "rated by a humpbacked ploughman! If it be not thine, fellow, hold thy tongue, for it can be nothing to thee! I shall take leave to make free with it, however," and, pouring out a cup, he tossed it off. "You must be a poor rogue," said the peasant, "to be so fond of drinking at another man's cost, as not to pay for your liquor even by a civil word." "What is that he says?" cried the man, turning to his companion--for, to say sooth, although he had heard every word, he was not quite prepared to act upon them, being one of those who are much more ready to bully and brawl, than to take part in a fray they have provoked--"what is that he says?" "He called thee a poor rogue, Timothy," said his companion. "Turn him out by the heels, the misbegotten lump!" "Out with him!" cried the other, seeing that his comrade was inclined to stand by him, "Out with him!" and he advanced, menacingly, upon the peasant. "Hold your hands!--hold your hands!" said Hardy, shaking his head--"I am an old man, and not so well made as you two varlets, but I don't 'bide a blow from any poor kinsman's half-starved curs!--Take care, my men!" and as one of them approached rather too near, he struck him a blow, without rising from his stool, which made him measure his length upon the rushes that strewed the floor, crying out at the same time, in a whining tone, "To think of two huge fellows falling upon a poor, deformed old body." It so happened that the personage whom the peasant had knocked down was the braver man of the two; and, starting up, he rushed fiercely upon his adversary; which his companion espying, darted upon Hardy at the same moment, and by a dexterous kick of his foot knocked the stool from under him, thus bringing the hunchback and his own comrade to the ground together. He then caught their enemy by the collar, and held his head firmly down upon the floor with both hands, as one has sometimes seen a child do with a refractory kitten. "Baste him, Dickon--baste him!" he cried. "I'll give him a dip in the horse-pond," said the other; "his nose will make the water fizz like a red-hot horseshoe." At that moment, however, the noise occasioned by such boisterous proceedings called in pretty Kate Greenly, the landlord's daughter, who, although she had a great reverence and regard for all the serving men of Richard de Ashby, was not fond of seeing poor Hardy ill-treated. Glancing eagerly round, while the peasant strove with his two opponents, she seized a pail of water which stood behind the parlour door, and following the plan which she had seen her father pursue with the bulldog and mastiff which tenanted the back yard, she dashed the whole of the contents over the combatants as they lay struggling on the ground. All three started up, panting; but the gain was certainly on the part of Hardy, who, freed from the grasp of his adversaries, caught up the three-legged stool on which he had been sitting, and whirling it lightly above his head, prepared to defend himself therewith against his assailants; who, on their part, with their rage heightened rather than assuaged by the cool libation which Kate had poured upon them, drew the short swords that they carried, and were rushing upon the old peasant with no very merciful intent. Kate Greenly now screamed aloud, exerting her pretty little throat to the utmost, and her cries soon brought in the lord's man, followed, somewhat slowly, by Richard de Ashby. The good landlord himself--having established as a rule, both out of regard for his own person and for the custom of his house, never to interfere in any quarrels if he could possibly avoid it, which rule had produced, on certain occasions, great obtuseness in sight and in hearing--kept out of the way, and indeed removed himself to the stable upon the pretence of looking after his guests' horses. The lord's man, however, with the true spirit of an English yeoman, dashed at once into the fray, taking instant part with the weakest. "Come, come!" he cried, placing himself by Hardy's side, "two men against one--and he an old one! Out upon it! Stand off, or I'll break your jaws for you!" This accession to the forces of their adversary staggered the two servants, and a momentary pause took place, in which their master's voice was at last heard. "What! brawling, fools!" he exclaimed. "We have something else to think of now. Stand back, and let the old man go! Get you gone, ploughman; and don't let me find you snarling with a gentleman's servants again, or I will put you in the stocks for your pains." "I will break his head before he's out of the house," said one of the men, who seemed to pay but little deference to his master's commands. "I will break thine, if thou triest it," answered the lord's man, sturdily. "Come along, old man, come along; I will see thee safe out of the place, and let any one of them lay a finger on thee if he dare!" Thus saying, he grasped Hardy's arm and led him forth from the inn, muttering as he did so, "By the shoulder-bone of St. Luke, the old fellow has got limbs enough to defend himself!--It's as thick as a roll of brawn, and as hard as a branch of oak! How goes it with thee, fellow?" "Stiff--woundy stiff, sir," replied the hunchback; "but I thank you, with all my heart, for taking part with me; and I would fain give you a cup of good ale in return, such as you have never tasted out of London. If you could but contrive to come to my poor place to-morrow morning," he added, dropping his voice to a low tone, "I could shew some country sports, which, as you are a judge of such things, might please you." "It must be early hours, then," replied the serving-man. "Those that don't come to-night will not be here till noon to-morrow, it is true: but still I think I had better wait for them." "Nay, nay--come," said Hardy; "come and take a cup of ale with me," and, after a pause, he added, significantly, "besides, there's something I want to tell you which may profit your lord." "But how shall I find my way?" demanded the serving-man, gazing inquiringly in his face, but with no expression of surprise at the intimation he received. "Oh, I will shew you," answered the peasant. "Meet me at the church stile there, and I will guide you. It is not far. Be there a little before six, and you shall find me waiting. Give me your hand on't." The serving-man held out his hand, and Hardy shook it in a grasp such as might be given by a set of iron pincers, at the same time advancing his head, and adding, in a low tone, "Take care what you do--you have a traitor there! One of those men is a nidget, and the other is a false hound, come down to spy upon good men and true." Thus saying, he relaxed his hold, and, turning away, was soon lost in the obscure twilight of the evening. CHAPTER III. The animal called the sluggard has greatly increased in modern days. In former times the specimens were few and far between. The rising of the sun was generally the signal for knight and yeoman to quit their beds, and if some of the old or the soft cumbered their pillows for an hour or so later, the sleeping time rarely if ever extended beyond seven in the morning. The sky was still grey when the stout yeoman, whom we have mentioned under the title of the lord's man, but whose real name was Thomas Blawket, sprang lightly out of his bed, and made that sort of rapid, but not unwholesome toilet, which a hardy Englishman, in his rank of life, was then accustomed to use. It consisted merely in one or two large buckets of clean cold water poured over his round curly head and naked shoulders, and then, with but some small ceremony of drying, his clothes were cast on, and bound round him with his belt. The whole operation occupied, perhaps, ten minutes, and a considerable portion of that space of time was taken up in rubbing dry his thick, close, short-cut beard, which curled up under the process into little knots, like the coat of a French water dog. "Give thee good day, host, give thee good day," he said, as he issued forth. "I will be back anon;" and, sauntering forward leisurely on the green, he stood for a moment or two looking round him, to prevent the appearance of taking any preconcerted direction, and then walked slowly towards the church, which stood behind the row of trees we have mentioned. After gazing up at the building, which was then in its first newness, he made a circuit round it, and passing the priest's house, he reached what was called the Church Stile, where two broad stones, put edgeways, with one flat one between them for a step, excluded all animals without wings--except man, and his domestic companion, the dog--from what was then called the Priest's Meadow. On the other side of this stile, with his arms leaning upon the top stone, was Hardy the Hunchback, whistling a lively tune, and watching the lord's man as he came forward, without moving from his position till the other was close upon him. Their salutation was then soon made, and crossing the stile, the good yeoman walked on by the side of his companion, sauntering easily along through the green fields, and talking of all the little emptinesses which occupy free hearts in the early morning. The first hour of the day, the bright first hour of a spring day I mean, appears always to me as if care and thought had nought to do with it. It seems made for those light and whirling visions--not unmingled with thanks and praise--which drive past the dreamy imagination like motes in the sunshine, partaking still, in a degree, of sleep, and having all its soft indistinctness, without losing the brightness of waking perception: thoughts, hopes, and fancies, that glitter as they go, succeeded each minute by clearer and more brilliant things, till the whole, at length, form themselves into the sterner realities of noonday life. The two men wandered on in that dreamy hour. They listened to the sweet birds singing in the trees; and it was a time of year when the whole world was tuneful; they stopped by the side of the babbling brook, and gazed into its dancing waters; they watched the swift fish darting along the stream, and hallooed to a heron which had just caught one of the finny tribe in its bill. "Now had we a hawk," said the peasant, "we would very soon have Master Greycoat there, as surely as foul Richard de Ashby will catch pretty Kate Greenly before he has done." "Think you so?" said the lord's man, certainly not speaking of catching the heron. "Will she be so easily deceived, think you?" "Ay, will she," answered the peasant. "Not that the girl wants sense or learning either, for the good priest took mighty pains with her, and she can read and write as well as any clerk in the land. Nor has she a bad heart either, though it is somewhat fierce and quick withal--like her mother's, who one day broke Tim Clough's head with a tankard, when he was somewhat boisterous to her, and then well-nigh died with grief when she found she had really cracked his skull. But this girl is as vain as a titmouse, and though I do believe she loves young Harland, the franklin's son, at the bottom, yet I have often told him that it is as great a chance she never marries him as that the river will be frozen next winter; and now I see this fellow come down again and hanging about her as he did before, I say her vanity will take her by the ears, and lead her to any market he chooses to carry her to." "Alack and a-well-a-day!" said the lord's man, "that a gentleman like that cannot let a far off place such as this be in peace, with its quiet sunshine and good country-folks. He may find a light-o'-love easily enough in the great cities, without coming down to break a father's heart, and make a good youth miserable, and turn a gay-hearted country girl into a sorrowful harlot! I hope he may get his head broke for his pains!" "He is like to get his neck broke for something else," replied the peasant, "If I judge rightly. But we will talk more of that anon. Let us get on." Forward accordingly they walked, passed another field, and another, and then took their way down a narrow, sandy lane, which in the end opened out from between its high banks upon a long strip of ground covered with short grass, and old hawthorn trees, with many a bank and dingle breaking the turf, and Showing the yellow soil beneath. "Why, you seem to live on the edge of the forest, ploughman," said the serving-man; "it must be poor ground here, I wot?" "It's good for my sort of farming," replied the other, shooting a shrewd glance at him, along the side of his very peculiar nose; "you have a mile to go yet, Master Yeoman, and we may as well go through a bit of the woodland." "Have with you, have with you!" replied the yeoman. "I love the forest ground as well as any man, and often, when the season comes on, I turn woodman for the occasion, and, with my lord's good leave, help his foresters to kill the deer." "Dangerous tastes in these days, Master Yeoman," said the peasant, and there the conversation dropped again, each falling back into that train of thought which had been awakened in their minds by the reference to Kate Greenly, and her probable fate; for, although we are accustomed to consider those as ruder times--and certainly, in the arts of life, man was not so far advanced as in the present day--yet the natural affections of the heart, the sound judgment of right and wrong, and the high emotions of the immortal spirit within us, do not depend upon civilization, at least as the term is generally applied, but exist independent of a knowledge of sciences, or skill in any of man's manifold devices for increasing his pleasures and his comforts. They are rather, indeed, antagonist principles, in many respects, to very great refinement; and the advance of society in the arts of luxury is but too often accompanied by the cultivation of that exclusive selfishness which extinguishes all the finer emotions, and leaves man but as one of the machines he makes. The mind of the stout yeoman, following the track on which it had begun to run, represented to himself what would be the feelings of the rustic lover, to find himself abandoned for a comparative stranger, and not only to know that the girl he loved was lost to him for ever, but degraded and debased--a harlot, sported with for the time, to be cast away when her freshness was gone. He had no difficulty in sympathising from his honest heart with the sensations which young Harland would experience--with the bitter disappointment--with the anger mingled with tenderness towards her who in her folly blighted her own and his happiness for ever--with the pure and unmitigated indignation against him who, in his heartless vanity, came down to blast the peace of others for the gratification of an hour. He thought of the father, too; but there, indeed, his sympathies were not so much excited, for it needed but to see good John Greenly once or twice to perceive that there was no great refinement in his virtue--that self was his first object--and, after meditating over that part of the subject for two or three hundred yards, as they walked on through the hawthorns, he said aloud, with a half laugh, "I shouldn't wonder if he would rather have her a lord's leman than a countryman's wife!" "Not at first," answered Hardy, understanding at once what he meant; "he will take it to heart at first, but will soon get reconciled to it." And again they fell into thought, walking on over the smooth turf, upon which it was a pleasure to tread, it was so soft, so dry, and so elastic. As they proceeded, the hawthorns became mingled with other trees; large beeches, with their long waving limbs not yet fully covered with their leaves, stood out upon the banks, here and there an oak, too, was seen, with the young leaves still brown and yellow; while patches of fern broke the surface of the grass, and large cushions of moss covered the old roots that forced their way to the surface of the ground. The trees, however, were still scattered at many yards' distance from each other, and cast long shadows upon the velvet green of the grass, as the sun, not many degrees above the horizon, poured its bright rays between them. But when the yeoman looked through the bolls, to the northward and westward, he could see a dim mass of darker green spreading out beyond, and showing how the forest thickened, not far off; while, every now and then, some cart-way, or woody path, gave him a long vista into the very heart of the woodland, with lines of light, where the beams of day broke through the arcade of boughs, marking the distances upon the road. That they were getting into the domain of the beasts of chase was soon very evident. More than one hare started away before their footsteps, and limped off with no very hurried pace. Every two or three yards, a squirrel was seen running from tree to tree, and swarming up the boll; and, once or twice, at a greater distance, the practised eye of the good yeoman caught the form of a dun deer, bounding away up some of the paths, to seek shelter in the thicker wood. The way did not seem long, however, and all the thousand objects which a woodland scene affords to please and interest the eye and ear, and carry home the moral of nature's beautiful works to the heart of man, occupied the attention of the stout Englishman, as they walked onward, till the distance between the trees becoming less and less, the branches formed a canopy through which the rays of the morning sun only found their way occasionally. "Why, Master Ploughman," said the lord's man, at length, "you seem plunging into the thick of the wood. Does your dwelling lie in this direction?" "In good sooth does it!" answered the ploughman;--"it will be more open presently." "Much need," rejoined the yeoman, "or I shall take thee for a forester, and not one of the King's either." The peasant laughed, but made no reply, and in a minute or two after, the yeoman continued, saying--"Thou art a marvellous man, assuredly, for thou art ten years younger this morning than thou wert last night. Good faith, if I had fancied thee as strong and active as thou art, and as young withal, I think I should have left thee to fight it out with those two fellows by thyself." "Would that I had them for but half an hour, under the green hawthorn trees we have just passed," said the peasant, laughing--"I would need no second hand to give them such a basting as they have rarely had in life--though I doubt me they have not had a few." "Doubtless, doubtless!" answered the yeoman--"But word, my good friend, before we go farther: as you are not what you seemed, it is as well I should know where I am going?" "I am not what I seemed, and not what I seem either, even now," said the peasant, with a frank and cheerful smile, "but there is no harm in that either, Master Yeoman. Here, help me off with my burden; I am not the first man who has made himself look more than he is. There, put your hand under my frock, and untie the knot you will find, while I unfasten this one in front." So saying, he loosened a little cord and tassel that was round his neck, and with the aid of his companion, let slip from his shoulders a large pad, containing seemingly various articles, some hard, and some soft, but which altogether had been so disposed as to give him the appearance of a deformity that nature certainly had not inflicted upon him. As soon as it was gone, he stood before the honest yeoman, a stout, hearty, thick-set man, with high shoulders indeed, but without the slightest approach to a hump upon either of them; and regarding, with a merry glance, the astonishment of his companion--for those were days of society's babyhood, when men were easily deceived--he said, "So much for the hunch, Master Yeoman. Had those good gentlemen seen me now, they might not have been quite so ready with their hands; and had they seen this," he added, showing the hilt of a good stout dagger under his coat, "they might not have been quite so ready with their swords. And now let us come on without loss of time, for there are those waiting who would fain speak with you for a short time, and give you a message for your lord." The yeoman hesitated for an instant, but then replied--"Well, it matters not! I will not suspect you, though this is an odd affair. I have helped you once at a pinch--at least, I intended it as help--and you will not do me wrong now, I dare say." "Doubt it not, doubt it not," said the peasant--"you are a friend, not an enemy. But now to add a word or two to anything else you may hear to-day, let me warn you as we go, that one of those two men you saw struggling with me last night is a traitor and a spy. Ay! and though I must not say so much, I suppose, of a lord's kinsman, I rather think that he who brought him is little better himself." "Hard words, hard words, Master Ploughman, or whatever you may be," said the lord's man, with a serious air--"I trust it is not a broken head, or an alehouse quarrel that makes you find out treason in the man. Besides, if he be a spy, he can only be a spy upon his own master." "And who is his own master?" demanded Hardy. "Come, put your wit to, and tell me that." "Why, Sir Richard de Ashby, to be sure," replied the man; "Truly!" answered Hardy. "Methought the cognizance of the house of Ashby was a tree growing out of a brasier?" "And so it is," said the man, "and he has it on his coat." "And what has he on his breast?" demanded Hardy. "Three pards, what they call passant?" The man started. "Why that is the King's!" he cried. "Or the Prince Edward's," added Hardy. "So now when you return, tell your lord to look well to the Earl of Ashby's kinsman--if not to the Earl himself. We had tidings of something of this kind, and I remained to see--for you must not think me such a fool as to give a serving-man hard words for nothing, and bring blows upon my head without an object." "Did you see the leopards, then?" demanded Blawket. "Did you see them with your own eyes?" "I grappled with him when he sprang upon me," answered his companion, "and with my two thumbs tore open his coat, while he thought that we were merely rolling on the floor like a terrier and a cat. Under his coat he had a gipon of sendull fit for a king, with three pards broidered in gold upon the breast. When I had seen that, I was satisfied; but that mad girl Kate thought I was brawling in earnest, I suppose, and dashed a pail of water over us, which made us all pant and lose our hold, and as for the rest, you know what happened after. He is no servant of Richard de Ashby; the poor knave keeps but one, and, on my life, I believe, that having long ago sold his soul to the devil for luxury and wastel bread, he has now sold the only thing he had left to sell, his friends, to some earthly devil, for gold to win away pretty Kate Greenly." The yeoman cast down his eyes on the ground, and walked on for a step or two in grave deliberation. "Marry," he said, at length, "if this tale be true,--that is to say, I do not doubt what you say, good comrade,--but if I can prove it to my lord's content, I shall be a made man in his opinion for discovering such a trick, and get the henchman's place, which I have long been seeking.--I never loved that Richard de Ashby; though he is as soft and sweet as his cousin Alured is rash and haughty." "It will be easily proved," replied his companion. "Charge Sir Richard boldly, when your good lord and his friends have met, with bringing down a servant of the King, disguised as his own, to be a spy upon their counsels." "Nay, nay--not so," replied the serving-man. "I am more experienced in dealing with lords than thou art. That will cause my master to take up the matter, and may make mischief between the two earls. Nay, I will pick a quarrel with him in the inn kitchen, will make him take off his coat to bide a stroke or two with me; and then, when we all see the leopards, we will drag him at once before his betters." "First tell your lord the whole," said Hardy, somewhat sternly. "It may behove him to know immediately who he is dealing with." "I will--I will!" replied the man; "and I will let him know my plan for proving the treachery. But what have we here?--Your cottage, I suppose?--Why, you have a goodly sight of sons, if these be all your children. Shooting at the butts, too, as I live! Ay, I see now how it is!" CHAPTER IV. As merry a peal as ever was rung, though not perhaps as scientific a one, ushered in the month of May, and as bright a sun as ever shone rose up in the eastern sky, and cast long lines of light over the green fields, glistening with the tears of departed night. The spring had been one of those fair seasons which have but rarely visited us in latter years, when, according to the old rhyme, "March winds and April showers Had brought about May flowers." Almost every leaf was upon the trees, except, indeed, in the case of some of those sturdy old oaks, which, in their brown hardihood, seemed unwilling to put on the livery of spring. The snowdrop had had her season and was gone, but the violet still lingered, shedding her perfume in the shade, and the hawthorn flaunted her fragrant blossoms to the wooing air. It was, in short, the merry, merry month of May, and her ensigns were out in every hedge and every field, calling young hearts to gaiety and enjoyment, and promising a bright summer in her train. Many a maiden had been out, before the sun rose, from behind the distant slopes, to gather May dew to refresh her beauty, and many a youth, seeking the blossom of the white-thorn, had met, by preconcerted accident, the girl he loved under the lover's tree, and kissed her as warmly as under the mistletoe. Young Harland, however, had looked for Kate Greenly at the place where he had found her on the same day in the former year, but had looked in vain; and, as he returned homeward, somewhat disappointed, had found her with a party of gay girls, sometimes laughing with their laughter, sometimes falling into deep and gloomy thought. Her young companions broke away to leave her alone with her acknowledged lover; and Kate walked quickly home by his side, with a varying and a changeful air, which we must notice for a moment, though we cannot pause to tell all that passed between them. Sometimes she was gay and saucy, as her wont; sometimes she was thoughtful and even sad; sometimes she affected scorn for her lover's gentle reproaches; sometimes she raised her eyes, and gazed on him with a look of tenderness and regret that made him sorry he had uttered them. Her demeanour was as varying as an April day; but that it had often been before, and he saw not a deeper shadow that spread with an ominous cloud-like heaviness over all. They parted at the door of her father's house, and young Ralph Harland turned him home again, thinking of the pleasure of the merry dance and all the sports that were to come, and how a little gift, which he had prepared for her he loved, would quiet all idle quarrels between him and fair Kate Greenly. The village green, the sweet little village green which we have described, was early decked out with all that could be required for the sports of the day. The tall May-pole in the centre, surmounted with a coronet of flowers, streaming with ribbons and green leaves, and every sort of country ornament, was prepared for the dance around it, which was soon to take place. Every tree was hung with garlands, and even the old well was decorated with wreaths and branches of the hawthorn and the oak. The inn itself was a complete mass of flowers; and, before the door, at a very early hour, were arranged the various prizes which were to reward the successful competitors in the rustic sports of the day. There was a runlet of wine stood beside the little bench beneath the eaves, and in a pen, formed by four hurdles, was a milk-white ram, with his horns gilded, and a chaplet twisted round his curly pate; and further off, leaning against the wall, stood a long yew bow, with a baldric, and sheaf of arrows, winged with peacock's feathers, bearing silver ornaments upon the quiver. These prizes were the first object of curiosity, and at an early hour many a group of boys and girls, and youths and maidens, gathered round the pen where the fat, long fleeced ram was confined, and pulled him by the gilded horns, while others looked at the bow, and every now and then stretched out a hand to touch and examine it more closely, but were deterred by a loud shrill voice from one of the windows of the inn, shouting, "Beware the thong!" No season of merriment occurred at that time in England without bringing together its crowd of minstrels and musicians; and even then so populous had the gentle craft become, and so dissolute withal, that laws and regulations were found necessary for the purpose of diminishing the numbers of its followers and regulating their manners. "Free drink for the minstrels" was a general proverb assented to by all, and the consequence was, that having the opportunity, they seldom wanted the inclination to pour their libations too freely, a good deal to the inconvenience, very frequently, of their entertainers. The class, however, which came to a May-day merry-making in a common country village was, of course, not of the highest grade, either in musical skill or professional rank; and the first who appeared on the village-green was a piper, with his bag under his arm, producing, as he came, those extraordinary sounds which are found to have a very pleasant effect upon some portions of the human species, but are almost universally distasteful to the canine race. Upon this occasion almost all the dogs in the village followed him, either barking or howling. The good piper, however, did not seem to consider it as at all a bad compliment, but sitting himself down upon the bench before the inn door, played away to his square-headed auditory, till some human bipeds, and amongst the rest Jack Greenly himself, came forth with a jug of humming ale, and set it down beside him. The piper drank, as pipers will drink, a long and hearty draught, then looked around him, and as a matter of course, commended liberally to the ears of his entertainer the preparations which had been made for the May-day games. A floyter, or player on the flute, was not long behind, and he himself was succeeded by a man with a rote but the great musician of all, the performer on the viol, without whom the dance would not have been perfect, like all other important personages, caused himself to be waited for; and at length, when he did appear, came accompanied by his retinue, consisting of two long-eared curs, and a boy, carrying his viol, carefully wrapped up in the recesses of a fustian bag. With great airs of dignity, too, he took his way at once into the house, and both prudently and humanely tuned his instrument in a room where few if any ears were nigh to hear. Fain would I, dear reader, could such a thing be permitted, indulge in a long description of the May-day games of old England. Fain would I tell you who in the wrestling match won the milk-white ram, or shot the best arrow, or hurled the best quoit; but there are more serious things before us, and to them we must hurry on, leaving to imagination to undertake the task of depicting not only these, but the still greater struggle which took place amongst many a hardy yeoman for a fine horse. of Yorkshire breed, given by Ralph Harland himself in honour of her he loved. Suffice it then, for the present, that the sports of the morning were over, that the noonday meal, too, was at an end, that the girls of the village had rearranged their dress for the lighter amusement of the evening, and were gathering gaily under the group of trees to begin their first dance around the Maypole. Ralph Harland stood by Kate's side, and was asking anxiously what made her so sad, when suddenly he raised his eyes, and his countenance became even more overcast than hers. The sound which had made him look up had certainly nothing unusual in it on that busy morning. It was but the tramp of three or four horses coming at a rapid pace, but the young man's heart was anxious; and when his eyes rested on the face of Richard de Ashby, who rode in, followed by three men, and dressed with unusual splendour, well might the young franklin's bosom be troubled with feelings bitter and indignant, especially as he saw her whom he loved turn red and white, and read in the changing colour the confirmation of many a dark suspicion. The personage who had produced these sensations seemed at first to take no notice of the gay groups around him, but advancing at once to the low inn door, which was nearly blocked up by the jovial person of John Greenly himself, he sprang to the ground lightly and gracefully, asking, in such a tone that all around could hear what he said, whether the Earl of Ashby had yet arrived. On finding that such was not the case, he turned round with an indifferent air, saying, "Good faith, then I must amuse myself as best I may, till my fair cousin comes. What have you going forward here--a May-day dance? Good sooth, I will make one. Pretty Kate," he continued, advancing to the spot where she stood, "will you give me your hand to lead you a measure round the Maypole?" "It is promised to me," said Ralph Harland, in a stern tone, before Kate could reply, bending his brows angrily upon his rival. "Is it, indeed!" cried Richard de Ashby, gazing at him from head to foot with that cool look of supercilious contempt which is so hard to bear, and yet so difficult to quarrel with.--"Well, but she has two hands; she shall give you one and me the other, and this pretty little damsel," he continued, to a girl of some twelve or thirteen years of age, who stood by listening, "this pretty little damsel shall take my other hand--so that is all settled. Come, Master Violer, let us hear the notes of the catgut! Come, sweet Kate, I long to see those lovely limbs playing in the graceful dance." Poor Ralph Harland! it was one of those moments when it is equally difficult to act and not to act, especially for one inexperienced, young, and brought up in habitual deference for superior rank and station. A direct insult, an open injury, he would have avenged at once upon the highest head that wagged in all the realm; but the covert scorn of the manner, the hidden baseness of the design, he knew not how to meet; and following, rather than accompanying, his light-o'-love sweetheart to the dance, he joined in a pastime to which his heart was but ill attuned. It is under such circumstances that those who are wronged have always the disadvantage. Ralph was fierce, silent, gloomy; while Richard de Ashby was all grace, self-possession, smiles, and cheerfulness. His speech and his glances were for Kate Greenly alone. His looks and his voice were full of triumph, his eyes full of meaning; and many a time and oft, as they danced gaily round, he whispered to her soft things, of which no one heard the whole, although there was a keen and eager ear close by, listening for every sound to fix a quarrel on the speaker. At length the notes of the viol stopped, and the dance came to an end, just as Richard de Ashby was adding a word or two more to something he had been saying in a low tone to the fair coquette beside him, while her colour changed more than once, and eyelids were cast down. The sudden silence rendered the last half of the sentence audible. It was--"Then lose not a moment." Ralph Harland cast her hand from him indignantly, and fronting Richard de Ashby, exclaimed--"To do what?" "What is that to thee, peasant?" demanded Richard de Ashby, colouring as much with anger at his words having been overheard, as with pride. "Everything that she does is matter to me," replied Ralph, fiercely, "if I am to be her husband; and if I am not, woe be to the man that makes her break her promise." "You are insolent, peasant," replied the Earl's kinsman, with a look of scorn; "take care, or you will make me angry." "It shall be done without care," replied Ralph Harland, feeling no more hesitation, now that he was fully embarked; "let go my arm, Kate, and I will soon show you and others of what egg-shells a lord's cousin can be made.--What brings you here to spoil our merriment, and mar our May-day games? Take that as a remembrance of Ralph Harland!" and he struck him a blow, which, although Richard de Ashby partially warded it off, made him stagger and reel back. But at that very moment, the three servants he had brought with him, who had hitherto stood at a distance, seeing their master engaged in a squabble with one of the dancers, ran up, and one of them, catching him by the arm, prevented him from falling. His sword was now out of the sheath in an instant; the weapons of his attendants were not behind, and all four rushed upon the young franklin, exclaiming, "Cut off his ears! The villain has dared to strike a nobleman! Cut off his ears!" All the villagers scattered back from the object of their fury, except two--Kate Greenly, who cast herself upon her knees before Richard de Ashby, begging him to spare her lover, and Ralph's old grey-headed father, who, running up from the inn door, placed a stout staff in his son's hand, exclaiming, "Well done, Ralph, my boy! Thrash 'em all! Ho! Greenly, give me another stick that I may help him!" One of the serving-men, however, struck the old franklin with the pummel of his sword, and knocked him down, while the two others pressed forward upon Ralph, and the foremost caught his left arm, just as Richard de Ashby, putting Kate aside, came within arm's-length of him in front, reiterating with fierce vehemence, "Cut off his ears!" It is probable that the order would have been executed unmercifully, had not a sudden ally appeared upon Ralph Harland's side. Leaping from the window of the inn, a man clothed in a close-fitting coat, and hose of Lincoln green, with a sword by his side, a narrow buckler on his shoulder, a sheaf of arrows under his left arm, and a leathern bracer just below the bend of the elbow, sprang forward, with a pole some six feet long in his hand, and at three bounds cleared the space between the inn and the disputants. The third leap, which brought him up with them, was scarcely taken, when one blow of his staff struck the man who held Ralph by the left arm to the ground, and a second sent the sword of Richard de Ashby flying far over his head. At the same moment he exclaimed, looking at the servant whom he had knocked down, "Ha! ha! my old acquaintance; when last we had a fall in yonder inn together, I thought we should meet again! Fair play! fair play!--Not four against one! Get you in, Kate Light-o'-love! out of harm's way! The day may not end so well as it has begun. Fair play, I say, or we may take odds too!" Richard de Ashby looked round, furiously, after his sword, and laid his hand upon the dagger that hung at his right side; but the sight he saw, as he turned his eyes towards the inn, was one well calculated to moderate, at least, the expression of his rage, for some eight or nine men, all habited alike in close coats of Lincoln green, were coming up at a quick pace from behind the house, and their apparel, and appearance altogether, could leave little doubt that they were companions of him who had first arrived, and in whom he recognised with no slight surprise, the same blue-nosed old peasant whom he had found contending with his servants not many nights before. The hump, indeed, was gone, and the neck was straight enough. All signs of decrepitude, too, had passed away; but the face was not to be mistaken, and Richard de Ashby's countenance fell at the sight. He was no coward, however; for, amongst the swarm of vices, and follies, and faults, which degraded so many of the Norman nobility of that day, cowardice was rarely, if ever, to be met with. They were a people of the sword, and never unwilling to use it. His first thought, then, was to resist to the death, if need might be; his next, how to resist to the best advantage. Snatching his sword, then, which one of his servants had picked up, he looked to the clump of trees, but Harland, and the man in green, with a whole host of villagers, whose angry faces betokened him no good, were immediately in the way, so that his only resource seemed to be to retreat to the inn door. The first step he took in that direction, however, produced a rapid movement on the part of the yeomen, or foresters, or whatever the green-coated gentlemen might be, which cut him off from that place of refuge, and, at the same moment, the voice of Hardy exclaimed, "Stop him from the church path, Much! This rat-trap of ours has too many holes in it, but that will close them all--Now, Master Richard de Ashby, listen to a word or two. You come here with no good purposes to any one, and we want no more of you. But you shall have your choice of three things:--You shall either get to your horse's back, and go away, swearing, as you believe in the blessed Virgin, never to set foot in this place again,--I don't think you dare break that oath,--or--" "I will not!" replied Richard de Ashby, fiercely. "Very well, then," said Hardy; "if that is the case, you shall stand out in the midst, cast away sword and dagger, betake you to a quarter-staff, and see whether, with the same arms, young Ralph Harland here will not thrash you like a sheaf of wheat." "Fight a peasant with a quarter-staff!" cried Richard de Ashby. "I will not!" "Well, then, the third may be less pleasant," said Hardy. "I have nothing else to offer, but that we all fall upon you and yours, and beat you till you remember Hendley-green as long as you call yourself a man." "Murder us, if you will," said Richard de Ashby, doggedly; "but we will sell our lives dearly." "I don't know that, worshipful sir," said the man with the purple nose; "we have no inclination to thrash more men than necessary, so all your servitors may take themselves off, if they like. Run, my men, run, if it so please you. But make haste, for my quarter-staff is itching to be about your master's ears!" And so saying, he made it whirl round in his hand like the sails of a mill. One of the men needed no time to deliberate, but betook himself to his heels as fast as he could go. A second hesitated for a moment or two, and then saying, "It is no use contending with such odds," moved slowly away. The third, however--Hardy's old adversary in the hostelry--placed himself by Richard de Ashby's side, saying, "I will stand by you, sir!" and added a word or two in a lower tone. "Now, Much--and you, Tim-of-the-Mill," cried Hardy, "let us rush on them all at once, beat down their swords with your bucklers, and tie them tight. Then we will set the bagpipe before them, and flog them half way to Pontefract. Quick! quick! I see the priest coming, and he will be for peace-making." The first step was hardly taken in advance, however, when the blast of a trumpet sounded upon the high road, and a dozen different cries from the villagers of---- "Hold off! hold off!" "Forbear! Here comes the Sheriff!" "Run for it, Master Hardy--they are the lords Greenly talked of!" "Away--away, good yeomen!" all uttered at once, gave notice to the gentlemen in green that some formidable enemy was in the rear. In a moment after, two or three gentlemen of distinguished port, riding slowly at the head of some fifty horsemen, came down the road upon the green; and Hardy, as he was called, seeing that the day was no longer his own, was passing across to join his companions on the other side, when Richard de Ashby cast himself in his way, and aimed a blow at him with his sword. The stout yeoman parried it easily with his staff, and struck his opponent on the chest with the sharp end of the pole, thus clearing a path by which he soon placed himself at the head of the foresters. "Come with us, Harland," he cried, "you will be safer away." Richard de Ashby, however, shouting aloud, and waving his hand to the party of gentlemen who were advancing, soon brought some of them to his side. "Stop them! stop them!" he cried, pointing to the men in green. "I have been grossly ill used, and well-nigh murdered!--Let your men go round, my lord, and cut them off." A word, a sign, from an elderly man at the head of the party, instantly set some twenty of the horsemen into a gallop, to cut off the foresters from the road to the church. They, on their part, took the matter very calmly, however, unslinging their bows, bending them, and laying an arrow on the string of each, with a degree of deliberation which shewed that they were not unaccustomed to such encounters. The villagers however, scattered like a flock of sheep at these intimations of an approaching fray; the girls and the women, screaming, and running, and tumbling down, took refuge in the neighbouring houses, or ran away up the road. The greater part of the men decamped more slowly, looking back from time to time to see what was going on; while some six or seven stout peasants and the yeomen stood gathered together under one of the trees, armed, in some instances, with swords and bows, and one or two displaying a quarter-staff, but all seeming very well disposed to take part in the fray, on one side or the other. Things were in this state, and that hesitating pause had intervened which usually precedes the first blow in a strife of any kind, when the priest, who had been seen before to quit his house, now hurried forward to the group of gentlemen who, without dismounting from their horses, had gathered round Richard de Ashby. His errand was, of course, to preach peace and forbearance; and although his face was round and rosy, his body stout, and indicating strongly a life of ease and a fondness for good things, it is but justice to say, that he not only urged the necessity of quiet and tranquillity with eagerness and authority, but he rated Richard de Ashby boldly for his conduct in the village, and showed that ho knew a great deal more of his proceedings than was at all pleasant to that personage. "Sir, you are one of those," he said, "who are ever ready to play the fool with a poor village coquette, who, if in riding through a place they see a poor girl proud of a neat ankle or a jimp waist, are ever ready to take advantage of her vanity to work her ruin; and if such men put themselves in danger, and get a broken head, they must take the consequences, without running on to bloodshed and murder." The priest was still speaking; the yeomen were slowly retreating towards the church, without at all heeding the horsemen in their way; two or three elderly noblemen were listening attentively to the works of the good clergyman; and two young ones, a step behind, were holding themselves somewhat apart from each other, with no great appearance of friendship between them, when the one on the left hand of the group suddenly put the magnificent horse on which he was mounted into a quick canter, and rode straight towards the foresters. At first, supposing his purpose to be hostile, they wheeled upon him, raising their bows at once, and each man drew his arrow to his ear; but seeing that he was not followed, they assumed a more pacific aspect; and, while one of the old lords whom he had left behind, called to him loudly, by the name of Hugh, to come back, he not only rode on, but, to the surprise of all, sprang from his horse and grasped young Harland warmly by the hand. This proceeding for the time drew all eyes in that direction, and the end of the priest's speech was but little attended to; but, at his request, one of the gentlemen sent off a servant to the horsemen near the church, telling them not to act without orders. In the meantime a brief conversation between the young nobleman and the franklin took place, after which, remounting his horse, the former came back to the group, and said, "May I venture a few words, my lords?" "Of course, Lord Hugh will take part against me," exclaimed Richard de Ashby, "or old Earl Hubert's blood will not be in his veins!" "Not so," replied the young gentleman; "all old feuds between our families have--thanks to God and the wisdom of those two noble Earls--been done away. No one more rejoices in the friendship which now exists between our houses than I do--none will more strenuously strive to preserve it. I came merely to tell that which I know and that which I have just heard. The young man I have been speaking with is as honest and true as any knight or noble in the world. He once rendered me a good service, and no one shall harm him; for that at least I pawn my name and knighthood. He tells me, however, that this worthy gentleman here, having taken a fancy to his promised bride, thinks fit to intrude on their May-day sports, and, stretching somewhat the privileges of a gentleman, makes love to the girl before his face. His endurance, it seems, does not reach that length, and he struck our friend Sir Richard, who fell upon him again, sword in hand, with his three servants, when these good foresters of Barnesdale interfered to see fair play." "The whole is true, I doubt not," cried the priest, "for----" "Look! look!" cried Richard de Ashby, fiercely; "while you listen to such gossip, they are making their escape! They are going into the priest's house, as I live!" As he spoke, a loud voice from the other side of the green shouted, in a laughing tone, "For Richard de Ashby's bonnet!" All eyes were instantly turned in that direction, where, at the door of the priest's house, two or three of the foresters were still to be seen, the rest of them having gone in one by one. In front of the group stood the man they called Hardy, and he repeated again, with a loud shout, "For Richard de Ashby's bonnet!" As soon as he saw that he had attracted attention, he suddenly raised the bow he held in his hand, drew it to the full extent of his arm, and an arrow whistled through the air. Richard de Ashby had started slightly on one side as soon as he saw the archer take his aim, but the forester altered the direction of his arm, with a laugh, even as he loosed the shaft from the string, and the missile, with unerring truth, passed through the hood that it was intended for, and would have fallen beyond had it not been stopped by a jewel in the front. As it was, the arrow remained hanging amongst his black hair, and when he drew it forth, with a white cheek, and a somewhat trembling hand, he read imprinted in black letters, on the wood just below the feather, "Scathelock. Remember!" The nobles handed the arrow one to another, read the name, and the word that followed it, and then gazed in each other's faces with a meaning look. "Call back the horsemen," said one of the elder gentlemen. "These men are gone; and it is as well as it is." CHAPTER V. Such events as we have described in the last chapter were by no means uncommon in the fairs and merry-makings of England at the period of history in which our tale is laid. The sunshiny gaiety of the morning, in the April day of states and societies, is too often changed into sorrow and clouds ere night. The sports were not resumed upon the village green; and all the amusements and occupations with which a May-day generally closed--the fresh dances by the moonlight, on the delights of which old Fitz Stephen so fondly dwells, the parting of the garlands, the gifts of flowers, the light song, and the gay tale amongst the young; with the merry jest, the wassail cup, and the game of chance amongst the elder, were all forgotten. The villagers and country people dispersed each to their several homes, and the inn, with such conveniences as it could afford, was given up to the nobles and their train. Arrangements were made for accommodating all the men of high degree with chambers, if not suitable to their rank, at least possessing some degree of comfort. Truckle beds were found for pages and squires, and straw was laid down for the yeomen, who were accustomed to lie across the doors of their masters' rooms. Much bustle and confusion was of course created by all these proceedings; horses had to be taken care of as well as men; and the voice of the good host was heard frequently shouting aloud for his daughter Kate, or grumbling low at her giddy idleness in being absent at such a moment as that. "Ay, Master Greenly, Master Greenly!" said the tapster--"it is May-day evening, remember. Pretty Kate has twenty lads courting her by this time, if you could but see. I should not wonder if she and young Harland were kissing and making-up behind the church, at this moment." "Not they," replied the host; "it will take her a fortnight to get over that matter. Kate's a silly girl, she could'nt do better for herself than young Harland. Why his father, old Ralph, is as rich as an abbey, and as hospitable as a county knight; his table is never without a pie or a pasty from ten in the morning till vespers, and there's ale for whoever chooses to draw it. I would sooner be a franklin in these days than a baron by half. Run out, Bessy, and see if you can find Kate anywhere." In the meanwhile, after some conversation on the green at the door of the inn, the lords had taken possession of the little room of common reception, while their chambers were prepared for sleeping; and a cook, who had been brought with the party, established himself in the kitchen, and, aided by his own particular assistant, or knave, as he called him, together with two women belonging to the household of John Greenly, was preparing a supper for his masters from all that he could lay hands on in the place, in addition to a large body of capons, young ducks, and pigeons, which, as well as spices and other rich condiments, had been brought thither on two sumpter horses. The scanty number of personages assembled in the little hall, indeed, did not justify the great profusion of good things which the cook was so busily concocting, but he very prudently considered that he himself was to be fed as well as the host, to whom, in case of civility and obedience, he made a point of extending his bounties, and that all the chief servants of the different gentlemen present, with his special favourites and friends in the retinue of his own master, would also expect to be regaled, at least as well as their several lords. To that master and his companions, however--amounting, in the whole, to the number of ten personages--we must now turn; but it is only of four, out of the whole party, that we shall give any particular description, having already said enough of Richard de Ashby, and the five others being gentlemen, whose history, though mixed up in some degree with the fate of those we are most interested in, did not affect it so immediately as to require us to present a minute portrait of each to the eye of the reader. The Earl of Ashby himself was a man considerably past the prime of life, and of what was then called a choleric temperament, which does not alone mean that he was hot in temper and disposition, but that he was constitutionally so. Age, indeed, had in some degree tamed his fiery blood; and a good deal of indulgence in the pleasures of the table, with no great distaste for good old wine of any country, had tended to enfeeble him more than even time had done. He had still a great opinion of his own importance, however, and looked upon his skill in arms, wisdom in council, and judgment in matters of taste, as by no means inferior to the first in the land; and, to say the truth, when once upon his horse's back, and armed at all points, he would bide a blow, or lead a charge, with any man, although his knees bent somewhat under him when on foot, and he was glad enough to be freed from the weight of his armour as soon as possible. His judgment, too, was a sound one when not biassed by passion, though there was a certain degree of wavering unsteadiness in his character, proceeding more from temper than from weakness of mind, which rendered him an insecure ally in trying circumstances. He piqued himself much upon being just, too, but like many other people who do so, his justice had almost always a tinge of prejudice in it, and was in fact but a perception of specious arguments in favour of the side that he espoused. His son, Alured de Ashby, resembled his father in many points; but many of his mother's qualities entered into his character likewise. The old Earl had married a foreigner, a sister of the King of Minorca--kingdoms being, in those days, very often but small things. Her dowry had been in proportion to her brother's territory; but to her husband she brought an accession of dignity, and increased his pride by her own. That pride was, perhaps, her only bad quality, for a strong and pertinacious determination of character, which she also possessed, was, of course, good or bad according to the direction in which it was guided. She, herself, being of a fine mind, and a high-spirited though tender heart, had employed the resolute firmness of which we speak to struggle against the misfortunes that beset her father and her brother during her early years, and to give them support and strength in resisting a torrent which seemed destined to sweep them away. Her son, however, nurtured in prosperity, and pampered by praises and indulgence, possessed her pride in its full force, without the mitigating influence of her kindness and tenderness of heart; and, neither having so good a judgment, nor such high motives, as herself, what was firmness in her became obstinacy in him--an obstinacy of a harsh and unpleasant kind. He was by no means without talents, indeed,--was as stout a man-at-arms as ever sat in the saddle, had a natural taste and genius for war, and had distinguished himself in many of the expeditions, or _chevauchées_, of the time. He was a high and honourable man, too, kept his word strictly, wronged no one but through pride, and was generous and liberal of his purse. Thus he was esteemed and respected more than liked, and was more popular with his inferiors than with his equals. One knightly quality, it is true, he wanted. He cared little for love, there being only one person in the world, after his mother's death, for whom he ever felt anything like real tenderness. That person was his sister. She was nine years younger than himself; he had held her on his knee when she was an infant; she had been a plaything to him in her childhood, and an object of interest during her whole life. Perhaps the reason that he so loved her was, that she was the very reverse of himself in all respects: gentle, yet gay, and lively almost to wildness; tenderhearted, clinging, and affectionate, yet with a spice of saucy independence withal, which often set rules and regulations at defiance, and laughed at anger which she knew would fall but lightly on her head. As we shall have to speak more of her hereafter, however, we will now turn to another of our group, and talk of the good Earl, whose trusty man, Blawket, we have already introduced to the reader's notice. Hugh, Lord of Monthermer, or Mo'thermer, as it was generally pronounced--and whom, as his name is not a very musical one, we shall more frequently call "the Earl"--was in the fifty-ninth or sixtieth year of his age; and--as he had seen many perils by land and sea, had been in wars against the heathen, both in Spain and Palestine, and had spent the greater part of his life in the tented field, and on the battle plain--his frame was somewhat worn and shaken, though he had once well merited the name which had been bestowed upon him in early years, when people, from the hardships which he endured unshrinkingly, had called him _Iron Monthermer_. He was still strong and powerful, however--though gaunt and meagre; a brown tint of health was upon his face, and the light of clear and strong intelligence was in his eye. His features were aquiline, and somewhat harsh, his chin prominent, his brow strongly marked, and his forehead high and capacious, with his white hair lying lightly upon it, like snow upon a mountain. Notwithstanding several defects in point of beauty, and a sternness of outline in almost every feature, there was something uncommonly pleasing, as well as striking, in the whole expression of his countenance, and one read there kindness of heart, as well as firmness and decision of character. He was habited richly enough, but not gorgeously so; and, though not what was considered armed in those days, he carried more weapons, but of a different sort, about his person than is required for any modern trooper. The fourth person, of whose appearance we shall now give some account, was the young man who had ridden forward to speak with Ralph Harland, Hugh de Monthermer by name, but commonly called by all who knew him, "The Lord Hugh." He was the only nephew of the Earl, and presumptive heir to his title and estates. At the same time, however, he was altogether independent of his uncle, being the son of that James de Monthermer, who was summoned to parliament in the first year of the reign of Henry the Third, as Baron Amesbury, having married the heiress of that ancient house. His father had long been dead; and as he had received his military education under his uncle, he still attached himself to that nobleman--respecting him as a parent, and treated by him as a son. He was some four or five years younger than Alured de Ashby, but had nevertheless gained considerable renown in arms, both under his uncle, and in service, which he had taken for a time with the King of Castile, in order to win his knightly spurs with honour. In person, he somewhat resembled the Earl, though he was taller, and his features were both softened by youth, and were smaller in themselves. His complexion was of a dark, warm brown, his hair short and curling, his hazel eyes full of light and fire, and a frank, but somewhat sarcastic smile, playing frequently about his well-cut lip. On the whole, it is seldom that a handsomer face meets the eye, and his countenance well expressed the spirit within, which was gay and cheerful, but none the less thoughtful and imaginative. There might be a slight touch of satirical sharpness in his disposition, which often prompted a laugh or a jest at any of the many follies that an observing eye, in all ages, and all states of society, must meet at every turn. But a kind heart and a well regulated mind taught him to repress, rather than to encourage such a disposition, and it seldom broke forth unless the absurdity was very gross. In those ages it was rare to find a man in his station who possessed even a very low degree of learning. To read and write was an accomplishment, and anything like elegance of composition, or a knowledge of classical lore, was hardly, if ever, dreamt of. In these respects, however, circumstances had given Hugh de Monthermer an advantage over many of his contemporaries. Various foreign languages he had acquired in following his uncle; and having been crushed and nearly killed, by his horse falling in one of the passes of the Taurus, he had been left for several months in a convent amongst the mountains, while broken bones were set, and health restored, by the skill of the monks. There, some of the friars, more learned than the rest, had taken a pleasure in solacing his weary hours, by communicating to him what was then considered a rich store of knowledge. With a quick and intelligent mind, he had thus gained, not only much information at the time, but a taste for reading, which in after years excited some envy, and called forth many a scoff from others, who had themselves no inclination for any exercises but those of the body. Amongst these was Alured de Ashby, who affected to hold his military talents cheap, and called him a book-worm; but, nevertheless, Hugh de Monthermer quietly pursued his course, although, to say the truth, for reasons of his own, he was not a little anxious to gain the friendship of the house of Ashby, which during many years had been separated from his own by one of those fierce and bloody feuds that so often existed in those days between the noble families of the land. The reconciliation of the two houses had been but lately effected, and could scarcely yet be called cordial, though the bond of party feeling brought them frequently into long and intimate communication with each other. The dress of the young Lord was not so homely as that of his uncle; there might, indeed, be a little foppery in it; for though the colours were dark, yet the embroidery which appeared in every part was rich and costly, and the long and hanging sleeves of the loose coat he wore, was in itself one of the distinguishing marks of a petit maître of that day. Into the extreme, however, he did not go: there was no long and braided hair, there were no devils, and angels, and cupids, hanging over his head on a fanciful hood; but instead of that most ugly part of our ancient garments, he wore a cap or hat, a mode then common in Flanders and in Italy, with a long feather crossing from right to left, and nearly touching his shoulder. With the exception of the loose tunic, or gown, all the rest of his dress fitted as closely as possible, leaving nothing to embarrass the free action of his limbs, except, indeed, the long points of his shoes, which, though very moderate for that period, were certainly not less than twenty inches longer than necessary. The rest of the party was composed of several noblemen, wealthy and powerful, but of less distinction than the two Earls we have mentioned, and evidently looking up to them as to their leaders; and besides these, was a distant cousin of the Earl of Monthermer, brought, as it were, to balance the presence of Richard de Ashby, though, to say the truth, if he more than outweighed that gentleman in wealth and respectability, he was very much his inferior in cunning and talents. As a matter of course, the events which had just taken place upon the green formed the first subject of conversation with the personages assembled in the inn. The younger men only laughed over the occurrence. "You must get some fair lady to darn the hole in your hood, Richard," said the Lord Alured. "I wonder," added another of the young noblemen, "that the arrow did not carry away one of those soft tresses." "It might well have been called Scathelock, then," observed a third. "It only disturbed a little of the perfume," rejoined Alured. The elder gentleman, however, treated the matter more seriously. The Earl of Ashby rated his kinsman with an angry brow for his licentiousness, and represented to him with great justice the evil of nobles bringing themselves into bad repute with the people. "Do you not know," he said, "that at the present moment, between the king and his foreign minions on the one hand, and the people on the other, the English noblemen have to make their choice?--and, of course, it is by the people that we must stand. They are our support, and our strength, and we must avoid in all things giving them just cause of complaint. Scathelock?--Scathelock?--I have heard that name." "You must have heard if often, my father," said Alured de Ashby. "It is the name of one of our good forest outlaws of Sherwood. I have seen the man twice in the neighbourhood of our own place, and though I did not mark this fellow with the arrow much, he has the same look and air." "Seen him twice, and did not arrest him?" cried Richard de Ashby, with marked emphasis. "Heaven forefend!" exclaimed Alured laughing. "What, arrest a good English yeoman, on account of a taste for the King's venison! If Harry would throw open his forests to us, and not give to proud Frenchmen and Spaniards rights that he denies to his English nobles, we might help him in such matters; but as it is, no free-forester shall ever be arrested by our people, or on our land." The Earl of Monthermer and his nephew had both been silent, leaving the rebuke of Richard de Ashby to his own relations; for they well knew the jealousy of the nobles with whom they were leagued, and were anxious to avoid every matter of offence. The poor kinsman, however, had established a right to sneer even at the proud Earl of Ashby and his no less haughty son, upon grounds which at first sight would seem to afford no basis for such a privilege. His poverty and partial dependence upon them had taught them to endure much at his hands which they would have borne from no other man on earth; and he, keen-sighted in taking advantage of the higher as well as the lower qualities of all those he had to do with, failed not to render their forbearance a matter of habit, by frequently trying it as far as he dared to venture. "Forgive an old proverb, Alured," he replied, "but you know, it is said, that 'fowls of a feather flock together.' Perhaps, as you love forest thieves so well, you have no distaste for the King's venison yourself?" "An unlucky proverb for you, Richard," said the young lord, while his father's cheek got somewhat red; "if what we have heard be true, the fowls you flock with are not quite those that suit our present purposes." "What you have heard!" exclaimed Richard de Ashby, turning somewhat pale. "If you have heard aught against me," he added, after an instant's thought, turning at the same time towards Hugh de Monthermer, and bowing low, "I know to what noble hands I may trace it." "You are mistaken, sir," said Hugh, sternly. "Respect for these two noble lords, your kinsmen, has made me eager that no charge should be brought against you by any of our people. Of this they are well aware." "And they are aware also," added the Earl, "that both I and my nephew declared from the first that we believe you utterly innocent of all knowledge of the fact, even if it should prove to be true." "What fact?" demanded Richard, in a low tone, and with a wandering eye, which did not produce a very favourable impression on the minds Of those who observed his countenance. "What fact, my lord?--but any charge brought by a Monthermer, or one of a Monthermer's followers, against an Ashby; should be viewed with some slight caution, methinks." "Certainly!" said Alured de Ashby, in a marked tone. But to the surprise of both, the Earl of Monthermer added likewise, "Certainly!--Old feuds, even after they are happily laid at rest," he continued, calmly, "will leave rankling suspicions, especially in the minds of the low and the uneducated, and such I doubt not may be, in some degree at least, the origin of a charge to which I would not have listened for a moment, if it had not been that my good lord and friend here, who was present when it was made this morning, insisted that it should be inquired into.--The charge is this, sir, that you have with you, disguised as one of your servants, a spy of the King's. This accusation was brought by my good yeoman, Blawket, who vows he saw that man with you when I sent him to meet you and others here but a few days ago.--Sir, you seem agitated, and I know that such a charge must necessarily affect any gentleman deeply; but my Lord of Ashby here present is well aware that, from the first, I declared my conviction of your innocence of all share in the transaction." "I assure you, my lord,--on my honour, gentlemen believe me," cried Richard de Ashby, hesitating, "it is not true--the man is a liar!" "No, Sir Richard, no," said Hugh de Monthermer at once, "the man is no liar, but as honest a yeoman as ever lived. You may have been deceived, Sir Richard," he added, with a slight smile curling his lip; "we are all of us subject to be deceived, occasionally. Blawket may have been deceived, too; but that I should say may soon be proved, for he declares that the leopards of Henry of Winchester will be found upon the breast of your servant, Richard Keen." "Fool!" muttered Richard de Ashby to himself, but at the same moment his kinsman, the Earl, exclaimed, "Let him be sent for--let him be sent for!" "I will call him immediately," said Richard de Ashby, turning towards the door; "but I declare, so help me Heaven! if this man have ever been in the King's service, it is more than I know." "Stay, stay, Richard!" exclaimed the Lord Alured. "Let some one else go and call him, and let no word be said to him of the matter in hand." "Do you doubt me, my lord?" demanded his kinsman, turning upon him with a frowning brow. "If I am to have no support from my own relations----" "An honest man needs no support, sir, but his own honesty," said Lord Alured, interrupting him. "Not that I doubt thee, Richard," he continued; "but I would fain have thee tell me how that fellow came into thy service, while some one else calls him hither. Sir Charles Le Moore, I pr'ythee bid them send hither this Richard Keen. Now, good cousin, tell us how this man came to thee, for he is not one of our own people born, that is evident. Richard Keen! I never heard the name." "How he came to me, matters not much to the question," replied Richard de Ashby. "I hired him in London. I was told he was a serviceable knave, had been in France and Almaine, and--but here comes Sir Charles Le Moore. Have you not found him?"--and as he spoke he fixed his eyes eagerly, but with a dark smile, upon the face of the gentleman who entered, as if some anticipations of triumph had crossed his mind. "The people have gone to seek him," said Sir Charles; "he is somewhere about the green, and it is growing dark; so I let them go, as I know not the place." A moment or two elapsed, but before the conversation could be generally renewed, one of the attendants of the Earl of Ashby appeared at the door, bringing intelligence that Richard Keen was nowhere to be found, and that his horse and saddle-bags had disappeared also. The kinsman of the Earl of Ashby affected to be furious at the news--"The villain has robbed me of the horse," he said, "and, doubtless, of other things also. My lord," he continued, tuning to the Earl of Monthermer, "I beg your pardon; doubtless your servant was right, and this man has fled, having obtained same intimation of the charge against him. Did any of you see him go?" he added, addressing the servant who had appeared. "No, sir," replied the yeoman. "We were all upon the green, for it must have been, while these noble lords were talking with you, before they came in, that he went away. The host saw him go toward the stable, just before the arrow was shot that stuck in your hood." Richard de Ashby frowned, for the man's tone was certainly not the most respectful. But before any observation could be made, a noise and bustle was heard without, which suspended the reply upon the lips of the Earl's kinsman; and the next moment, the landlord himself, with his full round face on fire with anger and grief, pushed his way into the room, exclaiming--"Noble lords and gentlemen, I claim justice and help. They have taken away my daughter from me--they have corrupted and carried off my poor Kate.--You, sir, you are at the bottom of this!" he continued, turning furiously to Richard de Ashby. "I have seen your whisperings and your talkings!--My good lords and gentlemen, I claim justice and assistance." "How now!" cried Richard de Ashby, in as fierce a tone as his own, but not quite so natural a one. "Dare you say that I have anything to do with this? Your light-o'-love daughter has made mischief enough to-night already. Let us hear no more of her. Doubtless you will find her in some cottage, if not in the woods, with her lover, trying to make up by courtesies for her fickle conduct of this morning." "No, sir--no, no, no!" replied the host, vehemently; "she is in neither of those places! She was seen, some half an hour ago, going out at the end of the village with your servant beside her; and a boy says that he found a black mare tied to a tree not a quarter of a mile along the road. Gentlemen, I pray you do me right, and suffer not my child to be taken from me in this way by any one, be he gentle or simple." "Was your daughter going willingly!" demanded the Earl of Ashby. "I know not, sir--I know not!" cried the host, wringing his hands; "all I know is, they have taken her, and I am sure this is the man who has caused it to be done." "I know nothing of her, fellow!" replied Richard de Ashby. "You must hold your daughter's beauty very high to suppose that I would take the trouble of having her carried off." "Why, Richard, you are not scrupulous," said his cousin. "London and Winchester," cried another gentleman, with a laugh, "are indebted to him for many a fair importation, I believe." "His taste lies amongst country wenches," added a third. And notwithstanding the misery of the injured father, a great deal of merriment and jesting was the first effect produced by the complaint of the host. "If this tale be true," said Hugh de Monthermer, who had been looking down with a frowning brow, "I would strongly advise Sir Richard de Ashby to mount his horse, put his spurs to the flanks, and not draw a rein till he is safe in Nottingham. There be people about this neighbourhood who are likely to render such a course expedient." "I shall do no such thing, sir," replied Richard de Ashby; "this good man's suspicions are false as far as they regard me, though it is not at all improbable that the knave, Keen, who has, it seems, deceived me--and is a good-looking varlet, moreover has played the fool with a buxom light-headed country wench, whose cheek I may once or twice have pinched for lack of something better to do." "Such being the case, my Lord of Ashby," said the Earl, drily, "as your kinsman has nought to do with the affair, and as this servant of his has cheated and robbed him, injured this good man, and is suspected of being a spy--by your leave, I will send some of my people after him without farther delay. Without there! Is Blawket to be found?" "Here, my lord," replied the man, standing forward as upright as a lance and as stiff as a collar of brawn, from amidst a group of six or seven servants, who were all discussing as vehemently on the one side of the door the events which had just taken place as their masters were on the other. "Mount in a minute," said the Earl of Monthermer. "Take with you three of your fellows whose horses are the freshest; follow this Richard Keen, from the best information you call get, and bring him hither with all speed, together with the girl he has carried off." "Shall I beat him, my lord?" asked the yeoman. "Not unless he resists," replied the Earl; "but bring him dead or alive, and use all means to get information of his road." "I will bring him, my lord," replied Blawket, and retired, followed by the host, who ceased not, till the man was in the saddle, to give him hints as to finding his daughter, mingled with lamentations over fate and praises of the house of Monthermer. "Now," said the Earl, when they were alone, "let us speak of more important things;" but it being announced that supper was well-nigh ready, the Earl of Ashby, who had an affection for the good things of this life, proposed that any farther conversation should be put off till after that meal. The other Earl, knowing that his placability depended much upon the condition of his stomach, agreed to the suggestion; and after the ceremony of washing hands had been performed, the supper was served and passed over as such proceedings usually did in those days, with huge feeding on the part of several present, and much jesting on the part of the younger men. A good deal of wine was also drank, notwithstanding a caution from the Earl of Monthermer to be moderate. But moderation was little known at that time. Malvoisie was added to Bordeaux, and the spiced wine, then called claret, succeeded the Malvoisie; a cup of hippocras was handed round to sweeten the claret, and the Earl of Ashby fell asleep at the very moment the conference should have begun. CHAPTER VI. I cannot help grieving that amongst all the changes which have taken place,--amongst all the worlds, if I may so call them, which have come and gone in the lapse of time, the forest world should have altogether departed, leaving scarcely greater or more numerous vestiges of its existence than those that remain of the earth before the Flood. The green and bowery glades of the old forest, their pleasant places of sport and exercise, the haunts of the wild deer, the wolf, and the boar, the fairy-like dingles and dells, the woodcraft that they witnessed, the sciences, and the characters that were peculiar to themselves, have now, alas! passed away from most of the countries of Europe, and have left scarcely a glen where the wild stag can find shelter, or where the contemplative man can pause under the shade of old primeval trees, to reflect upon the past or speculate upon the future. The antlered monarch of the wood is now reduced to a domestic beast, in a walled park; and the man of thought, however much he may love nature's unadorned face, however much he may feel himself cribbed and confined amongst the works of human hands, must shut his prisoner fancies within the bounds of his own solitary chamber, unless he is fond to indulge them by the side of the grand but monotonous ocean. The infinite variety of the forest is no longer his: it belongs to another age, and to another class of beings. In the times I write of, it was not so, and the greater part of every country in Europe was covered with rich and ancient wood; but, perhaps, no forest contained more to interest or to excite than that of merry Sherwood--comprising within itself, as the reader knows, a vast extent of very varied country, sweeping round villages, and even cities, and containing, in its involutions, many a hamlet, the inhabitants of which derived their sustenance from the produce of the forest ground. The aspect of the wood itself was as different in different places as it is possible to conceive. In some spots the trees were far apart, with a wide expanse of open ground, covered by low brushwood, or the shall shrub bearing the bilberry; in others, you came to a wide extent, covered with nothing but high fern and old scrubbed hawthorn trees; but throughout a great part of the forest the sun seldom if ever penetrated, during the summer months, to the paths beneath, so thick was the canopy of green leaves above, while those paths themselves were generally so narrow that in many of them two men could not walk abreast. There were other and wider ways, indeed, through the wood, some of them cart roads, for the accommodation of woodmen and carriers, some of them highways from one neighbouring town to another: but the latter were not very numerous or very much frequented--many a tale being told of travellers lightened of their baggage, in passing through Sherwood; and, to speak the truth, no one could very well say, at that time, who and what were the dwellers in the forest, or their profession; so that those who loved not strange company, kept to the more open country if they could. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful ride across almost any part of the woodland, offering magnificent changes of scene at every step, and the people of those times were not so incapable of enjoying it as has been generally supposed; but still, with all the tales of outlaws and robbers which were then afloat, it required a stout determination, or a case of great necessity, to impel any of the citizens of the neighbouring towns to make a trip across the forest in the spring or autumn of the year. Those who did so, usually came back with some story to tell, and some, indeed, brought home stripes upon their shoulders and empty bags. The latter, however, were almost always of particular classes. Rich monks and jovial friars occasionally fared ill; the petty tyrants of the neighbouring shire ran a great risk, if they trusted themselves far under the green leaf; the wealthy and ostentatious merchant might sometimes return rather lighter than he went; but the peasant, the honest franklin, the village curate, the young, and women of all degrees, had generally very little to relate, except that they had seen a forester here, or a forester there, who gave them a civil word, and bade God speed them, or who aided them, in any case of need, with skilful hands and a right good will. Thus there was evidently a strong degree of favouritism shown in the dealings of the habitual dwellers in the greenwood with the various classes of travellers who passed through on business or on pleasure. But, nevertheless, it was the few who complained, and the many who lauded, so that the reputation of the merry men of Sherwood was high amongst all the inferior orders of society at the time when this tale begins. So much was necessary to be said, to give the reader any idea of the scene into the midst of which we must now plunge, leaving Barnsdale behind us, and quitting Yorkshire for Nottingham. It was about two o'clock, on the second of May, then, that a party of horsemen reached a spot in the midst of Sherwood, where the road--after having passed for nearly two miles through a dense part of the wood, which the eye could not penetrate above fifteen or twenty yards on either side--ran down a slight sandy descent, and entered upon a more open scene, where the trees had been cleared away not many years before, and where some two hundred acres of ground appeared covered with scattered brushwood and bilberry bushes, sloping down the side of a wide hill, at the bottom of which the thick wood began again, extending in undulating lines for many a mile beneath the eye of the traveller. The number of the journeyers was five; and they pulled in the rein to let their horses drink at a clear stream which crossed the road, and bubbling onward, was soon lost amongst the bushes beyond. Four of them were dressed as yeomen attached to some noble house; for although liveries, according to the modern acceptation of the word, were then unknown, and the term itself applied to quite a different thing, yet the habit was already coming in, of fixing a particular badge or cognizance upon all the followers or retainers of great noblemen, as well as of kings, whereby they might know each other in any of the frequent affrays which took place in those times. Sometimes it was fixed upon the breast, sometimes upon the back, sometimes upon the arm, where it appeared in the present instance. Each of the yeomen had a sword and buckler, a dagger on the right side, and a bow and a sheaf of arrows on the shoulders; and all were strong men and tall, with the Anglo-Saxon blood shining out in the complexion. The fourth personage was no other than Ralph Harland, the stout young franklin, of whom we have already spoken. He, too, was well armed with sword and buckler, though he bore no bow. Besides the usual dagger, however, he wore, hanging by a green cord from his neck, a long, crooked, sharp-pointed knife, called in those days an anelace, which was, I believe, peculiar to the commons of England and Flanders, and which was often fatally employed in the field of battle in stabbing the heavy horses of the knights and men-at-arms. The horses of this party were evidently tired with a long, hot ride, and the horsemen stopped, as I have said, to let their beasts drink in the stream before they proceeded onward. As they pulled up, a fat doe started from the brushwood about thirty yards distant, and bounded away towards the thicker parts of the forest, and at the same moment a loud, clear, mellow voice, exclaimed--"So, ho, madam! nobody will hurt you in the month of May! Give you good day, sirs!--whither are ye going?" The eyes of all but young Harland had been following the deer, and his had been bent, with a look of sad and stern abstraction, upon the stream, but every one turned immediately as the words were uttered; and there before them on the road, stood the speaker. How he came there, however, no one could tell, for the moment before, the highway was clear for a quarter of a mile, and there seemed no bush or tree in the immediate neighbourhood sufficiently large to conceal a full grown man. The personage who accosted them was certainly full-grown, and very well grown, too. He was in height about five feet eleven, but not what could be called large in the bone; at least, the proportion of the full and swelling muscle that clothed his limbs made the bone seem small. His foot, too, was less than might have been expected from his height; and though his hand was strong and sinewy, the shape was good, and the fingers were long. His breadth over the chest was very great; but he was thin in the flank, and small in the waist; and when his arm hung loosely by his side, the tip of his middle finger reached nearly to his knee. His countenance was a very fine one; the forehead high and broad, but with the brow somewhat prominent above the eyes, giving a keen and eagle-like look to a face in every other respect frank and gentle. His well rounded chin, covered with a short curling beard, of a light brown hue, was rather prominent than otherwise, but all the features were small and in good proportion; and the clear blue eye, with its dark-black eyelashes, and the arching turn of the lip and mouth, gave a merry expression to the whole, rather reckless, perhaps, but open and free, and pleasant to the beholder. In dress he was very much like the foresters whom we have before described; he wore upon his head a little velvet cap, with a gold button in the front, and a bunch of woodcock's feathers therein. He had also an image, either in gold or silver gilt, of St. Hubert on horseback, on the front of the cross-belt in which his sword was hung. The close-fitting coat of Lincoln green, the tight hose of the same, the boots of untanned leather, disfigured by no long points, the sheaf of arrows, the bow, the sword, and bracer, were all there; and, moreover, by his side hung a pouch of crimson cloth called the gipciere, and, resting upon it, a hunting horn, tipped with silver. As the fashion of those days went, his apparel was certainly not rich, but still it was becoming, and had an air of distinction which would have marked him out amongst men more splendidly habited than himself. Such was the person who stood before the travellers when they looked round, but taken by surprise, none of the party spoke in answer to his question. "What!" he said, again, with a smile, "as silent as if I had caught you loosing your bow against the king's deer in the month of May? I beseech you, fair gentlemen, tell me who you are that ride merry Sherwood at noon, for I cannot suffer you to go on till I know." "Cannot suffer us to go on?" cried Blawket. "You are a bold man to say so to five." "I am a bold man," replied the forester, "as bold as Robin Rood; and I tell you again, good yeomen, that I must know." What might have been Blawket's reply, who shall say? for--as we have before told the reader--he had some idea of his own consequence, and no slight reliance on his own vigour; but Ralph Harland interposed, exclaiming, "Stay, stay, Blawket, this must be the man we look for to give us aid. I have seen his face before, I am well-nigh sure. Let me speak with him." "Ay, ay, they show themselves in all sorts of forms," answered his companion, while Harland dismounted and approached the stranger. "One of them took me in as a ploughman, and now we have them in another shape." In the meanwhile, Harland had approached the forester, and had put into his hand a small strip of parchment, in shape and appearance very much like the ticket of a trunk in modern days. It was covered on one side with writing in a large, good hand, but yet it would have puzzled the wit of the best decipherer of those or of our own times to make out what it meant, without a key. It ran as follows:-- "Scathelock, number one, five, seven, to the man of Sherwood." Then came the figure of an arrow, and then the words, "A friend, as by word of mouth. Help, help, help!" This was all, but it seemed perfectly satisfactory to the eye that rested upon it, for he instantly crushed the parchment in his hand, saying, "I thought so!--Go on for half a mile," he continued; "follow the man that you will find at the corner of the first path. Say nothing to him, but stop where he stops, and take the bits out of your horses' mouths, for they must feed ere they go on. Away!" he added; "away! and lose no time." Ralph Harland sprang upon his horse's back again, and rode on with the rest, while the forester took a narrow path across the brushwood, which led to the thicker wood above. They soon lost sight of him, however, as they themselves rode on; but when they had gone nearly half a mile, they heard the sound of a horn in the direction which he had taken. A moment or two after, they came to a path leading to the right, and looking down it, saw a personage, dressed in the habit of a miller's man, leaning upon a stout staff in the midst of the narrow road. The instant he beheld them he turned away, and walked slowly onward, without turning to see whether they noticed or not. Harland led the way after him, however, for the path would not admit two abreast, and the rest followed at a walk. They thus proceeded for somewhat more than a mile, taking several turns, and passing the end of more than one path, each so like the other, that the eye must have been well practised in woodcraft which could retrace the way back to the high road again. At length they came to a little square cut in the wood, about the eighth part of an acre in extent, at the further corner of which was a hut built in the simplest manner, with posts driven into the ground, and thatched over, while the interstices were filled with flat layers of earth, a square hole being left open for a window, and one somewhat longer appearing for the door. Here their guide paused, and turning round, looked them over from head to foot without saying a word. "Ha! miller, is this your mill?" said Blawket, as they rode up. "Yes," answered the stranger, in a rough tone, shaking his staff at the yeoman; "and this is my mill-wheel, which shall grind the bran out of any one who asks me saucy questions." "On my life, I should like to try!" cried Blawket, jumping down from his horse. "Hush--hush!" cried Harland; "you know we were told not to speak to him." "And a good warning, too," said the other. "You will soon have somebody to speak to, and then pray speak to the purpose." "Ah! Madge she was a merry maid, A merry maid, with a round black eye; And everything Jobson to her said, The saucy jade she ask'd him, 'Why?' "'I'll deck thee out in kirtles fine, If you'll be mine,' he said, one day; 'I'll give you gold, if you'll be mine.' But 'Why?' was all the maid would say. "'I love you well, indeed I do,' The youth he answered, with a sigh; 'To you I ever will be true.' The saucy girl still ask'd him, 'Why!' "But one day, near the church, he said, 'The ring is here--the priest is nigh, Come, let us in, Madge, and be wed;' But then she no more ask'd him, 'Why?'" So sung the miller, with an easy, careless, saucy air, leaning his back against the turf wall of the hut, and twirling his staff round between his finger and thumb, as if prepared to tell the clock upon the head of any one who approached too near. There was no time for any farther questions, however: for he had scarcely finished the last stave, when the forester whom they had first met appeared from behind the hut, with a brow that looked not quite so free and gay as when the travellers had last seen him. "Come--come, master miller," he said, "you should have to do with corn. Get some oats for these good men's horses, for they must speed back again as fast as they came." "They will find oats enough in the hut, Robin," replied the other; "but I will do your bidding however, though I be a refractory cur." Almost at the same moment that the above reply was made, the young franklin was speaking likewise. "Go back again faster than we came?" he said. "I shall not feel disposed to do that, unless----" "Unless I show you good cause," interrupted the forester. "But I am not going to do that. You shall stay with me for a while: these men may go back again, for we do not want them. Let them return by Mansfield; that is their only chance of finding those they seek. The Southwell and the Winborn side I will answer for. You know me, Harland, I think; and if you do, you know that my word is not in vain." "I believe I do know you," replied Ralph Harland; "and I will trust you, at all events. But why should I stay, and not go with them, if there is a chance of finding the people that we want on the Mansfield road?" "Because the chance is but a small one," replied the forester, "and because there is something for you to do here, which, I fear me, is better for you now than anything that can be done for you elsewhere.--Quick! slit open the bag with your knife, careless miller, and let the horses feed out of it on the ground. I want the men to get back quick. Hark ye, yeoman! Is your name Blawket?" "The same, Master Forester," replied the yeoman. "What of me?" "Why, this," answered the other. "I have heard of you from Scathelock, and know you are a faithful fellow. You must return to my good lord, your master, for me. Tell him that I will meet him between Bloodworth and Nurstead, the day after to-morrow, by three in the afternoon. Let him bring his whole company with him, for I have tidings to give which it imports them much to hear." "Find some other messenger, good forester," replied the yeoman. "My lord sent me to seek for Richard Keen and Kate Greenly, and bade me not come back without having found them." "Pshaw!" said the forester, "did I not tell you you would find them on the road to Mansfield, if at all? If they be not there, they have given you the slip, and are in Nottingham by this time. Away with you, Master Blawket, without more words! Give the man a cup of wine, miller; his stomach is sour with long fasting." "I know not," murmured Blawket, hesitating still, but feeling an authority in the forester's speech, under which his own self-confidence quailed. "But who shall I say to my lord sent me back with this message? I must give him some name, good forester." "Well, tell him," replied the person he addressed, with a smile upon his countenance, "that it is Robert of the Lees by Ely, sent you." "Tell him Robin Hood!" cried the miller, with a loud laugh. "Do as I bid you," rejoined the forester. "Say Robert of the Lees: by that name will he know me, from passages in other days; and hark!" he continued--"be sure the Earl of Ashby comes with him, and utter not one word of what that foolish miller just now said." "I understand--I understand!" cried Blawket, with a much altered manner--"I will do your bidding, Master Robin of the Lees; but this horse eats so wondrous slow." "He will soon be done," said the forester. "Give him the wine, miller. We have no cups here; take it from the stoup good Blawket, and hand it to your comrades." A large tankard of wine which had been brought from the hut went round, and then a minute or two passed in silence while the horses finished their corn. When it was done, the four yeomen mounted, and at a word from the forester, the miller led the way before them at a quicker pace, leaving his leader behind with the young franklin. When they were gone, the forester took a turn backwards and forwards before the hut, without speaking; then pausing, he grasped Harland's. hand, saying, in a tone of stern feeling--"Come, Harland, be a man!" "You have bad tidings?" asked the young franklin, gazing with painful earnestness in his face. "Tell me, quickly!--the worst blow is past. They are not on the road to Mansfield?" "There is scarcely a chance!" said Robert of the Lees; "I believe they passed some two hours since, and----" "And what?" demanded Ralph, in a low, but eager tone. "And Richard of Ashby is at Nottingham, waiting for them." Ralph Harland cast himself down upon the ground, and hid his eyes upon his hands; while the stout forester stood by, gazing upon him with a look of deep sadness and commiseration, and repeating three times the words, "Poor fellow!" "Oh, you cannot tell--you cannot tell!" cried Ralph Harland, starting up, and wringing his hand hard; "you cannot tell what it is to have loved as I have loved--to have trusted as I have trusted, and to find that she in whom my whole hopes rested, she whom I believed to be as pure as the first fallen snow, is but a wanton harlot after all. To quit her father's house, voluntarily--to fly with a base stranger--the promised bride of an honest man--to make herself the leman of a knave like that! Oh, it is bitter--bitter--bitter! Worse than the blackest misfortune with which fate can plague me that I can never think of her again but as the paramour of Richard de Ashby! Would I had died first--died, believing that she was good and true!" "It is a hard case," said the forester, "and I grieve for you deeply; but there is a harder case still than it,--that of her father, I mean. To you, she can be nothing more--she has severed the tie that bound you together; but she is still his daughter, and nothing can cut that bond asunder, though fallen and dishonoured.--It were well if we could separate her from her seducer, Ralph, and give her back to her father's care. This is all, I fear, that now remains for us to do.--Had I known this two hours earlier," he continued, "the nose and ears of Richard de Ashby would by this time have been nailed to the post where the four roads meet; but the runner Scathelock sent me last night, fell lame on the other side of the abbey, and I did not get the news till about an hour before you came. The scoundrel, in the meanwhile, skirted the forest by Southwell at ten o'clock this morning, so that it is all too late. The time of punishment for his crimes, however, will come: we need not doubt that; but the time for preventing this one, I fear, is past." "But how--but how can we punish him?" cried Ralph Harland, eagerly; "if he be in Nottingham town, how can we reach him there? How can we even make him give up the wretched girl, and send her back to her father!" "We cannot do it ourselves," replied the forester, "but we can make others do it. Did you not hear the message I sent to the good old Lord of Monthermer?" Ralph Harland bent down his eyes with a look of bitter disappointment. "If that be your only hope, it is all in vain," he said; "the Monthermer is linked to the Earl of Ashby by a common cause; and in the great movements of people such as these, the feelings, and even the rights of us lesser men are never heeded. The old Earl, good as he is, will not quarrel with Richard de Ashby for John Greenly's daughter, lest it breed a feud between him and the other Lord. There is but cold hope to be found there." His companion heard him to an end, but with a faint smile upon his countenance. "I asked the Earl of Ashby, too," he said; "perhaps we may do something more with him." Ralph Harland shook his head. "Not till you have got his neck under your baldrick," he said. "Perhaps I may have by that time," replied the forester; "I mean," he continued, in a serious tone, "that I may by that time have a hold upon him which will make him use his power to send back this light-o'-love girl to her father's house. I know old John Greenly well, and grieve for him. Once I found shelter with him when I was under the ban of a tyrant, and no one else would give me refuge.--I never forget such things. He is somewhat worldly, it is true; but what host is not? It is a part of their trade; they draw their ale and affection for every guest that comes, the one as readily as another, so that he pay his score. But still the man has not a bad heart, and it will be well-nigh broken by his daughter's shame." "She has broken mine," said Ralph Harland. "Nay--nay!" replied his companion; "you must think better of all this. You loved her--she has proved false. Forget her--seek another. You will find many as fair." "Ay," replied Harland, "I shall find many as fair, perhaps fairer; but I shall find none that had my first love--none with whom all the thoughts of my early years were in common--none with whom I have wandered about the fields in boyhood, and gathered spring flowers for our May-day games--none with whom I have listened to the singing of the birds when my own heart was as light and tuneful as theirs--none for whom I have felt all those things which I cannot describe, which are like the dawning of love's morning, and which I am sure can never be felt twice over. No--no! those times are past; and I must think of such things no more!" "It is all true," said Robert of the Lees, "but the same, good youth, is the case with every earthly joy; each day has its pleasure, each year of our life has things of its own. As the spring brings the fruit, and the autumn brings the corn, so every period of man's existence has its apportioned good and evil. I have ever found it so, from infancy till this day, now eight-and-thirty years, and you will find it likewise. You will love another--differently, but as well; with less tenderness, but more trust; with less passion, but with more esteem; and you will be happier with her than you would have been with this idle one; for passion dies soon, killing itself with its own food; esteem lives, and strengthens by its own power. Shake not thy head, Ralph. I know it is vain to talk to thee as yet, for sorrow and disappointment blind a man's eyes to the future, and he will look at nothing but the past." "But of the Earl of Ashby," said young Harland, little cheered, to say the truth, by his companion's reasoning; "how can you get such a hold of him as will make him constrain his own kinsman to give up his paramour?--Alas! that I should call her so!" "Take your bridle over your arm," replied the forester; "come with me, and I will tell you more. You want rest, and food, and reflection; but nothing can be done before to-morrow, so we shall have plenty of time to discuss the means, and to arrange the plan." CHAPTER VII. Upon the edge of the merry forest-land, on the side nearest to Derbyshire, not far from the little river Lind, and surrounded at that time by woods which joined the district on to Sherwood itself, there rose, in the days I speak of, a Norman castle of considerable extent. It had been built in the time of William Rufus--had been twice attacked in the turbulent reign of Stephen--had been partly dismantled by order of Henry II.--and had been restored under the dominion of the weak tyrant John. Being not far from Nottingham, it was frequently visited by noble and royal personages, and was often the scene of the splendid and ostentatious hospitality of the old baronage of England. It has now crumbled down, indeed, and departed; the ploughshare has passed over most of its walls, and the voice of song and merriment is heard in it no more. The lower part of one of the square flanking-towers in the outer wall is all that remains of the once magnificent castle of Lindwell; and a dingly copse, where many a whirring pheasant rises before the sportsman, now covers the hall and the lady's bower. In the days of which I speak, however, it was in its greatest splendour, having come into the possession of the Earl of Ashby by his father's marriage, and being the favourite dwelling of the race. It was situated upon a gentle eminence, and the great gate commanded a view over some sixty or seventy acres of meadow land, lying between the castle and the nearest point of the wood; and for the distance of nearly three miles on the Sherwood side, though there was no cultivated land--except, indeed, a few detached fields here and there--the ground assumed more the aspect of a wild chase than a forest, with the thick trees grouping together to the extent of an acre or two, and then leaving wide spaces between, as pasture for the deer and other wild animals, only broken by bushes and hawthorns. This district was properly within the limits of Sherwood; but, as all persons know, who are acquainted with the forest laws, certain individuals frequently possessed private woods in the royal forest, which was the case of the Earl of Ashby in his manor of Lindwell; and, whether or not he had originally any legal right of chase therein, such a privilege had been secured to the manor in the reign of John, by the king's special grant and permission. His rights of vert and venison, then, as they were called, extended over a wide distance around, and it was reported that some disputes had arisen between himself and his sovereign, whether he had not extended the exercise of those rights somewhat beyond their legitimate bounds. In the same merry month of May, however, of which we have just been writing, and but one day after the occurrences took place which have just occupied our attention, a gay party issued forth from the gates of the castle, and took its way in the direction of Nottingham. We have called it gay, and it was so altogether: gay in colouring, gay in movement, gay in feeling. At the head of it appeared three light-hearted young women, a lady and her two maids, all about the same age, and none of them having as yet numbered twenty years. Their clothing, was rich and glittering; and they were followed by a page, possessing all the requisite qualities for his office in saucy boldness and light self-confidence. Three or four yeomen came next, who, having been left behind while their lord went with numerous attendants upon a distant progress, had necessarily had all the love and the merriment of the lower hall to themselves. The horses which bore the whole party were fresh, proud, and spirited; and never, perhaps, was more brightness of appearance and heart embodied in one group than in that which took its way down from the castle gate and through the meadows below; but we must pause, for a moment upon the fair leader of the cavalcade, for she is worth a short description. The Earl's daughter, Lucy de Ashby, wanted yet a few months of that period when girlhood may be said to end and womanhood begin; where the teens--which are so longingly looked for by the child--come to their end, and the third ten of the allotted seven begins. Oh, how long do the five tens that are to follow appear, when viewed from the brow of the hill of youth! And yet the two that are gone contain the brightest and the sweetest part of our apportioned time. Lucy looked not older than her years, for she was small and delicately formed; but yet there was the fulness of womanhood in every line. Her face had not much colour, and yet it was not pale, but the whole hue was warm and healthy, and fairer than that of the southern nations of Europe, though still evidently the complexion of what is now called a brunette. The brow, the nose, the lips, the chin, were all beautifully cut; though the model was not Greek, for the forehead was wider and higher, and there was a slight, a very slight wave in the line between the brow and the nose. The eyebrows were dark, small, and long, slightly depressed in the middle over the eye, but by no means either arched or strongly defined, according to the eastern notions of beauty, but, on the contrary, shaded softly off, so as only to show a definite line to beholders when at a little distance. The eyes beneath them were large and long, but with the deep black eyelashes, which she had derived from her mother, shading them so completely, that the sparkling of the dark iris was only clearly seen when she looked up. That, however, was often the case; for in her gay liveliness, when she had said some little thing to tease or to surprise, she would still raise the "fringed curtain" of her eye to mark the effect it produced, and to have her smile at anything like astonishment that appeared upon the countenance of those who heard her. The lip, too, was full of playfulness; for, indeed, sorrow had but sat there once, and tears were very unfrequent in those dark, bright eyes. There had been people seen, perhaps, more beautiful in mere feature, but few more beautiful in expression, and certainly none ever more captivating in grace of movement and in variety of countenance. Her dress was full of gay and shining colours, but yet so well assorted, so harmonious in their contrast, that the effect could not be called gaudy. The same was not the case with her two women, who, with the pleasant familiarity of those times, were chattering lightly to their mistress as they rode along, upon the ordinary subject of women's thoughts in all ages--alas! I mean dress. There was, on the contrary, a good deal of gaudiness about their apparel, and their taste did not appear to be of the most refined kind. "Nay, dear lady," said one of them, "I would have put on the robe of arms when I was going to Nottingham to wait for my father. It does look so magnificent, with the escutcheon of pretence for Minorca just on your breast, the silver field on one side, and the azure field on the other, and the beautiful wyverns all in gold." "I cannot bear it, silly girl," replied the lady; "to hear you talk about wearing the fields, one would suppose that I was a piece of arable land; and as to coats of arms, Judith, I like not this new custom; women have nothing to do with coats of arms. I put it on once to please my brother, but I will never wear it again, so he may cut the skirt off and use it himself next time he goes to a tournament." "Dear, now, lady, how you jest," replied the girl; "he could never get it on; why, Lord Alured's thigh is thicker than your waist; and I do declare I think it much handsomer than that azure and gold you are so fond of. I would not wear that, at all events." "And pray, why not?" demanded Lucy de Ashby, with some surprise; "they are the two colours that divide the universe, girl--azure the colour for heaven, gold the only colour for this earth; so between the two I should have all mankind on my side. Why would you not wear them?" "Because they are the colours of the Monthermers," replied the girl; "and they are old enemies of your house." "But they are friends now," rejoined Lucy, into whose cheek, to say truth, the blood had come up somewhat warmly. She ventured to say nothing more for a minute or two, and when she did speak again, changed the subject. The conversation soon resumed its liveliness, however; and thus they rode on, talking of many things, and laughing gaily as they talked, while the yeomen who were behind amused themselves in the same manner. After about half a mile's ride, they approached nearer to the banks of the little stream, which being every here and there decorated with bushes and tall trees that hung over the water, was sometimes seen glancing through a meadow, and then again lost amongst the thick foliage. Just as they were entering a closer part of the woodland, and leaving the stream on their right, one of the yeomen exclaimed, "By----!" using an oath of too blasphemous a kind to be even written down in the present age, but which in those days would have been uttered in the court of the king, "By----there is somebody netting the stream. Quick, Jacob, quick! come after them. You, Bill, go round the wood, and catch them on the other side. See, they're running that way--they're running that way!" and setting spurs to their horses, the whole of Lucy's male attendants, with the exception of the page, galloped off as fast as ever they could, shouting and whooping as if they had been in pursuit of some beast of the chase. Lucy de Ashby paused for a moment, and called to the page, who was the last to leave her, not to go; but the spur had been already given to his horse, and the boy became seized with a sudden deafness which prevented him from hearing a word that the lady uttered. Lucy gazed after them with a thoughtful look for an instant, then laughed, and said--"'Tis a droll fancy that men have to run after everything that flies them." "Ay, and dogs as well as men," added one of the girls. "And women as well as both," answered Lucy. "I have more than three quarters of a mind to go myself; but I will not, girls; and so, to be out of the way of temptation, we will ride slowly on." Thus saying, she shook her rein, and keeping her horse to a walk, followed the road before her into the thicker part of the wood, leaving her truant attendants to come after as they might. In about a quarter of an hour the first of the men appeared at the spot where they had left her, but he was by no means in the same plight as when he last stood there. His clothes were dripping as well as his hair; there were the marks of severe blows on his face; his smart apparel was soiled and torn, and he was both disarmed and on foot. In short, he looked very much like a man who had been heartily beaten and dragged through a horse-pond. A loud hallo, which reached his ear from the direction of the stream, seemed to visit him with no very pleasant sensations, for he darted in at once amongst the bushes, and hid himself as well as he could for a few minutes. At length, however, two of his comrades appeared; but they seemed to have fared not much better than himself, for though they had preserved their horses, both were in terrible disarray, and had returned from the fray evidently with broken heads. "Where is Bill?" said one to the other as they came up; "I saw him running this way." "Poor devil, he got it!" replied his comrade. "And you got it, too, I think," cried the one who had first appeared, now coming out from amongst the bushes. "Why, I never saw or heard anything like that blow of the staff across your shoulders, Jacob. You echoed like an empty cask under a cooper's hammer." "Ay, Bill," said the man to whom he spoke, "and when the man bestowed upon you the buffet in the eye, and knocked you down, what a squelch was there! Why, it was for all the world as when the scullion, bringing in the kitchen dinner, let the apple pudding fall, and it burst itself upon the pavement." "I will be even with him," said the man called Bill; "but where's the page and Walter?" "They galloped off to the castle as they could," answered the third, "and your horse along with them, so you must go back too, and we must ride after the lady as fast as we can go." "Pretty figures you are to follow her into Nottingham," rejoined Bill; "and what will my lord say when he finds that we four and the page were beaten by five men on foot?" "There were more than five," replied the other, "I am sure." "I thought I saw some in the bushes," added the third. "Come, come," exclaimed Bill, "there were only five, I was disabled by being knocked into the river, otherwise I would have shewn them a different affair." "I dare say you'd have done wonders," answered the other, with a sneer; "but we must get on, so you go back to the castle as fast as you can." "Pr'ythee see me beyond those trees," said the yeoman on foot; "if those fellows are hiding there, they may murder me!" "We have no time--we have no time!" replied one of the horsemen--"Go along with you! If you hadn't been in the stream, you would have thrashed them all; so thrash them now, good Bill;" and thus saying, the two rode on, for certainly there is no human infirmity, though it is a very contagious one, which meets with such little sympathy as fear. Onward, then, they went at a quick pace, hoping to catch up their young mistress before she reached Nottingham, but feeling a little ashamed for having left her at all, and not a little ashamed at the result of their expedition. When they had gone about a couple of miles, however, without seeing anything of Lucy de Ashby, the one looked round to his comrade, and said, "It is odd we haven't come up with her--she must have ridden fast." "Oh, it is just like her," replied the other, "she has galloped on just to tease us, and punish us a little for having left her in the wood. I would wager a besant that she does not draw a rein till she gets to Nottingham." "Ay, but the best of it is," rejoined his companion, "that we shall hear no more of it than just, 'Jacob, you should not have quitted me; you should have let the stream take care of itself,' instead of twenty great blustering oaths, such as Lord Alured would have given us. Then it will be all fair weather again in a minute." "Ay, she is very kind!" said the other yeoman, "and when anything does go wrong, she knows that one did not do it on purpose." With such conversation, and with praises of their sweet lady, which one may be sure were well deserved, as no ear was there to hear, no tongue to report them, the yeomen rode on; but the one called Jacob did so, it must be confessed, uneasily. His eyes, as he went, were bent down upon the ground, which in that part was soft, searching for the traces of horses' feet, but though he gazed eagerly, he could perceive none, till, at length, they reached the gates of Nottingham, and entering the city, proceeded at once to what was called the lodging of the Lord Ashby. It was, in fact, a large, though low-built house, shut from the street by a court-yard and a high embattled wall. The gates were open, and all the bustle and activity were apparent about the doors, which attended in those days the arrival of a large retinue. There were servants hurrying hither and thither, horse-boys and grooms slackening girths, and taking off saddles, servers and pantlers unpacking baskets and bags, and boys and beggars looking on. "What, is my lord arrived?" cried one of the men who had followed Lucy, springing from his horse; "we did not expect him till to-night, or to-morrow morning." "He will be here in half an hour," replied the horse-boy, to whom he addressed himself; "we rode on before." "What tidings of my young lady?" said a server, walking up; "we thought we should find her here to meet the Earl." "Is she not arrived?" cried the yeoman who had remained on horseback, in a tone of dismay; "she came on before us--we fancied she was here!" The one who had dismounted sprang into the saddle again, exclaiming--"This is some infernal plot!" The story was soon told, and the whole household of the Lord of Ashby, or at least such a part of it as was then in Nottingham, was thrown into a state of confusion indescribable. In the midst of this, some ten or twelve men mounted their horses, though every beast was tired with a long day's journey, and set out to seek for the fair lady who was missing, beating the forest paths in every direction. But not the slightest trace of her could they find; and, after a two hours' search, were coming home again, when, having made a round on the Southwell side, they met the party of the Earl himself, riding slowly on towards Nottingham. He was accompanied by only four or five attendants, but had with him his son Alured and Hugh de Monthermer, the other Earl having remained behind at Pontefract to settle some business of importance there. It may be easily conceived what indignation and surprise the tidings, brought by the servants, spread amongst the party they thus met. Lord Alured chafed like an angry tiger, and the old lord vowed every kind of vengeance. Hugh de Monthermer's lip quivered, but all he said was, "This is horrible indeed, my lord, that your lordship's daughter cannot ride from Lindwell to Nottingham in safety! What can we do?" "We!" cried Alured de Ashby. "Hugh of Monthermer, you have little enough to do with it, methinks! What I shall do, will be to cut off the ears of the scoundrels that left their lady on any account, when they were following her to Nottingham." "My lord of Ashby," said Hugh de Monthermer, addressing the Earl, "I merely used the word _we_, because, as a gentleman, and your friend, I take as deep an interest in the affair as any one. I and my men are at your command to seek for this lady instantly; and we will strive to do you as good service in the search as the best of your own people, if you will permit us." "Certainly--certainly, my good lord!" replied the Earl--"Alured, you are rash and intemperate.--Three hours ago, they say, this happened. Should they have taken to the forest, they cannot have gone very far, if they have followed the horse-paths; and were one of us to go back to the second road to the left, where there stands a meer[1], he must, by beating up those lanes, either come upon the party themselves or find the horses, if they have turned them loose, and taken to the footways." --------------- [Footnote 1: One of the posts, or marks, by which the limits of the forest were distinguished.] --------------- "They have not gone into the forest," cried Alured de Ashby; "depend upon it, these are some of the king's people, or the bishop's. Better far let us scour the more open country along the banks of Trent. You will soon hear at the bridges whether such persons have passed that way." "Stand out, Jacob," said the Earl; "you were one of the fools that were misled. What like were these men who lured you from your lady?" "I think they were men at arms disguised," answered the servant, in a sorrowful and timid tone; "for so well practised were they at their weapons, that they beat us all in the twinkling of an eye; besides, when I struck one of them, I heard something clatter underneath, like armour. The net, too, did not look like a real net." "It is very clear, the whole was a trick," said the Earl. "I doubt not you are right, Alured, but still we had better spread out, and scour the whole country across. You, with part of the men, take the banks of the Trent--I, with others, will skirt the borders of the forest from Nottingham to Lindwell--and our young friend here, with his own two servants and two of ours, will, perhaps, examine the forest itself from the second turning on the road to Southwell, as far as he may judge it likely, from the time which has elapsed, that these gentry could have advanced. I will send people to meet him when I reach Lindwell, who will tell him what success we have had, and give him aid and assistance." Alured de Ashby seemed not over well pleased at the arrangement, for his brows still continued heavy, his cheek flushed, and his proud lip quivering; but he made no objection, and after a few words more, the party separated upon the different tracks they proposed to follow, having still three or four hours of daylight before them. Alured rode on, with his fiery temper chafing at the insult which had been offered to his family, and but the more irritable and impatient because he had no one on whom to vent his anger. His father pursued his course more slowly, and with very different thoughts. Wrath in the bosom of the son swallowed up every sensation; but the loss of a child, which he had treated but lightly in the case of the innkeeper, now filled the Earl's breast with deep anxiety and apprehension, though certainly poor Greenly had more cause for agonizing fear and sorrow than the proud noble. It is a curious fact, however, and one which gives a strange indication of the lawless state of the times, that no one imagined the absence of Lucy de Ashby could proceed from any ordinary accident. CHAPTER VIII. The sun had declined about two hours and a half from the meridian, but the day was still warm and bright. The month of May, in the olden time, indeed, was a warmer friend than at present, if we may believe the ancient tales and chronicles; and, in good sooth, the seasons of the year seem to have changed altogether, and the weather to have become chilly, whimsical, and crotchetty, as the world has grown older. There are no vineyards to be found now in Northumberland, and yet many a place in the northern counties retains the name to the present day, evidently showing to what purposes they were formerly applied. It is rarely now in England, too, that we have any title to call it the merry, merry month of May, for, very often, cold and piercing are the winds, sad the sleet and rain; and, for one of the bright and glorious days of summer, we have a multitude of the dark and shadowy ones of winter. Perhaps one cause of this change may be that which has brought about many another evil in the land,--namely, the cutting down of those magnificent old forests which sheltered the breast of England like a garment, and stopped the fierce winds in their career over the island, Indeed we know that the destruction of the woods in other countries has produced such effects; and there is every reason to believe that here also the climate has greatly suffered, though other benefits may have been obtained. However that may be, the month of May at that time in England was indeed a merry month, replete with sunshine, bountiful in flowers, with every bird in song, and every tree in leaf, and the whole world full of the warmth and the tenderness of youth. It is true, indeed, that in the early part of the month, April would still look in with a tear in her eye to bid the earth good bye; and such had been the case on the morning of the fourth of May, in the year of which we have lately been speaking. About nine o'clock, two or three showers had swept past, though the blue eye of heaven had seldom been altogether withdrawn, but looked through the rain as through a veil, and every now and then the sun peeped out, even while the drops were coming down, and flung a rainbow over the bosom of the forest. The clouds, however, cleared off entirely before noon, and left the world but the fresher for the sprinkling, the woods looking more green, and the flowers more bright and full of perfume. The road from Sheffield--not the high road--running through Bloodsworth, and leaving Nurstead a little to the right, at the distance of about a mile past the former place, entered the extensive woody ground, which had ceased for a space in the neighbourhood of Mansfield; but which at that time covered the whole of the rest of the country. A little farther on again, the scene changed to one of those small, open greens, common in the forest, where two or three acres of grassy turf appeared free from trees, but surrounded on all sides by the wood. Fine old oaks and beeches stood forward here and there, stretching out their long and rugged arms, covered with the soft hue of spring, and leaving the line of the little savannah wild and irregular, While a break amongst the trees on the right showed the sunshine streaming into another opening of the same kind, and gave the imagination room to sport through other groves and dells beyond. In the midst of this green, with his arms crossed upon his chest, his eyes bent on the ground, and his brow somewhat gloomy, walked Robert of the Lees by Ely, as he had called himself, while not far off, under the shadow of a wide-spreading oak, stood a boy, holding a white horse and a bow, Robin seemed to be whiling away a time of waiting, in communing with himself of many things, with that sort of desultory meditation which woodlands gender more than any other scenes; and, ever and anon, his lips proved faithless guardians to his thoughts, muttering a word of two of what was passing in his mind, without his knowing that they did so. "Ha! Left Nottingham so soon with her paramour!" he said, "That was hasty!" and again he was silent for a space. "They must have heard that I had taken the chase in hand, or else the Earl has followed them closer than they expected.--How this poor youth suffers! One would think that he had lost the most precious thing on earth, instead of a light-o'-love May-day flirt!--And after, all, perhaps, he has lost the most precious thing on earth, for he has lost trust--confidence. That can never come again when once it is gone.--Besides, a woman is to us what we esteem her more than what she is. He held her to be all that is good, and so in losing her he loses all that is good,--They are idle things, these women; and yet there is good as well as bad in them. So goes the old song-- "To whom does woman's love belong? And who shall hold that fickle thing? No iron chain was e'er so strong, As long to bind its fluttering wing. "Caught by the ear--caught by the eye-- The handsome face, the flattering tongue, The pleasant smile, the well-told lie, May win it, but not hold it long. "The king has no command o'er love, The peasant's sweetheart jilts the swain; And those who stay, and these who rove, Seek bands for woman's heart in vain. "Rank, wealth, prosperity, and power, Have all been tried, without avail; Yet ne'er in dark misfortune's hour, Has woman's love been known to fail." So sung, or rather hummed, the bold forester, as he walked to and fro along the sandy path; and, as is very often the case, the song seemed the most convincing argument he could use, for it concluded the discussion with himself concerning young Harland, and he turned his thoughts to other things again. "They will take him by surprise," he muttered to himself in the same low tone as before; and then having uttered this vaticination, he relapsed into silence, took another turn, and said--"The King at Cambridge?--That cannot be for nothing: he has misled De Montfort--Gloucester fortifying his castles too--that looks ill! He is not to be trusted, Gloucester. He never was--he never will be.--Hark! a horse's feet! Here come the Earls!" Another moment, however, showed him that he was mistaken, for the horse whose tramp he heard came from the side of Nottingham, and not from that of Yorkshire. The animal itself was a good brown gelding, with a short tail, which, in those days, was a rarity, for many of the barbarous customs of the present time were then unknown. Indeed, though it may seem a contradiction in terms, civilization in general has not a little barbarism in it, and luxury is always sure to introduce practices of which savages would be ashamed. The horse, however, as I have said, was a good brown gelding with a short tail; the man that bestrode it, a jolly, large-stomached personage, in the garb of a tradesman; and the moment the forester saw him, he exclaimed, "Ha! our good friend the sutler of Southwell! What makes you ride the forest, Barnaby? You do not trouble Sherwood for nothing." "Seeking you, Robin--seeking you," replied the sutler. "One that you know of gave me this for you. It was to pass through no hands but mine and yours. But look ye! Here comes a goodly train. Now will there be rough work anon between the silken hoods and the men in Lincoln green. I'll away, Robin--I'll away, for I love no blows but those of the rolling pin!" The man to whom he spoke took no notice either of his words or his departure, so intent was he upon the contents of the letter which had just been put into his hand. He read it over twice after the messenger was gone, and seemed scarcely to remark the approach of a large party on horseback, comprising, as the reader may have divined by this time, the very personages for whom he was waiting. When he raised his eyes, however, he beheld advancing towards him, at a slow pace, some twenty mounted men, well armed, and headed by the old Earl of Monthermer. That nobleman, however, was unaccompanied by one of those whom our friend in the Lincoln green was the most anxious to see, the Earl of Ashby being, as the reader is well aware, on the other side of Nottingham. The party of old Monthermer, as he was called, consisted of himself and his servants alone, having sent away all the other noblemen and gentlemen who had met him in Yorkshire, to find their way, in separate bodies to join their friends in London. His nephew, too, for reasons that the old lord saw and well approved, had gone on with the Earl of Ashby; and the only addition to his train since we last saw him, was a stout old priest, his chaplain, who had been previously dispatched on a mission to Northumberland. At a distance of about twenty yards from the spot where the bold forester stood, the Earl pulled up his horse and dismounted slowly, giving the word to halt. He then advanced directly towards, him, holding out his hand, which the other took with an air of respect and deference, but without the least approach to fawning. "Welcome to Sherwood, my good lord," said Robert of the Lees. "But why come you alone? Would not the noble Earl of Ashby trust himself amidst these shades?" "He had left me, Robin," replied the Earl, "before I got your message, with his son Alured and my nephew Hugh. He set out for Nottingham yesterday, just after morning song." "Ha!" exclaimed the forester, his brow growing dark. "'Tis strange I heard not of it. Gone to Nottingham, just after morning song? He might have been there by noon; and yet he was not." "No, no," answered the Earl, "he could not arrive by noon. He had matters of some moment to see to by the way. But were you so anxious to have some speech with him?" "I was," answered the forester, abruptly. "I was.--But it matters not--I will send him a message; and now, my lord, will you mount your horse again; and come with me? I have much to say to you, and many things to tell, some of which you know, perhaps, already, but some of which you have never heard." "I can but stay an hour," replied the Earl; "for I must forward to Nottingham to supper, and that will be a late one, even now." "We have supper ready for you, my good lord," answered the forester; "and you, at least, need not fear to ride through Sherwood in the eventide." "No feasting on the King's venison, Robin!" cried the Earl, with a laugh; "but still our meal must be short, for I have business to do to-night of more importance than my supper. Shall I bid the men come on with me, or to stay here till I return?" "Let them follow--let them follow," said the forester; "but keep them out of earshot--the priest especially. Ho, boy! bring up my horse." More at a sign by which he accompanied the call than at the words themselves, the boy, whom we have mentioned as holding a white horse under one of the trees, ran up with the animal in hand, while the Earl gave directions to his men to follow him slowly, keeping at the distance of some fifty yards. He then remounted, with his forest friend, who led him on still upon the open road, saying--"You shall have as little of the woodland as possible, and every step you take is so much on your way to Nottingham." "That is well," replied the Earl; "but now tell me, Robin, how many of your old friends have you gathered round you here, in case of need?" "Not more than a hundred," answered his companion, "With some forty in Barnsdale." "Sadly few!" said the Earl, musing. "Many a stout soldier and many a true friend," replied the forester, "love not to live the life and share the perils of an outlaw." "There is a reproach in that," said the Earl; "but I pledge you my knightly word, Robin, that I did my best to have the outlawry reversed whenever we got the power into our own hands, but it was Gloucester opposed it, and the Earl of Leicester judged it dangerous to thwart him." "You mistake, my lord," rejoined the forester, "and would have done me but little service had you succeeded, though I thank you for the wish. The enmity of my lord of Gloucester stood me in good stead. These are riddles, my good lord, but they are easily read. Hark to another, not much more difficult. My hundred men are not few, but many; for each man, besides a sheaf of arrows, has a sheaf of friends, and about the same number of each. We shall not count much less than two thousand, noble sir, in the day of need, and that day is coming faster than you imagine." "There are clouds in the sky, certainly," replied the Earl, "They overshadow the sun," rejoined the outlaw, abruptly. "The news I had to tell you, but an hour ago, was merely that the King had contrived to lead my lord of Leicester away from his resources, and that Gloucester is fortifying himself in the marches of Wales--that he has refused to be present at the tournament of Northampton, and that people flock to him who are known to be favourers of the foreigners." "I have heard something of this," said the Earl, "but knew not that it had gone so far." "Farther--farther, my lord," replied the other--"farther a great deal! I have more tidings for you now. Gloucester is proclaimed a traitor, Leicester has fallen back upon the Severn, and I fear me that means have been taken to amuse the good Earl's son in that business of Pevensey. Look at that letter, my lord." "Ay this bears the likeness of war, indeed," replied the Earl, after reading a paper which his companion, gave to him--"this bears the likeness of war, indeed; and I am glad it has come to this. Gloucester is a loss to the good cause, it is true, though he is cold and cautious----" "And selfish, and treacherous, and cunning," added the outlaw. "But still there is little to fear," continued the Earl, "he is no more competent to cope with Simon de Montfort, than an usher's white rod with a soldier's battle-axe." "He wants the energy of a strong will," said the outlaw, "and therefore can never be a great man; but still his influence makes him dangerous, my lord, and you must look to it." "We will not despise him," replied the Earl; "but still I fear him not. So long as the Prince is in the hands of De Montfort, the freedom of England is secure. He is the power of the royal party, but we have taken care that he shall have no means of acting--nominally free, but watched, day and night--his servants, his keepers--his companions, his gaolers. I could grieve for the noble Prince, I must confess, were it not that the safety of the whole realm, the freedom of every man within it, and the happiness of every English hearth, demand that he should be prevented by any means from giving strength to his father's weakness by his own powerful mind." "I grieve for him, too," replied the outlaw. "I once, at York, saw an eagle in a cage, my lord; and though it looked at me fiercely, as if it would have torn me for my pains, I broke the bars, and let the noble bird go free." "We must not do that here," replied the Earl. "I fear not," answered his companion. "Nevertheless, I grieve for the Prince with all my heart; and would he but swear and keep his oath, which princes seldom do, I would be the first to give him his liberty, upon a promise to respect ours." "We have tried that, good Robin," replied the Earl, "and we must do so no more. The wisest man that ever lived, said, 'Put not your faith in princes;' and this young leopard must, I fear, be kept in a chain, however sad it be to fetter noble energies like his." "Make the chain strong enough, then, my lord," said the outlaw; "for if he breaks it, he will be more fierce than ever." "Forged by Simon de Montfort, it will be strong enough," answered the Earl; "but let us think of farther proceedings. So, Gloucester is proclaimed a traitor?" "Ay, and Mortimer, too," replied the forester, "and a number of others. Many of the lords marchers have joined him, you see, and his power is daily increasing." "Then it is time," said the Earl, "for the friends of England to gather round De Montfort. A battle cannot be far distant. Doubtless there will be letters for me at Nottingham, and I will soon let you know where you can meet us with your brave archers. Gloucester's day is over, and--" "I know what you would add, my lord," replied the forester, "but I say, No. This outlawry sits more easily on my shoulders than you can think. Heaven forbid that you should ever have to try our life; but, were such the case, you would soon grow fond of it. There is a charm in these wild woods, and in our free existence amongst them, which leaves the parade of the city or the castle sadly tasteless in the comparison. No, my lord, I am well as I am, for the present. No man can call me traitor; for kings and princes have cast off my allegiance, and I have cast off their rule. Perhaps when happier days come back--when England's wounds are healed--when justice and honour hold the sway, and peace and liberty go hand in hand, I may reclaim my rights, my lord, and ask your voice to testify that the Outlaw of Sherwood was as just in his dealings, as true to his country, and as fearless in her defence as any judge in his court, or statesman in the hall, or knight in the saddle. But till then--good faith," he added, in a gayer tone, "I live a merry life of it here, and am troubled with no remorse for the deeds I do under the green leaf of the wood. However, enough of myself, and as for your letters, you will find none at Nottingham. The sheriff is no friend of Simon de Montfort, and that the Earl of Leicester knows by this time. I would wager, my lord, a pipe of Malvoisie to a flitch of bacon, that if you go on to Nottingham, you will be a tarrier in the castle for longer than you reckon." "If so," replied Monthermer, "the Earl of Ashby is a prisoner there by this time." "Not so, my lord," said the outlaw, drily "the Earl of Ashby has had other things to do." "Why, I thought that but now," exclaimed the Earl, "you did not know where our good friend was?" "True," answered his companion, "but I know what waited him at Nottingham, if he arrived there yesterday.--Besides, my good lord, he has a friend at court. Richard de Ashby passed through Nottingham before him, was with the sheriff in close consultation for an hour, and doubtless set forth duly, 'how good a subject the Earl is to the King, and how humble a servant to the Earl of Gloucester.'--Take care, my lord, that you are not betrayed, as well as deceived.--There is a viper under your hand; and it may sting you." "No--no--no!" said the old nobleman, shaking his head. "The Ashbys are incapable of treachery: proud and irascible they both are, father and son; but even in their pride there is no dishonour, though----" "Though pride be the most dishonest of all our knave passions;" interrupted the outlaw, "ay, and the meanest, too! But I believe you, my good lord, they will not betray you, either father or son, but they will betray themselves; and their roguish kinsman will betray you and them every one. You judge, perhaps, that he came down but upon the lewd errand of carrying off a peasant girl, but his business in Barnsdale was of a darker character than that. Prisoner as the King now is, and watched as the Prince now seems, they have agents over all the land." "But can you be sure," said the Earl--"can you prove that this Richard de Ashby is one of them? Base, I have always believed him to be; and I recollect that while the feud existed between our two families, he did all in his power to keep it alive, and prevent the breach from ever being healed--pandering, like all mean sycophants, to the fiercer passions of their lords; but I ever judged him a petty scoundrel, fit only to cheat at cross and pile, or accomplish the ruin of a milkmaid. I think not, Robin, that he has courage to deal with much greater things. Have you any proof of his treachery in this business?" "Something I know, my lord," replied the outlaw, "and much more do I suspect--let them take my counsel who like it. What will you have? He was first with Mortimer, and then with Gloucester; and then, making a circuit round, to seem as if he came from the side of Norfolk, he visited Leicester at Northampton, and spent two days there, seeing the King thrice, and the Prince as often. Thence he went back to London, was purveyed with a spy, one Richard Keen, a servant of the King's who fled from Lewes; and thus accompanied, he followed you to Pontefract." "I will tax him with it in his kinsman's presence," said Monthermer. "The good Lord of Ashby wants not sense and discrimination. He was eager for the business to be inquired into before, but the man's flight with the light-o'-love girl of the inn broke off the investigation. Think you his master has really any share in that bad business? I left the poor man, her father, nearly broken-hearted." "Share!" exclaimed the forester; "somewhat more than a share. She is now his leman at Huntingdon. I had tidings this morning, and they are now tasting together the fiery drop of joy which floats upon the deep draughts of bitterness in the cup of vice. A few weeks will cloy him, and then her sorrows will begin; but if I lay my hands upon him, so help me the Blessed Virgin! as I will nail his ears to the door-posts of good John Greenly's house, and scourge him with bowstrings from Wakefield to Pontefract. But, to speak of what is more important, my lord--do you think the rogue filched any of your secrets?" "No," replied the Earl--"no, many of the people did not come; Hugh Bigod, too, was away; and, as is often the case with long-concerted meetings, to settle matters of great moment, we waited for each other, and, in the end, the whole thing went to empty air. I could not but think, however, that he strove hard to renew the breach between the house of Ashby and ourselves. With the father he did not succeed, but with the son he seemed to make some progress; so much so, indeed, that I was well pleased when this Sir Richard told us his purpose of going on before to London. After he was gone, Alured grew somewhat placable; and when we parted company, Hugh went with the two lords, trying to soothe and gain the younger one.--But here, Robin, what have we here? Why you have made the forest as gay as a May-day bride!" CHAPTER IX. The words of the old Earl gave a good idea of the picture which was presented to his eyes. It was indeed like a May-day pageant, or like one of those scenes which we now-a-days see upon the stage, but which are but feeble representations of those that in former times were constantly acted in reality. Though, it is true, we form exaggerated images of many things that we do not behold, imagination presents but a very faint idea of the splendour and decoration of those ages when sumptuary laws were enacted in various countries to prevent peasants from displaying gold and silver embroidery in their garments. What may be called representation was a part of that epoch. It was in every palace, and in every castle, at the table of the grave citizen, with his gold chain, in the arm-chair of the justice, in the ball of the franklin. It sat upon the forked beard of Chaucer's merchant, it appeared in the party-coloured garments of the gallant of the court. In short, a great part of everything in that day was effect: it was one of the great objects of the age, and all classes of people had an eye for it. Perhaps in all things, as in their great buildings, their taste was better than our own--in very few points it could be worse; and in consulting what is bright and pleasing to the eye, what is exciting and dazzling to the imagination, they followed where nature led--nature who delights in striking contrasts, as much as in gentle harmonies. If, indeed, we can form a very faint idea of the splendour of the court and the castle, our conception is still more inadequate of the picturesque decoration of humbler scenes in those days. We are apt to conceive that it was all rude, or gross; and we scarcely believe in the charms of the merry morrice dance, in the graces and attractions that sported round the May-pole, in the moonlight meetings which Old Fitzstephen records, or in any of the sweeter and more gentle pleasures and pastimes of the peasantry of Old England; and yet all these things were true, all were enacted by living beings like ourselves upon every village green throughout the land, long before a feeble mockery of them crept into a close and stifling playhouse. Stronger passions--or perhaps the same passions but less under control than in the present day--took their part therein, from time to time, and prompted to all those wild energies which spring from deep and highly-excited feelings. Graces free and uncultivated were there likewise, and the honest outpourings of the heart, subjected to no dull sneer from the lips of false refinement, burst forth with the touching force of simplicity and truth. The universal weaknesses of our nature mingled with all the rest, and varied the drama through a thousand parts. Vanity, and self-love, and pride, and envy, had their share in the gathering of spring flowers, in the weaving of the garland, in the decoration of the tent, in the choice of the May queen, and in the dance upon the sward; but to say sooth, they gave a pungency and a brightness, and a human interest to the whole. I beseech thee, then, dear reader, carry thy mind back to the times of which I write, and recollect that such scenes as that which met the eye of the old Lord Monthermer, were every-day realities, and not any part of a cold fable. Whether planted by accident or design I know not, but at the side of one of the little savannahs I have described, where the grass was short and dry, six old oaks came forward from the rest of the wood, three on either hand, at the distance of about forty feet apart, forming a sort of natural avenue. Their long branches stretched across and nearly met each other, and under this natural canopy was spread out the long table, prepared for the good Earl's repast; while, from bough to bough above, crossing each other in various graceful sweeps, were innumerable garlands, forming a sort of net-work of forest flowers, The board, too--let not the reader suppose that it was rude and bare, for it was covered with as fine linen as ever came from the looms of Ireland or Saxony.[2] The board had a nosegay laid where every man was expected to sit, and the ground beneath was strewed with rushes and green leaves to make a soft resting-place for the feet. Under the trees were gathered together various groups of stout archers in their peculiar garb, with many a country girl from the neighbouring villages, all in holiday apparel. A number of young countrymen, too, were present, showing that the rovers of the forest were at no great pains to conceal their place of meeting; for their lawless trade found favour in the sight of the many; and their security depended as much upon the confidence and goodwill of the lower orders, as upon the dissensions and disunion of the higher classes. --------------- [Footnote 2: I need not refer the learned reader to the curious investigations of M. le Grand; and perhaps for the less inquisitive it may be enough to say, that such was literally the fact.] --------------- The first sight of the Earl and the outlaw caused not a little bustle amongst the companions of the latter. There was running here and there, and putting things in array; and it was very evident that, although expected and prepared for, everything was not quite ready when the Earl arrived. "Give him good morrow--give the noble Earl good morrow!" cried the forester, putting his horn to his lips and waving his hand for a signal. Every man followed his example, and in a moment the whole glades of the forest rang with the sounds of the merry horn. Not a note was out of tune, no two were inharmonious, and, as with a long swell and fall, the mellow tones rose and died away, the effect in that wild yet beautiful scene was not a little striking and pleasant to the ear. "Yeomanly! yeomanly! right yeomanly done!" cried Robin Hood. "This is the way, my lord, that we receive a true friend to the English Commons and the good old Saxon blood. Will you please to dismount, and taste our cheer? If yonder cooks have not done their duty, and got all ready, I will fry them in their own grease, though I guess from yon blazing log that they are somewhat behindhand." As he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon a spot, to which those of the Earl followed them, where a scene not quite harmonious with the poetry of the rest of the arrangement was going on, but one very satisfactory to the hungry stomachs of the Earl's retainers. An immense pile of blazing wood, fit to have roasted Hercules himself, was crackling and hissing and roaring so close to a distant angle of the wood, that the flames scorched the green leaves on the farther side. Beside it were some five men, in clean white jackets, running hastily about, and basting sundry things of a very savoury odour, which by the contrivance of small chains and twisted strings, were made to revolve before the fire. Each man was glad enough to keep to windward of the blaze; and, even then, full many a time were they forced to run to a distance for cool air and free breath, for the heat was too intense for any one to endure it long without suffering the fate of the immense masses of meat which were turning before it. About fifty yards from this burning mountain was a lesser volcano, from which, upon the primitive tripod of three long poles; hung sundry pots of vast dimensions, emitting steams very grateful to the nose; while, in a cool spot under the trees, appeared the no less pleasant sight of two large barrels, one twined round with a garland of young vine-leaves, and the other with a wreath of oak. A host of drinking cups, fit to serve an army, lay near them, and a man with a mallet was busily engaged in driving a spigot and faucet to give discreet vent to the liquor within. "Ho! where is Little John?" cried Robin Hood--"a small friend of mine, my lord, whom you must know. What! Naylor! the master of our revels--where is he? By my life, he is basting the capons! Hallo! friend John!--You will easily see, my lord, how he deserves his title." As he spoke, a yeoman, some six feet four in height, with shoulders that seemed as fit to carry the bull as the calf, a round head covered with nut-brown hair, and a face running over with fun and jest, came near and shook the Earl's proffered hand. "We have met before, I believe, Little John," said the Earl, "and I think in as warm a feast-day as this!" "Warmer, my lord, by a bucket full," replied Naylor. "One of those feasts where one is as likely to be carved as carve." "I recollect, your face well," said the Earl. "John of Andelys would recollect it better, my lord, if he could recollect anything, poor fellow," answered the yeoman. "When last he and I and you met together, he had got you by the throat, with his dagger through your avantaille. I just tapped him on the head, to remind him not to do such things; and whether he went away or not I don't know, but if he did, he certainly did not carry his brains with him." "Ay, you did me good service there," replied the Earl--"I should have lost an eye, at least. There's a jewel, my good friend," he continued, taking a ring from his finger--"I won it with hard strokes myself, near Tripoli, and I give it to you for as good a blow as ever was struck by an English yeoman." "I'll set it in my cap, my lord," replied Little John, "and, perhaps, some day----" "Nay, now, no boasting, John!" cried Robin Hood; "but let the Earl sit down to meat. It is the season, my good lord, when one strikes neither hart nor hare, when the partridge is free for her brood, and even the wild bustard runs unscathed. Thus, my good lord, I cannot give you forest cheer; otherwise, so help me Heaven! as you should dine at the King's expense, while his majesty be revelling with my Lord of Leicester. However, not being able to treat you as a yeoman, I will feast you as a baron; and if those good cooks do but their duty, no castle hall in all merry England shall show a better supper than yours this day." "I doubt it not, good Robin--I doubt it not!" replied the Earl, with a good-humoured laugh; "you are Lord of Sherwood, and may hold your court of free-baron when you like. On my life! you have a peacock," he continued, as a long train or men began to approach, bearing large wooden trenchers loaded with viands--"and the noble baron of beef too!" "True, my lord.--true!" replied Robin, "I could not feast an earl, you know, without giving him a young peacock with his tail spread, nor receive your merry men honourably without a double sirloin from the best ox in the country. The beef's my own," he continued, "for I bought it with gold out of my purse; and the peacock's my own, for Little John gave it to me." "And how he came by it--you did not ask," said the Earl, smiling. "Nay, why should I?" demanded Robin Hood, in the same jesting tune; "you would not have me doubt my man's honesty?" "Heaven forbid!" replied the Earl; "and I will claim a slice of the fair bird, by the same title." "Come, my lord, come," cried Robin; "let us sit down.--We have no salt-cellar here, to make a distinction between highest and lowest," he continued aloud; "so let every man place himself where he can find room.--Peaceably there,--peaceably! Give seats to the women, and show yourselves courteous as knights. If there be not stools for all, there are platters for all, with meat to spare, and God made the green ground, you know, long before man made a settle. Here my lord, sit by me, and I will help you; and, as my chaplain is not here, I will give you a forest grace to your meat--Reverence, my men--reverence!" Each man stood up, took off his hat, and crossed himself, and Robin Hood, bowing his head, and running the two parts of his sentence somewhat close together, though there was a slight pause between them, said, "God give us his blessing--and let no man disturb us!" We have given the words of the forester, as affording the best account of the arrangement of his party; and it is only necessary to add that about a third of the number of those present found seats upon the ground, while the rest placed themselves on stools round the table; and it is to be remarked that many of the village girls, who had come as guests, preferred the green sward, with a stout young bowman beside them, eating, as was then customary with lovers, out of the same dish. As Robin had said, indeed, there was plenty of food for all; for, besides two gigantic barons of beef, there was many a roasted pig of tender age, capons, and fowls, and pigeons, a heron here and there, together with that most excellent of all ancient dishes, a bittern made into soup, while, in the centre of the table, was seen the peacock with his magnificent tail spread out. Close by the herons wherever they appeared, had been placed, by direction of Little John, who would have his jest at the long-legged fowl, large dishes of magnificent trout. "There," said the master of Robin Hood's revels, "the ancient enemies sit side by side peaceably, to show that man's maw made friends of all things!" There was no serving at the table of Robin Hood. The Earl's good yeomen fell as readily into the customs of Sherwood as their lord, and, sitting down pell-mell with the green-coated rangers, attacked the meat as soon as grace was said. The cooks, themselves, when their function was done, and the dinner was dished up, took such places as they could find, and every man drawing forth anelace, or dagger, as the case might be, assailed the dish that was before him, and helped his neighbours and himself. For some time a deep silence fell over the whole party, and less noise attended the proceeding than ever occurs now-a-days, for dishes ages platters were all of wood, and the knives were encountered by no forks in those times, so that little clatter accompanied the operation either of carving or eating. At the end of about ten minutes, some five or six of the younger men rose from various parts of the table, and made an excursion towards the barrels we have mentioned. They returned loaded with large flagons, and the only act of ceremony which took place was, that Little John himself, with a large black jack full of strong ale in one hand, and a stoup of wine in the other, approached the Earl, while another brought a large silver cup, and offered him to drink. Thus refreshed, another attack upon the unresisting viands succeeded, after which more tankards of wine were set around for every line to help himself as he liked. The juice of the grape soon had its effect so far as to quicken the movements of the tongue; and the jests and laughter, and, it must said, noise also, became considerable. From time to time the Earl and Robin Hood exchanged a word in a lower and more serious tone; but, in general, the old nobleman joined in gaily with the rest, with few words, indeed, and calm withal, but with a well-pleased smile, and a frequent glance down either side of the table at the row of merry faces which surrounded him. "Come, Pigmy, come!" cried Robin Hood, at length, addressing Little John, "cheer us with a song, if thy portion of the baron have left thee any voice; but mind, no ribaldry, and as little impudence as may be." "Heaven deliver us!" cried Little John, "I shall never be able to sing! I am like a city lady, who has just been called _madam_ for the first time in her life, and somewhat faint with the smell of fat viands. Come, Billy of Southwell, fill me a cup of wine; for I must do our captain's bidding." And having taken a deep draught, he went on, in a voice of a fine tone, indeed, but loud enough, according to the whimsical thought of the poet, to "Sweep the sear leaves off the trees, As if a storm pass'd by." SONG. Robin Hood and the Grinder. "Lythe and listen, my merry-men all, Lythe and listen to me, Of a wonderful matter that once did befal Under the greenwood tree. "Those who go out to catch are caught, As you shall presently hear; For bold Robin Hood once a lesson was taught Which well-nigh had cost him dear. "'I'm going alone,' said Robin, one day-- 'I'm going alone, to see What sport I can make on the king's highway, For I am as good as three. "'Take any three men from Nottingham town, And set them all of a row, If they bide my buffet and do not go down, They shall set me up for a show.' "Bold Robin went out, and he met with a man-- A grinder he was by trade; And 'Hillo! stand fast!' good Robin began, 'Bide here, till the toll be paid.' "'Get out of my way, toll-taker,' said he; 'I'm a grinder, and one of hot blood, And I have a strap that should well leather thee, Wert thou even our bold Robin Hood!' "Then Robin he took his stout staff in his hand, And struck at the grinder a blow, But he jump'd aside, and his running wheel-band O'er Robin's two shoulders did throw. "With a tug at the end, and a twitch at the buckle, He pull'd it down over his wrists-- I know not if Robin's forgotten his knuckle, But he left him the sign of his fists. "Good luck for bold Robin!--the grinder took fright At three yeomen, who came from the wood, Or right sure he'd have pummell'd him on until night, And made jelly of bold Robin Hood!" Robin laughed heartily at the song; and turning to the Earl, he said--"If men should ever talk of me after I am dead, they'll take my character from yon knave's songs. But come, my lord, I'll give you one myself, to another tune." SONG. Merry England. "Ho, merry England! merry England, ho! The crimson grape grows ruddy in fair France; There the rich juices from the wine-cup flow, There beat the timely feet in graceful dance. But give me back the bower Where pass'd youth's jocund hour-- Ho, merry England! merry England, ho! "Ho, merry England merry England, ho! Light fills the skies, and gilds the fields of Spain; Orange and olive, thyme and myrtle, grow O'er purple hill and perfume-breathing plain; But give to me the glade, And twinkling forest shade, Of merry England, merry England, ho! "Ho, merry England! merry England, ho! Bright shines the sun on the Italian shore, And art and nature gain a brighter glow From memories of greatness gone before; But my dear island home Veils not the crest to Rome, Ho, merry England, merry England, ho! "Ho, merry England, merry England, ho! Thy hills, and dells, and groves, Are full of brighter things than other lands: Glorious remembrances, and happy loves, And hearts sincere, and true and honest hands. There let my life go by, And my grave, when I die, Be merry England, merry England, ho!" It seemed to be a favourite song with the outlaw, and also with his companions, for at the close of each stanza they took up the refrain of-- "Ho, merry England, merry England, ho!" and singing it to a wild though very simple minor airs produced a powerful effect upon their hearers and upon each other. When they had done, their leader poured out some wine, saying, "Pledge us a cup, my lord the Earl, in wine--better than which Gascony never produced,--to that dear mother-land for which we have bled, or are willing to bleed. Here's to Merry England!" The Earl willingly drunk the toast; and after a few words more, he said, in a low voices to his companion, "I fear I must mar your merriment, Robin, by departure. I am anxious for tidings, and have perhaps delayed somewhat too long already. I know that letters must be waiting for me, and they may need an instant answer." "Seek them not at Nottingham, my lord, at all events," replied the forester; "aware of the trap they hid laid for you there, I have already sent out people to stay all messengers De Montfort may have dispatched to you, and bid them turn aside to the little village of Stapleford. There you will find them, if at all. Yet I would fain have you remain here an hour or two longer; for, in the course of this night, I myself expect tidings by a sure hand and a nearer way." "I will leave either the priest or my good yeoman, Blawket, with you," said the Earl, in a low tone. "Both are to be trusted." "The priest!" exclaimed Robin Hood, "God bless his reverence, I forgot, and took his trade out of his hand just now. I must add a paternoster to-night, when he is at the table; but, in good truth, I quite forgot him.--Blawket must do, I fear, my lord; but yet I could have wished to have some one with me whom I could consult in case of need; for I, too, may have to act at a moment's warning, and may require to arrange some plan for joining you speedily, which I could not do with either the yeoman or the priest. Still I suppose you are right, and had better proceed." "Hark!" cried the Earl, and, after a momentary pause, he added, "I thought I heard the blast of a horn at a great distance; perhaps it is your messenger." "No," replied the outlaw; "I heard it too, but it came from the east. I have scouts out that way. Some one must be riding Sherwood worthy of notice. We shall soon know more. Silence, my men, silence! There is a horn, I think, from the ash-tree covert!" All was instantly still, and for rather more than a minute no one spoke. But patience began to grow weary, and one or two at the lower end of the table were beginning to say an occasional word to their next neighbour in a low tone, when the horn again sounded, much nearer than before, and Little John started up, exclaiming, "That's Kneller's blast at the hollow oak on Mostyn's Edge!" "Look to your bows, my merry men," cried Robin Hood; "whoever it is, he comes this way fast. We may have to show the Earl some of our habits of life." Every man now rose from the table at once, the implements Of archery (which were hung upon, or leaning against, several of the trees around) were hastily resumed, the bows were strung, and an arrow or two fitted to the string. In about five minutes more, another horn sounded, not many hundred yards from the spot where the tables were laid. The country girls ran to the other side of the green, although they were told not to be afraid; and the old Earl separating his followers from the rest bade each man have his hand upon his bridle, ready to mount and take whatever part might seem needful; when gradually the sound of horses' feet coming at a quick pace became distinct, and, after a short pause of expectation, Hugh of Monthermer, with four or five servants, somewhat heated and travel-stained, rode into the little open space, and suddenly halted, as if in wonder at the scene which met their sight. CHAPTER X. NOT a little was the surprise of uncle and nephew at thus meeting in the midst of Sherwood, but it was greater on the part of the old Earl than of Hugh. The scene, indeed, in which he found his venerable relative, might astonish the young gentleman a little; for the free rangers of the forest, the profusely covered table, the wine barrel, and the drinking cups, were certainly accessories which he had not expected to see around his noble kinsman. With the deference, however, which, at that period, existed for age and renown, he expressed no astonishment, and asked no questions, but dismounting from his horse, proceeded, in answer to his uncle, to inform him why and how he had returned, instead of accompanying the Earl of Ashby on his way either to Lindwell or to London. But as the reader is well aware of the circumstances connected with the sudden disappearance of Lucy de Ashby, and of the part in seeking her which Hugh de Monthermer had taken upon himself, we shall not recapitulate this part of the young knight's account, but content ourselves with stating what success he had met with in the pursuit. "Last night I swept the whole roads through the forest," he said, "in a breadth of about two miles, without discovering the slightest trace of any one who could have had a share in this outrageous act. I met a swineherd at one time, and then a ploughman with two potters bringing along clay in a cart, but no other persons whatsoever.--Why do you smile, good forester?" he continued, turning to Robin Hood. "Because, noble sir," replied the outlaw, "men in the forest of Sherwood are not always exactly what they look. It is difficult there to know a carrion crow from an ousel." "I may have been deceived, indeed," said Hugh de Monthermer; "but in one thing I must be right; whether they be ousels or carrion crows, they had no lady with them. However, I arrived at Oxton, in the wood, an hour after sunset, and as there was no possibility of pursuing my search, any farther then, I remained at the house of the reve, making inquiries amongst the people of the village, several of whom were coming in from their work in the forest. Last night I discovered nothing, but this morning at dawn a man was brought to me who reported that, in crossing from Southwell about noon yesterday, he had seen two ladies on horseback, accompanied by a number of men on foot. The lady, he said, was gaily dressed, and very beautiful"--the Earl smiled,--"and certainly a lady of high degree. They were bringing her down towards Mansfield, the fellow thought, so I set off at once, beating up every road in the neighbourhood, and often losing my way. From time to time, however, the sound of a horn led me on, though I never could discover who it was that winded it." "Did the man imply," asked the Earl, "that the people who accompanied this lady were using force?" "No," replied Hugh de Monthermer; "he vowed that she appeared to go very willingly; but still I thought it could not but be the lady I was seeking, from her great beauty and her dress." "As if there were no beautiful woman in the world but Lucy de Ashby?" cried the Earl. "What say you to this story, Robin? You should know if she have passed this way." "No lady higher than a franklin's daughter has gone on the road to Mansfield," replied Robin Hood, "except the Prioress of Wakefield, who came by yesterday with about a dozen men on foot, and a nun with her. She is a goodly dame to look upon, too, with lips like a pair of cherries, and as to her dress, she had a pulled liripipy might have suited a court harlot, a dagger at her girdle with a silver chain, a peaked hat, and a gold medal round her neck. Yes, she was a goodly dame to look upon, and weighed some fourteen stone or more. I have seen fatter women, but not many." "Psha!" said Hugh de Monthermer; "you are jesting." "Not I, in faith and truth," cried Robin Hood; "she is the only woman of rank who has passed this way for a week, and assuredly I ought to know. Here is a bevy of as pretty country maidens as ever came out to see foresters shoot at the butts; but I will answer for it that no lady of higher degree than themselves has gone along the road to Mansfield--except, indeed, the Prioress of Wakefield, and the nun who went with her. But did the good man tell you no more?--His information must have been somewhat scanty." "He told me," replied Hugh de Monthermer, with a momentary smile crossing the anxiety which his countenance displayed--"he told me to take care how I went, for I might meet with Robin Hood and his merry men, and come home with a loss." "Ay!" said Robin; "Ay! and, doubtless, you answered, my young lord, that you were not afraid, but would bring Robin Hood to Nottingham if you met him." "No," answered Hugh de Monthermer, "No, I said no such thing. I told him, on the contrary, that I should be very glad to see bold Robin Hood; and that I was sure, if I did, we should meet and part good friends, as he and my uncle had fought side by side in the good cause of Old England." Robin Hood held out his hand to him, replying--"You said right, young lord: though, let me tell you, it is not every gay gallant who may come through the forest that would go out of it again, without having his smart skin taken off his back as if he were a brown hare or a spotted deer. But you have come just at the nick of time: Let your uncle go on, and tell the Earl of Ashby, when he finds him, that Robin Hood says, the loss of his daughter is the judgment of the Blessed Virgin upon his head, for winking at Richard de Ashby's carrying off the child of as honest a man as himself, and making a leman of her.--It would be no marvel to hear that she has gone away with some wild young Frenchman of King Henry's bringing over.--Nay, look not so fierce, my noble lord, nor colour up so red! I mean no insult to the lady.--How should I know aught about her or her character? But if I had her in my hands, she should never return to her own home till the old Earl had pledged himself to send back idle Kate Greenly. However, it's no affair of mine, you'll say; and we have weightier matters to think of. Both your uncle and myself were mightily puzzled just now, as he must go on at all speed, and yet it is needful that I should have some one here, to consult with in regard to the news I expect to-night. You have come, then, just in time to remain with me, and to settle whatever plan may seem expedient according to the tidings that I receive." Hugh de Monthermer looked doubtfully from the face of the Outlaw to that of his uncle, and then demanded, "Have I your word that she has not passed this way?" "I pawn my soul that she has not," replied the forester. The young man cast his eyes down towards the ground, and thought for an instant or two, a suspicion having taken possession of his mind, he knew not well why, that Robin was better informed of Lucy de Ashby's fate than he chose to avow. Before he had brought his meditations to an end, however, the old Earl interrupted them, saying, "It is very needful, Hugh, that, if possible, you should remain here, as he asks you. From your account, you have sought this fair lady much farther than you undertook to do. You have likewise been misled a little from the track, I fancy; and it seems to me more than probable that some emissary of the king's, or of the Earl of Gloucester's--who has been lately proclaimed by De Montfort, a traitor,--may have got possession of the fair Lucy, as a hostage for her father's neutrality." "Gloucester proclaimed a traitor!" said Hugh de Monthermer. "Then are active times coming, my dear uncle!--I will not refuse to stay if it be needful, but still----" "You could do no good bye any farther search," interrupted the Earl; "she must either have been found by her father or her brother, or must be far away ere now.--I look upon it as a duty, Hugh, that one of us should remain here this night; and assuredly I ought to go on." "Enough, enough!" replied Hugh de Monthermer. "Your wish, my lord, is sufficient for me. But what can I do with the men? Two of them belong to my Lord of Ashby,--and where can I stable my horses?" "Send them all away but your own charger," said the Outlaw. "You are not afraid to stay alone with Robin Hood--or Robert of the Lees, if you like the name better?" "Not in the least," answered the young gentleman. "I know I am as safe with you, bold Robin, as in my own castle. Take them then with you, fair uncle; and you, sir," he continued, turning to one of the Earl of Ashby's servants, "bear witness to your lord that I have sought this young lady far and near, with all zeal and due devotion. Tell him, moreover, that I have ascertained beyond all doubt--as you yourself have heard--that she has not passed in this direction. Should he himself find her, I trust he will send me a messenger to ease my mind--that is to say, to save me the trouble of farther pursuit." "Well, then, I will away," said the old Earl, "for the sun is getting far down already. I sleep to-night at Stapleford, and to-morrow go on for Derby. Follow me quickly, Hugh. So long as you are in Sherwood with our good friends here, you are safe, but I will leave you half a score of archers at Stapleford, and, should I find the roads dangerous, will send you some spears from Derby. If you learn by to-night's tidings that war has already begun, arrange with bold Robin for a levy of as many yeomen as possible, and let them march to join me wherever I am making head." Thus saying, the Earl, putting his foot in the stirrup, flung himself lightly into the saddle, gave a brief order for the attendants who had followed his nephew to fall in with the rest of his train; and, once more grasping the hand of the Outlaw, without forgetting his companion, Little John, he rode away, taking, as his parting benison, a loud cheer from the band of yeomen. "Now, my young lord," said Robin, when he had gazed for a moment or two after the gallant old Earl, "you seem fatigued and exhausted after your day's ride. I will warrant you, you have not broken bread since----" "Since five o'clock this morning," replied Hugh de Monthermer; "but that matters not, I am more anxious than tired, and care little for food." "Nonsense, nonsense, young gentleman," cried Robin, taking him by the arm, and drawing him towards the table. "Here, some one hold the horse. A slice of yon baron, though it be, like a timid counsellor, neither hot nor cold, together with a cup of Bordeaux wine, will do you good, young sir." "Nay," replied Hugh, "give me one of those barley cakes and the wine you speak of. That is all I want. Where do we rest to-night?" "Some three miles hence, on the way to Nottingham," answered the forester, "and if you will not sup now, you must have a rere supper there." While Hugh de Monthermer broke the barley cake and drank the wine, Robin spoke a few words, in an undertone, to Little John, who replied, laughing, "No fear, no fear; there is plenty of light, dear little souls." "Nay, but I will have it so," answered his leader, aloud. "Now, my merry men and pretty maids, disperse, and God's blessing be with you. But let it be remembered that if there be a damsel away from her home at sunset, I will reckon with the man that keeps her. They are all under the safeguard of our honour; and we shall lose their sweet faces at our feasts if any evil happens to them.--Those who have sturdy shoulders, clear away all that is left, and let it be given to the poor in the villages round. So do the monks at their gates, and Robin Hood will be as good as a monk, though his gates be the meres of Sherwood. Here, cooks, here is your reward, and let the tapster take the tuns for his pains." Very rapidly after these words were spoken the numbers on the green began to disperse. Some sauntered down the road, some disappeared amongst the trees, and those that remained made themselves busy in carrying off the platters and trenchers from the table, and piling the whole of the simple dinner-service, stools and all, into some large country carts which stood near. No horses, indeed, were upon the ground, but that of Hugh de Monthermer, and the white charger which had borne the bold forester, and which was still seen under a tree, finishing slowly a trough of oats that had been put down for its consumption. The boy who had held the beast while Robin was waiting for the Earl of Monthermer, now stood close to his master's side looking up in his face; and, at a sign of the finger, he darted away and led up the steed at a quick pace. Robin laid his hand upon the urchin's head, saying, "Good boy!" and that word, if one might judge by the smile of the young countenance, was reward enough. "Now I am ready," said Hugh de Monthermer; and, mounting their horses, they rode away into the wood. "You will sup better to-night," said Robin, as they went. "I do not know," replied the young lord; "I am anxious about this young lady, Robin, that is the truth; and anxiety makes but bad sauce to the most savoury food." "Nay--nay, take heart of grace," said Robin; "I doubt not she is well enough wherever she may be, and it becomes not a gay gentleman to pine for any lady till he knows that she fares hardly." "Nay, I do not pine," replied Hugh, not liking the term; "methinks I do not look much like a sick crow or a magpie in the moulting season; but still I must feel somewhat anxious, as you would if you had ever seen her." "Is she so very beautiful, then?" said Robin Hood, with an arch smile. "Faith is she!" answered Hugh de Monthermer, "and more than beautiful, though you may think my description savours of extravagance. But it is not so. I have seen others perhaps as beautiful--perhaps more so--but there is that sort of charm about her--that sort of sparkling grace, which is like nothing but the bright morning sunshine, giving fresh loveliness to everything it lights upon." "Are you sure that the charm is not love?" asked Robin Hood. "But let us talk of other matters. Here we must turn off from the road, and I take you through paths in Sherwood unknown to any justice, either north or south of Trent. Although I could well trust to your knightly honour, and to your regard for the laws of hospitality, yet I must here exact from you a promise, which every one makes who is led where I lead you. It is, that, upon your honour as true man and good knight, everything you see or hear from this spot till I lead you back to the high road again, shall be forgotten as soon as you quit me, and revealed to no one--no, not to your confessor." The notions which then existed of knightly honour caused Hugh de Monthermer to give the promise exacted from him without the slightest hesitation; and, that having been done, the bold forester led him on through one of those narrow lanes which we have before mentioned, where only one horse could advance at a time. This path continued for about half a mile, and opened out into one of the wildest parts of the forest, through which there seemed to be no track of any kind. It was not one of those spots properly called coverts--which name was only applied to woods so thick that the branches of the trees touched each other,--but, on the contrary, it was a sort of wild chase, scattered with fine old oaks, and encumbered with an immense quantity of brushwood. There were patches of green grass to be seen here and there, indeed, and once or twice a sandy bank peeped out amongst the bushes, while two or three large ponds, and a small silver stream appeared glistening at about half a mile's distance from the spot where the horsemen issued forth from the lane. It was as lovely a forest scene as ever the eye rested upon, for the ground was broken, and a thousand beautiful accidents diversified the landscape. Every here and there a tall mound of earth, sometimes covered with turf, sometimes rounded with brushwood, would rise up, bearing aloft a graceful clump of trees, while the setting sun, pouring its long horizontal rays across the wild track, cast lengthened shadows over the ground below, and brightened all the higher points with gleams of purple light. Beyond, again, at the distance of not less than two miles and a half, and considerably lower than the spot where the two journeyers stood, reappeared the thicker coverts of the forest, rolling like the waves of a deep green sea in the calm and mellow rays of the departing day, while a slight mist here and there marked out its separate lines, growing fainter and more faint, till some distant objects, like towers and pinnacles--they might be clouds--they might be parts of a far city--closed the scene, and united the earth with the sky. Here all trace of a road ended, but without the slightest hesitation, bold Robin Hood led the way onward, threading with unerring steps the different green lines which separated one mass of brushwood from another, guiding his companion under one tall bank, and round another high mound, between the bolls of old oaks and across the dancing stream, without even once meeting a check, or having to pause in his whole course through the woody labyrinth. At length, however, the sun went down, and the twilight just sufficed to show Hugh de Monthermer his way, as they had reached the lowest spot of the chase, and approached a clump of several acres of thick covert. There was a path at one angle by which Robin and his companion entered, and winding on in darkness for some way--for the trees excluded the whole of the remaining rays--they at length emerged into an open space in the centre, where they could again see, though faintly, the objects around them. Opposite to the mouth of the road by which they came, was the first building that they had seen upon their ride. It was of a very peculiar architecture, consisting of round stones piled upon one another, and cemented together, being what, I believe, is called rubble, while the windows and doors alone, presented hewn stone lintels and transoms, with short small columns supporting each. A quantity of ivy had grown over the greater part of the building; but there were lights within, and for a moment Robin Hood drew up his horse as if to listen. "Here," he said, at length, "lived and reigned a Saxon Thane when the trees of Sherwood were yet young. His bones lie in the little chapel behind. The memory of the place has passed away as well as the people that inhabited it, and it has come to be the abode of a child of the same race, when outlawed for the love of his country." CHAPTER XI. Two notes, or, as they were then called, mots, upon his horn, formed the only signal that Robin Hood gave of his return; but in an instant those sounds brought forth a head from one of the windows, at the height of about twelve or thirteen feet from the ground. That it was apparently a human head, Hugh could distinguish, and also that it was a very large one, somewhat strangely shaped; but he was not a little surprised when the body began to follow after, with an extraordinary serpent-like suppleness, till the knees were brought upon the window sill; and then, the feet being swung over, the body was suddenly dropped, and hung against the side of the house, while one hand retained its hold of the stone work, and the other waved, what seemed to be, an odd-looking cap, round and round in the air. The next instant the being who had thought fit to employ this unusual method of descent, let go the grasp of its left hand, and came down upon its feet, bounding up again from the earth like a ball, and cutting a curious caper in the air. Although well accustomed to all the monsters which were then much sought for in courts and castles, Hugh de Monthermer at first imagined that the creature before him was an enormous ape, so extraordinary was its agility, and such the pliancy of all its limbs. The arms, too, like those of the Simia tribe, were of an extraordinary length, and the one which attached it to the window as it hung from above, seemed to be longer than the whole body. The moment after it descended, however, the young knight was undeceived, for a human voice proceeded from the supposed ape, of remarkable sweetness. "Ho! Robin, Ho!" it said in English.[3] "So you have come home at length, wicked wanderer. You have been feasting in the forest, I know, and carried off little Harry with you to pamper him on wine and comfits, and left Tangel behind with the women." --------------- [Footnote 3: It must be remembered that Norman French was at that time the language of the court.] --------------- "Did I not take thee at Christmas," asked Robin, "and leave Harry behind? It was but fair, Tangel!" "Ay, but he's the favourite," said the dwarf, "though he can't do half that I can. Pretty looks, Robin, pretty looks! You're like all the world, beauty's fool. Pretty looks are everything! But I'll comb him into worsted when he comes back again." "Nay; thou wilt not hurt him," replied Robin; "thou lovest him as well as we do, Tangel." "I love him!" exclaimed the dwarf. "Scurvy little monster of whiteness! I love him not--out upon him! I'll carve his pink cheeks for him, and bore a hole in each of his eyes. Take care what you do with him, Robin, and look well to your meat; for if I find you kinder to him than to me, I'll roast him before a slow fire, baste him in his own fat, and serve him up to you as a barbecued pig. Ha! ha! ha!--that will be fine sport!--Come, give me the horses.--Who have you got here in the purfled jerkin?--Give you good day, sir," and with his cap in his hand, he made a low and grotesque bow to the young lord. "He will take your horse, my lord," said Robin. "Now let us in," and approaching the door, he shook it with his hand. It was locked, however, and the stout forester was obliged to have recourse to an instrument, in use during many centuries in England, which served the purpose of a knocker. It consisted merely of a large ring with sundry notches in it; and, a small iron bar, hanging beside it by a chain, being rapidly run over the indented surface, produced a sharp and unpleasant sound, which soon called the attention of those within, who enquired who was there. The door was speedily thrown open at Robin's well-known voice, and Hugh de Monthermer followed his guide through a long dark passage into a room at the back of the house. There were lights in it, though it was vacant; and it was hung with tapestry, which was stained in some places as if with damp, though in general the colours were as fresh as when first the texture was wrought. "Here, Cicely," said Robin Hood, pausing at the door after his guest had entered, and speaking to a pretty young woman who had given them admission--"Bid them prepare a chamber for this young lord; and hark! tell old Martha--" The rest of the sentence was lost to the ears of the young gentleman, and after the girl had tripped away, the Outlaw remained upon the ground, apparently in a meditative mood, till at length the sound of some one singing seemed to rouse him from his reverie. It was a remarkably sweet voice, and the air was one but little known in England at the time, coming from those Southern lands where music had made greater progress than with us. Robin listened for a moment or two, and then said aloud, though evidently speaking to himself--"It is scarcely just, after all, to punish the innocent for the guilty; and it must be a punishment, though she bears it lightly. I must speak with him first, however." "Remember, you are not alone, good Robin," said Hugh of Monthermer, unwilling to be a partaker in the Outlaw's counsels. Robin Hood laughed--"It was ever a fault of mine," he replied, "that my tongue was a false gaoler to my thoughts. One would sometimes fancy I was an old doating woman, to mumble to myself the fragments of half-digested purposes. But come, my lord, you have not supped, I have; and as there is much business to do, I must leave you for a time. I go to see a young friend of yours and mine, in order to hold with him some counsel of importance; and I beseech you, quit not this house till I return, which will be in about two hours' time." "I will not," answered Hugh, "and in the meantime, rather than sup, I will lie me down and take some rest, having first, with your good leave, seen to the accommodation of my horse." "Trust him to my people, trust him to my people," replied Robin Hood--"and follow my advice. Take some supper: you may have to ride far to-night, for aught you know; and meat and drink in moderation, is strength, if not courage. Hunger is a sad tamer of stout limbs." As he spoke, he lighted a small silver lamp at one of the candles, which hung in a large polished brass sconce against the wall, and bidding the young lord follow, he led the way through another of those long narrow passages which occupied so much space in all ancient houses. No doors appeared on either side till a sudden turn to the right brought them to the foot of a heavy wooden staircase, the steps of which seemed to be composed of solid blocks of wood, piled round a common centre. There was a rope on either hand fastened by stanchions of iron let into the stonework of the wall. "There," said Robin Hood, giving the young lord the lamp, "if you go up and open the door just before you, at the top, you will find some supper ready. When you are tired, and wish to go to bed, call for Cicely or Tangel, and they will show you the way. I must hasten away, or I may miss my time." Hugh de Monthermer took the lamp and bidding God speed him for the present, ascended the stairs with a slow step. At the top he found himself in a large sort of vestibule, lighted from one end, and containing three doors; one immediately opposite to him, as Robin had said; another a little farther down, and another upon his left hand; but although the directions of the Outlaw had been very distinct, Hugh de Monthermer paused and hesitated, for he heard the sound of voices speaking within, and the tongues seemed those of women. Although he was by no means averse to the society of the fair, the young knight imagined that there must be some mistake, as the Outlaw had given him no cause to suppose that any one was waiting for him. After a moment of suspense, however, he approached and knocked; and a voice answered, "Come in, for we have no means of keeping any one out." The sight that presented itself to Hugh de Monthermer made him pause suddenly in surprise not unmingled with pleasure. The room was a small low-roofed chamber, covered with dark-coloured painted cloth instead of arras, but well lighted, and with a blazing log on the hearth, which might be needed in that old dwelling, notwithstanding the month being May. Although the furniture was ancient even in those times, yet everything was most comfortable according to the usages of the day. The floor was thickly strewed with dry rushes, and a table was in the midst, on which pretty Cicely was arranging, in haste, a number of dishes, and plates, and drinking-cups. But it was neither on the maid nor on the table that the eyes of Hugh rested, for in a chair, at some distance from the fire, sat a fair lady, amusing herself with an old embroidery frame, while on two seats somewhat lower, engaged in winding and unwinding silks, sat two girls of about the same age as their mistress, one of whom was evidently the person who had spoken, as her eyes were fixed upon the door, and her pretty little lips still apart. If the surprise of Hugh de Monthermer was great, that of the party within seemed not less so. The lady at once dropped the embroidery frame, started up and ran towards him with her hands extended, as if she would have cast herself into his arms, exclaiming, with a glowing cheek and sparkling eye--"Hugh!" Then, suddenly stopping herself, she turned her eyes to the ground, and the colour became still brighter in her face than before. She recovered herself in a moment; but neither of the maids of Lucy de Ashby ever jested with their mistress afterwards upon her wearing the colours of the House of Monthermer. Hugh, however, did not hesitate, but advancing, with a quick step, took the hand that was held out to him, and pressed his lips upon it. "Lucy!" he cried, "have I then found you at last?" "Have you been seeking me, my lord?" asked Lucy de Ashby, glancing her eyes timidly towards the two maids; "I trust you are come to deliver us--though, to say sooth," she added, with a gay look, "we have been so well treated in the forest, and so thoroughly despaired of gaining our freedom, that we had well-nigh chosen ourselves husbands from the bold rangers." "You might do worse, Lady," said Cicely, scarcely liking the subject to be jested with; "there are honest hearts in the forest!" "Doubtless, my good girl," replied Lucy; "but you forget, we have not tried them yet. Now, my good Lord Hugh, let us know, in a word, whether you are come to deliver us or not.--On my life, one would think that he was the man who goes about preaching patience: to keep a lady one whole minute without an answer!" "Nay," replied Hugh, "I am so surprised to find you here, that my wonder must have time to cool. But, in reply to your question, fairest lady, I must own, though I certainly came into Sherwood to seek you, I came not here to deliver you." "Why, how is that, Sir Knight?" demanded Lucy, a shade of disappointment coming over her bright countenance, at the thought of being detained longer in the forest; for, however gaily we may bear it, the loss of liberty is always painful, and the exercise of that gift which has brought so much misery to every man--our own free will--is not the less dear under any circumstances--"Why, how is that? Surely, if you came to seek me, you came to deliver me! You speak in riddles but to tease me a little longer." "Nay, Heaven forbid!" replied Hugh de Monthermer, "that I should tease you at all! But, to explain what I mean, I must tell you the whole story." "Oh, tell it, tell it then!" cried the lady; "that is quite according to every ballad in the land! The knight always finds the lady in the wood, and then narrates his lamentable history." "Mine shall be a short one, at all events," said Hugh, and he proceeded, as briefly as possible, to relate all that had occurred to him during the last six-and-thirty hours. Every one, of course, in this world tells his story in his own way, and his manner of telling it is not alone modified by his own peculiar character, but by the circumstances in which he is placed, and the passions that are within him at the moment. This truism may be trite enough, but it was applicable to the case of Hugh de Monthermer, for his own sensations at the time affected the method of telling his tale even more than any of the peculiarities of his own nature. The feelings that he entertained towards Lucy de Ashby--the difficulty of restraining those feelings, and yet the fear of suffering them to appear too openly, circumstanced as he then was, all modified his history, and made it very different from what it would have been had he been indifferent to the person whom he addressed. Love, however, has ever been considered a skilful teacher of oratory, and without any actual intention of doing so, every word that Hugh de Monthermer uttered showed the fair girl beside him something more of the passion which she already knew was in his heart. He paused but little upon the anxiety of her father, or the indignation of her brother, but he detailed at length the whole of his own course while seeking her, the grief he had felt, the apprehensions he had entertained, and the disappointment he had experienced when frustrated in his endeavours; and, although there appeared from time to time flashes of his own gay and sparkling disposition--though he told his tale jestingly, with many a light figure and playful illustration, there was an undertone of deep tenderness running through the whole, which showed Lucy that the sportive tone was but as a light veil cast over the true feelings of his heart. The reader need hardly be told, after the traits that we have given--which, though they be few, were significant enough--that Lucy was not by any means displeased with the discoveries which she made in Hugh de Monthermer's bosom. That she loved him we have not attempted to conceal, but the history of her love is somewhat curious, and worth inquiring into, as it displays some of the little secrets of the human heart. Lucy de Ashby was by no means a coquette; her nature was too tender--too sensitive, her mind too imaginative for cold arts. She knew that she was beautiful, it is true; indeed she could not doubt it, for she saw it in every mirror, and heard it from every tongue; but she was far less anxious for admiration than for love. Indeed, to persons not naturally vain, who aim at higher objects than merely to please the eye, personal admiration, although they may know that they deserve it, may sometimes become even burdensome. Lucy, for one, was tired of hearing that she was beautiful, and to tell her that she was so, in whatever courtly forms the intimation might be conveyed, was no way of winning her favour. It was the general mode, however adopted by the young nobles who frequented the Court of England, and were admitted to her father's house. They thought they could never too much praise her loveliness or extol her grace. It was the custom of the day, the only mode of winning lady's love then known; and the world were much surprised to find that for one or two years she remained very cold and insensible to all who strove by such means to raise a warmer feeling in her bosom. During the greater part of that time the House of Monthermer had been at open enmity with that of Ashby, and Hugh himself was the object of many a bitter and an angry speech on the part both of her father and her brother. Now it may seem that the fair lady was a little animated by the spirit of contradiction, when we acknowledge that the hatred which her family entertained towards the young Lord Hugh was one of the first causes that created in Lucy's bosom a feeling in his favour. But the reader must not forget, Lucy had no reason to suppose that the animosity of her family was well-founded, or their harsh censure just. On the contrary, from every indifferent person whom she was inclined to respect and esteem, she heard the highest praises of him whom her father and brother delighted to decry. She saw, also, that they themselves had no slight difficulty in finding matter for blame in the conduct of the rival house; and when occasionally the two families met, either at the Court or at any of the chivalrous pageants of the day, it seemed to her that in demeanour, at least, Hugh de Monthermer was very different from that which the voice of angry passion represented him. All these things sunk into her mind; and although she said nothing upon the subject, but remained equally silent when he was condemned or praised, the conviction forced itself upon her that he was the object of injustice; and where is the woman's heart without that latent chivalry which instantly takes arms in favour of the oppressed? Thus went on the history of Lucy's love till that reconciliation was brought about between the families, of which we have already spoken. Circumstances then led them into frequent communication, and a great change took place in her father's opinion of the young lord. He made no longer any difficulty of acknowledging that Hugh was one of the most distinguished gentlemen of the day; and though her brother Alured did not forget his enmity so easily--for in his case there was a touch of envious jealousy in it--yet he suffered the motives too plainly to appear; and Lucy, seeing, esteeming, and admiring, had always ready a champion in her own breast to defend the cause of Hugh de Monthermer. Had anything been wanting to lead her onward to that state in which the whole heart is given--where there is no retreat, and where all other sensations are swallowed up in love--some of the events of the first few months succeeding the reconciliation of the two families would have speedily furnished it. For some time Hugh de Monthermer paid only such attention to Lucy de Ashby as the courtesy of the day required. She was certainly surprised--perhaps a little disappointed, that the only man for whose admiration she had ever wished, should not at once be captivated by her beauty, as others had been. Many a woman, under such circumstances, would have thrown out every lure, would have used every art to win his attention; but Lucy did not so: she retired to her own chamber, and fell into deep meditation. "He may love some one else," she said to herself, and as she said so, she felt inclined to weep; but she repressed her tears, and determined never to let her thoughts rest for a moment upon him again. She chid herself for unwomanly rashness, even for the preference she felt; but with poor Lucy the time for good resolutions or self-chiding to be of any avail, was past. She loved already--loved truly, and those who have so loved, well know that, like the garment imbued with the blood of Nessus, true affection, when once it clothes the human heart, can never be torn off, and that even in the effort to do so the very veins and flesh are rent away along with it. She was not destined long to suffer any doubt, however: a single day brought her relief, and changed sorrow into joy. The Earl of Monthermer and his nephew were then at her father's castle of Lindwell, enjoying the sports of the brown autumn, and cementing the newly-revived friendship between the two houses in the intimate communication of domestic life. The day after she had indulged in the melancholy thoughts, and made all the vain resolutions, and addressed to her own heart the idle reproaches we have mentioned, Hugh and Lucy were seated next each other at the table, and at first their conversation was cold and commonplace. At length, however, as so often happens, something was said--some accidental word--some mere casual observation--some sentence, apparently as light as air, but accompanied by smile, or glance, or tone, indicative of feelings deeper than the words implied, and the heart of each seemed to open to the other as if by magic. I recollect once visiting a house where the scenery around appeared tame and monotonous enough. The rooms were stately, fine pictures hung upon the walls, and many objects of art and interest lay scattered round, but still when one looked forth there was nothing beautiful before the eye, till suddenly, in a dark, dull chamber, in a remote part of the mansion, a servant drew back a blind from a small window, and one of the most magnificent scenes in nature burst instantly upon the view. What it was that Lucy de Ashby said to Hugh de Monthermer I know not, but it drew back the veil from her heart and showed him a new world, such as he had never dreamt was near at hand. He had certainly not been without warm admiration of her beauty: he had felt its power, and somewhat dreaded its effects; but the master spell was now added, and the harmony between her person and her mind left him no power to resist. His whole manner towards her changed at once; admiration and regard were thenceforward in every look and in bright interchange of thoughts and feelings; and when Lucy laid her head down upon her pillow, her brain reeled with the memory of a thousand sweet sensations crowded into the short space of a few hours. Her brother was absent--there is reason to believe purposely--and on the following day her father's horse fell in the chase and injured him, though not dangerously. It was Hugh who brought her the tidings, who soothed her apprehensions, who calmed and consoled her, and every hour added something to the intimacy that grew up between them. They rode forth in the woods together, they walked side by side upon the battlements; and, though the words of love that might be spoken, were all vague and shadowy, yet each understood the feelings of the other; and Hugh only waited till the friendship of their houses should be more confirmed, to demand the hand of Lucy as a new bond of union between their families. The man who delays even for an hour in love is a fool, or has no experience. The latter was the case of Hugh de Monthermer. Had he asked for Lucy de Ashby then, the old Earl would have granted her to him at once; but in a few days Alured de Ashby returned, bringing his cousin Richard with him; and it soon became evident to the lover that the favourable moment was past for the time. Such is the history of the affection which had grown up between Hugh and Lucy to the time when last they parted. Some months had intervened, and it may well be supposed that it was not a little soothing to the sweet girl's heart to mark that strain of tenderness which, as we have said, ran through the whole of Hugh de Monthermer's story. So pleasant was it, indeed, that for a short time the disappointment of her hopes of deliverance was forgotten in the gratification of other feelings. She paused and mused; but at length her mind reverted to the more painful consideration. She at once saw, when she reflected on all he had just told her, that Hugh was bound by his promise to the Outlaw to take no step whatever to set her free. He had sworn that all he beheld and heard there should be to him as if it were not; and Lucy herself had too much of the chivalrous spirit in her nature to wish that one she loved should ever evade, even were it possible, the sincere execution of an engagement he had formed. She looked in his face for a moment or two in silence, and in the end asked him simply, "What then do you intend to do?" "Good faith, dear lady," he replied, "I see but one thing to be done, which is, as I cannot take you away with me, to stay here with you; and, if this terrible enchanter of Sherwood will not set you free, why we must spend our days here under the green leaves, chasing the wild deer, and singing the hours away." Lucy smiled gaily, for the images were not unpleasant ones that Hugh de Monthermer's reply called up. She thought it would be a very happy life; and if those sad bonds of circumstances which continually tie down the noblest energies of the mind and the best, and strongest feelings of the heart had permitted it, she would willingly have cast off high rank and station, and all the gawds and gewgaws of society, to remain with Hugh de Monthermer in the forest of Sherwood and pass the rest of her days in low estate. His reply threw her into a new fit of musing, however, and their farther conversation was interrupted, for the moment, by the pretty maid, Cicely, calling their attention to the supper, which was spread upon the table. The two lovers sat down side by side; Lucy's maidens took their seats opposite, and the meal passed over partly in gay, partly in serious conversation; but, between Lucy and Hugh, there was of course a degree of restraint from the presence of others, which was sufficiently evident to those who caused it. There is a general sympathy in every woman's heart for love, but, of course, that sympathy is more active in the young, who feel, than in the old, who only remember the passion. With unchilled hearts ready to thrill at the first touch, Lucy de Ashby's two maids having so lately been enlightened fully in regard to their mistress's feelings for Hugh de Monthermer, were only anxious for an excuse to leave the lady and her lover alone; and not finding any ready to their hand, they dispensed with all pretexts whatever, first the one and then the other quitting the room, and betaking themselves to the sleeping-chamber which had been assigned to them and their lady. There can be but little doubt that Lucy was well satisfied with their departure; but yet a sort of timid panic took possession of her, and she had well-nigh called them back. The next moment she smiled at her own fears, and would have given a great deal to renew the conversation, which had come to a sudden halt, upon some indifferent topic; but words were wanting, and Lucy sat with the colour a little heightened in her cheek, and the silky fringes of her soft dark eyes drooping so as to veil half their light. Hugh de Monthermer gazed at her with admiration and love, and although he felt very certain that she was not without her share of tenderness towards him, he determined to make "assurance double sure," and not lose the opportunity which fortune had presented. "Well, Lucy," he said, breaking the long pause at length, "as I cannot deliver you, shall I remain with you to protect you?" "Assuredly!" she answered, covering a certain degree of agitation with a gay look, "you are a faithless knight, even to dream of quitting a lady in this enchanted castle! Did you not say that you were to stay here; and that we were to live a woodland life--chasing the wild deer, and making the groves and dells echo with our horns? I declare it is quite delightful to think of!" "And you are to be my lady, and I am to be your knight?" asked the lover. "Is it not so, Lucy?" "To be sure!" replied his fair companion. "I will have you my most devoted servant, as in duty bound. You shall train my hawks for me, and teach my dogs, and ride by my side, and be ever ready to couch your lance in my defence. In short, as I have said, you shall be my very humble servant on all occasions." "And nothing more?" inquired Hugh de Monthermer. "May I not sometimes have a dearer title?" Lucy blushed deeply and was silent, and Hugh de Monthermer went on; "May I not be called your lover, Lucy?--may I not some time, perhaps, be called your husband? Dear girl," he continued, taking her hand, which trembled a little in his,--"Dear girl, if we are to remain here, depend upon it, we shall soon have to look for a priest in the forest. What say you, Lucy, shall it be so?" Lucy crushed a bright drop through her eyelashes, and giving her pretty brow a wild fawnlike shake, she turned her glowing face towards him with a look of gay daring, saying, "I dare say we could find one, Hugh, if it were needful." Her lover drew her somewhat nearer to him, whispering a few low words in her ear. "Hush, hush!" she said, "be satisfied, I will tell you no more!" "But listen, dearest Lucy," said Hugh de Monthermer, "we have here a few moments to ourselves: it may be long ere we have the same again. It is right that we should clearly understand how we are placed. I love you, dearest Lucy, as well as woman was ever loved! Do you believe me?" "I dare say you do," replied Lucy, laughing, "I think it is quite natural you should--How could you help yourself, poor youth!" "And you love me as much, Lucy," added the young knight; "Is it not so?" "No!" cried Lucy, "I hate you! You know it quite well, and I shall hate you still more if you tease me about it!" "Hate me in the same way ever," replied Hugh de Monthermer, kissing her cheek, "and I will forgive you, my sweet mistress.--But the case is this, Lucy," he added, in graver tone; "there are difficulties and dangers before us. Why they have brought you here, I do not know. How long they may keep you, I cannot tell; but the moment that I dare to leave you, I must march with all speed towards Wales. Battle and peril are in my way--perhaps I may never see you more. A thousand evils may occur, a thousand dark mischances may separate us for long, if not for ever, and I would fain----" "Say no more, Hugh, say no more," cried Lucy, at once rendered serious by his words; "I do love you, if it will make you happy to hear it. I have never loved any but you--There, I can say no more, can I?" Hugh rewarded the confession as such an acknowledgment may best be rewarded; but still he went on, after a few minutes, in the same tone. "No one can tell dear girl," he proceeded, "what events the future may have in store; but I see clouds gathering in the sky, portending storms which may well dash down the blossom of our hopes, if we put it not under shelter. What I mean is, that we must not fancy our affection will meet with no opposition." "But my father loves you, Hugh," exclaimed Lucy; "he loves, esteems, and praises you." "But your brother does not," replied her lover. "It is in vain, Lucy, that I have sought his regard, by every honest means that a true heart could take. Still he loves me not; and I am apprehensive lest in the coming events some cause of dissension should arise, which might induce him, and perhaps your father also, to endeavour to separate us for ever." Lucy bent down her eyes thoughtfully, and remained for several moments without answering. "One cannot resist the will of a father," she said, at length, "but I am not bound to obey the will of a brother. What is it you would have me to do, Hugh?--I am in a foolish mood for complying," she added, with a smile. "I know not what you men would do, if we women did not sometimes become as soft as wax when the sun shines on it." Hugh de Monthermer paused, for there was a strong temptation at his heart, and, to say the truth, he could scarcely resist it. He saw that Lucy was in a yielding mood--he saw that, taking advantage of the opportunity, he might, perhaps, win her even to give him her hand at once. There were excuses for such a step, which, probably, no other moment would furnish. In a situation of danger and captivity, where she required the protection of one invested with some sacred right--far from her own relatives, and having every reason to believe that her father would approve her choice, a thousand motives for yielding to such a request might easily be urged; and when pleaded by the voice of love would doubtless prevail. These were strong temptations to Hugh de Monthermer, whose heart was not of the most icy nature; but, on the other hand, there were those chivalrous feelings of honour in which he had been educated, which but too few, indeed, of the nobles of his own day entertained, but which were rooted in his mind as principles that even passion could not overthrow. He demanded of himself, Would it be honourable? would it be just?--Treated with kindness and trust as he had lately been by the Earl of Ashby, ought he not to return confidence for confidence, and boldly ask her father for Lucy's hand without taking advantage of her unprotected situation to induce her to grant what might otherwise be refused? "It is like stealing a treasure," said Hugh to himself, "which we have found by chance, but which we know belongs to another man." Lucy looked up, wondering that he did not reply; and her lover, believing that he risked nothing to show her both the passion which was in his heart, and the principles which restrained that passion, answered, at length, "Dear girl, I am sorely tempted--tempted to ask you to be mine at once--tempted to ask you to send for that same priest we talked of but now, and to give me this fair hand before we quit these greenwood shades." "Nay, nay, Hugh," cried Lucy, colouring brightly. "Hear me, Lucy," said her lover; "I only said I was sorely tempted; but I know I must not yield. Yet one thing, Lucy, I may seek, and that fairly, for it is what I would ask were we now in the midst of the gayest hall,--ay! or in that sweet oriel window of your father's castle, where we have whiled away so many an hour with idle words that covered deeper thoughts within. Will you promise to be mine?--Will you promise to be mine whatever betide!" Lucy gazed somewhat sadly in his face--"Sooner or later, Hugh," she said; "sooner or later, I will. I must not resist my father's will. If he oppose, I must obey so far, as to deny you for the time; but never--believe me, Hugh, for I promise by all I hold most sacred--never shall this hand rest as a bride in that of another man. They can but send me to a convent; and that my father will not do, for I know that often, when my brother's rash mood frets him and brings a cloud over the calm evening sunshine of his days, he finds a comfort in my presence, which he would not willingly be without." "But, dear Lucy," said Hugh, "were your father dead, might not your brother doom you to the dark cold shade of the cloister?" "He cannot, Hugh--he dare not!" replied Lucy. "He has no power. The lands I hold are not from him, nor from the King of England. However, they might strip me of them, Hugh, it is true, and Lucy de Ashby might be a dowerless bride, but----" "But the more welcome, dearest Lucy!" replied Hugh. "Would that your father even now would give me this fair hand, with nothing on it but the ring that makes you mine! and should the time ever come when, after his death, your brother opposes our union, but bring me that sweet smile, and the kind word, 'Yes,' at the altar, and I shall think my Lucy dowered well enough." "It is sad, Hugh," said Lucy, "even to look forward to future joys when one of those we love shall be no longer here; and, therefore, I will still trust that my father's eyes may see our wedding, and his voice give us a blessing. But my proud brother, Alured, shall never stand between you and me.--Hark! there are steps upon the stairs!" she exclaimed; "before they come, let me bind myself by bonds that cannot be broken.--I promise you that, sooner or later, I will be yours, Hugh; and that I will never be the bride of another; so help me Heaven at my need!" CHAPTER XII. All the principal streets of the old town of Hereford were thronged with personages of various conditions and degrees, towards the evening of one of those soft, but cloudy summer days, when the sun makes his full warmth felt, but without the glare which dazzles the eye when he shines unveiled upon the world. That street, however, to which we shall conduct the reader, was narrow, so that not more than three or four horsemen could ride abreast, and yet it was one of the best in the town. But, in reality, the space for passengers was much wider than it seemed; for, as was then very common, especially upon the frontiers of Wales, one half of the ground-floor of the houses was taken up by a long, open arcade, which sheltered the pedestrians from the rain at some periods of the year, and from the heat at others. From the first floors of these houses--just high enough to allow a tall horse, mounted by a tall man with a lance in his hand to pass, without striking the head of the cavalier or the weapon he carried--projected long poles, usually gilt; and suspended therefrom appeared many of the various signs which are now restricted to inns and taverns, but were then common to every mansion of any importance. Down this street, and underneath innumerable symbols of swans, and horses, and eagles, and mermaids, and falcons, and doves, and of all those heterogeneous mixtures of birds, beasts, and fishes, which the fertile fancy of man ever confounded, were riding, at the time I speak of, various groups of horsemen, while ever and anon the progress of one party or another would be stopped by some man, woman, or child, darting out from the arcade at the side, and holding a conversation, short or long, as the circumstances might be, with one of the equestrians. Amongst other groups in the gay and animated scene, was one which remained ungreeted by any of the good people of the town, but which was suffered to pass along uninterrupted till it reached a second-rate inn, called the Maypole. It consisted of four human beings and three beasts--namely, three men and a woman, two horses, and a sleek, vicious-looking mule. On one of the horses was mounted a tall sturdy man in the guise of a servant; on the other was evidently a fellow-labourer in the same vineyard; but he was not alone, for on a pillion behind him appeared a female from, covered with a thick veil which shrouded the face, so that it was impossible to see whether there was beauty beneath or not, although the figure gave indications of youth and grace which were not to be mistaken. Jogging along upon the mule, with his legs hanging down easily by the side of the animal, and his fat stomach resting peacefully upon the saddle, was a jolly friar clothed in grey, with his capuche thrown back, the sun not being troublesome, and a bald head--the glistening smoothness of which had descended by tradition even to Shakspeare's days, and was recorded by him in his Two Gentlemen of Verona--peeping out from a narrow ring of jet black hair, scarcely streaked with grey. His face was large and jovial, which, in good sooth, was no distinction in those times between one friar and another; but there was withal a look of roguish fun about the corners of his small grey eyes; and a jeering smile, full of arch satire, quivered upon his upper lip, completely neutralizing the somewhat sensual and food-loving expression of the under one, which moved up and down every time he spoke, like a valve, to let out the words that could never come in again. Indeed, he seemed to be one of those easy-living friars who, knowing neither sorrow nor privation in their own persons, appeared to look upon grief and care with a ready laugh and a light joke, as if no such things in reality exist. His rosy gills, his double chin, and his large round ear, all spoke of marrow and fatness; and, indeed, at the very first sight, the spectator saw that he was not only a well-contented being, but one who had good reason to be so. Just as they reached the entrance of the tavern which we have mentioned, the friar, by some mismanagement, contrived to get his mule's hind quarters towards the servant, who was riding singly on horseback, and by a touch of the heel, given, apparently, to make the beast put itself into a more convenient position for all parties, he produced a violent fit of kicking, in the course of which the horseman received a blow upon the fleshy part of his thigh, which made him roar with pain. The seat upon the vicious beast's back was no easy one, but yet the fat monk kept his position, laughing heartily, and calling his mule a petulant rogue, while he held him by his left ear, or patted his pampered neck. As soon as the fit was done, he rolled quietly off at the side, and looking up to his companion, saw, or appeared to see, for the first time, the wry faces which the servant man was making. "Bless my heart!" he cried, "has he touched thee, the good-for-nothing rogue? I will chastise him for it soundly." "If he have not broke my leg it is not his fault," replied the man, dismounting, and limping round his horse; "and you have as great a share in it, mad priest, for bringing his heels round where they had no business to be." "Nay," rejoined the friar, "I brought not his heels round, he brought them himself, and me along with them. It was all intended to cast me off; so the offence is towards myself, and I shall punish him severely. He shall have five barley-corns of food less for his misbehaviour." "Psha!" said the serving-man, looking up at the inn. "You are jesting foully, friar; I am sorry I let you join us. Is this the hostel you boasted had such good wine? It seems but a poor place for such commendation." "Thou shalt find the liquor better than in any house in Hereford," replied he of the grey gown; "whether you choose mead, or metheglin, or excellent warm Burgundy, or cool Bordeaux. Taste and try--taste and try; and if you find that I have deceived you, you shall cut me into pieces not an inch square, and sow me along the high road! There is good lodging, too.--Canst thou not trust a friar?" The man grumbled forth some reply not very laudatory of the order to which his fat friend belonged; and in a few minutes after, the whole party were seated in a hall, which, for the time being, lacked other tenants. The usual hour of supper was over, and in many a hostelry of those days the wayfarers would have found no food in such a case, unless they brought it with them. But the host was a compassionate man, and, moreover, knew right well the twinkle of the jolly friar's eye, so that, for old friendship's sake, many a savoury mess was speedily set before them, together with a large flagon of wine, which fully bore out the character that had been given to it by the friar as they rode along. Under the influence of such consolations, the serving-man forgot his bruise; and the lady, laying aside her veil, shewed a pretty face, with which the reader is in some part acquainted, being none other than that which, once happy and bright, graced the door of the little village inn under the name of Kate Greenly. There was some sadness upon that fair countenance--the cheerful smile was gone, although there was a smile of a different character still left. The freshness, the ease, the lightness, were all wanting; though there was greater depth of thought and feeling in the expression than during the pleasant days of village sport and girlish coquetry. The rough touch of passion had brushed the bloom from the fruit, and Kate Greenly, in look at least, was three or four years older than a few weeks before. As she put aside her veil to take part in the meal, the eye of the friar fixed upon her, till she reddened under his gaze, looking half angry, half abashed; but the moment after, the colour became deeper still, when he said, "Methinks, fair lady, I have seen that sweet face before." "Perhaps so," she replied--"I cannot tell. There's many a wandering friar comes to my father's door; but I heed them not, good sooth." The friar laughed, answering gaily-- "Beauty, fair girl, is like the sun-- Is marked by all, but marketh none." "Try some of these stewed eels, pretty one; they are worthy of the Wye, whose waters have no mud to give them a foul flavour. Try them--try them--they are good for the complexion: and now, Master Serving-man, what think you of the wine? Did you ever taste better out of the spare tankard which the butler hideth behind the cellar door?" The serving-man was forced to admit that he had seldom drunk such good liquor, and gradually getting over the ill humour which had been sharpened by a lurking suspicion that the heels of the mule had been turned towards him by human agency rather than the brute's own obstinacy, enjoyed his supper, and laughed and talked with the friar till the wine seemed to mount somewhat into the brain of both. In the meanwhile, the light-o'-love, Kate Greenly, sat by for some three quarters of an hour, melancholy in the midst of mirth. The thoughts of home had been called up in her heart by the monk's words--the thoughts of home and happy innocence! and she now found that in giving up every treasure with which Heaven had gifted her lot, for one trinket that, she could not always wear upon her hand, she had made a mighty sacrifice for an uncertain reward. The only object that could console her was away; and after enduring for the space of time we have mentioned the pangs of others' mirth, she rose, and said she would seek her chamber, as they had to proceed early. The two serving-men sat idly at the table, leaving her to find her way alone, for they reverenced but little their master's leman; but the jovial fat friar started up from his seat with an activity which he seemed little capable of, saying, "Stay, stay, pretty one--I will call my host or hostess to you. They are worthy, kind people, as ever lived," and he walked side by side with her towards the door. Had the eyes of her two companions been upon her, they would have seen her start as she was quitting the room with the friar; but their looks were directed to the tankard which was passing between them, and in a moment after, the rich full voice of the grey gown was heard calling for the host and hostess. In another instant he rolled back into the room, and resuming his place at the table, did as much justice as any one to the good wine of the Maypole. "Here's to thy lord, whosoever he may be!" cried the friar, addressing the serving-man whom his mule had kicked. "God prosper his good deeds, and frustrate his bad ones, if he commits any!" "I'll not drink that," replied the worthy who had carried Kate Greenly behind him. "I say, God prosper my master, and all his works--good, bad, and indifferent. I have no business to take exceptions." "Tut, man, drink the toast, and sing us a song!" cried he of the grey gown. "Sing first, thyself, fat friar," answered the serving-man. The friar rejoined, "That I will!" and after taking another deep draught, he poured forth, in full mellow strains, the well-known old song, "In a tavern let me die, And a bottle near me lye, That the angelic choir may cry, God's blessing on the toper!" etc. The song was much applauded, and as both the friar's companions were now sufficiently imbued with drink to be ready for any species of jollity, the same musical propensity seized upon them both in turn, and they poured forth a couple of strains, which, if they could be found written down in the exact terms in which they were sung, might well be considered as invaluable specimens of the English poetry of that early age. As they had no great tendency to edification, however, and contained more ribaldry than wit, the gentle render will probably excuse their omission in this place. While thus with mirth and revelry three out of the personages whom we saw arrive at the inn passed more than one hour of the night, the fourth was ushered to a chamber hung with dark-painted cloth, while a lamp placed in the window shewed a deep recess projecting over the street, and making, as it were, a room within the room. The hostess accompanied Kate Greenly to her apartment, and for some time bustled about, seeing that all was in order, much to the poor girl's discomfort. In vain she assured the good landlady that she had all she wanted; in vain she expressed weariness and a desire to retire to bed: still the hostess found something to set to rights, some table to place, some stool to dust, while ever and anon she declared that her girls were slatterns, and her chamberlain a lazy knave. At length she turned towards the door, and Kate Greenly thought that she was going to be freed from her presence; but it was only to call for her husband, and to tell him, at the top of her voice, that he was "wonderful slow." The poor girl could bear it no longer, but approaching the deep recess, where the lamp stood in the window, she mounted the two little steps, which separated it from the rest of the room, and standing close to the light, unfolded a paper which she held in her hand. At first she could scarcely see the words which were written therein, but shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed intently on the lines, and read,-- "Return to your father; leave him not broken-hearted with shame and sorrow! If you are willing to go back, I will soon find means; for I have more help at hand than you wot of. Say but one word to the hostess, and ere daylight to-morrow you shall be on the way to Barnesdale. As I know the whole, so I tell you that the last hope is before you. If you go back you may have peace and ease, though you have cast away happiness; if you go forward, you may have a few hours of joy, but a long life of misery, neglect, destitution, and despair, without the hope of this world or the hope of the next. "THE FRIAR." Kate trembled very much, and her whole thoughts seemed to refuse all direction or control; but at that moment the host of the Maypole himself appeared, bearing a small silver chalice of warm wine, and a plate filled with many-coloured comfits. "I pray you, taste the sleeping-cup," he said, approaching his fair guest; and as she mechanically followed the common custom of the day in taking the cup, putting a few comfits in, and raising it for an instant to her lips, she saw the eyes of both her companions fix upon her countenance with a look of interest and inquiry, and perceived at a glance that they also had, in some way, been made acquainted with her history. The burning glow of shame--the first time that she had felt it fully--came into Kate Greenly's cheek, but it only roused her pride; and instead of trampling that viper of the human heart under her feet, after a moment's pause to recover herself, she said, with the look and air of a queen-- "I want nothing more. You may go! If I want aught else, I will call." The host and hostess retired, wishing her good night; but she thought she saw upon the man's lip one of those maddening smiles which say more than words, but do not admit of reply. The moment they were gone she clasped her hands together, and burst into tears--tears, not calm and soothing; tears, not bitter and purifying; but tears of fierce and passionate anger at meeting, perhaps, kinder treatment than she deserved. Seating herself upon the step to the window, she sobbed for a few minutes with uncontrollable vehemence; and then, starting up, she approached the lamp, and once more read the lines she had received. They seemed to change the current of her thoughts again, for her eye fixed upon vacancy, the paper dropped from her hand, and once or twice she uttered, in a low, solemn voice, the word "Return!" "Oh no!" she cried at length, "no; I cannot return. What! return to my father's house, with every object that my eyes could light upon crying out upon me, and telling me what I was once, and what I am now,--to have the jeers and smiles and nods of my companions, and be pointed at as the light-o'-love and the wanton!--to be marked in the walk, and in the church, to be shunned like a leper, to be pitied by those who hate me most, and looked cold upon by those who loved me! No, no, no! I can never return. There is no return in life from any course that we have once taken.--I feel it, I know it now. We may strive hard, we may look back, we may stretch forth our arms towards the place from which we set out; but we can never reach it again, struggle however we may. No, no; I must forward! I have chosen my path, I have sealed my own fate, and by it I must abide!" She paused and thought for several minutes, and as she did so, it would seem, the fears and apprehensions, the doubts and anxieties, that dog the steps of sin, the hell-hounds that are ever ready to fall upon their prey the moment that lassitude overtakes it on its onward course, seized upon the heart of poor Kate Greenly with their envenomed teeth. Yes, you may struggle on, poor thing; you may burst away, for an instant, from the fangs that hold, you may get a fresh start and run on, thinking that you have distanced them, but those fell pursuers, Fear and Apprehension, Doubt and Anxiety, are still behind you, and shall hunt you unto death! They were now, for the first time, tearing the sides of their victim; and the shapes they assumed may be discovered by the words that broke from her in her mental agony--"He will never surely abandon me!--he will never surely ill-treat me! after all that he has promised, after all that he has told me, after all that he has sworn! He will never surely be so base, so utterly base!--and yet why has he not come on with me? Why, after two poor days' companionship, send me on with serving-men? If he needs must to London, why not take me with him?--But no," she continued, soothing herself with fond hopes, "no, it cannot be; he has some weighty business on hand requiring instant dispatch. Doubtless his journey was too swift and fatiguing for a woman.--Oh, yes, he will come back to me soon.--Perhaps he is already at his castle--perhaps I may see him to-morrow:" and she clapped her pretty hands with joy at the happiness which imagination had called up. At that moment, however, by one of those strange turns of thought which the mind sometimes suddenly takes, whether we will or not--like a bird struggling away from the hand that would hold it--the image of poor Ralph Harland rose up before her, and the satisfaction she felt at the idea of again seeing her seducer, seemed to contrast itself painfully in imagination with the anguish which he must endure at never beholding more the object of his earliest love, and knowing that she was in the arms of another. "What," she asked herself, "what would be my own feelings under such circumstances?" and the answer which naturally sprang to her lips from the eager and passionate heart that beat within her bosom, was, "I should kill some one and die!" The contemplation, however, was too painful; she would think of it no more. Sorrow and repentance had not yet sufficiently taken hold of her, to render it difficult for Kate Greenly to cast away thought with the usual lightness of her nature, and she answered the reproaches of conscience, as usually happens, with a falsehood. "Oh, he will soon find some one to console him!" she said; and for fear of her own better judgment convicting her of an untruth, she hastened to employ herself on the trifles of the toilet, and to seek in sleep that repose of heart which her waking hours were never more to know. But there was a thorn in her pillow too, and her nights had lost no small portion of their peace. The following morning dawned bright and clear, and Kate Greenly's state of mind was changed. Fears and apprehensions, self-reproach and regret, had vanished with the shades of night. The stillness, the darkness, the solitude--those powerful encouragers of sad thoughts--were gone; the busy, bustling, sunshiny day was present; she heard songs coming up from the streets, she heard voices talking and laughing below; all the sounds and sights of merry life were around her; and her heart took the top of the wave, and bounded onward in the light of hope. Her only care, as she dressed herself in the morning, was, how she should meet the keen grey eye of the Friar; but that was soon resolved. She would frown upon him, she thought; she would treat him with silent contempt, and doubtless he would not dare to say another word, for fear of calling upon himself chastisement from her two attendants. She was spared all trouble upon the subject, however, for the friar had departed before daybreak. She had sent him no answer by the hostess, and her silence was answer enough. After a hasty meal the light-o'-love and those who accompanied her once more set out upon their way, and rode on some fifteen miles down the Wye without stopping. Not that the two serving-men would not willingly have paused, at one of the little towns they passed, to let the fair companion of their journey take some repose; but Kate herself was eager to proceed. Hope and expectation were busy at her heart--hope, that like a moth, flies on to burn itself to death in the flame of disappointment. At length, upon a high woody bank, showing a bold craggy face towards the river--the reader who has travelled that way may know it, for a little country church now crowns the trees--appeared a small castellated tower, with one or two cottages seeking protection beneath its walls. The serving-man who rode beside her pointed forward with his hand, as they passed over a slight slope in the ground, which first presented this object to their sight, saying, "There is the castle, Madam." Kate looked forward, and her eyes sparkled; and in a few minutes more they were entering the archway under the building. The castle was smaller than she expected to see it. It was, in fact, merely one of those strong towers which had been built about a century before, for the protection of the Norman encroachers upon that fair portion of the island, into which the earliest known possessors of the whole land had been driven by the sword of various invaders. Many of these towers, with a small territory round them, had fallen into the possession of the younger sons of noble families; upon the mere tenure of defending them against the attacks of the enemy; and although the incursions of the Welsh upon the English lands were now much less frequent than they had been some time before, the lords of these small castles had often to hold them out against the efforts of other still more formidable assailants. It mattered not to Kate, however, whether the place was large or small: how furnished or decorated was the same to her. It was _his_ castle--_his_, to whom all her thoughts and feelings were now given; and she looked upon it but as the home of love and joy, where all the hours of the future were to be passed. Her disappointments began almost at the threshold. An old warder who let them in, not only said in a rough tone, that Sir Richard de Ashby had not yet arrived, but gazed over the form of the female visitor with a look of harsh and somewhat sullen displeasure. He murmured something to himself too, the greater part of which she did not hear, but words that sounded like--"This new leman," caught her ear, and made her start, while a thrill of agony indescribable passed through her bosom at the thought of a name which might but too justly be applied to her. The eyes of two or three archers, however, who were hanging about the gate, were upon her, as she knew; and, fancying that the same term might be in their hearts also, she hurried on after the old warder, who said he would show her the chamber which had been prepared for her by his master's orders. She found it convenient, and fitted up with every comfort, some of the articles being evidently new; and she concluded, with love's eager credulity, that these objects had been sent down to decorate her apartment, and make every thing look gay and cheerful in her eyes. She was well used also; but still, amongst the men who surrounded her, there was a want of that respect, which, although she knew she had fairly forfeited all claim to it, she was angry and grieved not to obtain. She had fancied, in her idle vanity, that the concubine of a man of rank would approach, in a degree at least, to the station of his wife; and she now consoled herself with believing that she could easily induce Richard de Ashby, if not to punish such want of reverence, at least to put a stop to it. But day passed by, after day, without the appearance of him for whom she had sacrificed all; and melancholy memories and vain regrets kept pouring upon her mind more and more strongly, till she could hardly bear the weight of her own thoughts. At length, one day, towards eventide, she saw, as she wandered round the battlements, which were left unguarded, a small party of horsemen coming up over the hill; and, with impatience which would brook no restraint, she ran down to meet him who, she was convinced, was now approaching. The old warder would have prevented her from passing the gate, but she bade him stand back in so stern and peremptory a tone that he gave way: for few are the minds upon which the assumption of authority does not produce some effect. Kate Greenly was not mistaken. The party consisted of her seducer, and four or five soldiers, whom he had obtained at Hereford, for the purpose of strengthening his little garrison, war being by this time imminent, and the post that he held considered of some importance. Richard de Ashby sprang down from his horse to meet her, and kissed her repeatedly, with many expressions of tenderness and affection. It is true, he spoke to her lightly; called her "Pretty one," and used those terms with which he might have fondled a child, but which he would never have thought of employing to a woman he much respected. To other ears, this might have marked the difference between Kate Greenly's real situation, and that which fancy almost taught her to believe was hers; but poor Kate saw it not; for happiness swallowed up all other feeling. He was with her--he was kind--he was affectionate--she was no longer a solitary being, without love, or joy, or occupation, or self-respect, and that evening, and the next day, and the next, passed over in happiness, which obliterated every sensation of remorse for the past or apprehension for the future. Gradually, however, a change came over Richard de Ashby; he lost some of his tenderness--he now and then spoke angrily--he would be out on horseback the whole day, and return at night, tired, imperious and irritable. Kate tried to soothe him, but tried in vain. He uttered harsh and unkind words--he laughed at her tears--he turned from her caresses. It were painful to pursue and recapitulate the very well-known course of the events which, in nine cases out of ten, follow such conduct as she had adopted. The retribution was beginning. The pangs of ill-requited affection, of betrayed confidence, and of disappointed hope, rapidly took possession of the young, light, wilful heart, which had inflicted the same on others; and, in the gentler paroxysms of her grief, Kate would sit and think of young Ralph Harland, and his true love, of the father she had deceived and disgraced, of the happy scenes of her childhood and her youth, her village companions, her innocent sports, the flowers gathered in the early morning, and the Maypole on the green. Of all these she would think, I say, in the gentler moments of her sorrow, and would sit and weep for many an hour together. But there were other times, when a fiercer and a haughtier mood would come upon her, when disappointed vanity and irritated pride would raise their voice, as well as injured love; and dark and passionate thoughts would pass through her mind, sometimes flashing forth fiery schemes of vengeance, like lightning from a cloud, soon swallowed up in the obscurity again. An angry word, also, would often break from her when she saw herself trifled with, or neglected, or ill-treated, but it only excited a mocking laugh, or some insulting answer. It seemed, indeed, as if Richard de Ashby took a pleasure in seeing her fair face and beautiful figure wrought by strong passion; for, when he beheld her wrath kindled, he would urge her on, with mirth or taunts, till the fire would flash from her eyes, and then drown itself in tears. There was still, however, so much of unsated passion yet left in his bosom, as to make him generally soothe her in the end; and, though sometimes Kate's heart would continue to burn for a whole day, after one of these scenes, they generally ended with her face hid on his bosom. The very quickness and fiery nature of her spirit, indeed, gave her charms in his cold, dissolute eyes, which none of the softer and the weaker victims who had preceded her had ever possessed. It kept his sensations alive, amused and excited him, and he treated her as a good cavalier will sometimes treat a fiery horse, which he now spurs into fury, now reins and governs with a strong hand, now soothes and caresses into tranquillity and gentleness. His servants marked all this, and smiled, and one would turn to another and say, "This has lasted longer than it ever lasted before. She must have some spell upon him, to keep his love for a whole month!" But it was clear to see that, under such constant vehemence and irritation, affection, on her part, at least, could not long endure, or that, as will sometimes happen, love would change its own nature, and act the part of hate. CHAPTER XIII. As unpleasant a moment as any in the ordinary course of life is when a conversation with the being we love best--one of the few sweet entrancing resting-places of the heart which fate sometimes affords us in the midst of the ocean of cares, anxieties, sorrows, and trifles, that surrounds us on every side--is interrupted suddenly by some one to whom we are wholly indifferent. The step upon the stairs, and the knock that followed it at the door, were amongst the most ungrateful sounds that could have struck the ear of Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby; and there was no slight impatience in the tone of the former, as he said, "Come in!" The door opened slowly; but, instead of either of Lucy's maids or pretty Cicely, who waited upon them, the ape-like face and figure of poor Tangel, the dwarf, appeared, beckoning Hugh out of the room with one of his strange gestures. "What would you, boy?" said Hugh, without rising from his seat. "I would have you get upon your walking-sticks," replied Tangel, "and come with me." "I must first know why," answered Hugh de Monthermer. "Go away, good Tangel; I will come presently." "Nay, you must come now," said the dwarf. "Robin stays for no man; and Robin and the t'other fellow sent me for him of the purfled jerkin. He has matter of counsel for thine ear, though well I wot that it is for all the world like sticking a flower in a cock's tail." "I see not the likeness, good Tangel," answered Hugh, slowly rising. "It will soon fall out again," said Tangel. "Counsel, I mean, Sir Man at Arms. What's the wit of giving counsel to a man in a purfled jerkin? But you must come and have it, whether you will or not." "It must be so, I suppose," answered Hugh. But Lucy held him for a moment by the sleeve, saying, anxiously-- "You will come back, Hugh? You will come back?" "Think you that I will leave you here now, Lucy?" he asked, with a smile. "No, no, dear Lucy; as I said before, if I take you not with me, I will remain and spend my life in the forest with you." "Ho, ho!" cried the dwarf, as if he had made a discovery, "Ho, ho! I were better away, methinks." "We did not wish for you, good Tangel," answered Hugh, laughing. "Lead on, however. Where is your master?" The dwarf again made a sign, waving one of his long arms in the direction of the stairs, and Hugh de Monthermer, after a word or two more to Lucy de Ashby, in a lower tone, quitted the room, and followed the boy down to the same chamber into which the Outlaw had led him on his first arrival. It was now tenanted by two men--the bold forester, and another, who was standing with his back towards the door. At the step of the young lord, however, the latter turned round, displaying the face of the good franklin, Ralph Harland. Hugh de Monthermer started; for in the short space which had passed since last he saw him on the village green, a change had taken place in his countenance such as nothing but intense grief can work. Indeed, mortal sickness itself but rarely produces so rapid an alteration; he looked like one of those, whom we read of, stricken with the plague of the fourteenth century, where the warning sign of the coming death was read by others in the face and eyes, before the person doomed was at all aware that the malady had even laid the lightest touch upon them. Of poor Ralph Harland, it might indeed be said, as then of those attacked by the pestilence, "the plague was at his heart." Hugh de Monthermer instantly took him by the hand, exclaiming, "Good Heaven! Ralph, what ails thee? Thou art ill, my good friend--thou art very ill!" "Sick in mind, my lord, and ill in spirit," replied Ralph Harland, gloomily, "but nothing more." "Nay, nay, Ralph," exclaimed Hugh de Monthermer, "you must not speak to me so coldly. We have wrestled on the turf in our boyhood, we have galloped together through the woodland in our youth; I have eaten your good father's bread and drank his wine, and rested my head upon the same pillow with yourself--and Hugh de Monthermer must have a brother's answer from Ralph Harland. What is it ails thee, man? On my honour and my knighthood, if my sword, or my voice, or my power can do you service--But I know, I know what it is," he continued, suddenly recollecting the events of the May-day; and though he was not fully aware of the whole, divining more than he actually knew, by combining one fact with another--"I remember now, Ralph; and I know what is the serpent that has stung thee. Alas, Ralph, that is a wound I have no balm to cure! "There is none for it on earth," replied Ralph Harland. "Ay," said Robin Hood, "but though there be none to cure, there may be balm to allay, my lord; and yours must be the hand to give it. I will tell you the truth; we hold here a certain fair young lady, whom, as you see, we treat with all respect. You may ask, why we hold her--why we have taken her from her friends? My lord, one of her noble house has taken from a father's care, a child beloved as she can be; has broken bonds asunder which united many a heart together--parent and child, lover and beloved--has made a home desolate, crushed the hopes of an honest spirit, and made a harlot of a once innocent country girl. This is all bad enough, my lord; but still we seek not for revenge. All that we require is, the only slight reparation that can be made by man. Let her be sent back to her home--let her be given up to her father--let her not be kept awhile in gaiety and evil, and then turned an outcast upon the bitter, biting world. You, my lord, must require this at the hands of the Earl of Ashby; he only can do that which is right, and to you we look to induce that noble lord to do justice even to us poor peasants." Hugh de Monthermer paused for a moment or two in thought ere he replied, but he then answered--"I can bear no compulsory message to the Earl, my good friend. What you have done here is but wild justice; this lady never injured you--her father never injured you. You take her unwilling from her home as a hostage for the return of one who went willingly where she did go--who stays willingly where she now is. If she chooses to stay there, who can send her back again? I can do nothing in this, so long as you keep this lady here. Indeed, I tell you fairly, as you have bound me by my honour not to mention what I have seen, I must e'en remain here, too; for my first act as a knight and a gentleman, when I am at liberty, must be to do my endeavour to set her free." "And as a lover, also," added Robin Hood; "but, my lord, we will spare you a useless trouble; for, let me tell you, that not all the men of Monthermer, and Ashby to boot, would liberate that lady if I chose to hold her. But there is some truth in what you say; and that truth struck me before you uttered it. It was on that account I left you an hour or two ago, and went to seek this much injured young man, to confess to him what I am never ashamed to confess, when it is so, that I have been rash--that I had no right to punish a fair and innocent lady for the fault of a false traitor. To-morrow morning she shall return under your good charge and guidance; but still, my lord, to you I look to demand of the Earl of Ashby that he compel his kinsman both to send back that light-o'-love, Kate Greenly, to her father's house, and to make such poor reparation, in the way of her dowry to a convent, as may at least punish the beggarly knave for the wrong he has committed. I charge you; my lord, as a knight and gentleman, to do this." "And I will do it," answered Hugh de Monthermer, "since you so willingly set the lady free, whatever be the consequences; and to me they may be bitterer than you think. I will do what you require because my heart tells me it is right, and my oath of chivalry binds me to perform it." "Ah, my lord!" said Robin Hood, "would the nobles of England but consult the dictates of the heart, and keep that heart unhardened--would they remember the oath of their chivalry, and act as that oath requires, there would be less mourning in the land--there would be more happiness in the cottage, and some reverence for men in high station." "You are wrong," said Hugh de Monthermer, laying his hand upon the bold forester's arm--"you are wrong, and give more way to common prejudice than I had hoped or expected. There are amongst us, Robin, men who disgrace the name of noble, whose foul deeds, like those of this Richard de Ashby, carry misery into other orders, and disgrace into their own. But vices and follies find ready chroniclers--virtues and good actions are rarely written but in the book of Heaven. One bad man's faults are remembered and talked of, and every one adds, 'He was a noble;' but how many good deeds and kindly actions, how many honourable feelings and fine thoughts remain without a witness and without a record? Who is there that says, This good old lord visited my cottage and soothed me in sickness or in sorrow? Who is there that says, I love this baron, or that, because he defended me against wrong, protected me against trouble, supported me in want, cheered me in adversity? And yet there are many such. I mean not to assert that there are not many corrupt and vicious, cruel and hard-hearted. I mean not to contend that there are any without faults, for every man has some, be be rich or poor. But if the merits and demerits could be fairly weighed, I do believe that the errors of my own class would not be found greater than those of any other, only that our rank serves to raise us, as it were, on a pedestal, that malice may see all flaws, and that envy may shoot at them." Robin Hood paused, with his eyes bent down upon the ground, making no reply; and Hugh de Monthermer went on a moment after, saying, "At least, do us justice in one point. In this age, and in others gone before, the nobles of England have stood forward against tyranny wherever they found it. Have they ever failed to shed their blood in defence of the rights of the people? Is it not their doing, that such a thing as human bondage is disappearing from the island? We may have vassals, followers, retainers, men who are bound, for the land they hold, to do us service in time of need, but we have no serfs, no theows, as in the olden time, and even villain tenure is passing away. Again, who is it, even at the very present time, that is calling deputies from the ranks of the people to the high parliament of the nation; to represent the rights and interests of those classes which had heretofore no voice in making the laws of the land? I say, it is the nobles of England; and I am much mistaken if, in all times to come, that body of men--though there may be, and ever will be, evildoers amongst them--will not stand between the people and oppression and wrong--will not prove the great bulwark of our institutions, preserving them from all the tempests that may assail them, let the point of attack be where it will." "Perhaps it may be so," said Robin Hood; "but yet, my good lord, I could wish that persons in high station would remember that, with their advantages and privileges, with wealth, power, and dignity, greater than their fellow-men, they have greater duties and obligations likewise; and, as envy places them where all their faults may be observed, it would be as well if, as a body, they were to remember that each man who disgraces himself disgraces his whole order, and were to punish him for that crime by withdrawing from him the countenance of those upon whom he has brought discredit. When the virtuous associate with the vicious, they make the fault their own; and no wonder that men of high birth, though good men in themselves, are classed together with the wicked of their own order when they tolerate the evildoer, and leave him unpunished even by a frown." "I cannot but agree with you," said Hugh de Monthermer; "but----" "Ay, my lord, there is many a but," replied the bold outlaw, after having waited for a moment to hear the conclusion of the young lord's sentence; "and there ever will be a but, so long as men are men, and have human passions and human follies. There was but one in whose life there was no _but_, and Him they nailed upon a tree;" and the outlaw raised his hand, and touched his bonnet, reverently, for he felt deep reverence, however much his words might seem to want it. Hugh de Monthermer was not inclined to pursue the conversation any farther, and, turning to the young franklin, he said, "I fear, Ralph, that after all the wrong you have suffered from one of my class, you will not be inclined to allow us much merit in any respect; but, believe me, we are not all like him." "I know it, my lord--I know it," replied Ralph. "If I were ignorant that, as well as the blackest vices which can degrade man, there are to be found in your order the brightest virtues, I should not merit to have known you.--But in good sooth, my lord, my thoughts are not of general subjects just now. One private grief presses on me so hard that I can think of nothing else." "I would fain have you wean yourself from those remembrances," said his friend. "Nay, shake not your head, I know that it can only be done by banishing all those sights and sounds that are the watchwords of memory, and by seeking other matter for thought. Ay, even matter that will force your mind away from the subject that it clings to, and occupy you whether you will or not. There are stirring times before us, Ralph,--times when the great interests of the state,--when dangers to our liberties and rights may well divide men's attention with private griefs. What say you; will you come with me to the west, and take a part in the struggle that I see approaching?" "I will follow you right willingly, my lord," replied Ralph Harland, "though I cannot well go with you. I must not forget, in my selfish sorrow, that I have a father who loves me; and whose life and happiness rests upon mine, as I have seen an old wall held up by the ivy which it first raised from the ground. I must speak with him before I go--must bid him adieu, and do what I can to comfort and console him. He will not seek to make me stay, and I will soon follow you; but it shall not be alone, for I can bring you many a heart right willing to fight under the same banner with yourself. Where shall I find you, my good lord?" "As soon as I have taken this fair lady's orders," said Hugh de Monthermer, "and conducted her whither she is pleased to go, I shall turn my steps direct to Hereford by the way of Gloucester, hoping to overtake my uncle and the good Earl of Ashby, and should I find with him his cousin Richard, he shall render to me no light account of more than one base act." "Nay, my lord, nay," replied the young franklin, "I do beseech you, quarrel not for me. I know, or at least guess, what dear interests you may peril. But, moreover, though I be neither knight nor noble, there are some wrongs that set aside all vain distinctions, and I do not despair of the time coming when I shall find that base traitor alone to give me an answer. When that moment arrives, it will be a solemn one; but I would not part with the hope thereof for a king's crown. But now, my lord, let me not keep you from the lady of your love. Go to her; let her know she is free to come and go, as far as I at least am concerned; but tell her, my lord, I charge you, why she was brought here, that she may be aware of what a serpent her father and her brother cherish." "Ay, tell her--tell her," said Robin Hood--"tell her, for her own sake; for there is something that makes me fear--I know not why--that the day will come when that knowledge may be to her a safeguard and a shield against one who now seems powerless. Scoff not at it, my lord, as if he were too pitiful to give cause for alarm. The scorpion is a small, petty-looking insect, but yet there is death in his sting. And now, good night; when you have spent another hour in the sweet dreams that lovers like, betake you to repose, and early to-morrow you shall have some one to guide you on your way." CHAPTER XIV. There are some days of life when everything appears to combine to heighten the hues of happiness, when not only the sensations in our own bosoms, and the circumstances of our fate are all bright and cheerful, but when every external object, every feature in Nature's face seems to smile, and every sound to be in harmony with our feelings. But such hours are too precious to be many; blessed is that life which can count two or three of them; and it has been often remarked, that as at some seasons of the year, a peculiarly fine day generally announces the approach of storm and tempest, so do one of these bright intervals in our cloudy existence precede a period of sorrow, trouble, and disaster. An hour after daybreak, on as sweet a morning as ever dawned, in the midst of the magnificent scenery of the forest, Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby stood by the side of their horses, ready to mount and depart. Love gave its sunshine to each heart. Lucy's bosom beat high at her deliverance by her lover. The assurance of her affection--the delight of her presence--the increased hope of obtaining her, rendered his sensations not less joyful. The yellow morning light spread sweetly overhead; the old grey Saxon building rested calm in its ivy robe behind them: every blade of grass was sparkling with a thousand diamonds; every air wafted the breath of the sweet forest flowers; every tree was tuneful with the song of the birds. It was like some happy dream, when imagination, stripping life of its stern realities, revels supreme, and decks the brief moments of sleep with all the boundless treasures of her airy kingdom. A step nearer to the lodge stood the bold forester; his fine, muscular limbs clear and defined in his tight-fitting garb, and his nut brown hair curling round his thoughtful forehead. A faint smile hung upon his lip as he watched the two lovers, leaving them to proceed as they would, without interrupting them with courtesies. It seemed as if he was reading a pleasant book, of the truth of which he might have some doubt, but which yet interested and amused him; for Robin knew the world too well to suppose that such happiness could last long, but yet his mind was of that firm and hardy nature which clouds not the present with cares and fears of the future, but extracts from every hour its honey, and leaves the rest to fate. When Hugh de Monthermer had placed Lucy on her horse, he turned to bid their host good bye, frankly holding out his hand. "Farewell, my lord!" said Robin, taking it. "We shall soon meet again in busier scenes, if I judge right. But where is the guide I promised you? Why, Tangel, Tangel! where are you?" and he raised his voice loud and somewhat sternly. At his last call the dwarf crept forth from behind the house, with a bent head and crouching posture, like an unwilling dog, approaching his master slowly, and eyeing him askance. "What now--what now?" said Robin Hood. "Did I not give you orders? Where is the horse?" "I would fain not go," cried the dwarf. "Let me stay with thee, Robin, let me stay with thee. Send Smooth Face, send White Skin, send Harry the page.--If the fool can't take care of himself, and must have a boy to lead him about the world, like a blind beggar, send young Porkflesh with him.--Why should he take me?" "Nay, my good friend," said Hugh de Monthermer, seeing the bold forester about to speak somewhat angrily, "Let the lad stay with thee! I shall find my way well enough; his only fault is loving thee well." "Those that love me obey me," replied Robin Hood; "and, my good lord, he must do so, or never see me more. It is not alone to guide you through the forest I send him with you; you must take him to Hereford, and keep him till we meet again. You will find him faithful and true, crafty and active, though he shews himself so unruly at present; and in these dangerous times it may be of great service both to you and me that you should have some one with you who knows every man in my band. I may have to convey intelligence to you and to the good lord, your uncle; for I gain a knowledge of all that takes place throughout the land, which my Lord of Leicester, with all his power, cannot attain. It is needful that you should have some means of knowing which messengers are really mine, and which are not, for these are times full of deceit, and human cunning is more busily at work than the world ever saw, I believe. If anybody comes to you in my name, call for this boy, and make him tell you whether he be one of my people or not. Go, Tangel; and let me hear that you have done your duty." "Come, my boy--come!" said Hugh de Monthermer, speaking to him kindly; "I will try to make thee as happy as may be; and thou shalt love me, whether thou wilt or not." "Goodsooth, I love thee well enough," replied the dwarf, "though I have no weakness for men in purfled jerkins. I love thee well enough, though not so well as him; but what must be, must be. Poor Tangel has always been Fate's foot-ball. Well, I will get the horse." So saying, he stretched out his long arms, put his hands suddenly upon the shoulders of Lucy's two maids, who were standing close together, and vaulting over them with a leap that made them both scream, he bounded round the angle of the building, and soon reappeared, leading a small brown forest horse, furnished with saddle-bags for his journey. As soon as the whole party were mounted, the Outlaw approached the side of Hugh de Monthermer's horse, and, looking up in his face, said a few words to him in a low tone which seemed to excite some surprise. "Indeed!" exclaimed the young knight; "but are you certain?" "As certain," replied Robin Hood, "as of that being a magpie in the tree." "Then you must have taken some means to delude them," said Hugh de Monthermer. "Not I," answered Robin Hood, "I always leave fools to delude themselves; they are sure to do it more cleverly than I could. However, it was necessary that you should know the fact, so I tell you. Now, God speed you, sir--we shall meet again soon." In a moment or two after, the little cavalcade was moving along through the glades of the forest, Tangel riding on before, in somewhat sullen mood, followed at the distance of about twenty yards by Lucy and her lover, with a discreet space between them and the maids who followed. The pace at which they proceeded was not quick, for those were hours which two at least of the party would willingly have spun out slowly--a fine golden thread, which they feared would end only too soon. But why should I pause upon their happiness? Why should I relate what each said to the other? The stream of human pleasure, except when it falls in the fierce cataract of passion, is so calm and smooth that there is little to describe. Let each one bring such a moment home to his own breast; let him fancy himself riding by the side of her whom he loves best through scenes as fair, with hopes as bright, and his own heart will present him a better picture than any which my hand could draw. They soon emerged from the deeper part of the wood, and wound slowly on through the mingled savannahs and copses which occupied a considerable part of the forest ground, till they came upon a high road running from Nottingham to some of the Yorkshire towns, with a finger-post--which is a much older invention than is generally supposed--marking the various paths towards Mansfield, Southwell, and other small places within the meres of the forest. To say the truth, Hugh de Monthermer, with a true lover's forgetfulness, had never remembered to give their dwarfish guide any orders as to the direction he should take, and the first thing that called the necessity to his mind was the question which that finger-post mutely put to the traveller. "I fear, dear Lucy," he said, "that Lindwell is not far off, and thither I suppose I must conduct you direct, although it is sad to bring such happy moments as these to an end." "I fear it must be so," answered Lucy, with a sigh; "my father will be anxious, you know, till he sees me again, and I must think of him before myself, Hugh." "But if it be on his account you would go to Lindwell," replied her lover, "you will be disappointed, dear Lucy, for he is not there. Judging hastily that you must have been carried off by some emissary of the King's party, in order to detach him from the English cause, he and your brother have, I find, gone on in the direction of Gloucester likewise." "Oh, then I will not stay at Lindwell all alone," cried Lucy, gaily--"I should be as melancholy as one of the rooks that haunt the old trees round it; and besides," she added, perhaps not ill-pleased at having a good excuse to go on under her lover's protection--"and besides, who can tell what might happen. The foreign party are strong in Nottingham and all the neighbouring places, and I might have to put on armour and defend Lindwell against an army. No, no, Hugh, if you are a good knight and true, you will guide me on to seek my father till we have found him. By my sooth, I would rather have remained with the blithe foresters than be confined to Lindwell, with all the chances of these evil times." The reader may easily suppose that Hugh de Monthermer was not at all dissatisfied with Lucy's decision, and as he was one whose heart was no way faint, he doubted not that he should be able to guide her safely and well to her father's side, although he could not conceal from himself, and would not conceal from her, that there were difficulties and dangers in the way. "You put a hard task upon me, Lucy," he said, laughing. "What mean you, uncourteous knight!" she asked, in the same tone;--"This is the first time that I ever met a gentleman unwilling to guide and protect me whithersoever I went.--A mighty hard task, truly!" "No, by those bright eyes," replied Hugh, "that is not the task I speak of; but it is to persuade you not to do that which I most wish you would. I mean, dear Lucy, that I must dissuade you from going on, though to ride beside you thus, for two or three days more, were worth a whole year of any other part of life. But I cannot let you choose without telling you that there is many a peril to be encountered between this and Gloucester. Gilbert de Clare, whose faith has long been doubtful it is now ascertained, is ready to take arms against De Montfort. Indeed, he may already have done so; and one thing is certain, that in the forest of Dean, armed men are gathering thick, without any known object, so that the way is dangerous." "I have no fear, Hugh," replied Lucy, "so that you be beside me; and moreover we can get some men from Lindwell. I would not stay there alone to be Queen of Cyprus, so that my only choice is to go with you, or to put myself at the head of the best troop I can gather, and then, like an errant lady, seek my way without you." "Nay, then, if such be your will," answered her lover, "there is no choice for either of us, though perhaps your brother may frown, and even your father look cold. There is still, however, a chance that we may overtake my uncle at Torwel, and if we do so, his grave company and stout men at arms will save us from all danger, and all reproaches. At all events, he will leave some four or five archers behind him, trusty soldiers at one's need; and if we can get as many from Lindwell, I would undertake, with care and forethought and good precautions, to guard you uninjured hence to Palestine." "Oh, how pleasant!" cried Lucy--"Let us go, Hugh--why should we not go? I think every woman should make a pilgrimage to Palestine before she marries." Hugh de Monthermer, however, thought it would be better to reverse the proceeding, and, marrying first, make the pilgrimage afterwards--if they liked it. So he told Lucy; nor did she say no; and putting their horses into a quicker pace, he directed their dwarfish guide to lead on towards Torwel. Passing by Arnold, and skirting the edges of Thorney Wood, they crossed the Lind not far from Basfort, at which little village they paused for a moment or two, to water their horses, towards nine in the morning. At Torwel, however, they found that the Earl had gone on, leaving six archers behind him to await his nephew's coming. Here a longer repose was necessary, for though Lucy, trained to hardier habits than ladies affect in the present day, was capable of enduring much more fatigue; she was still a woman, and might well feel somewhat weary with a four-hours' ride. The time they passed at Torwel flew quick away, and they were speedily retreading, in some degree, their steps towards her father's castle. Great were the rejoicings at Lindwell to see her safe returned, and every man would have gladly accompanied her to guard her by the way. The defence of the place itself, however, was not to be neglected, and as Lucy was resolved to proceed that night, six stout men-at-arms were chosen from the rest, and being quickly mounted and accoutred, the party once more set out with four hours clear daylight before them, taking their way towards the frontiers of Derbyshire. Onward they rode with light, gay hearts; the spirit of adventure and enterprise itself adding something to all the manifold enjoyments which had crowded into that day. The boy Tangel had by this time dropped into the rear, being no longer necessary as a guide, and to say truth, although Hugh had spoken to him once or twice as they proceeded, absorbed in his own feelings towards Lucy, he had taken but little notice of his absence from the front. When they had left Lindwell, however, some seven miles behind them, the boy urged his horse up at a quick pace, saying, "On your guard--on your guard! there are men coming up fast behind;" and turning round, Hugh de Monthermer perceived some six or seven persons galloping down from a hill at the distance of about half a mile. Lucy paused to gaze likewise, and as the pursuers came nearer, she exclaimed, with a look, it must be owned, of no great pleasure--"It is my brother, Hugh; I am sure that is Alured on the black horse." "I think so too," replied Hugh de Monthermer, drawing in his rein; "but even if it be not, we have nothing to fear." The little party of horsemen who were following, came on at full speed, and certainly not with the most peaceful appearance; but every stretch of the horses showed more and more clearly the form of Alured de Ashby, and at length, after slackening his pace a good deal, as if to examine the group which was now waiting his approach, he rode up, with a countenance expressive of less pleasure than might have been expected at seeing his sister in safety. "How now!" he exclaimed--"What is all this? Why have you turned your back upon Lindwell, my good lord? and whither are you having the great kindness to conduct my sister?" "To overtake Lord Ashby, my lord," replied Hugh, "who has gone on towards Gloucester, we find." "Methinks, sir," answered Alured de Ashby, "that Lindwell castle were the properest place for you to conduct her to, after having so dexterously found her when no one else knew where she was." "But suppose, Alured," said Lucy, ere Hugh de Monthermer could utter the somewhat sharp rejoinder which was springing to his lips--"suppose, Alured, that your sister did not choose to be so conducted. Suppose, after visiting Lindwell, she thought fit to ask this noble gentleman to guard and protect her by the way, till she overtook her father?" "Doubtless he was very willing," answered Lord Alured, with a sneer. "Beyond all question," replied Hugh de Monthermer, in as cool a tone as he could command; "and not more willing to do so than justified in doing it. But you were pleased just now to make use of a word which must be explained. You said, sir, that I had found your sister when no one else knew where she was. Do you mean to imply that I did know?" "Good faith," replied the hot young nobleman, "it is not for me to say whether you did or not. It is mighty strange, however, that you could discover her in the twinkling of an eye, as soon as her relations were gone." "Not half so strange," said Lucy, interposing once more in terror for the result, "as that you should show yourself so ungrateful, Alured, for his having found me. Instead of giving him deep thanks, which are his due both from you and me, you seem as angry as if you had wished me to remain and perish in the forest." "Well, well," said Alured de Ashby, a little ashamed perhaps of his irritable heat--"this is all waste of words!--Where were you? What was the cause of your being taken away? What has happened to you?" "Three questions in a breath," exclaimed Lucy, "each of which would take an hour to answer fully, even if I could answer them all. As to the first, then, I have been in the forest; as to the last, I reply, a good deal has happened to me, of which I will tell you at leisure. As to the middle one, Why they took me away? my answer must be very short,--I do not know." "Perhaps you do, sir?" said her brother, turning to Hugh. The young nobleman looked him straightforwardly and somewhat sternly in the face, answering, "I do." "Then pray explain," said Alured. "You will excuse me," replied Hugh, "I shall first explain the whole to your father, as he is the person who must act in the business, and as I bear a message to him of which he alone can judge." "Mighty mysterious, my good lord," cried Alured--"But as I am now present here, and am going with all speed to overtake the Earl of Ashby, my sister will no longer need your kind protection." "But as we take the same road," said Hugh de Monthermer, "it will be safer for all, if we travel it together." "Fie! Alured; in common courtesy----" exclaimed Lucy. But her brother interrupted her petulantly, saying--"These are times that abridge courtesy, Lucy.--I differ, my good lord," he continued--"I judge that it will be safer for us to travel apart. With our two troops united we form a body that cannot escape observation, and which is yet too small to make a good defence. I therefore think that it will be better for us to separate. Thanking you much for the assistance and protection you have given to this lady, and waiting with devout patience for the explanations which you have not thought fit to afford, I will take one way if you will take another." Hugh de Monthermer bit his lip; but though quick and fiery in his own disposition, he was acting under a restraint which made him bear to the utmost, rather than quarrel with the brother of her whom he loved, resolved that it should be no act of his which placed a barrier between them. Without making any reply to Alured de Ashby then, he wheeled round his horse to Lucy's side, asking in a low voice--"Shall I go?" "You had better," said Lucy, with a sigh--"you had better:" and then raising her voice, she added--"Farewell, Lord Hugh; I at least am grateful, and so you will find my father, I am sure. Farewell." Thus speaking she held out her hand to him; and Hugh de Monthermer, pressing his lips upon it, turned his horse, and bade his men follow him, without offering any salutation to the ungracious young nobleman who had brought so happy a day to so unpleasant a close. Taking a road which lay somewhat to the north of that which Lucy and her brother were pursuing, he advanced towards Gloucester, keeping nearly upon a line with the other party, and gaining from time to time some information of their movements. Towards the end of the fifth day's march, his little troop approached the city in which he expected to find his uncle; but at the small town of Charlton, he received intimation from his host that if he were going to join the army of the great Earl of Leicester, it would be well for him to take a large circuit, the road between that place and Gloucester being somewhat dangerous. "Gilbert de Clare," he said, "our good Earl, keeps the forest of Dean with some five thousand men; and we just this morning heard that the young Lord of Ashby, who left last night, has been taken with all his company. His sister was with him, too, pretty lady; but some say the young lord was not unwilling to fall into the Earl's hands. At all events he was well forewarned, for we told him what would happen when he set out." Hugh bit his lip, mused for a moment or two; and then murmuring--"It is not impossible," mounted his horse and rode away, taking the road which the host had pointed out as the most secure. CHAPTER XV. The greatest men that ever lived, if we were to examine accurately all the actions that they have performed at different periods of their existence, and could try them with impartial and perfectly discriminating judgment, would be found to have committed more than one great mistake which in many instances did not lead to the evil consequences that might have been anticipated. And, on the contrary, very often indeed, a trifling fault, a rash word, a thoughtless act, or even an angry look, has produced more important results than one of these capital errors. Sometimes it has been conduct which has retrieved the fault, but history shows us that the moment at which an act is committed more frequently decides whether the consequences shall be great or insignificant than the nature of the act itself. At the period of history of which we now speak, the famous Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester--justly celebrated both as a soldier and a politician, one of the few men, with a prophetical spirit, to foresee the path in which society will march, and forestall their age in choosing it--had committed that grand mistake which led to his overthrow and death. Often, before this period, he had proceeded with inferior forces from one end of the land to the other, and, supported by the strong popular feeling in his favour, had overthrown all his enemies, holding his weak and tyrannical sovereign a mere prisoner in his hands, and keeping even Prince Edward himself, one of the wisest men and best soldiers of the age, in a state of honourable captivity. No evil results had ensued--no great danger even had been incurred. But the times had changed. Many of those who had attached themselves to De Montfort, upon the less virtuous and honourable motives which affect the course of human actions, had been treated by him with cold and most impolitic neglect. Others feared the consequences of his growing power, either for themselves or their country, not taking in the vast range to which his own political vision extended; and others were indignant at his treatment of their king, who, however weak, vicious, and tyrannical, they still looked upon with feudal respect. Many of the lords of the marches of Wales were actually in arms against his power; and the famous Earl of Gloucester, a factious kinsman of the throne, had been for some time assuming loyalty, and displaying a thinly veiled enmity to the party of De Montfort. At this inauspicious moment, the Earl of Leicester had determined to march from the neighbourhood of London, by whose citizens he had always been vigorously supported, and where his chief strength lay, and to advance to the frontiers of Wales, with the purpose of punishing the malcontents who refused to submit to his authority. By thus removing from the proximity of his best resources, he rendered the power of his adversaries and his own so nearly equal, that it wanted but one of those slight accidents which so frequently overthrow the best laid schemes, to turn the balance against him; and that accident was soon destined to occur. With the exception of this great mistake, not the slightest error has been pointed out in his conduct, at least in a military point of view. His march was conducted with the circumspection; and, with a force by no means large--keeping the King and the Prince, eager for deliverance and assisted by many friends, at his side, while he advanced in the midst of enemies, equal, if not superior in numbers to himself,--he proceeded, with slow and careful steps, to Gloucester, and there entered into negotiations with Gilbert de Clare, his most formidable opponent, in order to induce him once more to join the party which had so frequently asserted the rights of the people against the encroaching spirit of Henry III. Deceived; in some degree, by pretended advances on the part of the Earl of Gloucester, he agreed to refer their differences to arbitration, and recommenced his march for Hereford; but still, with the most scrupulous precaution, guarded his royal companions, and frustrated every effort made by the Earl to take him at a disadvantage, and to set them free. At the same time, perceiving that, in order to attain the great objects he had in view, he must strengthen himself to the utmost of his power, he notified to all his friends the absolute necessity of their combining to give him support and marching to his assistance with all the troops that they could levy. The effect of his messages and exhortations we have seen in the meetings held in Yorkshire, and gradually perceiving that there was no chance of recovering the friendship of Gloucester, he prepared to compel that submission which he could not obtain, by gentler means. Men were gathering from all parts--arms were being manufactured in every town--the land was agitated from end to end, and every one looked forward to a great and decisive struggle--though there were few, it must be confessed, who did not believe that De Montfort would triumph--for the prestige of victory hung around his banner, and the whole air and tone of the great leader were those of a man marked out by the hand of God for success. Such was the state of affairs, when Hugh de Monthermer, with his small troop, after having visited the town of Gloucester, and learned that his uncle had proceeded at once to Hereford, arrived in that fair city. It was now filled with soldiers and with noblemen from different parts of the country, so that a lodging would have been difficult to obtain, had not the old Earl of Monthermer secured a portion of the inn called the May which we have once led the reader--for the dwelling of himself and his nephew. Hugh found but small space, however, allotted to him and to those who accompanied him. A party of his own servants who had gone on with the Earl were already in possession, two having taken up their abode in the small ante-room leading to the chamber which had been assigned to himself; and an adjoining room, not very large, with one somewhat less, at the side, was all that remained for the rest of his retinue, and the five archers who had been left behind by his uncle. The other parts of the inn were completely filled; and for the poor boy, Tangel, no place had, of course, been reserved, as every one had been ignorant of his coming. The dwarf, who had seemed to grow more sad at each day's journey from Sherwood, stood in the doorway of the ante-room, as the young lord entered, listening to the arrangements which had been made. "Where to put the maggot that you have brought, my lord," said the old servant, who was explaining to Hugh the fullness of the rooms and the disposition they had been obliged to adopt, and who did not appear at all well pleased at poor Tangel's addition to the party--"Where to put the maggot you have brought, I cannot tell. The ante-room is scarce big enough for the two yeomen, and----" "He shall sleep in my chamber," said Hugh, noting the poor dwarf's desolate look; "come hither, Tangel, thou shalt sleep on a bed at my feet. Know him, and take care of him, Walsh; for he is a good and faithful boy, true and affectionate to his master; and if any one does him wrong, he shall answer to me for it." The boy darted forward, and kissed his hand; and Hugh de Monthermer, after giving some farther directions, to ensure that he was protected against insult as well as injury, proceeded at once, followed by two servants, armed with sword and buckler, to the magnificent castle of Hereford, whither he found that his uncle had gone about an hour before. It was a gay and bustling scene that the court-yard presented, for as every detail of military life was then complicated in the extreme, and the taste for splendour and expense was at its height, the crowd of followers, in gaudy dresses, who accompanied even the inferior officers of an army hither, caused the head-quarters of the general to appear in a constant state of flutter and pageantry. Forcing his way through the crowd, and, from the scanty number of his attendants, attracting but little attention, Hugh de Monthermer ascended the steps into the great hall of the keep, which he found nearly filled with people, pacing up and down; and as he was not acquainted with the building, he asked a gentleman, who seemed at his ease in the place, to tell him where he could find the Earl of Leicester. The personage to whom he addressed himself pointed to a flight of steps leading from the farther end of the hall, and replied, "At the top of the stairs you will meet with some one who will tell you where the Earl is: but you will not get speech of him, I think." "I think I shall!" replied Hugh, "but, at all events, I thank you;" and ascending the stairs, he was stopped by an officer with a partisan, who asked him his business, and in the same breath told him he could not pass that way. Hugh gave his name, and demanded to see the Earl; upon which a page was sent to knock at the council chamber, and ask if the Earl would see the young Lord of Monthermer. In about three minutes the boy returned, bidding him follow, and Hugh was led along the dark and gloomy corridor, until his guide paused, and again tapped at a low narrow door on the left hand side of the passage. After a moment's interval, a deep voice replied, "Come in!" and the next instant Hugh entered the room, and found himself standing within a step or two of the chair in which De Montfort was seated. He was a tall, powerful, square-browed man, with a countenance full of thought, but likewise full of confidence. There was great calmness also in his aspect, and an eye, not stern but grave, not so much shrewd as searching. There were but two other persons in the room, although he was said to be holding council. One of those was the old Earl of Monthermer, and the other a man considerably younger, but yet grey-headed, and well known in the history of the times as the Lord Ralph Basset. De Montfort looked up, as Hugh de Monthermer entered, with a bland and pleasant smile, holding out his hand at the same time, and saying, "How are you, Hugh? Right glad are we to see such friends as you arrive. Do you bring us any farther tidings from Nottingham?" "None, my lord," replied Hugh, "except that levies of the yeomen and foresters are going on rapidly." "They had need be speedy," said De Montfort, "or we shall strike some great blow before they come. Heard you aught else by the way?" "In truth, my lord, I did, and no good news either!" replied Hugh. "The Earl of Gloucester is daily gathering strength, and he renders the road round his fair city somewhat dangerous to travel. Indeed, the reason why I intruded on you now, was but to tell you that Alured de Ashby, his sister, and some twelve or fourteen archers, had been captured by De Clare, between Gloucester and Charlton. I judge, my lord, that if you took speedy means to set him free, it might fix the house of Ashby somewhat more firmly in the good cause." Both De Montfort and the Earl of Monthermer heard him with a smile, and Ralph Basset muttered between his teeth--"Fix the sands of the sea!" "You have been forestalled, my young friend," said De Montfort; "some one else has already liberated Alured de Ashby, together with his sister and his archers." "Indeed!" exclaimed Hugh de Monthermer; "may I ask who?" "Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester," replied De Montfort. "Ay, and not without cause, be sure of that;" said Ralph Basset; "he is coming hither now, will arrive to-morrow, with a smooth air and a high-carried head, and my Lord of Leicester here will receive him as kindly and frankly as the truest of his friends." "I want not to multiply my enemies, Ralph," replied De Montfort; "and perhaps we may find some better way of attaching him to what is right, than by treating him as a foe, before we are well sure that he has done aught to deserve the name. What say you, Hugh, will you be the link to bind him to our cause?" "Right willingly, my lord," answered Hugh de Monthermer; "but I rather fear that I am more likely to separate him from it. He loves me not, that is clear; and though the good Earl, his uncle, is not so hot and fiery in his nature, yet I have those things to say about their near relation, Richard, which may breed ill blood before I have done." De Montfort mused for a minute or two. "Why, Richard," he said, at length, "is apparently the most zealous in our cause of all the race!" "But did my uncle----" demanded Hugh. "Ay, he did,". said De Montfort, interrupting him; "and I spoke with Richard about it; but he assures me that the thing was done in ignorance, and that the man himself has since been discharged.--However----" "He is a foul knave!" replied Hugh de Monthermer; "and at all events I have promised to demand, at the hands of the Earl, some reparation for a gross wrong which he has committed." "Well, well," said the Earl of Leicester, apparently desirous of changing the subject for the time; "if you must do so, Hugh, let it be done before some friends as witnesses--before myself, perhaps, were better; and do whatever you do gently, for your uncle here has told me of hopes and wishes which you may go far to mar, if you act rashly in the business." "I will be as calm and gentle as the south-west wind," replied Hugh, "for I would fain give neither Alured nor his father any matter for offence; and if you will send and let me know when they are with you, I will come and speak to them in your presence. And now, my lord," he continued, "if such a thing be permitted, as I suppose it is, I would fain spend a short time with Prince Edward. You know we were sworn friends in youth." "I know you were," replied De Montfort; "but good sooth, Hugh, to have been his sworn friend is no good motive, in my eyes, for letting you confer with him." The brow of Hugh de Monthermer grew somewhat dark, but the Earl of Leicester added immediately--"I will tell you what is a motive, however, my young friend--your own honour and high name. We treat the Prince with every courtesy and due respect; we do not look upon him as a prisoner; but it is highly needful for the safety of the state, ay, and for our own lives and fortunes, that he should remain in close attendance upon his father, the King. Now, my good friend, there are men who would fain persuade him it were better for him to be away, consulting, doubtless, with this good Earl of Gloucester, and heading armies to tear the kingdom with fresh strife, while others again would willingly give him the means of carrying such designs into execution. None that we even suspect, therefore, do we permit to visit him; and this very Richard de Ashby, whom we spoke of but now, though he gave good reasons, as I have said, to make us believe him innocent, we have, on your uncle's information, forbidden to hold any farther communication with the Prince, and, moreover, warned him to quit Hereford without delay. It is different, however, with a Monthermer," continued the Earl, with a gracious but stately inclination of the head--"you can be trusted." "Of this, at least, my lord, you may rest assured," replied Hugh; "that, although I own I wish to see the Prince at liberty, and only bound by solemn vows to take no part against the cause of freedom and right----" "No wise man trusts to fetters of wind," interrupted the Earl, who had taken up a pen, and was writing at the table. "At all events," continued Hugh de Monthermer, "I would never basely use a permission you yourself had granted to thwart your dearest wishes." "I know it," said the Earl; "there is a pass. You will find the Prince in the other court; but make what speed you may, for it is growing dusk, and the castle gates must soon be closed." "Haste away, Hugh," said his uncle; "in an hour I shall be at the inn." CHAPTER XVI. In the old castle of Hereford, which, according to the account of Leland, was one of the largest and finest specimens of the military architecture of feudal times, were numerous courts and various detached buildings, so that the number of persons which it could contain was immense; and even when several hundred men were within the walls, many of the open spaces and passages would be found silent and solitary. Thus, on the evening of Hugh de Monthermer's visit, the chief court, the halls, and the corridors around it, were crowded with not less than seven or eight hundred persons; but as one turned one's steps to other parts of the building, the throng decreased, the passers to and fro became fewer and more few, and at length nothing presented itself but untenanted courts and empty arcades. In a dark corner of a long passage--which, traversing one side of the keep under open cloisters, passed through a large mass of buildings, receiving no light but that which poured in at either end, and, after being joined by two other arched corridors, led out into the court in which Prince Edward's lodging was situated--in a dark corner of this long passage stood two men engaged in earnest conversation, just about the time that Hugh de Monthermer quitted the Earl of Leicester. They were both covered with large cloaks, and both had their hoods drawn far over their heads, so that it would have been very difficult for any one to recognise them, unless well acquainted with their air and figure. Nevertheless, they did not seem to feel themselves secure; for, the instant that they heard a step coming from the direction of the principal court, they walked on a few paces, and then turned into one of the lateral passages, near the mouth of which they again paused, and resumed their conversation in a low tone. A moment after, the tall, graceful figure of Hugh de Monthermer passed across, without appearing to excite their attention, so earnest were they in the matter they were discussing. He, however, turned his head, and looked at them steadily, but still walked on without slackening his pace. "Some means must be found," said one--the shorter and the slighter of the two--"some means must be found, and that right speedily, or our last chance is lost." "You must have been playing some of your accursed tricks, Richard," replied the other, "or De Montfort never would have taken such a step. The house of Ashby is of too much importance to any cause that its members espouse, for even the lowest branch to be treated with indignity, without some strong occasion." "Nonsense, Alured, I did nothing!" replied the other. "I tell you, it was solely and simply upon this old Monthermer's charge against me." "On your life and honour?" demanded his companion. "On my life, honour, soul, and salvation!" replied the other. "Well, then, I am glad of it," said the taller speaker. "I am glad that it has happened; for, first, I will take care it shall rouse my father's anger against De Montfort, and, secondly, it shall stir him up against these Monthermers, and, I trust, induce him to break with them both. At all events, it will make him forgive my joining Gloucester. So, I repeat, I am glad that it has happened." "I cannot say as much," rejoined the first speaker. "I never care, for my part, Alured, about an excuse for anything I am about to do. Oh, there is many a convenient point in having a bad reputation! Men do not expect too much of you--you may do what you please, without anybody wondering; and then, when you are in the humour, and perform two or three good actions, Lord! how you are praised! But, to the point--what can be done now? How can we give _him_ intimation of the scheme?" "On my life! I know not," said the other. "Could you not bribe some woman?" demanded the taller and more powerful of the speakers; "They would not stop a woman, I suppose." "Right, right!" cried his companion. "You have put me on the track, and I will not miss my game." "But can you engage any woman you can trust?" asked the other. "It must not be some common hireling, some minstrel's wench, some follower of city fairs." "Leave it to me, leave it to me!" cried the shorter man; "if I cannot _engage_, I can make her, and that ere another hour be over. There is no time to be lost. Farewell, for the present, for I must away from Hereford to-night; and, if you intend, good Alured, to hatch a quarrel with my noble Lord Hugh, let it be speedy; for I do not think that twenty-four hours will be over ere I have repaid him some trifles that I owe him. I have some plans in my head, as well as you. So fare you well, once more." And thus they parted. In the meanwhile, Hugh de Monthermer sped upon his way, traversed the other court, and approached a door at which stood two or three of De Montfort's officers, guarding closely, though with an appearance of profound respect, the only entrance to the apartments of Prince Edward. While he showed the pass which he had received, and mounted the long, narrow staircase, we shall take leave to precede him, for a few minutes, to the apartment of the Prince. It consisted of a suite of several rooms, all reached by the same ascent, and was in itself as convenient and comfortable as any abode can be from which free egress is denied us. The principal chamber was a large and lofty one, with two wide windows, situated in deep bays, looking over the fair scene around. The casement was open; and, seated in a large chair, with his feet resting on a stool, sat the captive Prince, gazing down upon a part of the town of Hereford and the meadows and orchards beyond. The apple-trees were all in blossom, and every shrub in the manifold gardens had put on the blush of vegetable youth, promising rich fruit in the maturity of the year. Beyond the meadows and the orchards came slopes and rising ground, and lines of deep wood, sheltering the intervening space, and then high hills were seen, fading off into the sky. On the left hand the scene was all open, but on the right, an angle of the cathedral, as it then appeared, bounded the view, while the tower of another church, of inferior dimensions, rose up under the eye, and cut the long, straight lines of the houses and other buildings. Edward leaned his head upon his hand and gazed, while at a little distance from him sat a gentleman, somewhat younger than himself, looking upon him, from time to time, with a glance of deep interest, but keeping silence out of respect for the Prince's musing mood. The soft air of summer wafted to the window the scent of the blossoms from the fields beyond; and Edward thought it spoke of liberty. Up rose from the streets and houses of Hereford the manifold sounds of busy life, the buzz of talking multitudes, the call, the shout, the merry laugh of idle boyhood; and still, to the captive's ears, they spoke of liberty. The bells from the cathedral joined in, and rang complines; and turning his eyes thither, he thought how often he had heard those sweet tones, at even-close, in the happy days of early youth, returning from the chase or any other or the free sports of the time. His sight wandered on, over tower and spire, round which the crows were winging their airy flight, to the deep woods and blue hills, flooded with glory from the declining sun. Still, still, it all spoke of liberty; and Edward's heart felt oppressed, his very breathing laboured, as he remembered the mighty blessing he had lost. It was like the sight of a river to a man dying with thirst in the sands of Africa, without the strength to reach it. He gazed, and perhaps for a moment might forget himself and his hard fate, in a dream of enjoyment; but if he did, it lasted not long--the dark reality soon came between him and the light of fancy, and letting his head droop, he turned away with a deep sigh, and gave up a brief space to bitter meditation. Then rising from his seat, taller by many an inch than the ordinary race of men, he threw back his magnificent head and his wide shoulders with a sorrowful smile, saying, "I will walk up and down my chamber, De Clare, and fancy I am free!" "I hope you feel better, my lord, to-night," said young Thomas de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester's brother. "Yes, good faith," replied the Prince, "I am better. The fever has left me, but nothing will make me truly well but open air and strong exercise. However, I am better, and I thank you much; for I believe you love me, De Clare, although you make yourself a sort of willing gaoler to me." The young gentleman bent his head without reply, though there was a faint smile upon his lip, which might have puzzled Edward had he seen it; and after a moment or two De Clare said, somewhat abruptly, "Now I could wager your Grace is strong enough to ride some twenty or thirty miles, if you were at liberty to do so." "A hundred!" answered Edward, quickly; and then added, more slowly--"were I at liberty." At that moment some one knocked at the door, and on being told to come in, Hugh de Monthermer entered. The face of the Prince instantly brightened--"Ah, Monthermer!" he cried, "right glad am I to see you, my friend!--yes, my friend--for these factious times shall never make us enemies, though we draw our swords on different sides. This is my state apartment, Hugh, and that staircase by which you came hither the extreme limit of my principality. I wonder that De Montfort suffered you to see me." "I almost wondered myself, my lord," said Hugh de Monthermer; "for my request was coupled with a remonstrance against your imprisonment." "And yet," added the Prince, "you will remonstrate, but not aid to free me." "My lord, I cannot, without treason," replied Hugh de Monthermer. "Treason to whom?" demanded Edward, somewhat sharply. "Treason to the land, my lord," answered Hugh de Monthermer, "and to those rights which I know, when you are king, you will yourself willingly respect. I do beseech you, my dear lord, press me not harshly on a matter where I can make but one reply. You are here by the will of four-and-twenty noble gentlemen, appointed lawfully----" "And by the _mise_ of Lewes," added the Prince, bitterly--"but say no more, Monthermer; I do believe that if your voice might prevail, I should soon be at liberty." "Upon my life, you would," replied the young nobleman; "indeed, you never should have been otherwise, for I would have taken your word--your plighted word--to maintain the rights of Englishmen, and to aid in no act against them, and would have set you free at once." "Well, it matters not," answered the Prince; "perhaps it is better as it is. I know not what I might have promised to buy my liberty, if men had asked me; but now, though fettered in body, I am at large in mind, and events may yet come to open stronger doors than that.--How fares it with your good uncle?" he continued. "He has been somewhat harsh and sudden with his king, but still he is a noble gentleman, and one of whom England may well be proud." Hugh de Monthermer answered in general terms; and the conversation, having then taken a turn away from painful subjects of discussion, reverted pleasantly to brighter themes. Their boyish hours rose up before their eyes--the sports, the pastimes--the gay thoughts and heedless jests of youth were recollected--Edward's countenance unbent, his eyes sparkled, his lips smiled, the prison and its cares were forgotten; and for the time he seemed to live once more in the sweet early days of which they spoke. The conversation proceeded almost entirely between the Prince and Hugh de Monthermer, for though Thomas de Clare added a word or two now and then, they were but few, and only served to break through one of those momentary pauses which would have given thought time to return from the pleasant past to the sad present. The sun was, as I have said, going down when Hugh de Monthermer entered the Prince's chamber, and ere he had been there half an hour, the bright orb had sunk beneath the horizon; but in these northern climes, Heaven has vouchsafed to us a blessing which brighter lands do not possess--the long, soft twilight of the summer evening--and the sky was still full of light, so that one might have read with ease in the high chamber of the Prince, nearly half an hour after the star of day had disappeared. It was just at that moment that Hugh, who was sitting with his face towards the door, saw it open slowly, and a beautiful girl, dressed in somewhat gay and sparkling attire, even for those gaudy times, entered with a noiseless step, bearing a small basket in her hands. An expression of some surprise on the young lord's countenance made Edward himself turn round, and the sight suddenly produced signs of greater amazement in his face than even in Hugh de Monthermer's. He rose instantly, however, saying--"What would you, my fair lady?" "Nothing, royal sir," replied the girl, "but to bring your Grace this small basket of early strawberries. You will find the flavour good," she added, "_especially at the bottom_, where they have not been heated by the sun." As she spoke she put down the basket on the table, and was retreating quickly, but Edward exclaimed--"Stay--stay; pretty one! tell me who you are, that I may remember in my prayers one who has thought upon her captive Prince, and striven to solace him in his imprisonment." "It matters not," replied the girl, courtesying low and speaking evidently with a country accent--"it matters not. I promised not to stay a moment, but to give the strawberries and to come away. God send your Grace a happy even, and a happy morning to boot!" and thus saying, she retired, closing the door carefully behind her. "This is strange," said the Prince, taking up the basket, and turning towards Hugh de Monthermer. But the young lord was buried in deep meditation. "You seem surprised, Monthermer," said the Prince, "and, faith, so am I, too. I never saw the girl in all my days. Did you, De Clare?" "Never!" replied the young noble. "Methinks, I have," observed Hugh de Monthermer, gravely, "and that, many a mile hence. But I will now leave you, my lord; the gates will soon be shut." "Nay, stay, and take some of this sweet food," said Edward, "which has been brought me, not by ravens but by doves." "Not so, sir," replied Hugh, staying the Prince's hand, as he was about to empty the basket on the table. "May the fruit prove propitious to your Grace and to England!--Adieu, my lord!" and thus saying, he quitted the room abruptly. "He is right, he is right!" cried Thomas de Clare; "there is more than fruit in that basket, or I am much mistaken." Edward laid his hand upon it firmly, and fixed a keen and searching glance upon the young nobleman, saying, "Whatever there be in it, is mine, and for my eye alone, Thomas de Clare." But his companion passed round the table, bent one knee before him, and, kissing his hand respectfully, said, "My noble lord and future King, you have mistaken me; but it is now time to tell you that I am no gaoler. If I be not very wrong, there are in that basket tidings which shall soon set you free as the wind. I have already gained from stern De Montfort permission for you to ride forth, accompanied by six gentlemen of his choosing, and followed by a train of spears. I said, that it was the only means of restoring you to health.--I might have added had I pleased, and to liberty. Now, my lord, see what that basket does contain; and believe me, if it cost me my head to keep your secret, I would not reveal it." "Thanks, De Clare, thanks," replied Edward. "We often suspect the honest of being guilty; but, this time, suspicion has taken a different course, and I have long suspected thee of being honest.--Now suppose all your hopes are false?" and he overturned the basket on the table. Nothing fell from it except the fruit; but, fastened to the bottom by a piece of wax, appeared, on closer inspection, a small billet, folded so as to take the form of the basket. It was speedily drawn forth and opened, as the reader may suppose; but the first words which met the eye of the Prince puzzled him not a little. The note was to the following effect:-- "MY LORD," "One of your horses has been stolen from your stable, namely, the bright bay Norman charger; but, as some compensation, in its place has been put a large-boned, long-legged grey. He is not beautiful to look upon, though a skilful eye will see fine points in him; but he is strong and enduring, and no horse in Europe can match him for speed. Your lordship may try him against what horse you will, you will be sure to win the race; and should you be disposed to try to-morrow, you will find spectators in Monington Wood who will receive you at the winning post. Mark this, for it is from "A FRIEND." "Would that I knew his name," cried Edward, as he concluded the letter. "I can tell you, my lord," replied Thomas de Clare. "It is Richard de Ashby." "Ha!" said Edward, as if not well pleased--"Ha! Richard de Ashby. He is a faithful subject of my father's, I believe, but that is all the good I know of him. However, I must not be ungrateful--Hark! There is a step upon the stairs. Get the fruit into the basket--quick!" and concealing the note, Edward cast himself into the chair which he had previously occupied. De Clare had scarcely replaced the strawberries and set down the basket, when a heavy, stern-looking man, one of the chief officers whom the Earl of Leicester had placed in attendance, as he called it, upon the Prince, entered the room, with a silver dish in his hand. "Seeing that a fair lady has carried you some strawberries, my lord," he said, "I have brought you a dish to put them in;" and taking the basket, he emptied it slowly into the silver plate. "Thanks, Ingelby, thanks," replied the Prince with a look of total indifference as to what he did with the fruit. "Methinks, if you had brought me some cream also it would have been as well." "Your lordship shall have it immediately," answered the officer. "They are fine berries, so early in the season." "They will refresh me, after the fever," said Edward; "for still my mouth feels dry." "You shall have the cream directly, my good lord," rejoined the officer, and left the room. Edward and De Clare looked at each other with a smile, and the note was soon re-read and totally destroyed. CHAPTER XVII. About the hour of ten, on the morning following the day of which we have just been speaking, Simon de Montfort sat alone at a small table in a room adjoining that which he used as a council chamber. Manifold papers and parchments were before him, and a rude map of England, such as the geographical skill of that day enabled men to produce, lay underneath his large powerful hand, with the forefinger resting upon the word, Gloucester. His brow was heavy and his teeth were set; and he fixed his eyes--we cannot call it vacantly, for they were full of expression, though without sight--upon the opposite wall of the room, while his right hand ran slowly up and down the hilt of his heavy sword. "Care," he said--"continual care! thought, and anxiety, and strife!--Oh, life, life! the gilded bubble--how is it that man clings to thee so fondly!--Who would not gladly be waked from an unpleasant dream? and yet how troublous is this sad dream of human existence, which we are so loath to lose? Some five or six years in early youth, when fancy, passion, and inexperience forbid us to think, and teach us only to enjoy, may have a portion of chequered brightness; but the rest, alas! has its care for every day, and its anxiety for every hour. It is a weary place, this world to dwell in, and life but a grim and discontented tenant of the house!" He paused, and looked at the papers again, but it seemed difficult for him to fix his mind upon them. "It is strange," he continued--"I am not often thus; but I feel as if all things were passing away from me. Can it be, that sometimes the spirit has an indication of coming fate, from beings that we see not?--It may be so--but it is weak to give way to such thoughts. It is with human actions and endeavours that we have now to do. Ho! without there!--Does any one wait?" he continued, addressing a servant who appeared at his call. "The constable of the guard of the west court, my lord," replied the attendant; "he has something to report." "Send him, in," said the Earl of Leicester; "and dispatch a messenger to the Earl of Ashby, with many courteous greetings, to say that I am ready to receive him when it suits his pleasure: the same to the Earl of Monthermer and the lord Hugh.--Now, constable, what have you to tell me?" The servant had beckoned in from the door where he stood, a sturdy soldier, clad in full armour, except the casque; and the latter now replied to Leicester's question-- "You told me, my lord, that the pass was withdrawn from Sir Richard de Ashby, and that he was no more to have access either to the King or the Prince." "I said, moreover," answered Leicester, "that he was to quit Hereford. Is he not gone?" "He may be now, my lord," replied the soldier, "but last night I found him several times lingering about the castle." "If you find him any more, arrest him on the spot," cried De Montfort, hastily. "Methinks the man is a traitor. I sent him hence for his good; if he come back, evil shall overtake him." He spoke evidently with considerable irritation, which the Great Earl of Leicester, as he was generally called, was seldom, if ever, known to display. Impetuous he certainly had been in his early youth; and pride and sternness had been faults of his years; but excitement upon trifling occasions was so foreign to his character, that the constable of the guard, as he retired from his presence, muttered--"Something must have gone very wrong with the Great Earl; I never saw him so before." When the officer had departed, Simon de Montfort rose, and took two or three turns up and down the room, murmuring to himself--"Each petty knave dares to disobey me; but I doubt these Ashbys; they are none of them stern and steadfast in the cause of right. This conference with Gloucester, on pretence of being stopped by his troops--'tis rank,--'tis evident. But we shall soon hear more. Here they come, I suppose:" and opening the door into the council-room, he walked slowly to the head of the table, while the old Earl of Monthermer advanced to meet him, and Hugh lingered for a moment at the opposite side reading a note which seemed to have been just put into his hands. "Public or private?" asked De Montfort, looking upon his young friend with a smile. "Private, my lord," answered Hugh--"at least it is marked so; and though I have some doubt of the honesty of the writer, I will keep it private--at least for the present." The Earl was about to reply; but at that moment the jingling step of Alured de Ashby was heard in the stone corridor at the top of the stairs; and after a brief pause he followed, his father into the council chamber. "Welcome, my Lord of Ashby," said De Montfort, advancing, and taking the Earl's hand. "I am right glad to see you here; and welcome, too, Lord Alured. I fear that you have passed through some perils, and met with somewhat rough treatment on your road hither?" "Perils, my lord, I may have passed through," answered Alured, "but rough treatment I have none to complain of. The noble Earl of Gloucester treated me with more courtesy than I had a right to expect; and, as you see, suffered me to proceed, to join your lordship." De Montfort strove in vain to prevent his brow from gathering into a heavy frown; and he replied, with a bitter smile--"Doubtless the Earl is wise." In the meanwhile the Earl of Ashby had been greeting cordially the Monthermer and his nephew; and the sight of their mutual courtesies, which was in no way pleasant to Alured de Ashby, prevented him, in all probability, from making a rash reply to the Earl of Leicester. "Well, sir," he said, not noticing the words of De Montfort, but turning sharply to Hugh, "you informed me, some time ago, that the cause of my sister's being carried off and detained by some rude country people, or forest outlaws, would be explained to my good father here. Pray let us hear it in this noble presence! I am as curious as a woman." "Tush, Alured!" cried his father; "you are an impatient, irritable boy. First let me render thanks to our young friend, for his gallant, well-conducted search after our dear Lucy, and for restoring her to us so soon." "Whatever thanks he has merited, my lord," replied Alured, "I am right willing to pay; but first I wish to hear the full extent of his great deservings, lest my gratitude should overwhelm me. Luckily, however, there is a small deduction to be made, for having even at this early hour, brought an unjust charge against our kinsman Richard, and roused dark suspicions of him in the breast of this noble Earl." "I fear, my young friend," said the old Lord of Monthermer, in a calm and kindly tone, "that the gratitude which seems to sit so heavy upon you--if there prove any cause for gratitude at all, which I doubt--can suffer no diminution on the account you would place against it. The charge against your kinsman was made by me, not Hugh. I neither concealed any part of the suspicion, nor aggravated it in the least; but merely told noble De Montfort that which we all know, and which behoved him to be acquainted with, when he was trusting daily near Prince Edward a person of whom even your father must entertain grave doubts." "No--no! not so, my lord!" cried the Earl of Ashby, "my doubts have been dispelled." Some farther conversation, of a menacing character, took place, the old Lord of Monthermer showing himself desirous of soothing the two Lords of Ashby, but Alured evidently striving to drive the matter to a personal quarrel. It is no easy task, with a companion so disposed, to avoid administering some occasion of offence; and although Hugh de Monthermer, in his love for Lucy, found every motive for avoiding a breach with her brother, yet there was a point of endurance beyond which even that inducement could not carry him. "Well--well, Lord Alured," he said, at length, "it is clear to me, and must be clear to all, what is your object now. You have never forgotten ancient feuds, though we all agreed to cast them aside for ever. I would do all that is honourable and just, to maintain and strengthen every kindly feeling between our two houses, but even the desire of so doing shall not induce me to swerve from what I consider right. I believe Richard de Ashby to be a false traitor, unworthy of the name he bears; for your noble race, whatever side it has taken, has never produced such a one before." "And I maintain him honest and true," replied Alured, "and will uphold it at----" He was going to add, the spear's point; but his father stopped him, exclaiming--"Hush--hush! no violence! Hear what Lord Hugh would say." "At all events," said De Montfort, "have some respect, sir, for those in whose presence you speak." Alured de Ashby bit his lip, but made no reply, and Hugh de Monthermer turned with a glowing cheek to the Earl of Ashby, inquiring--"My lord, have you heard from your daughter, in whose hands I found her?" "I have not seen her," replied the Earl--"I have not yet seen her. This city is so full of troops and armed men, that Alured judged it better to leave her at a place a short distance hence, between this and Gloucester. But Alured has told me what she told him." "Well then, my lord," continued Hugh, "I have but to add, that the men in whose hands she was, and against whom I could bring no force sufficient to set her free, agreed to liberate her on condition that I requested you, by your honour and high name, to compel your kinsman, Richard de Ashby, to restore the unhappy girl he carried off, when we all met in Barnesdale, to the house of her father, John Greenly, and to make him pay such dowry, on her entering a convent, as may punish him and ensure her reception. It was as a hostage for her return that they seized your daughter; and it was only upon this condition that they set her free." "May I know," demanded Alured de Ashby, assuming a sweet and ceremonious tone, which contrasted strangely with the workings of anger and pride in his face--"may I know, fair sir, whether this demand is made of my father by these courteous outlaws of Sherwood, or by the noble Lord Hugh de Monthermer?" "Hush! Alured, I will have none of this!" exclaimed his father again. "You are too violent! Surely I have maintained the dignity of my house all my days, and can do it without your help. Now, my Lord Hugh, from whom comes this demand?" "It comes, my lord," replied Hugh, "from all those persons who held your daughter in their power. To you, my lord, for whom I entertain so much respect, I bear it unwillingly, and bear it only in the name of others; but it is my purpose, I acknowledge, whenever and wheresoever I meet Richard de Ashby, to demand that and more at his hands." "Sir!" cried Alured, "there is one here present right willing and ready to put himself in the place of his cousin, and render you every account of his conduct you can desire." Hugh turned from him with a look from which he could not altogether banish some contempt. "When I find, my lord," he replied, "that Richard de Ashby is lame or impotent, a woman or a monk, I will consent to his appointing a champion, but not till then. I have no quarrel with you, my lord, and do not intend to have one." "Methinks, my Lord of Ashby," said De Montfort, who had been speaking for a moment apart with the old Earl of Monthermer--"methinks the demand made upon you is but just, let it come from whom it may. These men held your daughter in their power, and they fixed certain conditions, taking it for granted you would execute which, they set the lady free. Those conditions in themselves are fair, if I understand the matter rightly; and it were better far to yield to them, than now to dispute the matter, when your daughter has thus attained her liberty.--It would be more honourable, I say." The colour came up in the old Earl de Ashby's cheek. "The house of Ashby, my lord," he replied, "permits no one to dictate to it, what is for its honour to do." "Far less," cried Alured, "will it allow an ancient enemy, presuming on the forbearance which has already given pardon and forgiveness for many offences, to bring false charges against one of its members, and then dictate how its chief is to act!" "Pardon and forgiveness!" exclaimed Hugh de Monthermer--"false charges! These are strange terms. As to the truth of the accusation, if your base kinsman, sir, dares to put forth still the lying pretext that he made use of when last I saw him, and to lay, upon the same scapegoat, the blame of corresponding with the enemies of the state and of carrying off this poor girl, his falsehood now can soon be proved, for she has been seen with him in this very city." Alured looked down and bit his lip; and the old Lord of Monthermer, anxious to prevent the house of Ashby from abandoning that cause which he conceived to be just and right, interposed in the calm, grave manner which was usual with him, saying--"Do not suppose, my noble friend, that my Lord of Leicester wishes to dictate to you in any degree. It is fair that he should submit for your consideration whether it will not be more honourable to your family to clear it of the stain which this man's conduct leaves upon it." "I can meddle, my lord, with no man's pastimes," said the Earl de Ashby, carried away by the example of his son. "Richard de Ashby is not my page, for me to chastise him, if he plays the fool with a peasant's daughter. I cannot meddle in the matter." "Would your lordship not have meddled," asked De Montfort, sternly, "if your daughter's freedom had still depended on it. Methinks you would then have found right soon motives sufficient to interfere, and that somewhat vigorously." "Well, my lord," cried the Earl, in an angry tone,--for where weakness goes hand in hand with wrong, wrath is never far behind; "at all events, it is no affair of yours! This is no public matter, but a private business, put upon me by Lord Hugh of Monthermer." "Nay, my good lord--nay!" exclaimed Hugh, "most unwillingly did I undertake it; but surely you would not have had me risk your daughter's liberation, by hesitating to convey to you a mere demand, which, without obtaining her deliverance at all, might have been sent by any other person." "And carried by any other, with much more grace than by a pretended friend," rejoined Alured de Ashby. "Young gentleman," said the old Earl of Monthermer, "you have done mischief enough this morning, whether you intended it or not. Do no more mischief, I beseech you; nor make those part enemies who would fain be friends. Your father's answer is given--he will not meddle in the affair; so let it rest. Hugh has done his duty, and he has had, moreover, the pleasure and the honour of serving and protecting a lady. Whatever more is to be done rests with yourselves." "Not entirely," replied De Montfort, with a frown; "I have some say in this business." "How so, my lord?" demanded the Earl of Ashby, sharply. "I will allow no one--, not the highest in all the laud, to judge for me, as to my private conduct." "You are somewhat hasty, my good lord," said De Montfort, coldly. "Hasty or not," interrupted Alured de Ashby, eager to widen the breach as far as possible, "my father is right in what he says: and I say yea to him." "So bold!" said De Montfort, contemptuously; "so very bold for so young a bird! Methinks its wings want clipping, lest it should flee away!" Alured de Ashby saw that he had gone somewhat too far, and might, perhaps, if he said more, endanger his own liberty. At least, conscious of his own purposes, he so construed the words of the Earl of Leicester. His haughty spirit, however, would not bow to qualify even in a degree the rash language he had used, and he remained sullenly silent, looking down upon the ground, while the great Earl continued with his keen grey eyes fixed sternly upon him. "To end all this," De Montfort went on, "and to conclude a conversation which has continued too long, there are other charges against your kinsman, Earl of Ashby, which cannot exactly be trusted to your lordship's lenity. They are somewhat more serious than debauching a country girl; and as it has been proved that he has been seen with this light-o'-love damsel, who, by his own confession, went off with one undoubtedly a traitor to these realms, it is strong presumptive proof that he still has that traitor in his service, or knows more of him than is befitting. Under these circumstances, I have already ordered his arrest, should he enter Hereford; and now, moreover, I will have him sought for, and if he be a traitor, deal with him as such--which I will likewise do with all who prove so;" he added, in a marked tone. "Your lordship is right," said Alured de Ashby; and he muttered between his teeth so low that it could not be heard--"If you can catch them!" "Now, good morning to you, my lords," continued De Montfort; "at three this evening we will hold a council, to consider of proclaiming Mortimer and others, traitors. We shall expect you all to be present. Come with me, Monthermer--come with me, Lord Hugh! We will have no high words upon the stairs." Lord Ashby and his son turned away, with frowning brows; and, as they descended to the court-yard, two short sentences were spoken, which decided the fate of both. "I know not what may be your purpose, my father," said Alured, "but my course is determined. I will neither be the jest of the Monthermers nor the slave of Simon de Montfort!" "Nor I either, Alured," answered the Earl, in a low tone; and without more comment they mounted their horses, and rode back to the inn. They had scarcely quitted the court when Hugh de Monthermer appeared in it, with a hasty step. One of the small party of armed retainers who had accompanied him instantly led forwards his horse, and he sprang into the saddle. "Which way did the Earl of Ashby take?" he demanded. "Through that gate, my lord," replied the man; and, bidding the servants follow him, the young knight was turning towards the other archway, when he felt something pull his stirrup, and looking down, beheld the boy Tangel, holding up his long bony hand with many a curious grimace. "I will speak with thee by and by, Tangel," said Hugh; "I will be back in an hour." "Ay, by and by is the cat that lapped up all the cream!" cried the dwarf. "By and by wont do, I must speak with you now! I have much to say!" "Then you must get a horse, and follow me, Tangel," replied the young lord--"it is already near the hour named. I go up the hill--be quick!" and he put spurs to his horse. The dwarf gazed after him for a minute, murmuring--"He'll be an hour too soon, if he do not mind!" and turned away. CHAPTER XVIII. About half an hour after the events had taken place, of which we have spoken in the last chapter, Prince Edward stood in the midst of the chamber already described, habited in a light riding suit, but armed only with his sword. He was gazing, with a look of expectation, at the door, when it opened, and his young companion, Thomas de Clare, entered in haste. "Oh yes, my lord," he said, with a well pleased smile, "he fully confirms the permission; and, indeed, William of Cantelupe, Ingelby, and Thomas de Blundel, with three or four, are already waiting in the court-yard for your coming." "Is my horse prepared, then?" demanded the Prince. "Why, the foolish grooms, my lord," replied the young nobleman, "had brought out the roan, alleging that grey was lean, and not like a Prince's horse, but I bade them saddle him, notwithstanding, saying that I had given him to your Grace, and checking them for not obeying the order they had received. He is, doubtless, caparisoned by this time--but you are pale, my lord; the fever has weakened you! Were it not as well to take a cup of wine before you ride forth?" Edward shook his head. "Not so!" he said; "when I strike my spur into that horse's side, the very thought of freedom shall give me better strength and courage than the best wine that ever France produced. However, let me have your arm; it may be well to seem a little weaker than I am. Do you go with me, De Clare?" "No, my lord," answered his companion, "I am not one of those named; and, to say the truth, I did not seek the honour, for I might but embarrass you, and I must provide for my own safety here." "Are you sure you can?" demanded the Prince. "You must not risk your life for me, De Clare!" "Oh, fear not--fear not!" replied the young nobleman; "give me but one hour, and I will be beyond the reach of harm." After a few more words, Prince Edward took his arm, and slowly descended the stairs, at the foot of which they found a number of gentlemen assembled, with several servants holding the horses which had been prepared for their excursion. The spearmen whom De Clare had talked of the preceding night did not make their appearance, De Montfort judging that seven or eight of his stanchest followers would be quite sufficient to secure him against the escape of the captive Prince. Edward bowed familiarly to the various gentlemen present, and was received with every appearance of deference and respect. "Good morning, Ingelby," he said; "good morning, Sir William de Cantelupe. Blundel, I am glad you are here--you are a judge of horses; and De Clare has given me one, which he declares will make an excellent charger--God speed the mark! When shall I need a charger again?--But there he comes; at least, I suppose so. What think you of him?" "Nay, no jesting, gentlemen!" cried De Clare, remarking a smile upon the lips of the rest; "that is a horse which, when well fed and pampered highly, will do more service than a thousand sleek-coated beauties." "To the latter appellation, at least, he has no title," replied Blundel, looking at the horse as it was led forward; "but he has good points about him, nevertheless." "He seems quiet enough," observed the Prince; "and, to say sooth, that is no slight matter with me to-day. I am not strong enough to ride a rough-paced fiery charger. But let us mount, gentlemen, and go. Farewell, De Clare! I will not break your horse's wind." "I defy your Grace," answered Thomas de Clare, holding Edward's stirrup, as he mounted slowly. "I wish you a pleasant ride." At the gate of the castle stood the Earl of Leicester himself, ready to do honour to Prince Edward, as he passed; and after a few words of cold courtesy, the train proceeded on its way, and wound out of the town of Hereford. "This free air cheers me," said Edward, turning to one of his companions, after they had passed the gates about half a mile. "How true it is, that blessings, manifold blessings, are only known to be such when we have lost them! To me this free summer wind is in itself the richest of enjoyments." "I am glad to hear it, my lord," replied the gentleman he addressed; "I hope it may do you much good." "If I can obtain many such rides," continued Edward; "I shall soon be quite well. See, how proud Blundel is of his horse! and yet I would bet a silver tankard against a pewter can, that Cantelupe's would beat it for the distance of half a mile, or Ingelby's either." Ingelby, who was near, smiled, well pleased; and the other, to whom Edward had spoken, exclaimed--"Do you hear what the Prince says, Blundel?--that Cantelupe's horse would beat yours for half a mile!" "Cantelupe would not try," answered Blundel, "I should think." "Oh, I will try!" cried Cantelupe; "to please the Prince, I will try with all my heart. Let us set off!" "Nay, nay," rejoined Edward, "let us wait till we get upon the turf, on the higher ground. If I remember right, there is as fair a course there as any in England. We will make matches there for you, and I will give a golden drinking cup as a prize for the horse that beats all the rest. You shall run two at a time, and the gentlemen who remain with me will be the judges of each course." "Agreed, agreed!" cried the whole party. "I shall win the cup!" said Blundel. "Not you!" shouted Ingelby, in his loud, hoarse voice. "It is scarcely fair for me, however, for I am so much heavier." "But you have a stronger horse," replied Edward; and thus passing the time in light conversation, they mounted slowly the first gentle slopes in the neighbourhood of Hereford, and came upon some fine dry turf at the top. As soon as they found an open space where there was grass enough, Blundel and Cantelupe put their horses into a quick pace and galloped on, taking for the winning-post a tree that stood detached at the distance of about half a mile. Cantelupe was the lighter man of the two, and he rode well; but Blundel's horse was decidedly superior, and, he had already passed the tree when his competitor was two or three lengths behind. The Prince seemed greatly to enjoy the sport, and cheered on the men and horses with his voice and hand. Two more competitors speedily succeeded the first, and still the whole party kept, advancing over the wild, turfy sort of down, ever and anon choosing an open spot for their gay pastime. "Now, Ingelby," said the Prince, at length, "you must try with Blundel. As you are the heavier man, you have some advantage in his horse being rather tired. We will give you a mile's course, too, so that your beast's strength will tell. There, up to that gate, with the little village church beyond, and if you beat him, I will fill the cup with silver pieces. He is so proud of his beast, it makes me mad to see him." Blundel patted the arching neck of, his proud charger with a self-satisfied smile, and, at the given sign, gave him his head. Away the two best horses in the party went, and ran the longer course before them with very equal speed, Blundel taking the lead at first, but Ingelby's stronger beast gaining upon him afterwards. Blundel, however, was the first to reach the gate; but Ingelby dared him to try his chance back again, and away they came once more at headlong speed. This time, Ingelby was first, till, at the distance of about three hundred yards from the Prince, his horse stumbled, and came down with a heavy fall. The rider and the charger were both upon their feet again in a moment, but the beast had struck his knee, although not severely, and went lame as he finished the rest of his course. "I know not how we must award the prize here," said the Prince; "for had it not been for that accident----" "Oh, it is mine--it is mine, fairly!" cried Blundel. "Oh, yes, my lord, I think he has won it!" said several voices round. "Oh, I have won it!" reiterated Blundel; but added, laughing, "unless his Grace himself will ride a course with me upon his grey charger." "It must be but a short one, Blundel," answered Edward; "but I do not mind if I try for some hundred yards or two the mettle of the beast. What say you to that little tree?" "With all my heart!" replied Blundel. "On, then!" cried the Prince; and at the same moment he loosed the rein--at which his horse had been tugging for the last half hour--and struck his spurs into the animal's sides. Like an arrow shot from a bow, the lean and bony charger darted forth, covering an immense space of ground at every stretch, and speedily leaving Blundel and his vaunted steed behind. Spurring with all his might, the disappointed cavalier followed on Edward's track; but though the distance to the tree was certainly not more than five hundred yards, the Prince was full fifty in front when he passed it. Seeing that it was vain to make any further effort, Blundel slackened his speed, but to his astonishment the Prince spurred on, gaining upon him every minute; and, at the distance of about seventy or eighty yards, feeling the immense speed and power of the horse that he bestrode, Edward turned gaily round in the saddle, and, waving his hand, exclaimed, in a loud voice, "All courteous things to my cousin De Montfort! Tell him he shall hear from me soon." By this time the party, who had been slowly following, had caught sight of what was passing, and putting their chargers into a gallop, were soon up to the spot where Blundel had halted in bewilderment and wonder. "He is gone!" cried Blundel. "By St. John the Evangelist, he is gone!" "What shall we do?" exclaimed another. "Follow him, follow him, at all events," said Ingelby; "it must not be said that we did not follow him," and accordingly they spurred on at their best speed; but it was all in vain. The poor-looking grey, that every one had contemned, now showed his real powers, each moment seemed to increase his speed, each stride seemed wider than the last, and every instant Edward gained upon his pursuers. For some way he never turned his head to look, feeling sure that they were left far behind; but at length, after rising another gentle slope, he paused for an instant to let his horse breathe, and gazed back over the grassy land, which he could now see extending all the way down to the river. At the distance of about a mile, he beheld a knot of eight horsemen, in whom he instantly recognised the persons who had been sent to guard him. But they were no longer following upon his track, their horses' heads were turned towards Hereford, and thither they now pursued their way, having soon given up all hope of overtaking the fugitive. "Where is my Lord of Leicester?" demanded Ingelby, the moment they arrived in the court of the castle. "He is holding private council, and cannot be spoken with," replied the officer to whom he addressed himself. "I must speak with him, however," rejoined Ingelby. "You cannot!" said the officer, sternly; "he is in close conference with the Earl of Oxford and Lord Ralph." "If the devil were with him, I must see him!" exclaimed Ingelby. "Out of my way, man! I will bear the blame." And, pushing past him, he approached the door of the council-chamber, and knocked hard with his hand. A page, who was within, opened the door; and walking straight up to De Montfort, who sat at the head of the table, Ingelby whispered, "The Prince is gone, my lord!" De Montfort turned fiercely round upon him, and struck the table with his clenched hand, exclaiming "Gone!" "Ay, my lord, gone!" replied the officer; "and yet none of us could help it;" and he proceeded to explain how Edward had effected his escape. De Montfort showed no further agitation or surprise than that which the sudden communication of such intelligence elicited at first. It overpowered his usual calmness for a moment; but then it was past. After hearing Ingelby's account, he muttered to himself--"The shadow that fell upon me this morning was from this cloud. Go, boy," he continued, addressing the page who stood at the door, "bid the constable of the guard seek for Thomas de Clare; and if he find him, attach him for high treason. Let some one, too, summon the Lords of Ashby hither instantly, on business of much importance. Quick boy, away!--My Lord of Oxford, I will beseech you to speed across the country to Pevensey at once, and instead of aiding my son to take it, as we proposed just now, bid him raise the siege, and march to join me, with all the men whom he can raise, coming by Winchester and Oxford. We shall soon have business on our hands, and must be up and stirring. What were we saying, Sir Adam de Newfort!--oh, about bringing the troops from Chester;" and he entered again upon the subject which they had before been discussing, seeming to dismiss from his mind the escape of the Prince, as if it had been a matter of no moment. In about half an hour the messenger returned, whom he had sent to order the arrest of Thomas de Clare. "My lord," said the page, "they are not to be found." "They!" exclaimed the Earl. "Lord Thomas left the castle an hour ago," replied the page, "and his servants are all gone likewise." "So I thought, so I thought!" said De Montfort; "'Trust not soft seeming' is a good old saw. I might have been wiser than to put faith in one of the brood of Gloucester." "But of the Ashbys, boy--speak of the Ashbys!" cried Lord Ralph Basset. "My heart is no true prophet if they play us not false likewise." "They went out upon the Worcester road, the people of their inn declare," rejoined the boy, "within half an hour after they left the castle, and ere an hour was over all their people followed them, their steward paying the score." "Let them go!" cried De Montfort, "we can afford to lose them. An unwilling hand is always well spared from a good cause. Besides, the greater loss puts out the less. One Edward is worth a whole shop full of Ashbys!" and with this contemptuous observation he turned to other matters again. CHAPTER XIX. The impediments of life, at which we fret and chafe in early years, and which we view with stern doubt and disappointment in that after period when the shortness of the space left to us renders each moment really as valuable as it only seems to be in the eagerness of youthful impatience--the impediments of life, I say--the things that check us in our impetuous course, and force us to pause and to delay--how often are they blessings instead of curses? How often is the object which they dash from our outstretched hands an evil rather than the good that we esteemed it! Hugh de Monthermer, as we have shewn, rode away from the castle of Hereford about half an hour before Prince Edward. He chose the very road, and went on at great speed for about three miles; he then turned his horse into a path somewhat different from that which the Prince had chosen, but leading nearly in the same direction; and in that he proceeded at a rate which gave his five servants some trouble in keeping up with him. At length, however, his horse suddenly went lame, and on dismounting to see what was the matter, he found that a nail had run into the frog of the animal's foot; and although it was easily extracted, yet it was impossible to proceed at the same pace as before. "Give me your horse, Peterkin," he said, "halting, and take mine slowly back to Hereford." While the servant was changing the saddle, however, a countryman appeared on the road, driving some swine before him; and Hugh immediately walked up to him, asking, "Is this the way, my friend, to Monington Chapel?" "No, no," replied the man; "you must go back. You should have taken the first turning on your left. Lord, now! only to think of your not knowing your way to Monington Chapel!" "What's the hour?" asked Hugh. "Just mid-day," answered the man. "Don't you see the sun?" "Then there is time," said Hugh de Monthermer; and mounting the servant's horse, he retrod his steps for some distance. Just as he was approaching the turning, however, which the man had directed him to take, he heard a loud whistling scream, which made him look up to the sky, thinking that some eagle--a bird then very common in the marches of Wales--had come close above his head. But nothing of the kind was to be seen; and a moment after the same cry was repeated, while one of the servants who were riding a little way behind, exclaimed, "It is the dwarf, my lord, it is Tangel. See where he comes at full speed, like a monkey on a race-horse!" Hugh de Monthermer paused for a moment and turned his eyes down the road from Hereford, up which the dwarf was coming, not mounted on his forest pony, but perched upon the back of a tall charger with his head just seen between the ears of the animal, his long arms stretched out holding the bridle somewhat short, and his equally lengthy legs hanging down, affording no bad type for the old figure of Nobody. The boy was speedily by Hugh de Monthermer's side, shaking his head reproachfully as he came, and saying, "Ay, you would not listen to Tangel, man-at-arms. Nobody listens to Tangel; and why? Because he has not got a skin like a sucking pig and a face such as boys cut out of a turnip. Now, if any of these bottle-nosed beer drinkers had told you to stay and listen, you would have waited by the hour." "Not I," replied Hugh de Monthermer, "nor can I wait now, good Tangel; so come on, and make haste with your story by the way. What is it you want to tell me?" "Ay, haste, haste!" cried Tangel, turning his horse and keeping by the side of the young lord; "always hasting to destruction, and slow to anything good. Now are you riding out here, without knowing where you are going or who it is that has sent for you." "And pray, if you are wiser, Tangel," said Hugh, with a smile, "let me know where it is I am going to, and who it is that has sent for me." "Going to a prison," cried Tangel, "and he who sent for you is a traitor." "Are you serious?" demanded Hugh, turning gravely towards him. "No, never was merrier in my life," answered Tangel, grinning till he shewed his fine white teeth running back almost to his ears. "Is it not enough to make me merry, to see a man who calls himself wise put his head into a noose like a woodcock?--Now I will catechise you, as the priest of the chapel did me one day when he was drunk. Did you not receive a letter to-day?" "Yes, I did," replied Hugh. "Who gave you that letter?" demanded Tangel. "One of the servants of the noble Earl of Leicester," answered Hugh. "Ha!" said the boy, "they are cunninger than I thought." "And moreover," added the young nobleman, "I asked the servant from whom he had received it, and he told me, from one of the attendants of the Earl of Ashby." "And who did the Earl Ashby's ton of flesh get it from?" demanded the dwarf.--"I will tell you, for you know nothing about it yourself. He got it from gallant, sweet, honest, pretty Richard de Ashby, before he ran away from Hereford, last night. I heard him when he thought there were no ears listening; for I watched him all over the place, as soon as I found he was in Hereford, creeping after him like a shadow. He gave me a blow once in Nottingham, and called me ape and devil; but the ape was at his heels last night when he and his fair cousin Alured were plotting to go over to Gloucester; and I heard him say, that he would have you in a net before four-and-twenty hours were over." "He might have found himself mistaken, Tangel," replied Hugh, "for I had my misgivings. Although I have not often seen the Lady Lucy's handwriting, I suspected that the note was not hers; and, though he told me to come alone, I brought five stout fellows with me, as you see, intending to leave them within call. I think we six might be quite enough to deal with any force they would dare to bring within seven miles of Hereford." The dwarf laughed aloud, paused, and then laughed again; but in his wayward fashion he would not explain the cause of his merriment, let Hugh say what he would. "Mighty cunning--mighty cunning!" he cried. "Now, if you have luck, you may catch the fowler in his trap; but yet, if you be wise, you will ride back to Hereford, and take a nuncheon at the Maypole." "No," replied Hugh; pausing for an instant, and beckoning to his followers to come up; "no, I will not. I know Richard de Ashby's force right well, and we five are worth any ten he can bring against us. I would give a capful of gold pieces to take that traitor back with me, and nail his ears to the castle gates; but we must lay our plan securely. The place appointed is Monington Chapel, and there surely must be some place near it where I can conceal the men." "Why, my lord," said one of his followers, "just on this side of it is Little Bilberry wood. I know it well; and then beyond, is the great wood of Monington. We can find cover in either, for a thousand spears if it were necessary." "I forget the place, though I have seen it often," replied Hugh; and, musing over what the dwarf had told him, he rode on till the highway entered a little copse intersected by numerous paths. The width of the whole wood might be about a hundred and fifty yards, though the length, to the right and left of the road which they followed was not less than a couple of miles; and as the young nobleman and his train issued forth again on the other side, they perceived at a short distance before them a small chapel, to which the name of a shrine would have been more appropriate, for the largest congregation that it could contain was certainly thirty persons at the utmost. Hugh de Monthermer's arrangements were soon made. Drawing back as soon as possible, lest any one should observe his movements, he stationed his men under cover of the wood, and then advanced alone to the chapel, the door of which was open, as usual with all places of worship at that time. Before he entered, however, he paused to gaze over the scene on the other side of the little building, which presented, first an open green expanse covered with short grass dotted with tufts of fern, and then, with the interval of about a third of a mile, a deep, sombre wood, extending to a considerable distance on both sides. The ground all round was perfectly clear, and the copse, where he had left his men, so near at hand that it was impossible for him to be taken at a disadvantage by a larger force than his own, without having due warning of its approach. Hugh looked up towards the sun, saying to himself, "I am half an hour before the time, I should imagine--We shall have a storm ere long:" and, fastening his horse to a hook fixed in the stone work, apparently for that purpose, he entered the chapel, which was quite vacant. Above the altar appeared the figure of the Virgin, and kneeling for a moment, as usual with all persons of his faith, Hugh repeated a short prayer, and then rising, gazed out of a window which turned towards the larger wood at the back. The sky was becoming rapidly clouded, and though the sun shone high in heaven, it only served to render the thick, thronged mass of vapours, that were rolling up from the south-west, more dark and lowering in appearance than would have been the case had they not been contrasted with the warm glow of the zenith. Soon, however, swelling up like the waves of an ocean of molten lead, the white edges of the thunder-cloud covered the disk of the sun, bringing with them an oppressive heat very different from the mild but fresh air which had prevailed during the morning. Still Hugh de Monthermer kept his eye fixed upon the wood; and after watching for several minutes, he thought he could distinguish, through the bolls of the trees, a human form, moving slowly along at the very verge. It disappeared again, and for a few moments nothing more was perceived, so that Hugh, at length, begun to think he had been in error. He soon found that such was not the case, for after a short pause, a man on foot issued forth a step or two, and was seen to look carefully round him. He then gazed down the road towards Hereford, and put his hand over his eyes, as if to shade them from the light. Apparently satisfied, he retired into the wood again, after having continued his investigations for about three or four minutes. It was evident he was watching for some one, and Hugh naturally concluded it was himself. The young nobleman paused, meditating how he should act--at one moment, thinking of shewing himself, in order to bring the affair to a speedy issue, but the next, judging it would be better to remain in the chapel till the hour appointed had arrived. While he was still hesitating, a vivid flash of lightning, that almost blinded him, burst forth from the cloud, and appeared to sweep close past the chapel. Some large drops of rain fell at the same time, and after another and another flash--succeeding each other with extraordinary rapidity--the flood-gates of the heavens seemed to open, and the torrent poured down, mingling hail with the rain, and forming foaming yellow pools at every indentation of the road. Incessantly through the twilight of the storm the broad blue glare of the lightning was seen, with a thin, bright, fiery line crossing the tissue of the flame, and marking its fierce and destructive character; while the rolling peal of the thunder seemed to shake the very earth, echoing and re-echoing from the woods around. "Those poor fellows will be half drowned," thought Hugh de Monthermer; "I have a great mind to call them into the chapel, though it might lose me my opportunity. Yet, if I were sure of catching that villain, and carrying him into Hereford,--ay, or of meeting him with double my numbers, I would myself swim the Wye a dozen times.--Hark! surely that was the tramp of a horse's feet!" Another clap of thunder, however, drowned all other sounds; but when it had passed away, the noise of a horse's hoofs beating the ground at a quick pace distinctly reached the young nobleman's ear. Hugh de Monthermer listened. "There is but one," he said; "I will take no odds against him;" and he loosened his sword in the scabbard, keeping behind the angle of the building, so as not to show himself too soon at the half-opened door. The next instant the horse stopped opposite the Chapel, the rider was heard to spring to the ground; and after a moment's delay, in order, it seemed, to secure the beast from straying, the stranger's foot was heard ascending the steps. Hugh de Monthermer advanced to confront him, but instantly drew back again, exclaiming, in a tone of strong astonishment--"Prince Edward!" "Hugh de Monthermer," cried Edward, "this is strange meeting, old companion!" "It is, indeed, my dear lord," replied Hugh. "It becomes me not to ask how or why you are here, but I will confess that it rejoices my very heart to see you at liberty, though I doubt not many men would say, if they knew of our meeting, that I ought to arrest and bring you back to Hereford." "He would be a bold man!" answered the Prince, raising his towering form to its full height--"He would be a bold man who would attempt, single-handed, to stop Edward of England on his way!" "Alas, my lord!" replied Hugh de Monthermer, "I have not even that excuse to give to those who may blame me. One shout from that door would bring fearful odds against you, for, to tell the truth, I am waiting here to catch that arch-traitor, Richard de Ashby, in his own net, and have left men in the little wood you have just passed. But once more, I say, I rejoice to see you free." "Then, indeed, I thank you, Hugh," replied the Prince--"I thank you from my heart for your sincere love--though, if I judge rightly, I am not so unprotected as I seem." The young nobleman took the hand that Edward held out to him, and kissed it respectfully, saying, "I would not betray you, my lord, for the world, were you here alone and I at the head of hundreds; but ere we part, I must ask you one boon." "Nay, let us not part yet," rejoined Edward; "there is much to be said between us, Hugh. I have taken shelter here from the storm,--you are here also; and while the elements rage without, let us talk of giving peace to the land." "That is the object of the boon I crave, my lord," answered Hugh, "but I can stay no longer with you than to name that boon. No, not even to hear you concede or refuse it--else I shall be held a traitor to that cause which I believed to be sacred. The boon is this: when you have joined the Earl of Gloucester--when you see yourself at the head of armies--and when you feel your royal mind at liberty to act with power and success, publish a proclamation pledging yourself to uphold all those laws and ordinances which have been enacted for the safety of the land, for the rights and liberties of the people, and for our protection from foreign minions and base favourites--laws and ordinances to which you have once already given your consent. If you do this, I myself will never draw the sword against you, nor do I believe will Simon de Montfort." Edward shook his head, with a look of doubt. "De Montfort is ambitious, Hugh," he said; "perhaps he was not always so, for many a man begins a patriot and ends a tyrant." At that moment the sound of a horn was heard from the little neighbouring copse, and Hugh de Monthermer advanced to the door of the chapel, knowing that it was a signal of danger. The scene that presented itself was curious: the rain was still pouring down heavy and grey; the air was dim and loaded; the flashes of the lightning were blazing through the sky, and seemed to the eyes of the young nobleman to be actually running along the ground. At the same time, rushing towards him with rapidity almost superhuman, was the poor dwarf, Tangel, throwing about his long, lean arms, in the most grotesque manner, and pointing ever and anon to the opposite wood, issuing forth from which appeared a body of at least three hundred horse, well armed and mounted, and coming down at full speed towards the chapel. Hugh turned one look more into the building and waved his hand, exclaiming--"Adieu, my lord, adieu! Here is danger near;" and, gaining his horse's side, he unhooked the bridle, and leapt into the saddle. "Up, Tangel! Up behind me!" he cried, as the dwarf came nigh--"up, quick, or they will be upon us!" The dwarf sprang up behind him in a moment, with one single bound from the ground; and Hugh, turning the bridle towards the little copse, dashed on at full speed. The servant's horse, however, which he was riding, was not a very fast one; the troop from the wood was coming forward with great rapidity, and seemed determined to chase him: his own force was too small to offer any resistance; and Hugh de Monthermer saw with bitterness of spirit that if the adversaries still pursued, he must soon be a prisoner. To be so deceived and foiled, added anger to the grief he felt at the prospect of captivity, and he muttered to himself--"They shall pay dearly for it, at all events," while he still spurred on towards the copse from which his own men were now approaching, leading the horse on which the dwarf had joined them. "Mount your beast quickly!" cried Hugh, turning his head to Tangel. "Go on--go on, fast, good master!" cried the boy. "Do not halt for me: I will mount without your stopping, only carry me close enough to the beast;" and in a moment after, as Hugh rode swiftly up towards his followers, the boy put his hands upon the young nobleman's shoulders, sprang up with his feet on the charger's haunches, and then with a leap and a shrill cry, he lighted on his own horse, whirled himself round, and dropped into the saddle. No time, indeed, was to be lost; for Hugh and his attendants met midway between the building and the wood, when one end of the enemy's line already reached the chapel. And at that moment, Edward himself darted out upon the steps, and shouted aloud, "Halt! I command you, halt!--Lord Lovell, Sir Thomas Grey, I charge you, halt! Chase him not. I say!--Sir Richard de Ashby," he continued, raising his voice till it seemed to vie with the thunder, as he saw that his orders were unheeded, "Halt! on your life! Will you disobey my first command?" But Richard de Ashby was deaf, and dashed on with five or six others, while the rest of their party drew the rein, some sooner, some later, pausing in a broken line. Hugh de Monthermer and his men spurred forward at the full gallop; but the slippery ground, now thoroughly soaked by the pelting rain, defeated his effort to escape an attack. The horse of one of his followers floundered, and fell some forty yards before they reached the copse; and though both man and beast staggered up again, the pursuers were too near to be evaded. Some ten yards in advance of the rest, mounted upon a fleet black horse, was Richard de Ashby himself. He was fully armed with hauberk and shield and spear, but his aventaille was open, and a glow of savage satisfaction might be seen upon his countenance. Hugh de Monthermer turned in the saddle, to measure the distance between them with his eye, saw in a moment that escape was not possible, but that vengeance was; and, snatching from the man next to him a spear and small round buckler, he wheeled his horse, struck the sharp spur furiously into its flanks, and met his pursuer in full career. The young knight himself was clothed in nothing but a hauqueton of purple cendal, which, though stiffly stuffed with cotton, as was then customary, afforded poor protection against the point of a lance. But the tournament and the battlefield had been the young nobleman's ball-room and his school, his place of amusement and his place of practice; and his eye was always ready to discover, his hand prepared to take advantage of the slightest movement of an enemy. He perceived in an instant that Richard de Ashby's lance was aimed at his throat, but he showed by no sign that he knew that such was the case, till he was within a yard of his enemy. Then suddenly raising his buckler, he turned the point aside; and at the same instant he somewhat lifted his own spear, which, as he had no rest, was charged upon his thigh, intending to strike his adversary full in the face. But Richard de Ashby bent his head, and the lance touching him high upon the forehead, glanced off from the skull, and catching in the hood of mail, hurled him headlong from his charger to the ground. Hugh drew up his horse suddenly by the side of the fallen man, and shortening the spear, held it to his throat, shouting aloud to those who followed--"If any one comes near; he dies!" By this time his own attendants had rejoined him; and two or three gentlemen came riding down at a quick pace from the chapel, calling upon their companions, who had gone before, to halt and come back. "Did you not hear the Prince's voice?" exclaimed an elderly knight, angrily, as he approached: "it is his express commands, that you come back. Depart, Lord Hugh--depart in peace; it is the Prince's will, and we obey." "Had I but one half your numbers, Lord Lovel," answered Hugh, "I would not go without taking this traitor with me." "Or being taken yourself," replied Lord Lovell, with a laugh. "I can assure you, my good lord, we had every intention of carrying you with us into Worcestershire; but as the Prince will let the bird out of the trap which poor Richard baited so nicely for him, he must e'en use his wings--there is no help for it. You seem to have pecked the fowler pretty handsomely, however. I believe you have cleft his skull. There--let his people come up and help him! You have my word against treachery." "I fear he is not punished as much as he deserves," replied Hugh de Monthermer. "Bear my dutiful thanks to the Prince for his courtesy; and now, fare you well, my Lord Lovell. I trust we shall soon meet again." Thus saying, he turned his horse, and rode quickly but thoughtfully back to Hereford. CHAPTER XX. A few pages more of dry details, dear reader, and then for nothing but brief scenes and rapid action. This, if you please, is a chapter of pure history; and therefore those who are well read in the annals of the times may pass it over without any particular attention. To all who are not, however, it will be found absolutely necessary to the right understanding of that which is to follow. On Hugh de Monthermer's arrival at Hereford, he found the news of Edward's escape common to all the town; but, nevertheless, he thought it necessary to communicate first to his uncle, and then to the Earl of Leicester, all that had taken place after he had left them in the morning. "Some three hundred horses!" said De Montfort, as he listened to the young nobleman's account of his meeting with Richard de Ashby. "They are bold, upon my life! but they teach us that we have been somewhat negligent. And so you unhorsed the traitor, but could neither kill nor take him? It is a pity--you are sure that he is not dead?" "Not sure, my lord," replied Hugh; "but I rather think not, for I felt the spear strike, and then glance off. I would fain have brought him into Hereford." "Have you heard," continued De Montfort, "that our good friends the Earl of Ashby and his son have left us?--so that I fear some hopes and expectations, which your uncle mentioned regarding a fair lady's hand, may suffer disappointment." "I have heard it, my lord," answered Hugh, "and am, I confess, not a little grieved. Nevertheless----" "Well, what of nevertheless?" asked De Montfort, seeing that be. paused. "Why, nevertheless, my lord," replied Hugh, "I cannot but hope that I shall succeed at last. I have never yet seen a matter of love which was destined to end happily begin smoothly at the first." "Ay, hope!" said De Montfort. "Hope is like a hungry boy, who I once saw burn his mouth with his porridge; for he still consoled himself, poor urchin, by saying that it would be cool enough by and by. May it be as you wish, my young friend:--and so good night; for neither you nor I can mend what is gone amiss this day." As Hugh was leaving the room, De Montfort called to him again, saying, "Pray ask your uncle to spend an hour with me to-night. I want his warlike counsels in our present strait; I know no one more fitted to advise me." "And none more willing, my lord," replied Hugh, quitting the room. Bustle, activity, preparation, the movement of troops, rumours Of strange events, some false, some true, portents, even miracles--for those were times in which every man were the magnifying-glasses of superstition--doubts, expectations, suppositions in regard to the motions of every following day, filled up the next fortnight busily. Every part of the country, from one end to the other, was stirred up to fight for one party or the other; and bands of soldiers moving across to join their several banners often encountered in the same village, and by their contests "frighted the isle from its propriety." According to the best accounts that could be obtained, the number of troops which gathered round Prince Edward and the Earl of Gloucester was considerably larger than that which joined De Montfort in Hereford, and being principally composed of cavalry, these levies dropped much more rapidly in; the foot soldiers, who were enrolling themselves for the party of the Lords Commissioners, as De Montfort's faction was called, though infinitely more numerous, being very much longer in their march, and more easily intercepted and driven back by the enemy. To counterbalance the depression, however, which the increasing strength of Edward and Gloucester might have spread through Hereford, rumours came daily of a great rising of the citizens of the capital, in favour of De Montfort; and there was also on his side that great moral support which is given by the assurance of being at the head of a great popular movement--for, that the cause of De Montfort was the popular one, no one can doubt who reads the ballads, the legends, or the histories of the day. The people, beyond all question, looked upon that renowned leader, not only as the champion of their rights and liberties, but as a hero, which he really was, and as a saint, which he probably was not. Still the camp of De Montfort suffered many severe defections. In political contests, the love of novelty and of change affects many more men than one would at first sight suppose, causing them to seize any pretext for abandoning a party to which they have been for some time attached, and for going over to the other, which they have constantly opposed. Dissensions with their leaders or their fellow partisans, disgusts at trifling acts of neglect--even weariness of habitual associations, will produce in others the same effect; and thus a great number of the nobles, who before the famous battle of Lewes supported the Earl of Leicester, now framed or discovered an excuse for following the example of the Earl of Ashby and his son, and joining the forces of Gloucester and Prince Edward. A few, too, really doubtful of De Montfort's real intentions, and fearful of his growing power, either retired from his party without espousing that of the Prince, or abandoned him entirely, and prepared to oppose him in arms. Many of his weaker partisans, though adhering still to his cause, were alarmed at this defection, and looked grave and sorrowful at the intelligence received of the enemy's movements; but the Earl, though as serious in his demeanour as his age and character might require, was still firm and cheerful, as were all his principal councillors and companions. None seemed less depressed than the old Earl of Monthermer, who had always a hopeful and courteous answer to give to every one. "We shall beat them yet, my good friend," he said, in answer to a somewhat timid and news-seeking gentleman, who stopped him while riding down from the castle to his inn. "We shall beat them yet, do not fear. Unless some great and extraordinary error is committed on our side, or some inconceivable piece of good fortune occurs upon theirs, they must be defeated, as they were at Lewes." "But I see," said his companion, "that the Earl has proclaimed----" "Not the Earl, but the King," interrupted the old lord--"it is the King who has proclaimed Gloucester and all his adherents traitors; but that makes very little difference. In contentions like these, every man is called a traitor in his turn, whatever side he takes; and as for those who have gone over to the enemy, do not let their defection alarm you. It is better always to have an open enemy than a false friend; and a wise general gives all cowards and waverers a prompt order to quit the ranks of his army, not only as a useless, but an injurious incumbrance." Such cheerful words, and a few gallant acts performed in a casual skirmish here and there, kept up the spirits of the soldiery in Hereford and the neighbouring towns, till at length such a number of men were collected, as seemed to justify De Montfort in taking the field, although the army of the Prince might be, perhaps, by one-half more numerous than his own. The movements of the great Earl after marching out of Hereford, became of a strange and incongruous character, which greatly puzzled and embarrassed many of his best supporters, and which have not been clearly understood even in our own time; but De Montfort's countenance remained calm and tranquil, even in the midst of what seemed, to ordinary observers, checks and reverses; and it was remarked, that the two or three noblemen who were in his most intimate councils, maintained the same serene aspect, whatever circumstances occurred. At the head of a large force, Edward interposed between the army of the Lords Commissioners and London, moving as it moved, and practising with consummate art, the science of strategy, as it was known in those days, with the evident purpose of keeping his adversary at a distance from his resources, without giving him battle, exactly at his own time and place. De Montfort, in the meantime, affected to man[oe]uvre skilfully for the purpose of passing Edward's superior force without fighting, and making his way direct to London. But in all these operations, the Prince seemed to have the advantage, turning his opponent at every passage, as the greyhound does the hare. Many facts have since been discovered, which have induced modern historians to suppose that De Montfort sought merely to amuse his adversary; but, at the time, two circumstances only, led the closer observers in the Earl of Leicester's camp to believe that that great man had a covert object in view, and that he was not actually so completely frustrated by his opponent as appeared upon the surface. The first was, that perfect equanimity to which we have alluded, and which he maintained under every apparent reverse. The second, was a degree of anxious impatience, which manifested itself upon the arrival of many of the messengers who were constantly coming and going between his camp and the south-eastern parts of the country. These facts, in those who remarked them, created a suspicion that the Earl was waiting for reinforcements, not choosing to risk a battle till they had joined him; and at length a circumstance occurred which confirmed this opinion, and quieted the anxiety of many who had begun to fear that ill success was hanging over the very commencement of their career. Towards the middle of July, the army approached the small town of Newport, after having attacked and taken Uske, which was feebly defended by some of the Earl of Gloucester's adherents. It seemed evidently the intention of De Montfort and his councillors to cross the Severn, a few miles above Newport, and take possession of Bristol; and orders to that effect had been actually given. Few vessels, however, capable of transporting the forces of the Earl, were found at the spot where De Montfort had ordered them to be collected, and Edward himself was known to be in the neighbourhood. But several ships and galleys of a considerable size were to be seen moored at the opposite side; and Hugh de Monthermer, who commanded an advance party, threw himself into a passage boat with a small force, and crossed the estuary towards a point where he believed he could make good his defence, while he dispatched the vessels to the opposite shore, to bring over the main army of the Earl. His proceedings, as far as they were suffered to go, proved entirely successful. He effected his landing, repulsed a body of the enemy who attempted to dislodge him, and secured a place of disembarkation for the rest of the forces; when, to his surprise, while he was endeavouring to induce the seamen in the other vessels to cross to the Welsh shore, a messenger reached him, in a small row-boat, commanding his immediate return. Hugh obeyed at once; and, proceeding to the head-quarters of De Montfort, he found his uncle and Lord Ralph Basset in conference with the Earl of Leicester. The young nobleman was about to explain the motives of his conduct, but De Montfort stopped him, saying--"You did quite right, my young friend; but Prince Edward and I, you must know, are as two chess-players, where the game is life and power, and neither he nor I must hazard one rash move, if we would avoid destruction. I know my own game--he is not aware of it; and it is necessary that he should not be so till the last moment." These words were heard by many of the gentlemen round, and rumour soon carried them through the whole host--one person repeating them in one manner, and another in another, but all implying the same thing--that De Montfort had some dark secret purpose in view; and such was the confidence of the soldiery in their leader, that they never doubted success would attend him, whatever that purpose was. An immediate change of movements then took place. Suddenly turning into South Wales, the army ravaged a district belonging to some of the adherents of Gloucester; and in his progress, De Montfort entered into a treaty with several of the Native Welsh princes, by which he obtained the assistance of a considerable body of their light armed troops. A short pause of total inactivity next succeeded, and the Earl remained encamped for two or three days on the banks of the river Lug, apparently with the purpose of giving some repose to his forces, in the midst of the heats of July. Messengers, however, were continually coming and going; the Earl was constantly employed, either in writing or in training the troops to various military evolutions; and, after all the camp except the sentinels were sound asleep, a light was seen burning in his tent till two or three in the morning. "He used his nights," says a historian of those times, "more for thought and labour, than for sleep." During the greater part of each day, and often during these nocturnal vigils, the old Earl of Monthermer and the Lord le Despenser remained with De Montfort, sometimes consulting with him, sometimes writing in the same tent, sometimes examining the rude maps of that period, measuring distances and tracing out lines, but not one word did either of them utter, even to their nearest and dearest relations, in regard to the plans and purposes of the general. At length, one night towards eleven o'clock, while the army was what was both technically and literally, "in the field," Hugh de Monthermer received a summons, written in the hand of De Montfort himself, desiring his immediate presence, The last words were, "Bring your dwarf page with you." Tangel was accordingly roused from the corner in which he slept, and followed Hugh to the quarters of the Earl, whom they found sitting in the outer tent in company with two or three noblemen. The flap of the canvas was drawn back on either side, in order to admit what fresh air could be found in a sultry night of summer, and at one end of a table, round which the assembled nobles were seated, appeared a man, dusty with travelling and dressed in the garb of a Yorkshire forester. "Here is a letter for you, my Lord Hugh," said De Montfort, "enclosed in one to myself;" and he handed a small packet to Hugh de Monthermer, tied, as was then customary, and fastened with yellow wax. Hugh took it, but before he broke the seal or cut the silk, he advanced to the table and examined the outside of the letter carefully by the light of one of the lamps. "Something seems to strike you as extraordinary," said De Montfort. "What is the matter?" "I will tell your lordship presently," replied Hugh; and severing the silk with his dagger, he read the contents. "This is good news as far as it goes," he said at length in a low tone; "I find that my good friend Ralph Harland is on his road to join us, together with a certain forest friend of ours," he added, turning towards his uncle, "with some seven hundred bold yeomen and foresters of York and Nottingham, and more will follow. They are already far advanced on their way in Staffordshire.--But I cannot help thinking, my good lord," he added, raising his voice, "that this letter has been opened and read before it reached my hands." As the young nobleman spoke he fixed his eyes on the messenger, who was somewhat pale before, but became paler still when he heard the last words. "I will swear upon the blessed rood!" he cried, "that I have never opened the packet, but brought it safely hither, as I was told." "Who told you to bring it?" asked De Montfort, fixing his stern eyes upon him. The man hesitated a moment, and then replied, "Robin of Barnesdale." "What makes you think it has been opened, Hugh?" demanded the Earl of Monthermer. "Why, my dear uncle," answered the young nobleman, "this wax is yellow, but at the side of it is a stain of green, as if at first it had been sealed with another colour." "Can our friend Robin write?" inquired De Montfort. "Yea!" cried a shrill voice from behind Hugh de Monthermer, "as well as a Florentine reed or a turkey's quill in the hand of an Oxford clerk." "We shall soon know more, my lord," said Hugh de Monthermer; "but this letter is not Robin's writing, this is from Ralph Harland the franklin." "But this," replied the Earl, laying his hand upon another letter--"this purports to be from the bold forester, praying me to send you with some men-at-arms to reinforce them as they come, seeing that Gloucester threatens them, and they are afraid to proceed." "That shows it to be a forgery at once," said Hugh, in a low voice to Leicester; "Robin never seeks aid of any man. There is treachery somewhere, my lord; but we have means at hand of convicting this fellow.--Now, sir," he continued, "tell me, and tell me true, who sent you hither; and, beware! for if you deceive me, it may cost your life." "I have told you already," answered the man, doggedly. "Well then, stand forward, my little magician," cried Hugh, laying his hand upon Tangel's head. "We hear of Eastern talismans, my lord, whereby truth and falsehood are discovered, as gold and alloy by the touchstone; and in this boy I have such a human talisman, who will soon tell us how much verity there is in the fellow's tale. Now, Tangel, look at him well, and say if he came from Robin Hood?" "No," answered the dwarf, well pleased with the importance of his functions, and entering fully into the spirit of his master's figure of speech--"Hark! I hear Robin deny him, and say he never yet set eyes upon him." Then tugging the young nobleman's sleeve he whispered the words, "Go on!--ask me more!" "And now, Tangel," continued Hugh, "can you tell me whose man he is?" "Right well," replied the dwarf, fixing his keen gaze upon the pale face of the messenger; and then speaking slowly, he added, "He is Prince Edward's." A slight smile came upon the man's countenance for a moment; but Tangel went on almost without a pause, watching him keenly as he spoke. "He is Prince Edward's by the Earl of Gloucester, and the Earl of Gloucester's by Richard de Ashby. Ha! ha! ha! I hear them laughing, when they think how they will take in De Montfort, and lead the Lord Hugh into a trap--and he hears them, too! Look at his face--look at his face!" Certainly that face was now as bloodless as the visage of the dead. "Take him away!" said De Montfort, in a stern tone--"take him away, and hang him on the first tree!" "I will confess--I will confess," cried the man, falling upon his knees. "Spare my life, and I will confess!" "It is your only hope of safety," replied the Earl; "tell the whole truth, and you shall be spared--out with it at once, and without hesitation!" "Well, then," said the detected impostor, in a whining tone, "I confess I am Sir Richard de Ashby's man!" and he went on to tell how a jolly monk, passing through a village in the neighbourhood of Worcester, and making merry with some soldiers, had been recognised by one of the servants of Richard de Ashby, and instantly arrested. On searching him strictly, the letter from Ralph Harland to Hugh de Monthermer had been found, wrapped in leather, between his sandal and the sole of his foot, and a plan was instantly formed, both for cutting off the party of the young franklin and Robin Hood, and also for leading Hugh de Monthermer into an ambuscade. "The Earl of Gloucester and Roger Mortimer," he said, "had been made acquainted with the plot, but not the Prince." "Take him away!" said De Montfort, after the story was told--"Take him away, and guard him strictly! We may have occasion to account with these gentlemen at some future time.--Now here is an opportunity," he continued, as soon as the pretended yeoman was removed, "which some men would seize, for cutting off whatever troops the rebels may detach in execution of their pitiful schemes, but I think, my good lords, we must not waste our strength upon skirmishes. At any moment, we may have to act suddenly with our whole force, and therefore we must cast away the occasion that now presents itself of lopping off a limb from our enemy. Nevertheless, we must not forget the safety of our friends; some faithful messenger must be sent at once to meet the reinforcement from Nottingham and Yorkshire, and give them notice to take a circuit through Shropshire. Shrewsbury is ours, and all the country round; so, on that road, they will be safe. Have you any one you can send?" Hugh looked at the dwarf, and the boy clapped his hands gladly, exclaiming, "Let me go--let me go!" "So be it, then!" said Hugh, "I will provide him with the means at once, my lord. He had better have no letter but a purse well-filled, and a swift horse. He will not fail a word of the message---- "Hark!" cried De Montfort, "there is a sound of galloping from the other side of the river! The messengers, at length, I trust.--Do you know your errand, boy?" "Right well, great man," answered the dwarf, "and I will not fail either in speed or truth." "What, ho!--stand!--who goes there?" demanded the sentinels, who were placed about fifty yards from De Montfort's tent. "A friend!" was the reply. "Stand, friend, and dismount!" cried the sentinel. "Letters," answered the other voice--"letters from the Lord Simon de Montfort, to his father, the most noble Earl of Leicester." "Ha!" exclaimed Leicester, starting up, with his whole face beaming with satisfaction, "At length!--Let him advance!" he shouted--"Let him advance!" and a moment after, coming forward to the opening of the tent, a man, pale, haggard, and worn, presented himself, bearing a small packet in his hand. "This is to your lordship, from your son," he said; "I left him well, at Oxford, not many hours ago, with thirty thousand men in arms, all ready to defy the world, on behalf of De Montfort." Too eager to make any reply, the Earl of Leicester took the packet, tore it open, and read--"All is right!" he cried at length, rising with a well pleased smile, and turning to the gentlemen on his right. "Now, my good lords--now, the moment for action has come. To you, Monthermer--to you, Le Despenser, thanks--many thanks, for those wise and prudent counsels which have cast cool patience upon my own somewhat too impetuous nature, and enabled me to resist my own inclination to advance. Here have we amused these rebel lords, and the infatuated Prince, in needless marches and counter-marches, while my son has raised the country behind them, and is already at Oxford with an overwhelming force. He, on the one side,--and I on the other, we have them in a net; or, even if they escape from the toils that are around them, our forces united will be irresistible, and we will drive them to fight, to surrender, or to flee the land. Let every noble lord give instant orders in his own quarter of the camp, to make ready for our advance an hour before daylight; and you, my Lord Hugh, must now direct your messenger to lead our friends from Nottingham, by Clebury and Wire Forest, on towards Worcester, keeping a keen look-out for the enemy; but, doubtless, ere they arrive we shall have cleared the country.--You have brought me good tidings," he continued, addressing the messenger, "go to my steward, let him provide for you, and to-morrow a hundred marks shall be your reward.---Now, for a few hours, my lords, good night--good night!" By daybreak the next morning, every tent was struck, and the main body of the army had passed the Lug. De Montfort still advanced with great care and caution, throwing out scouts in all directions, and never making a movement which exposed any part of his force to sudden attack. But not an enemy Wad now to be met with. The whole country, as he advanced towards Worcester, was clear, and it seemed evident to all that Edward had become aware of his danger, and was endeavouring to escape from it. On the evening of St. Peter's day, in the year 1265, De Montfort reached a magnificent country palace of the Bishop of Worcester, called, in the language of the time, "Kemestoia, or Kematow," from which, in all probability, the name Kemsey is derived. It was surrounded by an extensive park, reserved for the chase; and therein, or in a small neighbouring village, the army lodged during the night, while the head-quarters of the general and his royal prisoner were in the manor, or palace of the bishop. The distance from Worcester was only three miles, but still no tidings reached the army of Prince Edward's movements. About seven o'clock, however, a letter was received by De Montfort from his eldest son, who was at the head of the large body of men, marching from Oxford to reinforce him; but when he opened it and read the date, his brow became clouded, and he muttered to himself, "Kenilworth--Kenilworth! That is a great mistake! What does he in Kenilworth?" On reading on, he found that the letter had been written just after a long night's watching in the fields to intercept the army of Prince Edward, which was said to be flying from Worcester, and that the young nobleman proposed to march on to join him on the Friday following, concluding that the Prince had made his escape. De Montfort mused, after he had perused the letter twice, and then murmured, "There is no help for it--there is no help for it! We must onward to Evesham, with all speed--Edward flying, with a large force at his command, Worcester in his power, Gloucester garrisoned by his troops--Dean Forest near! No, no, no! That is not likely! Edward was not made to fly.--We must guard against surprise--there is something under this!" and ringing a small hand-bell which stood upon his table, he continued aloud; as soon as one of his officers appeared, "Double the guards at every avenue of the park--throw out some fifty horse archers on the road to Worcester, and barricade the farther end of the village,--give those orders quickly, and then come back for a letter, after directing a horse and mail to make ready for Kenilworth.--Kenilworth!" he added, musing, "What had he to do at Kenilworth? Hark ye!" he proceeded, once more addressing the man--"Get some diligent fellows, who do not fear for their necks, to make their way into Worcester as soon as the gates are open, and bring me tidings of what is going on--promise them high wages--we must have news." The officer departed, and De Montfort put his hand upon his brow, repeating, to himself, "What had he to do at Kenilworth?--My heed aches," he continued; "ere long, perchance, it may cease to ache for ever!" Day had dawned about an hour when, by his permission, and of the spies who, as we have seen, had been sent into Worchester, was admitted to the chamber of the Earl of Leicester, whom he found just putting on his steel hauberk, proposing soon to set forth upon his march. "I have had a narrow escape, my lord!" cried the scout; "all the rest are taken." "But the news--the news!" exclaimed De Montfort, with a degree of heedlessness for human life which most veteran warriors acquire--"the news! What did you learn?" "Little or nothing, my lord," answered the man, somewhat sullenly. "I heard my companions ordered to be hanged, and saw Prince Edward's troops arriving in haste and disarray, after a long night march. But I could only save myself by speed, and therefore could learn nothing more." "It is enough--it is enough!" cried De Montfort. "There, fellow, is your reward!--Edward arriving in disarray at Worcester!--That is enough! Now, on to Evesham with all speed--join my boy's forces, and then return to crush this nest of hornets with my foot!" He spoke proud and exultingly. Ah, little did he know that at that moment his son's forces were defeated and dispersed, thirteen of his gallant barons killed, and a whole host of noble prisoners following the army of Edward into Worcester! CHAPTER XXI. The march of a feudal army of that day was a beautiful thing to see. Although a part of the splendour which it afterwards assumed, when the surcoats of the knights were embroidered with their arms, was not yet displayed, still those arms were emblazoned upon the banners and on the shields, still the richest colours that the looms of France, Italy, and England could supply, were to be found in the housings of the horses, and in the pourpoints and coats of the knights, and in the beautiful scarfs, called cointises, then lately introduced, which, passing over the right shoulder and under the left arm, fluttered like many tinted streamers in the air, with every breath of wind. Yes, it was a beautiful sight to see; and wisely does the rugged front of war deck itself with every brilliant accessory, to hide the dark and murderous look which would otherwise scare the hearts of men. It was a beautiful sight; and as Hugh de Monthermer detached with a body of horse-archers and men-at-arms from the main army to reconnoitre the neighbouring country--stood for a moment on a little hill, looking down the lovely vale of Evesham, and watched the host of De Montfort winding on its way from Kemestow, probably a more magnificent scene never met the eyes of man. Sunshine, the bright sunshine of a summer's day, was over the whole, mingling the ingredient of its own loveliness with every fair thing in the landscape. Still, now and then, over the brilliant blue sky floated a light cloud, like a flying island, casting here and there a deep shadow, which hurried speedily onward, leaving all shining behind it--like those fits of gentle pensiveness which come at times even upon the happiest spirit, scarcely to be called melancholy, but seeming as if a shade from something above us flitted over our minds for a moment, and then left them to the sunshine and the light. On one hand, rising tall and blue, was the beautiful range of Malvern, with many a lesser hill springing out from the base, wooded to the top, and often crowned with an embattled tower. On the other side were the high grounds running down in the direction of Sudleigh, covered with magnificent trees, and bearing up innumerable castles, while here and there the spire of a church peeped out, or the pinnacles of an abbey. In the wide expanse between the two were seen the rich slopes, the green meadows, the corn-bearing fields, the long lines of forest that still distinguish the lovely vale of Evesham, with tower, town, and hamlet, brook and river, offering a confusion of beautiful forms and splendid colouring; and, in the midst of this, marched on the army of De Montfort, with banners displayed and pennons fluttering in the wind. First came the slingers with their staves and leathern bands, and then the light foot pikemen, armed with the shorter spears and oucins. The former were totally without defensive armour, and the latter were only protected by a pectoral, or breastplate of steel scales hanging from the neck, and a round steel buckler on the arm. All was confusion amongst them, as they ran on, preceding the rest of the army, somewhat in the manner of modern skirmishers, only with less discipline and skill. But immediately following these appeared the first regular troops, consisting of various bands of heavy armed spearmen, with much longer lances than the former, and defended by the steel cap, or _chapel de fer_, the long oval shields, and thickly-stuffed hauqueton, so stiff and hard as to resist the blow of sword or dagger. Some of these bands, according to the taste or the means of their leader, were furnished with the same pectorals of scales that were borne by the lighter spearmen; while some had short hauberks of steel rings, set edgewise--and some were unprovided with any other armour for the body than the hauqueton of which we have already spoken. Marching, however, in regular order, with their spears leaning on their shoulders, and their steel caps glistening in the sun, they presented a fine martial appearance, and were, in fact, a very formidable body to attack. After the pikemen came the bands of archers, the pride of the English army. In general they were covered with the hauberk and the steel cap of the times, but--upon what account it is difficult to be discovered--each wore above his armour a sort of leathern cuirass, ornamented with four round plates of iron. Their arrows were in a belt at their waist, their bows unbent in their hands, while each man had his anelace, or short dagger, hanging from his neck by a cord, and many of the bands were also, furnished with a strong broad sword of about two feet in length. Little difference existed in the equipment of the crossbowmen, who in the army of De Montfort were not very numerous, as the arbalist was a foreign arm; for his being more especially the English party, care was taken to avoid everything that had not some touch of the national character about it. Bodies of horse-archers followed, and then came the long line of men-at-arms, marching four abreast, with their polished harness reflecting every ray, but presenting a very different appearance from that of the cavalry at an after period, when plate armour had been introduced. At this time each ring of their mail caught the light, and sent the rays glancing to the eyes of the beholder, at a different angle from the one next to it, so that a more sparkling object could scarcely be seen than the new hauberk of a knight in the middle of the thirteenth century. Great pride, too, was taken by each soldier in keeping his arms bright and highly polished; and though many of the leaders wore a rich surcoat without sleeves, yet others took a pride in displaying their full panoply. Certainly a more splendid sight has rarely been witnessed than the long line of De Montfort's cavalry winding onward through the beautiful vale of Evesham. Ever and anon, too, the light summer wind brought to the ears of Hugh de Monthermer the stirring blast of the trumpet, and the loud shouted word of command; and as he gaged and listened, his high chivalrous soul seemed to swell within him, and he longed to break a lance or wield a sword against the most renowned champion that Europe could produce. Riding onward at the head of his men, through the by-ways by which he had been directed to advance upon Evesham, visions of glory, and of honour, and of knightly fame, swam before his eyes, chasing away, for the first time, a dark train of melancholy images which had possessed him ever since the father of her he loved had gone over to the enemy. It was not, indeed, that the hope of winning renown could banish the memory of Lucy de Ashby, but in those days the passion for glory was so intimately mingled with the thoughts of love, that they never could be separated from each other. To know that she would hear of his deeds of arms--to know that her bosom would thrill at the tidings--to know that her heart would go with him to the battlefield, and that she would watch and listen for every tale and every history concerning the scenes in which he was now mingling, was a solace and a comfort to him. Glorious actions were one of the ways of wooing in chivalrous times, and but too often the only way to which the true-hearted lover could have recourse. Such indeed was now the situation of Hugh de Monthermer himself, and such, he knew, would, in all probability, be his state for many years, unless some of the great accidents of war brought to a speedy extinction the flame which was just kindled in the country. Thus the desire of military glory was the twin sister of his love for Lucy de Ashby, and at that moment, when the splendid pageantry of the marching army passed before his eyes, and the inspiring blast of the trumpet reached his ear, he would gladly have defied the most renowned champion in all Europe for honour and the lady that he loved. The host moved on, however, and, after gazing for a minute or two, Hugh once more pursued his course, eagerly examining from every little eminence in the plain the whole country around him, to see if friend or foe was near, in arms, to the forces of De Montfort. But nothing appeared--all was calm and tranquil. There was the village girl tripping away through the fields, the long ears of corn almost reaching to her head; there was the labourer reaping the barley of a rich and early season; there was the wagoner guiding his team along the road; there was the herd driving his cattle into the shade; but the only martial thing that struck the eye was the glancing of De Montfort's spears, as they wound onward at the distance of about a mile. It was towards evening, and the host of the Earl was entering the little town of Evesham, about two miles from the spot at which Hugh de Monthermer had by this time arrived, when an object attracted his attention in a small wood at some short distance. The declining sun shone upon something glistening under the trees. It might be a ploughshare, the young knight thought; but a moment after, another gleam came from a different part of the copse, and he instantly turned his horse's head thither, advancing cautiously along a narrow lane, with some archers thrown out in the fields on either side. After having gone on for about ten minutes, a living creature, creeping along under the hedge, was observed both by the young lord and the persons immediately behind him, but in the dimness of the shade they could not discover what it was. "'Tis a dog," said Tom Blawket, who was in the first rank behind his leader. "Or a wolf," remarked another man near. "'Tis more like a bear," observed a third, "and it goes like a bear." "Pooh! you are always thinking of the Holy Land," rejoined Blawket; "we have no bears here but bears upon two legs." At that moment Hugh spurred on his horse, and raising his voice, shouted aloud, "Tangel, Tangel, is that you?" The dwarf started upon his feet, for he was creeping along with wonderful swiftness upon his hands and knees; and, turning round at the well known sound of the young lord's call, he darted towards him with various wild and extravagant gestures. "They are here," he cried--"they are here; Robin and Ralph and all, and right glad will they be to see you, for we have had a sore time of it these last four days. They thought it was the Prince's army again, and sent me out of the wood to discover." "Right glad shall we be to meet them, too," replied Hugh; "for though we are strong enough, I trust, and shall soon be stronger, yet a reinforcement of seven or eight hundred gallant men can never come amiss." "Not so many as that, good knight--not so many as that!" cried the dwarf. "Some of the Yorkshire churls were afraid to come by the road we took, and went round by Stafford--the rascals that Leighton raised, and Shergold of the bower. Thus there are but Robin and Ralph Harland, and two hundred and fifty barely counted; but they are good men and true, who will send you an arrow through the key-hole of Mumbury church-door, or beat the sheriff's constable into the shape of a horseshoe." "They shall be welcome--they shall be welcome!" said Hugh; "and as for the others, the man who has ever felt a doubt or fear in a good cause, had better not bring his faint heart to spread the mildew through a gallant army." When the young knight, however, met his yeoman friends, under the first trees of the little wood, he found the bearing of bold Robin Hood somewhat more serious than it was wont to be. "What is the matter, Robin?" he asked, after they had greeted each other kindly. "I know not, my lord," replied the forester; "but wild rumours have reached us in the course of the day, of a battle fought and De Montfort routed." Hugh de Monthermer laughed. "Nay, Robin," he said, "from that little hill you may see even now the last troops of the great Earl's gallant force marching into Evesham without a plume shorn from a crest, without banner torn, or a surcoat rent." "That is good news, my lord," answered Robin Hood, "that is good news." But still he looked grave, and added, "the tidings came from the Warwick side, and I love not such rumours, whether they show what men fear, or what men hope." "From the Warwick side!" said Hugh, musing in turn. "My Lord of Leicester must hear this. Come, Robin--come, Ralph, let us quickly on to Evesham. My uncle's men keep good quarters for me and mine, and I will share them with you for to-night. Have you no horses?" "No, my lord," replied Ralph; "we have marched with our people afoot. I have here a hundred good spears, and Robin some seven score archers. If you go on with your mounted men, we will soon follow, now that we know there are friends before us. For the last four days we have slept in the fields and woods; for the marchings and countermarchings of Prince Edward have more than once brought us nearly into a net. Go on--go on, my lord, and we will follow you." Hugh de Monthermer did not hesitate to do so; for he was well aware that at such a critical moment the least intelligence might be of importance to De Montfort. The moment he reached Evesham he left his men under the command of one of the principal followers of his house, and proceeded through the thronged confusion of the streets to seek the head-quarters of the Earl of Leicester. He found him at the abbey surrounded by a number of officers, and leading the King, with every appearance of deference and profound respect, to the apartment which had been prepared for him. This being done, and the usual measures having been taken to guard against the monarch's escape, the Earl turned to go back to the refectory. The moment his eye fell upon Hugh, De Montfort beckoned him to follow; and, in the large dining hall of the monks, called him into one of the deep windows, saying, "You have some news for me, I see. What is it?" Hugh related to him his meeting with their friends, and mentioned the rumours they had heard, which brought a sudden gloom on De Montfort's brow. "Ah!" he exclaimed; "from Warwick did he say the news had come?" "From the side of Warwick, my lord," replied Hugh. "By St. James, that were bad tidings, if true!" continued the Earl; "but it cannot be! I had letters from my son, last night. No, no; all is well. He had watched for Edward," he said, "but the Prince had not come.--Thanks, thanks, my young friend!--these good yeomen arrive most seasonably. See that they be well lodged and fed. Take care of your own people too; for, although the King told your uncle just now that he looked upon him as the worst enemy he had, I regard him as one of the best subjects in the land. So good night for the present, we must be early in the saddle to-morrow." CHAPTER XXII. It was about one o'clock on the 4th of August, 1265, when Simon de Montfort--having the King upon his right hand, with Lord le Despenser, the high justiciary, on the monarch's right, the Earl of Monthermer and Lord Ralph Basset, on his own left, and some four or five and twenty knights and gentlemen following close upon his steps--rode out from the highway leading from Evesham to Alcester, upon that ever renowned plain, where the truncheon of power was to be wrested from his grasp for ever. The country was for the most part open, but there was a little wood and some rising ground to the right, a rivulet running along across the patch of common land which the road now traversed, and a cultivated field with its hedgerow on the left. About a quarter of a mile from the point at which the highway issued from between the banks, was a stone post, marking the spot where three roads, coming down from some slight hills in front, met and united in the one along which De Montfort had marched from Evesham. For nearly the same distance beyond, these roads might be seen crossing the common, and then, plunging amongst woods and hedges, they ascended the gentle slope opposite. The day was not so fine as the preceding one; clouds were gathering in the sky; the air was heavy and oppressive; the horses either languid or impatient, and everything announced that the sun would go down in storms. A small advanced guard had been sent forward to reconnoitre the country in front, and, the head of the column of the army was about a hundred yards behind the general and his companions; but no detachment had been on this, as on the preceding day, thrown out to examine the fields to the left of the line of march. De Montfort's brow was calm and serene; he hoped, ere many hours were over, to unite his forces to those of his eldest son, and then, turning upon his enemy, to terminate the contest at a blow. Ere he had reached the stone at the crossing of the roads, however, three or four horsemen, at headlong speed, came down from the rising ground in front, and in a moment after the whole advance-guard were seen in full retreat. "What is this?" asked De Montfort, spurring on his horse to meet the first of the men-at-arms who was approaching. "What news bring you in such haste?" "My lord, there is a mighty power coming down upon you," cried the man; "we saw them from the edge of the slope beyond--full twenty thousand men." "Did you see their banners?" demanded De Montfort. "No," answered the Messenger; "there were banners in plenty, but I marked not what they were." "You are speedily alarmed," said the Earl, in a cold tone. "Hugh de Monthermer," he proceeded, speaking to the young Lord, who was close behind, "gallop up that hill there to the right, and bring us word what your keen eyes can see. I will ride on to the other slope, and judge for myself." Hugh was away in a moment, and De Montfort continued, turning in the saddle--"My kind friend, Monthermer--my good Lord Ralph--I beseech you, array the men as they issue forth from between the banks. These that are coming must be the forces of my son from Kenilworth, but it is as well to be prepared. My Lord le Despenser, I leave you to entertain his Majesty--I will be back directly. Some of you gentlemen follow me;" and spurring on at full speed, he crossed the little rivulet, and ascended the first slope of the ground beyond. He there paused, for some minutes, watching attentively the country before him, through which, upon the left-hand road, was advancing a large body of men, under numerous banners. At length, he seemed satisfied, turned his horse, and rode back at an easy canter to the spot where the old Earl of Monthermer and Lord Ralph Basset were arraying the spearmen, archers, and crossbowmen, who had by this time come forth upon the common, while the men-at-arms were only beginning to appear, taking up a position behind the infantry. "It is as well," said De Montfort, speaking, as they returned, to one of the gentlemen who had followed him--"it is as well to put them in array, for we shall halt here for an hour, while the men refresh themselves. You saw those banners?" "Yes, my lord," replied the knight; "I marked that of your son, and that of the Earl of Oxford." "We will give them a cheer when they come up," continued De Montfort; and he rode on to the Earl of Monthermer, saying--"It is my son, Monthermer; I see his banner, and Oxford's likewise. But here comes your nephew. Who is this he is driving down before him, at the point of the lance? A crossbowman, it seems." "My lord--my lord!" cried Hugh de Monthermer, as he came up--"prepare for instant battle. Prince Edward's army is within a mile, and Mortimer is coming up on the right-hand road!" "What! to the right?" exclaimed De Montfort. "How came he there?--Well, let them come! they will meet more than they expected. My son is on the left. Advance our wing, my good Lord of Monthermer, that we may join with him more easily." "My lord, you are deceived," said Hugh, eagerly; "the banners you have seen are not your son's." "But----" cried De Montfort. "Speak, sirrah!" exclaimed Hugh, turning sternly to the crossbowman, whom he had driven down before him; "speak, and let the Earl hear the truth. Such bitter tidings should only come from the lips of an enemy. Speak, I say. My lord, this is one of Gloucester's archers; he will tell you more." "Let him, then," said the Earl. "Who are these, marching against me, sirrah?" "Prince Edward, Roger Mortimer, and Gilbert de Clare," replied the man. "Your son, my lord--kill me if you will, but it is the truth--your son was surprised in his bed, at Kenilworth, his army routed and dispersed, thirteen barons displaying their own banners were taken, and as many more were slain. The banners you have seen were captured by the Prince, and are hung out but to deceive you." "And my son?" asked De Montfort, gazing earnestly in the man's face. "What of my son?" "He escaped, my lord," replied the archer, "he escaped, and threw himself into the castle." "Take him to the rear," said De Montfort. "Lo! where they come! A mighty power, indeed!! How orderly--how firm!--The boy learnt that from me. Now, God have mercy on our souls--for our bodies are Prince Edward's!" He added the latter words in a lower voice, but so as to be distinctly heard by the gentlemen around him. A moment after, he raised his head proudly, saying, "However, he must be met boldly, and we must do our duty as knights and gentlemen. Every one who is willing to do so may this day conquer high renown, if he wins no other prize; but should there be any one who fears to fight and fall with De Montfort, he has full leave to go; for I would not have it said, when men shall talk of this glorious, though perhaps disastrous day, that there was one coward amongst all those who did battle at Evesham. Let us make the best of our array, my Lord of Monthermer. Yonder wood is a point that must be maintained. Hugh, line the hedges of that little field with archers--place me there our stout foresters from Sherwood: it is a point of much importance. Take up your post beyond them there with your men-at-arms--have some archers and slingers in your front, and keep the ground between the further hedge and those scrubby bushes and hawthorn trees, amongst which their horsemen cannot act. I put you in a post of difficulty and danger, young gentleman, but I know that you will acquit you well; and now for the rest of our array. The enemy are halting for their own arrangements, but still we must lose no time." Thus saving, he rode slowly along towards the wood, giving his orders as he went, and ranging his men for battle; while Hugh de Monthermer proceeded to execute the commands he had received. Every post was soon filled up, and before two o'clock the adverse armies were completely arrayed facing each other; but, alas, that of Prince Edward outnumbering the force opposed to him in the proportion of two to one! Nearly in the centre of De Montfort's line was the Earl of Leicester, and at a little distance the weak and false King Henry, cased in complete armour, and riding a strong black charger; for on both sides the royal standard was displayed, and in a brief consultation amongst the principal nobles, it had been judged necessary, as the King's name was used in all public acts by the Lords Commissioners, to let the soldiers see him actually in arms on their behalf. Neither had Henry himself appeared in the least unwilling to play this part, for although surrounded by a number of guards, he still entertained the hope of escaping in the hurry and confusion of battle. In the right of the same army was placed the gallant young Henry de Montfort, a godson of the King, and, like Hugh de Monthermer, a playfellow of Prince Edward; for in those dire civil wars, as is ever the case, all the sweet relationships of life were torn asunder, and the hearts that loved each other the best were frequently armed for each other's destruction. In the left wing was the banner of Monthermer, and under it fought, not only the regular retainers of the house, but the yeomen and foresters of Yorkshire and Nottingham. The slingers, as usual, were thrown forward about a hundred and fifty yards before the rest of the army, closely supported by the lighter pikemen, and taking advantage of every bush and brake which might give them shelter, while they discharged their missiles at the enemy. Behind them were some thousands of Welsh foot, who had been engaged as auxiliaries by De Montfort, and then came the lines of sturdy English archers and regular spear-men, supported by the men-at-arms. It was a fine array to look upon, and stern and firm seemed the front of De Montfort's battle; but the vast superiority of the enemy's numbers cast a shadow, as it were, upon the spirits of the soldiery, while in the hearts of the leaders was nothing but the certainty of defeat and death. Had it been any other body, perhaps, that opposed them but an English force, had any other generals commanded the adverse party but Edward and Gloucester, their confidence in their own courage and in their great leader might have taught them to look with hope even to the unequal struggle before them. The troops, however, by whom they were outnumbered were English soldiers, the chiefs who led the enemy were famous for their warlike skill and courage, and all were fresh from victory, and elated with recent success. Upon the field of battle the banners which had been assumed to mislead De Montfort were cast by, and those of the different leaders themselves displayed. The troops of Mortimer and the Lords Marchers were on the right, the division of Gloucester on the left, and the command of Edward himself in the centre. In the army of the Prince, hope and exultation were in every bosom, confidence was strong, and, amongst the foreign favourites of Henry III. who were ranged in that force, the burning thirst for revenge upon him who had overthrown their fortunes, and well-nigh driven them from the land, added fierceness to their courage, and a savage joy at the thought of the coming vengeance. After the array was complete, a stern and gloomy silence pervaded the whole line of De Montfort. Each man thought of to-morrow, of the home that he might never see again, the children left fatherless, the widowed wife, the promised bride, the sweet, warm relations of domestic life, soon to be torn by the bloody hand of war. Yet none but the auxiliaries thought of flying: not one dreamt of avoiding the fate before him, for each man there arrayed came with a firm conviction of right and justice on his side; Each believed that he was fighting for the deliverance of his country from foreign domination; each came ready to die for the liberty and the freedom of the people of England. They were determined, resolute, unshaken, but they were without hope, and therefore in stern silence they awaited the onset of the foe. On the other side, for some time, nothing was heard but cheerful sounds, the leaders' shouts, the repeated blasts of the clarion and the trumpet, till at length, amongst them also, a momentary solemn pause succeeded, giving notice that the battle was about to begin. They hung like a thunder-cloud upon the edge of the slope, and that temporary calm but preceded the breaking forth of the tempest. The heavy masses then, for a moment, seemed to tremble; and then a few men ran forward from the ranks, slinging, even from a distance at which no effect could be produced, large balls of stone or lead at the front of De Montfort's line. Others followed quick, in irregular masses; and then, moved on, somewhat more slowly, but in fine and soldierly order, the whole of Edward's overpowering force. A pin might have been heard to drop in the host of De Montfort, so still was the expectant silence with which they awaited the attack of the immense army which seemed not only about to assail them at once in front, but lapping over at both extremities, to crush either flank under the charge of its numerous cavalry. The skilful dispositions of the great Earl, however, had secured them against that danger; and the wood on the right hand, which he had filled with archers and foot spearmen, defended one wing, while the hedges and low hawthorn trees, near which he had planted Hugh de Monthermer and the bowmen of Sherwood, were a protection to the left. Nevertheless, the latter point was one of considerable danger, and Edward marked it as the weakest part of De Montfort's line. Scarcely had the first movement in the prince's army taken place, when a strong body of horse, following close upon a band of crossbowmen, was observed by Hugh de Monthermer marching straight against his post, headed by the banner of Bigod Earl of Norfolk; and leaving his men-at-arms for a moment, he galloped to the spot where his friend Robin stood, saying in a low voice, "Here will they make their first attack, Robin, in order to turn our flank." "Let them come!" replied Robin Hood, "we will give a good account of them. We have planted stakes for their horses, my lord, so if you have to charge, mark well the gaps." "I see--I see!" cried Hugh de Monthermer, "but as it is a great object to put them in disarray, send them a flight from your bowstrings as soon as the arrows will tell." "Ours will tell now!" said Robin, and at the same time he raised his bow above his head as a signal to his men. At that instant a few balls dropping from the enemy's stingers, fell impotent along De Montfort's line; but the next moment a hundred and fifty arrows shot into the air, scattered the crossbowmen in face of Hugh de Monthermer's band, and even caused considerable disarray amongst the men-at-arms, from Norfolk. A whole flight from Edward's army then darkened the air, but reached not the opposite host; and the Earl of Monthermer, distrusting his nephew's impetuosity, rode down to beg him on no account to charge till the battle had really begun. It was not long ere such was the case, however. Onward, with increasing rapidity, came the force of the Prince; the arrows and the quarrels on both sides began to work fearful havoc in the ranks; and the men-at-arms might be seen closing the barred aventaille, preparing to enter with each other into deadly strife. The arrows from the Nottingham bows--unmatched throughout all England--did execution of a fearful kind amongst the crossbowmen opposed to them. One went down after another as they hurried forward; their ranks became thinner and more thin; and at length, the men-at-arms behind them, finding that the living as well as the dead and wounded encumbered without serving, called to them loudly to retire, that they themselves might advance to charge. Before the retreat of the infantry could well be accomplished, the Earl of Norfolk gave the word; and with levelled lances the horsemen sushed on, though repeated arrows from an unerring hand struck every part of the Earl's own armour as he approached. "At the horses!" cried the voice of Robin Hood, as the men-at-arms drew near; and in an instant another flight, point blank, rattled like hail amongst the advancing cavalry. Five or six chargers instantly went down, and others, furious with pain, reeled and plunged, spreading disarray around. Hugh de Monthermer was now about to give the order to advance, in order to support the archers, and complete what they had done, but at that instant a cry of, "They fly--they fly!" came from the right; and, looking up the line, he perceived the whole body of Welsh auxiliaries running from the field in rout and disarray. The panic of any large body of an army, we are told, generally communicates itself more or less, to the whole; but such was not the case upon the present occasion. A shout of indignant anger burst from the other troops as the Welsh went by, for it was forgotten that they were not fighting for their country's safety or deliverance, like the rest of that host; but every one made way for them to pass, and, filling up the open space as fast as possible, presented a still sterner face than before to the advancing enemy. One of the chief defences of the centre, however, was now gone: it was like an outwork forced; and a charge of men at-arms taking place on both sides, the whole line was speedily engaged. From the firm front of the Nottingham archers, and the terrible, unceasing shower of arrows they kept up, the bands of the Earl of Norfolk turned off in disorder, at the very moment he had led them up almost to the stakes. Hugh de Monthermer, charging while they were still in confusion, drove them back in complete rout; but the troops of Mortimer sweeping up; changed the fortune of the parties, and Hugh knowing the absolute necessity of keeping firm the post he occupied, retreated unwillingly to his first position. It was now that the Yorkshire spearmen, with the young franklin at their head, did gallant service to the cause which they espoused. Advancing with their long lances, they kept the enemy at bay, and, in spite of charge after charge, made by Mortimer and others, maintained their ground against the whole force of the Prince's right wing. In other parts of the field, however, numbers were gradually prevailing against all that courage and resolution, could do. The _mêlée_ had begun in all its fierceness, knight fought with knight, man opposed man, hurry and confusion were seen in all parts of the field, while the clang of arms, the blasts of the trumpet, the shouts of the combatants, the loud voice of the commanders, the galloping of horse, the groans of the dying, and the screams of men receiving agonizing wounds, offered to the ear of heaven a sound only fit for the darkest depth of hell. Charge after charge was poured upon the left wing of De Montfort's army; but Mortimer, Bigod, and the Earl of Pembroke, in vain led down their horse against the gallant band of spearmen and archers. Each time they approached, they were driven back, either by the fierce flights of arrows, the long spears of Pontefract, or the encounter of the men-at-arms. Once only was the line, between the hedged field we have mentioned and the hawthorn trees, shaken for an instant by overpowering numbers; and then the old Earl of Monthermer, seeing his nephew's peril, galloped down, at the head of a strong band of men-at-arms, and aided to repel the enemy. He paused one moment by his nephew's side ere he left him, saying; "It will be very glorious, Hugh, if we can maintain our ground till night. Farewell, my dear boy; do your devoir, and, if we never meet again on earth, God bless you!" "I beseech you, sir," replied Hugh, "take care of your own invaluable life; remember, you are as much aimed at by the enmity of the foreigners as even De Montfort." "I will never fall alive into their hands," replied the old Earl, "but I quit not this field, so long as there is light to wield the sword." Thus saying, he rode away to a spot where the battle was thickening, round the banner of De Montfort itself; and his presence there apparently aided to restore the field; for, shortly after, the whole force of Prince Edward withdrew for a short space, like a tiger that has been disappointed of its spring, and hung wavering upon the edge of the slope, as if collecting vigour for a new charge. At the same time, the sky overhead, which, as I have before said, had been threatening during the whole morning, grew darker and darker, so as to be more like that of a gloomy November evening; than the decline of a summer's day. The pause which had taken place seemed a part of Edward's plan for breaking the firm line of his adversary, as it was more than once repeated during the battle; but it was never of long duration. The next instant his trumpets blew the charge, and down came the thundering cavalry, pouring at once upon every part of De Montfort's army. On the Earl's side, too, after a rapid flight of arrows from the archers, the men-at-arms advanced to meet the coming foe, and again the battle was urged hand to hand. It were vain to attempt a picture of the various deeds that were done that day in different parts of the field, for seldom in the annals of warfare has a combat taken place in which such acts of prowess and stern determination were displayed on either part. Edward himself, Mortimer, Gloucester, the Earl of Ashby and his son, Bigod, and Valence, and a thousand others of noble birth and high renown fought, both as generals and soldiers, with personal exertions and valour, which could only be displayed in a chivalrous system of warfare; while on the other, De Montfort, Monthermer, Le Despenser, Basset, St. John, Beauchamp, De Ros, put forth energies almost superhuman to counterbalance the disadvantage of numbers, and to wrest a victory from the hand of fate. In one place, Humphrey de Bohun was struck down by one of Edward's men-at-arms; and a peasant with an oucin was preparing to dispatch him, ere he could rise, when William de York came to his rescue, and slew the foot soldier; but, even as De Bohun rose and regained his horse, his deliverer was killed by a quarrel from a crossbow. In another part, the King himself was assailed, and wounded by one of his own son's followers, who had even shortened his lance to pin him to the earth, as he lay prostrate before him, when throwing back his aventaille, the monarch exclaimed, "Out upon thee, traitor.--I am Henry of Winchester, thy king: Where is my son?" As he spoke, a knight, taller, by a head, than any man around, and clothed from the crown to the heel in linked mail, sprang to the ground beside him, and thrusting the soldier fiercely back, raised the monarch from the ground, exclaiming, "Mount, mount, my father, and away! Come to the rear, and let your wound be searched.--Give me your horse's rein.--You at least are free, and that is worth a victory." The King sprang on his horse, and Edward led him by the bridle to the rear of his own army. Almost at the same moment, on the left of De Montfort's line, Alured de Ashby and Hugh de Monthermer met in full career; the former charging the well-known shield of Monthermer with animosity only the more fierce, perhaps, because he knew that it was unjust; the latter meeting him unwillingly, though compelled by circumstances to do his knightly devoir. His very reluctance, however, made him more calm and thoughtful than his fiery assailant; and, aiming his lance right at the crest of his adversary, in order to cast him from his horse and make him prisoner, rather than kill him, he galloped on with a wary eye. The young lord of Ashby's spear, charged well and steadily, struck full upon the shield of his opponent, pierced through the plate of steel and touched the hauberk; but stopped there, without even shaking him in the saddle, and broke off in splinters; while Monthermer's lance, catching the steel casque just above the aventaille, hurled his adversary to the ground, bruised, but unwounded. Several of Monthermer's followers instantly ran up on foot to seize the discomfited knight, and make him prisoner; but a charge of fresh troops drove them back, and Alured de Ashby remounting his horse, rode away with no light addition to his former hatred for Hugh de Monthermer. The momentary retirement of Edward from the field now caused another of those pauses in the battle, which have been already mentioned. His forces once more withdrew for a short space, slowly and sullenly, the archers on either side continuing to discharge their arrows, though with but little effect. About the same time, a flash somewhat faint, but blue and ghastly, came across the sky, and then the low muttering of distant thunder. "Ha!" said Robin Hood, who was standing by the side of Hugh de Monthermer at the moment; "that trumpet will be but little attended to to-day. Heaven's voice too rarely is." "Too rarely, indeed!" replied Hugh. "Have you lost many men, Robin?" "Well-nigh two score, I fear," answered Robin Hood. "Poor Brown was rash, and ventured beyond the stakes with his little band of Mansfield-men. They are all gone; but we have filled up the gap." "Can you still maintain your post?" demanded Hugh. "With God's will and the help of the blessed Virgin, we shall do very well here," said Robin; "but I fear, my lord, for the centre and the right. Look up there, just in the second line, where there are so many gathering to one spot. Some great man is hurt there." "My uncle was there a moment ago," exclaimed Hugh; "I fear it is he!" "No, no, my lord!" replied an old knight of the house of Monthermer, who was on his horse close by; "my lord, your uncle is safe. I have seen him since the last charge, though he seems resolved to lose his life." "I do beseech you, Sir John Hardy," said Hugh, "if we lose the day, look to my uncle, and force him from the battle, should it be needful." "You stay on the field then, my lord, I suppose?" asked the old knight. "I do," answered Hugh. "Then, I stay too," replied Sir John Hardy. "Nay, that is folly," cried Robin Hood. "Let each man fight so long as fighting may avail; but when the day is clearly lost, the brave man, who would spill his best blood to win it, then saves the life that God gave him to do God service at another time. But, see--all the leaders are gathering to that point! You had better go, my lord, and bring us tidings. We will ensure the ground till your return." "Command the troop then till I come back, Sir John," said Hugh, and riding along the front of the line, under a shower of arrows from the enemy, he approached the spot--where, sheltered from the sight of the adversary's lines by a thick phalanx of foot spearsmen and men-at-arms,--was collected a group of noblemen of the first rank, seeming to hold a council round the royal standard, which was there erected. When Hugh came near, however, he saw that the occasion was a sadder one. His uncle, the Lords of Mandeville, Basset, Crespigny, Beauchamp, and Le Despenser, were standing dismounted round the famous Earl of Leicester, who was stretched upon the ground, with his head and shoulders supported by the knee and arm of a monk. Deep in his breast, piercing through and through the steel hauberk, was buried the head of a broken lance, and in his right was a cloth-yard arrow. He had just concluded, what seemed his confession, in extremis; and the good man was murmuring over him in haste the hurried absolution of the field of battle. His countenance was pale; the dull shadow of death was upon it; the lips were colourless and the nostrils widely expanded, as if it caused an agonizing effort to draw his breath; but the eye was still bright and clear, and--while the man of God repeated the last words--it rolled thoughtfully over the faces of all around, resting with an anxious gaze upon those with whom he was most familiar. "Draw out the lance," he said, speaking to the surgeon of his household, who stood near. "If I do, my lord," replied the leech, "you cannot survive ten minutes." "That is long, enough," said de Montfort. "My boy Henry is gone; I saw him fall, and I would not be much behind him. Draw it out, I say, I cannot breathe and I must needs speak to my friends. Le Despenser; make him draw it out; I shall have time enough for all I have to do." Unwillingly, and not without a considerable effort, the surgeon tore the head of the lance out of the wound; but, contrary to his expectation; very little blood followed. The Earl bled inwardly. He seemed to feel instant relief, however, saying--"Ah, that is comfort! keep that steel, my friend, as the instrument that sent De Montfort to heaven. Now mark me, lords and nobles," he continued, in a firm voice--"mark me and never forget, that at his last hour, going to meet his Saviour in judgment, De Montfort declares that those who accuse him of ambition do belie him. I say now, as I have said ever, that my every act and every thought have been for my country's good. I may have been mistaken--doubtless, have been so often; but that my intentions have been pure, I do most fervently call Heaven to witness. So much for that; and now, my friends, I am fast leaving you. My sun, like yonder orb, is setting rapidly: I for ever--he to rise again. He may yet shine brightly on the cause I can no longer support, but it must be upon another field, and upon another day. Preserve yourselves for that time, my friends, I exhort, I beseech you! Basset, Monthermer, Le Despeuser, this battle is lost; but you may yet, as night is coming, effect your retreat in safety. It is no dishonour to quit a well-fought but unequal field. Show, a firm face to the enemy; gather all our poor soldiers together; retire as orderly as may be till night covers you, then disperse, and each man make the best of his way to his own stronghold. Monthermer, you shake your head!" "I have sworn, De Montfort," said his old friend, kneeling down and grasping his hand, "not to quit this field so long as there is light in yonder sky to strike a stroke, and I must keep my vow." "You are going, my noble friend," said Lord Ralph Basset--"you are going on a journey where you must have companions. I am with you, Leicester, and that right soon." "Good bye, De Montfort," said Lord le Despenser. "Go on; I will not make you wait. We shall meet again in half an hour." A faint smile came upon the lip of the dying man. "Must it be so?" he asked. "Well, then, range your men! Upon them altogether! and let the traitors, who have betrayed their country, make such a field, that Evesham plain shall be sung and talked of so long as liberty is dear to the hearts of Englishmen.--Hark, they are coming!" he continued, in a faint voice, with his eye rolling languidly from side to side. "No, my lord, that is thunder," said the surgeon. "Ha!" replied De Montfort, vacantly, "thunder!--I am very thirsty." Some one ran and brought him a little water from the stream. It seemed to refresh him; and, raising himself for an instant upon his arm, he gazed around with a countenance, full of stern enthusiasm, exclaiming aloud, "Do your devoir!" and with those words he fell back into the arms of the priest, a corpse. A dozen voices, replied, "We will!" and each man springing on his horse, regained the head of his band. Just as Edward's troops were once more in movement to advance, the word was given along the whole of the confederate line, the trumpets blew to the charge, and the army, which had held its firm position up to that hour, rushed forward to meet the adversary like a thunder-cloud rolling down a hill. The sun, at the same moment, touched the edge of the horizon, shining out beneath the edge of the stormy canopy that covered the greater part of the sky, and blending its red descending light with the thunder-drops which were now pattering large and thick upon the plain of Evesham. The whole air seemed flooded with gore, and the clouds on the eastern side of the heavens, black and heavy as they were, assumed a lurid glare, harmonizing with the whole scene, except where part of a rainbow crossed the expanse, hanging the banner of hope, light, and peace, in the midst of strife, destruction, and despair. Such was the scene at the moment when the two armies met in the dire shock of battle; and fierce and terrible was the encounter, as, soon broken into separate parties, they fought hand to hand, dispersed over the plain. In one of these confused groups, leading on a small body of archers, with Robin Hood by his side, was the young Lord of Monthermer. "My lord, my lord," said Sir John Hardy, riding up, "your uncle is down--wounded, but not dead!" "Bear him from the field, Sir John," replied Hugh. "Robin, I beseech you, look to him. Bear him from the field--bear him from the field!" "What, ho! Monthermer!" cried a loud voice, from a party Of spearmen coining at full speed. "Down with your lance; surrender to the Prince!" "If the Prince can take me!" replied Hugh, charging his lance at Edward's shield, and driving his spurs deep into his horse's sides. "Hold back--hold back!" shouted Edward to his own men. "Hold back, every one, upon your lives!" and meeting the young lord in full career, both their lances were shivered in a moment, as if in some mock combat of the tilt-yard. Hugh de Monthermer's sword sprang from the sheath in a moment, while Edward cried--"Yield thee, Hugh--yield thee!" but a number of men on foot had ran up; and, suddenly, the young knight received a violent blow from a mallet on the side of his head, while, at the same instant, his horse, gashed deep in the belly by the broad sword of a crossbowman, staggered and and fell prone upon the plain. A dozen spears were at his throat in a moment; but Edward shouted once more, to stand back; and springing to the ground, he bent over the young knight, exclaiming, "Now, Hugh, rescue, or no rescue--do you surrender?" "I have no choice, my lord," replied the other; "I am in your hand." "Take him to the rear," said Edward; "but use him with all kindness, as your Prince's friend. Now, my lords," he continued, remounting his horse, "methinks the field is ours, and there is scarcely light to strike another blow. Well has the fight been fought, and it is but justice to our enemies to say, that never was greater valour, conduct, and chivalry, displayed in any land than by them this day. Some one said De Montfort is dead. Have the tidings been confirmed?" "They are certain, my lord," replied one of his attendants. "The Lord de Vesci, who is taken sorely wounded, saw him die." "He was a great man," said Edward. "Now spur on and clear the plain; but be merciful, my friends. Remember, they are brave men and fellow-countrymen." Thus speaking the Prince advanced again, and having seen that no party remained in active contention with his forces, but that all were either dead, taken, or dispersed, he caused his standard to be pitched upon the banks of the little rivulet we mentioned, his trumpets to blow the recal--and thus ended the famous battle of Evesham. CHAPTER XXIII. How frequently in real life, as upon the mimic stage, the most opposite scenes that it is possible to conceive follow each other in quick succession. Often, indeed, are they placed side by side, or only veiled from the eye of the spectator by a thin partition, which falls with a touch, and all is changed. While revelry haunts the saloons of life, anguish writhes in the garret, and misery tenants the cellar. Pomp, and pageantry, and splendour occupy the one day; sorrow, destitution, and despair the next; and, as in some of our old tragedies, the laughter and merriment of the buffoon, appear alternately with tears and agony. If it be so with human life--if, in this fitful spring-day of our being, the storms and the sunshine tread upon the heels of each other, so must it be with everything that would truly represent existence--even with a tale like this. We must change the scene, then, and convey the reader far away from the sad field of Evesham--without pausing to detail some of the barbarous horrors there committed on the bodies of the dead--at once to the splendid court of England, now triumphant over its enemies, and revelling in uncontrolled power. We may, indeed, stay for an instant to remark, that while joy and satisfaction spread through the various partisans of the court, while the foreign favourites of Henry III. displayed their rejoicing with indecent ostentation, and even the calmer and wiser adherents of his high-minded son could not refrain from triumphant exultation, consternation, dismay, and mourning spread throughout the middle and lower classes of the people, through the clergy of the real Anglican church, and through the greater part of the barons who claimed a genuine English descent. The barrier was thrown down which had protected their rights and liberties; and most of those whose swords had been so long unsheathed in the popular cause, now lay weltering in their gore upon the field of Evesham, leaving none but outlaws, and fugitives to mourn for them in secrecy and concealment, and poets and minstrels to sing the deeds of the gone. It was at the court of England,--not in the capital of the kingdom, but in the palace of Eltham, then one of the most beautiful, if not most splendid of the residences of our kings--in a small chamber in the left wing of the building, rather more than a month after the scenes which we have lately commemorated, that there lay upon a couch, covered with a leopard's skin, a young knight, busily engaged in reading a manuscript written in a somewhat cramped and difficult hand. He was clad altogether in the garments of peace, but a deep gash upon his brow, a scarf bound tight round his arm, and a certain uneasy expression of countenance when he turned from side to side, showed that it was not long since he had been engaged in the fierce and bloody pursuits of war. Hugh de Monthermer had not passed through the battle of Evesham unwounded; and though, as a point of chivalrous, courage, he had scorned to suffer the slightest sign of anguish to appear, yet the injuries he had received were long in being healed, and even for some days his life had been held in danger. Asa prisoner taken by the Prince's own hand, he had been brought in the train of the Court to London, and then to Eltham; and although no one word had been spoken of his future fate--no proposal made in regard to terms of liberation at the period when many other nobles were allowed to submit and receive letters of remission, yet he had been treated with constant care and kindness. Scarcely a day had passed without his being visited by Edward himself; but the subject of his actual situation had been studiously avoided by the Prince; and Hugh, impatient of farther restraint, now lay in his chamber waiting his coming, and resolved to make such inquiries as must lead to some definite reply. About half an hour later than his usual time, the firm step of Edward was heard in the ante-room, and his voice bidding the page who followed stop at the door. The next instant the Prince entered, bowing his lofty head as he passed through the low arched doorway. His countenance was somewhat grave; but his tone was full of kindness towards Hugh de Monthermer, and he took him by the hand inquiring after his health. "I am nearly well, my dear lord," replied Hugh; "and, like your Grace, when I found you in the castle of Hereford, I only sigh for fresh air and liberty to use my cramped limbs." "But why do you not take exercise?" demanded the Prince. "You should ride forth every day." "I did not know I had permission," answered Hugh. "I fancied your Grace might think that the lesson you gave upon the banks of the Wye might not be lost upon your humble prisoner." "Not after you had surrendered, rescue or no rescue, Monthermer," said the Prince. "I put no fetters upon you, my friend, but the fetters of your word. The great gates are as free to you as to myself; and, though I give you not your liberty, it is for your sake, not my own. My father's anger burns fierce against your house, Monthermer. It is the only spark which I have not been able to quench. You, he will pardon, after a time; but I fear towards your uncle we shall never soften him.--He says that it was by his advice De Montfort acted." Edward put the last words in the tone of a question, or, perhaps, as an assertion which he wished to hear refuted; but Hugh replied, gravely--"His majesty says true, my lord; it was by my uncle's advice. But your Grace's words give relief to my mind. I have had no tidings of my uncle since that fatal field; and though I had hopes that he had escaped, yet those hopes were faint. I do beseech you, my good lord, tell me what you know for never son loved father more than I love him, under whose sword I have been brought up from youth." "I know little more than yourself," answered the Prince; "all I can say, is, neither his body nor his arms were found amongst the dead; and so far is my father convinced of his having escaped, that he, with seven others, who have not yet made submission, have had sentence of outlawry proclaimed against them." Hugh de Monthermer mused with feelings very much divided between pleasure and pain; but the Prince laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying--"Come, old playfellow, prepare yourself for a ride, and join me in a minute in the court below. There are guests coming to the palace to-day, and perchance we may meet them." There was no slight delight to Hugh de Monthermer, as the reader may very well imagine, in the thought of using his limbs in wholesome exercise, and tasting again the free outward air; and dressing himself hastily for the expedition, he was soon by the Prince's side. It often happens, however, that when we have looked forward with bright anticipations towards enjoyments from which we have been long debarred, and have thought that nothing but pleasure and refreshment can await us therein, a degree of melancholy falls upon us even in the very fruition of our wishes--a memory, a regret, is poured out from the heart to dilute the inebriating cup of joy. It was so with Hugh de Monthermer. The first breath of the free air felt to him like new life and the promises of hope; but, almost instantly, the thought of the many high and noble, good and wise companions, with whom not long before he had enjoyed the same gentle breeze, the same warm sunshine, and who could now taste them no more--the thought of his just and chivalrous uncle, wandering wounded and alone, an exile or an outlaw--the thought of the gallant and the brave who strewed the field of Evesham, came across his mind, and dimmed all the happiness of the hour. He was gloomy, then, as he rode forth from the palace gates, and the merriment of many a young knight and gay esquire, who followed in Edward's train, sounded harsh and unpleasant to his ear. They were absent for some two hours; but, as they returned, the look of Hugh de Monthermer was brightened, and his smile as cheerful as the rest. If the reader would know why, it is easy to tell. Riding beside Prince Edward, were the Earls of Gloucester and Ashby, and not far distant, a train of fair ladies and attendants, amongst whom was one whose soft dark eyes seemed ready to run over with bright drops whenever they turned towards the young knight, who, for his part, was by her side as often as the movements of the cavalcade would permit. It is true, that more than one of the gentlemen around, proud of being of the court party, and vain of any share they had taken in the late struggle, deemed it almost an act of insolence on the part of a captive and a rebel, as they chose to term him, to claim the attention of one of the fair guests of their sovereign, Hugh de Monthermer's renown as a knight, however, kept their saucy anger within due bounds; and, though they so contrived that no private word could pass between Lucy de Ashby and her lover, they could not cut him off from the enjoyment of her society. On arriving at the palace, more than one prepared himself to aid the lady in dismounting from her horse; but Hugh de Monthermer, feeling a title in her regard advanced as of right, and lifted the fair form of Lucy from the saddle. In so doing, the only opportunity occurred of uttering a word to each other, unheard by those around. But it was Lucy herself who took advantage of it. "I have something to say to you, Hugh," she, whispered; "something that must be said." Ere he could answer, however, the Earl of Ashby was by their side. He had hitherto taken no notice of his former friend and confederate, and perhaps might not have done so even now, had not his conversation with the Prince been of a kind to show him that, in Edward's eyes, Hugh de Monthermer was anything but a captive enemy. He held out his hand to him, then, with kindly greeting, and asked him after his health, adding--"Now that these contentions are happily at an end, my young friend, let us forget any disputes in the past." Hugh, as may be supposed, was not backward to accept his proferred hand, and good care did he take, not even by a look, to shew that he knew himself to be rather the injured than the injurer, in the dissensions which had taken place. A few brief questions and replies followed, while Edward spoke in a low tone with the Earl of Gloucester, whose eyes, Hugh de Monthermer remarked, were fixed earnestly and somewhat sternly upon himself. At length the Prince turned, and bending gracefully to Lucy de Ashby, and another lady who was with the party, told them that, though the Queen was still absent in France, the Princess Eleanor waited for them in the hall. "She is a cousin of yours, you know, fair lady," he added, addressing Lucy, and then turning to his prisoner, he said "We have a grand banquet to-night, Monthermer, at which you must find strength to be present.--I have my father's commands to invite you." Hugh bowed low, and as the guests passed on, he retired thoughtfully to his own chamber. It was still early in the day; the hour appointed for the banquet was late, and his first reveries were full of joy and love, but a discomfort of a trifling, yet annoying kind, crossed the young knight's thoughts from time to time. Separated from all his attendants, kept a close prisoner up to that period, both by his wounds, and by his situation--he was totally without the means of appearing at the table of the King with that splendour which the customs of the day required.--The only suit he had was that which he then wore, the pourpoint, namely, over which at Evesham he had borne his armour. Some other necessaries had been supplied to him, as a kindness, by one of Edward's attendants; but still--though resolved, at all events, not to be absent from the banquet--how could he appear in garments soiled and rent, where all the pomp and pageantry of England were sure to be displayed! "I will send to the Prince," he thought, "and let him know the situation in which I am placed; but still, though doubtless, he will now give me means of sending to my own friends, both for money and apparel, the supply will come too late, for this day's necessities at least, and even if he himself furnishes me with gold for present need, where can I buy, in this lonely situation, any thing that I want?" While he was thus thinking, the sound of steps in his ante-room showed him that some one was approaching; and in a moment after, two of the inferior attendants of the court entered, bringing in between them, one of the long heavy cases of leather stretched upon a frame of wood, which were then used for carrying arms and clothing in the train of an army. "This was brought here last night, my lord, and left for you," said one of the servants. "The chief sewer opened it by mistake, and finding that it contained apparel, sent us with it." Hugh smiled, thinking that it was a kindly stratagem of the Prince to furnish him with what he needed; but ere the two men had quitted the ante-room, Edward himself re-entered it, coming to offer the assistance of his purse or wardrobe, and taking blame to himself for not having thought before of his friend's need. Hugh laughed, and pointing to the coffer, thanked him for what he had already sent; but the Prince denied all knowledge of it, and on opening the case, which Edward insisted on his doing before his eyes, he found that it was filled with apparel of his own, nearly new, which had been left behind him in Yorkshire, in the early part of the year. "This must be the doings of the fairies, my lord," he said; "but as I cannot always count upon these nimble gentry thus attending to my wants, I will beseech your Grace to let me send a messenger to enquire after my own poor friends and attendants who were scattered at Evesham, and to bring me such a number of men and horses as I may be permitted to maintain while a prisoner, as well as some small supply of money." "If you will write," said Edward, in reply, "I will send immediately. But let us understand each other completely, Monthermer. I think on many accounts that it may be better for you to reside some few months at the Court of England, and I believe, at all events, that you yourself will not be eager to quit it, while a certain bright lady remains with the Princess. Your being my captive is the only excuse that can be given for your prolonging your stay, where it is very needful you should remain; and this is the reason why I do not publicly set you free. But as in this changeful world," he continued, in a marked and significant manner, "one never can tell what the next day may bring forth, and as it may be necessary, either for your happiness or your safety, under some circumstances, to fly at a moment's notice--for I can neither trust the fierce Mortimer, nor the cruel Pembroke--I promise to fix your ransom whenever you require it; and, should need be, you may act upon this promise as if I had already given you liberty--I will justify you whenever it takes place. In the meantime, however, you must play the part of captive demurely, and make the best of your opportunities, my young friend; for I have learned from one of your enemies the state of your affections, and I doubt not that your lady love will willingly listen to your tale if you choose a fair hour for telling it.--Nay, no thanks, Monthermer! Take what money you want from my purse till your own arrives; and now, adieu." Hugh conducted the Prince to the door of his ante-room, and then returned, proposing to examine more fully the wardrobe which had been so unexpectedly sent to him, thinking that perhaps he might find something to indicate from what hand it came. But before he did so, he sat down thoughtfully, and gazed out of the small casement of his chamber, while, strange to say, his spirit seemed oppressed. In every point his situation was happier and better than it had been a few hours previous; the storm cloud which had obscured his hopes was clearing away; his mind had been made more easy in regard to his uncle's safety; liberty appeared before him, and he was near to her he loved; but, nevertheless, he felt a sadness that he could not account for. As the first impression of the fresh air upon a person going out after a long sickness will give them a sensation of faintness, even while it revives them, so will the return to hope and happiness, after a long period of despair and sorrow, bring with it a touch of melancholy even on the wings of joy. CHAPTER XXIV. It was in the great hall at Eltham--that splendid hall which still remains, attesting, like many other monuments, the magnificent ideas of an age which we, perhaps justly, term barbarous, but which displayed, amongst many rude and uncivilized things, a grasp of conception and a power of execution in some of the arts, that we seldom if ever can attain even in these more generally cultivated times. In the great hall at Eltham, about an hour after sunset, was laid out a banquet, which in profuse luxury and splendour as far exceeded any, even of our state repasts, in the present day as the hall that overhung it excelled the lumbering architecture of the eighteenth century. The table actually groaned under masses of quaint and curious plate,--many of the cups and dishes blazing with jewels, and an immense emerald, in the shape of a cross surrounded by wax tapers, surmounting and ornamenting the centre of the board. The dresses of the guests were of all those bright and glittering colours so universally affected by rich and poor in those days; and gold and precious stones were seen sparkling all around, not alone ornamenting the persons of the fairer sex, but decorating also the garments of the men. Though the guests themselves only amounted to seventy, and the broad table at which they sat looked small in the centre of the hall, yet the number of attendants, carvers, cup-bearers, butlers, and sewers, was not less than two hundred, without including the harps, the trumpets, the minstrels and the spectators, who were admitted within certain limits. Various and curious were the dishes set upon the table; the wine was of the choicest vintages of France and Spain: and one may conceive how recklessly it was suffered to flow in those times, when we know that the consumption of a private nobleman's house was upon one occasion, three hundred and seventy pipes in the year, besides ale, metheglin, and hypocras. The banquet was somewhat strangely ordered, according to our present notions, for there was but one large silver plate assigned to each two persons; but as, with scrupulous exactness, the male and female guests had been restricted to an equal number, this arrangement permitted a display of the courteous gallantry of the times, each gentleman carving for his fair companion, and taking care that she was supplied with all she wished for before himself. Opportunity was also thus offered for all those little signs and tokens of chivalrous love which but too often, it must be confessed, deviated into vice and folly. But of all the hearts at that table--and there were some which fluttered with gaiety and excitement, some that beat with calm satisfaction, some that palpitated with eager and not over-holy joy,--none throbbed with higher and purer delight than those of Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby, as, sitting by side, they bent together over the same board and drank from the same cup. Many a sweet-whispered word was there, while all was laughter and merriment around, and many an avowal of unchanged attachment, many a promise of future affection was spoken by the eyes when any pause in the general conversation might have betrayed the secret had it been intrusted to the lips. Happy indeed was the young lover, happy indeed was she whom he loved, thus to commune with each other after so long a separation. But if anything could have added to Lucy's joy in thus meeting Hugh again, and sitting by his side, it would have been the terms with which Edward had that night brought him forward to the king. "Let me beseech you, sire," he had said, "for your favour towards the friend of my youth, who, though for some time separated from me by unhappy feuds, now at an end for ever, forgot not, in a time of need, our early regard." "His house have shown no great love for our throne," replied the King, looking coldly upon him; "but we welcome him for your sake, Edward." "Do so, my lord," answered the Prince, "for while I was in prison he ever advocated my release, and when I was escaping, and he might have stayed me, he bade God speed me on my way." "Then we welcome him for his own," replied the King, more warmly, and holding out his hand. Hugh bent his head over it in silence, and retired. The merriment had somewhat waned, the lights had grown rather dim, the tapers were burning low, when, taking advantage of a momentary rise in the sounds around, Lucy said, in a low voice, "I have still much to tell, Hugh, of great importance." "Can you not do so now?" demanded her lover, in the same tone. "I dare not, I dare not," whispered Lucy, "and yet I would fain that it were soon." Hugh looked around. "This revel cannot last long," he said, "at least you fair ladies will not stay much longer, Lucy; I can find an excuse too, in my late wounds, to quit the board earlier than the rest, if we could but meet." Lucy looked down and blushed, for though those were days of liberty, nay, of licence, when every lady held it little less than a duty to hear each tale of passion that was addressed to her,--ay, and to afford full opportunity for its being told,--yet still there was an inherent modesty in her nature, which made the warm blood rise into her cheek at the thought of meeting in secret the man which she loved best. "I would tell the Princess," she replied, "and ask her advice and assistance, for she is as kind and as wise as ever woman was. But what I have to say no one must hear but you." "There is a row of cloisters," answered Hugh, "just under the Princess's apartments; I will go thither, Lucy, as soon as I can steal away, and wait till all hope of seeing you be gone. Come if you can, my beloved,--come if you can! You know you can trust to me." "Oh, yes," replied Lucy, in the same low voice; "I will come, Hugh, I will, for it is better." The evil custom of men prolonging the song, the wine cup, and the revel, after the table has been quitted by those whose presence softens and refines our coarser nature is of a very old date in this our land of England, and though certainly more honoured in the breach than the observance, has only been abandoned by fits and starts from the period of the Saxons till the present day. At the early meal, which was called dinner in those times, such was not often the case, for every one started up quickly to pursue his business or his rude sports in the light; but after supper, when no occupation called them from the table, the baronage of England would frequently indulge in long revels, ending usually, especially under the monarchs of the pure Norman line, in scenes of the most frightful excess and disgusting licentiousness. Henry I., though he did something to refine the people, and to soften the manners of his nobles, still tolerated every sort of vice in his court, and it was only with the sovereigns of The house of Plantagenet--though they themselves were often corrupt enough--that a certain degree of decency and courteous refinement was introduced which put a stop to the coarse debaucheries of the Norman race. Under Henry II., Richard, and John, amidst civil and foreign wars, a gradual improvement might be perceived, and even during the reign of the weak Henry III.--at least, by the time of which we speak--the high, pure character of his chivalrous son worked a vast change in the general tone of society. Thus, though drinking and song, after the ladies of the court had withdrawn, generally succeeded to the evening banquet, yet the night never now terminated in those fearful orgies, to hide which altogether from the eyes of men, the second William had commanded that all lights should be suddenly extinguished in his palace at a certain hour. On the evening in question, not long after the few words which we have mentioned had passed between Hugh and Lucy, the Princess Eleanor, with the rest of the ladies present, rose and left the hall, taking their way under the high gallery and through the small door which communicated with the royal apartments. As the Princess passed out she placed her hand gently upon Lucy's arm, saying--"Come with me, sweet cousin, I would fain speak with you;" and led the way towards her own chamber. All her own attendants were dismissed one by one; and then, seating herself in a large chair, Eleanor beckoned her fair companion to take a place beside her. But Lucy quietly, and with that exquisite grace which is beauty's crowning charm, and she pre-eminently possessed, sunk slowly down upon the stool at the Princess's feet; and looked up in her face with a glance from which she strove hard to banish every trace of that impatience which was strong in her heart. Eleanor gazed down upon her in return with a kindly and yet a thoughtful smile, keeping silence for nearly a minute, and then saying--"So you are very much in love, dear Lucy de Ashby?--Nay, do not blush and cast down your eyes, as if you thought I could doubt it, after your telling me and every body else that it is so, some five times during supper." "Nay--nay," cried Lucy, turning round quickly with a look of alarm--"not so plainly as that!" "Plainly enough for me to understand," replied the Princess, "and that is all that is necessary to talk of now. Edward told me something of this before, and I promised to ask if you knew what you were doing." Lucy looked up again, but it was now with an arch smile; and she answered--"Right well, dear lady." "I hope it is so," rejoined Eleanor; "for methinks I see difficulties before you--thorns in your path; which I fear may wound those tender feet more than you dream of. You love and are beloved, that is clear, and that were simple enough to deal with, as most loves in this world go, for very often the wild god's dart gives but a scratch as it passes, and wounds not one heart deeply in a thousand. But for those who love as you two seem to do, there is a world of anxieties and cares upon the way. In our state of life, Lucy, we cannot, like the happy country maid, give our hand at once where our heart is given, and seldom--seldom through ages, is it the lot of woman to find so happy a fate as mine, where the first lot I drew was the chief prize of the whole world--he whom alone my heart could ever love, and he who was destined to return it well.--He loves you, Lucy, I think,--this young captive lord?" "I am sure of it, lady," replied Lucy, earnestly. "Indeed!" said the Princess. "Then doubtless you have spoken on this theme--are plighted and promised to each other!" Lucy turned somewhat pale, but it was with indecision, and doubt, and the Princess, marking her changing colour, added--"Nay, let me not force your confidence from you. I would fain help you, if I could; but trust, like bounty, must be free, Lucy, not extorted; and though your secret were as safe with me as in your own breast, yet let not the bird take wing if you fear its flight." Her fair companion, turning round, sunk somewhat farther at the Princess's feet, and hid her eyes upon her knee, saying--"My confidence shall be free!--We are plighted by every promise that can bind heart to heart but the last one at the altar; and now that I have told you so much, I will tell you all," she continued,--"even now, I fear he is waiting for my coming in the cloisters down below." "Nay!" exclaimed Eleanor, with a look of some surprise and disapprobation. Lucy read her thoughts by the tone in which she spoke, and raising her head somewhat proudly, she replied--"You mistake me, I fear, dear lady; and do not know the purpose for which I go." "To fly with him, perhaps," said Eleanor. "Oh no!" answered Lucy, "while my father lives I will never wed man without his blessing. No, lady--no! Neither must you think--although I hold there might be circumstances in which, but for the sake of cheering and soothing him I love in captivity and sorrow, I might well grant him a poor hour of my company alone--neither must you think, I say, that I go to him now either to please my ear with hearing his dear voice, or to comfort him with aught I can say in return. I know I may trust you, lady--I know I may tell you why I go, and that you will neither repeat it, nor ask me any farther question. I have a message to him from one he loves and sorrows for. I have news from those he has wept as dead; and though there be no treason in it, lady," she added, with a smile, "I dare not give it to any other lips to deliver than my own." Eleanor bent down her head and kissed her brow--"Go--go, sweet Lucy," she said, "I give you leave. Ay, and even when your message is given, if you do linger out the hour, or, perhaps, even see him again by another clear moon like that, I will forgive and trust you both. The man that could sully such a thing as thou art, by prompting one wish--one act--one thought for which the pure heart would burn with grief hereafter, were somewhat worse than a fiend; and methinks," she added, laughing, "your lover does not look like one." "Oh, no--no!" cried Lucy, "like anything but that; but I fear he may be waiting for me." "Some women would tell you to make him wait," replied the Princess, "but I will not say so. I have heard my husband quote some Latin words, which mean that he gives twice who quickly gives; and a frank favour to a kind heart must surely make more impression than a greater boon wrung from us by long soliciting. Go, then, Lucy--go! see if he be there; if not, come back to me, and go again. I would not let him know I waited for him, were I you; for the best child may be spoiled, Lucy; but neither would I make him wait for me, lest ever the time should come when he might think he had waited long enough." Lucy kissed the princess's hand, and after enquiring somewhat timidly her way, quitted the room and descended the narrow staircase which Eleanor directed her to take. Winding round and round till her head was almost giddy, and holding fast by the column, about which the small steps turned, Lucy at length reached the little archway that led out into the cloister, and which, as usual, was wide open. The scene before her was the wide open park which surrounded the palace, and was then called Eltham Chase, and over it the moonlight was streaming peacefully, pouring in also under the cloister and paving it with silver, while across the glistening stones fell the dark shadows of the beautiful Norman arches. Lucy paused before she issued forth, seeing no one within the range of her eye at that moment; but there was the sound of a step, and the quick ear of love instantly recognised the well-known tread, which she had listened for, many a day in Lindwell Castle, ere the lover knew that he was loved in return. She still kept back, however, under the shadow of the doorway, that she might be quite sure; but in a moment or two after, the step turned and came nearer and nearer, till at length the tall, graceful form of Hugh de Monthermer, with his arms folded on his chest, and his eyes bent upon the ground, as if he expected to play the sentinel some time, appeared in the moonlight, and approached the place where she was standing. Lucy was soon by his side; and it was not easy for Hugh to find words to express his gratitude for her coming, and his joy at her presence. Although she had resolved to stay with him but a short time, to give him the message that she had received, at once, and then to return to the princess as speedily as possible, it must be owned, that the thoughts of both herself and her lover dwelt upon those dear subjects, which naturally presented themselves on being thus alone with each other for the first time after a long separation, and that half an hour passed in the sweet dalliance of two young hearts, full of warm and tender affection. Lucy felt almost grateful to Hugh for having forced her to confess her love, it was so delightful, now that it was confessed, to dwell upon it, and to give it voice unrestrained. To Hugh it seemed almost a dream, to have her there beside him in the calm moonlight, to hold that fair soft hand in his, to see those dark eyes raise their fringed curtains and pour their living light upon his face. Who can wonder that they forgot the minutes in such joys as the human heart can know but once in life? At length, however, some accidental circumstance woke them from their dream of love and happiness. "I had forgot, Hugh," cried Lucy, disengaging her hand from his; "the princess expects me back again soon, and I had to tell you much that I have not told.--We have been at Nottingham since I saw you, for they sent me to Lindwell while the army lay at Worcester. After that fatal battle, which I thought would have killed your poor Lucy, too--for with a brother, and a father, and a lover there, ranked upon opposite sides, I had well-nigh died with fear and anxiety--after that battle of Evesham, I used to listen eagerly for tidings, converse with every countryman I met, and glean even the lightest rumours that might tell me of the fate of those I loved. I could hear nothing of you or your uncle, however, till one day, as I was walking near the castle, and alone, I sat down beneath the shadow of an oak.--You remember the old oak within sight of the hall window, where once----" "Where first I fancied that Lucy might love me," answered Hugh. Lucy paused for a moment, and then replied; "You might have fancied it before, Hugh; if your eyes had but been bright.--Well, I was sitting beneath the shadow of that oak, when, suddenly, I heard something rustle-overhead, and in a moment, down from the branches like a falling acorn, dropped the strange boy, that accompanied us from the forest, on that sweet ride, which I shall never forget. At first, I was alarmed, and was going to run to the castle; but when I saw who it was, I lost my fear, and asked him what he wanted. He then told me more than I had ever heard before: that the battle had gone against the English party; that Hugh de Monthermer was wounded and prisoner; and also, that I was ere long to be called upon to join my father at Derby, and go with him to London. 'And now,' said the dwarf, 'I am to charge you with a message. Sooner, or later,' he continued, 'you will meet the young lord in the capital; tell him that his uncle lives, that he is nearly well of his wounds; but that, as he knows his life is forfeited, he dare not show himself. A report is rife, that he has escaped to France. Such, however, is not the case, he is even now under the boughs of merry Sherwood, and he would fain see his nephew there in secret. So, tell him, lady, when you find him; but tell him when he is quite alone, when there is no ear but yours and his to hear, for the lives of more than one good man and true, are trusted to your discretion.' Such, dear Hugh, was the message he bade me give you, and I willingly undertook to do so, though I knew not when I might have the means. But, I have a prayer to put, Hugh--I have a boon to ask, which you must not refuse to Lucy de Ashby, if you be a true knight and a true lover." "Ask it, dear Lucy," he replied, "whatever it be, consistent with my honour, I will do it, were it to carry the cross from the top of the chapel into Palestine, and make the Sultan bow down and worship it." "Nay--nay!" cried Lucy, with a smile, though such strange vows were not uncommon then; "it is not so hard as that, Hugh, it is but that you promise me, you will take no farther part in these secret conspiracies to levy war against the throne. The cause is lost, Hugh, whether it was a good or a bad one; and if Hugh de Monthermer mingles with it more, he will but bring destruction upon himself, and misery upon Lucy de Ashby. See your noble uncle, dear Hugh; but try and lead him to make submission. At all events, for my sake, promise to abstain yourself from any further efforts in an enterprise which is hopeless and past away." "You must ask another boon, Lucy," said Hugh. "What, will you not grant the first request I make?" cried Lucy, quickly. "Nay, not so," answered her lover; "it is, that this is no request at all, my Lucy, for I have made the same promise to myself, beforehand. I can never bear arms more against Edward Plantagenet, let who will call me to the field. So wherever his banner floats, mine shall never be raised to oppose it. This makes me bid you ask another boon, dear Lucy." "Well, I will," said Lucy; but ere she could, explain what it was, she was interrupted. During their conversation they had wandered backwards and forwards under the cloister, and at this time were pausing at the end farthest from the door leading to the apartments of the Princess. It unfortunately happens but too often, that, not only love, but a lover is blind--blind to all external objects as well as to the faults of her he loves; and certainly such must have been the case with Hugh de Monthermer at that moment; otherwise he would have seen before, that while he turned hither and thither with Lucy de Ashby, the cloister did not remain untenanted, as he believed. More than once, two or three figures had come round the farther angle of the palace the moment his back was turned, and entering the cloister, had watched him and Lucy with laughing, and yet malicious looks. At the very moment, however, that Hugh de Monthermer and the Lady paused at the end of the southern front, a voice, coming from the dark arcade which ran along the western side of the building and joined that where they now stood, at a right angle, said in a low but distinct tone, as if the speaker were close to them, "You are watched--you are watched! Go back, or you will be caught!" Hugh's first impulse was to start forward to discover who it was that spoke; but Lucy, terrified at the bare idea of being found there by any of the licentious minions of Henry's court, sprang from him, crying, "Let me fly, Hugh--let me fly! Adieu adieu!" and, darting along the cloister with the speed of a startled deer, she ran towards the doorway leading to the stairs. Hugh de Monthermer followed at a somewhat slower pace, thinking that on that side she was safe; but just when Lucy was within a few yards of the arch to which her steps were directed, some three or four men came out from under the pillars, and advanced towards her with a shout of ribald laughter. With a bound like that of a sword-player, Hugh de Monthermer sprang forward, and was by her side before they could reach her. "Halloo, halloo!" cried one; "we have started the game." "Run it down--run it down!" exclaimed another; and a third, evidently bearing more wine than wit, added something still more offensive. Another step brought the lovers close to the doorway, but one of the revellers cast himself in the way, as if to stop the passage. "Stand back, Sir Guy de Margan!" cried the young knight, sternly; "stand back, I say." But, finding that instead of doing as he was directed, the other spread wide his arms to catch Lucy as he passed, Hugh struck him one blow with his clenched hand which laid him prostrate on the pavement. Lucy sprang through the doorway and ran up the steps like lightning; and her lover, folding his arms upon his chest, walked slowly onward through the midst of those opposed to him. They regarded him with frowning brow, and muttering voices, but suffered him to pass; and as he reached the gate which led towards his own chamber, he heard a sound of loud laughter, succeeding apparently to the anger which the blow he had struck had produced. CHAPTER XXV. In one of the ante-rooms of the palace at Eltham, on the morning following, sat five gentlemen, dressed with extravagant gaudiness, their hair curled, and in some instances plaited like that of women, and their persons adorned with innumerable rings and trinkets. "Out upon it!--bear a blow?" cried one of them. "I will have revenge!" "How will you seek it, De Margan?" asked another. "With a bodkin?" "Nay, nay, let him alone," said the third, "he is a man of spirit, and will dare this proud knight to the field." "Who will crack him there," rejoined the second speaker, "as the King cracks a crawfish!" "How is that?" inquired the first. "Between his finger and thumb," replied the other. "This is all nonsense," joined in one who had not yet spoken. "Monthermer is a prisoner and cannot underlie a defiance." "De Margan will do better than defy him," said the fifth personage. "He knows that there are shrewder means of revenge in his power than that. Tell them, De Margan--tell them! and we will all go in with you and bear it out!" "Ay!" cried Sir Guy de Margan, "those two fair lovers would, I rather fancy, give each a finger of their right hand rather than have the Earl of Ashby know their secret moonlight meeting in the cloister. Neither would the good Earl much like to have the tale told of his fair daughter showering such favours on this good Lord Hugh; and Alured de Ashby, I have heard, hates these Monthermers worse than a cat hates oil." "A goodly mess of venom if you stir it properly!" observed one of his companions. "That will I do most certainly," said the first. "I wait but the opening of the King's doors to tell the noble Earl before the whole court that his daughter was somewhat less niggardly of her presence last night to Hugh de Monthermer than he dreamt of. Then, you see, the old lord will chafe, the King will frown, and Alured de Ashby will be sent for----" "To do what Guy de Margan does not dare himself," said one of the gentlemen. What might have been the reply is difficult to say; for, although the personage he spoke to, had so much of the better part of valour as to refrain from measuring his strength against a man so much superior to himself as Hugh de Monthermer, yet he was by no means without courage where it was at all prudent to display it. But his answer, which seemed likely to be a fierce one, was stopped on his very lips; for the door of the King's chamber opened at that moment, and the well-known William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, came forth, bearing two or three sealed letters in his hand. "Sir Guy de Margan," he said, presenting him with a packet, "I am directed by the King to command you immediately to set out for Monmouth, where you will open these orders, execute them, and rejoin the court at Nottingham. You, Sir Thomas le Strange, will proceed on a similar mission to Chester; and you, Sir Roger de Leiburn, will go on before with these to Derby. Speed, gentlemen, speed!--there is no time to be lost. We have tidings of a threatened rising in the north, and the whole court sets out within two hours." "Cannot I have audience of the King, my lord," said Guy de Margan; "if but for a moment, or with the Earl de Ashby?" "Impossible!" replied William de Valence; "the King, with the Earls of Ashby, Mortimer, and Gloucester, and the noble Lord of Audley, is arranging with the Prince the measures which are to be pursued. It is impossible, Sir Guy! So quick away with you, gentlemen, and see whose spur is sharpest." All was bustle, hurry, and confusion at the court of Eltham during the rest of the morning. The threatened rising in Northumberland was indeed, not of a very serious nature, and Edward was of opinion, that the few nobles who were about the court, with such troops as he could muster rapidly by the way, would be sufficient to overawe the malcontents, and nip the revolt in the bud. Henry, however, ever fond of excitement and display, seized the pretext for making a royal progress into the north, knowing well that every great noble as he passed, especially at that particular period, would vie with his neighbour in entertaining his Sovereign with luxury and splendour. Edward looked grave, and evidently disapproved; but he did not venture to offer any opposition to his father's wishes; and towards two of the clock, in a fine day of the early autumn, preceded and followed by a strong band of soldiery, the whole court, comprising all who happened to be at Eltham at the time, set out on its way towards Nottingham. Although there was indeed more than one horse-litter in the train, yet all the principal personages proceeded on their journey, as usual, upon horseback; and, even in their robes of travel, they formed a bright and glittering train, as ever was seen, comprising nearly two hundred persons. Laughing, talking, jesting, they rode along, keeping no very compact order, and each person choosing his companions as his inclination prompted, or circumstances admitted. Hugh de Monthermer, as may well be supposed, sought the side of Lucy de Ashby; and it luckily so happened that an old knight of her father's household, so deaf that the blast of a trumpet was the only thing he could hear, took upon himself to act as esquire to the lady. In this capacity he occupied the post upon her left hand, talking all the while, and, with the fruitful imagination, which many deaf people have, fancying the replies that were never spoken. Immediately behind, came the gay girls who waited upon their fair lady, with two or three pages and squires, all occupied with the usual subjects, which engrossed the attention of pages, squires, and handmaidens in those days. The Earl of Ashby himself kept near the presence of the King; but he seemed to entertain no objection to the attentions which Hugh was evidently showing to his daughter; and throughout the whole of the progress, the princess Eleanor, with that sympathy which a kind-hearted woman always feels for woman's love, favoured the lovers with opportunity, not indeed with bustling eagerness, not indeed even apparently, but with the calm and quiet tact of a refined mind, as well as a gentle heart. Edward, too, though more occupied with other things than Eleanor, showed every kindness to Hugh de Monthermer, and once or twice, in passing him while he was conversing with Lucy de Ashby, marked with a smile, the brightness of the lover's eye, and certainly gave no discouragement to his hopes. At Huntingdon, the young knight was joined by a number of his own servants, and one or two of those who had been attached to his uncle. Amongst the latter, was the stout yeoman, Tom Blawket; and upon questioning him, Hugh discovered that all the tenants and retainers of the old Earl were ignorant that their lord had survived the battle. The good fellow was evidently so deeply grieved at the supposed death of his noble master, that Hugh felt a strong inclination to impart to him the fact of the Earl being safe, and very reluctantly refrained, in the belief that it might be contrary to his uncle's wishes, so to do. Money and horses reached him at the same time, and he was now enabled, in all things, to resume the appearance of his rank and station. Health, too, and strength, were every day coming back more and more; and, though the Prince's surgeon at Eltham had shaken his head and prognosticated that the wound on his breast would never heal completely till he could obtain perfect repose, a certain balm that Hugh carried with him--the balm of happiness--had closed it before he reached Huntingdon, and had left nothing to be desired but the recovery of his former vigour. Thus, as the reader may believe, the progress to Nottingham was a joyful one to Hugh de Monthermer. He bore his sunshine with him, and mingled willingly in all the sports and pleasures prepared for the royal entertainment. It would be tedious to tell all the little incidents of the journey, to describe the pageant at this castle, the banquet at the other, the tournament that was prepared in one town, the grand procession that met the monarch at the gates of another city. Suffice it, that all was feasting and revelry, merry-making, and rejoicing; and the populace, even in many of the places which had most strongly adhered to De Montfort, during his days of prosperity, now met the Monarch, whose oppression and exactions he had risen to curb, and the Prince, before whose sword he had fallen, with the loudest shouts, and most cheerful acclamations. Such is popularity!--he who counts upon it for an hour will find that he has trusted it too long, and he who relies upon it for support will learn that a bulrush is an oak to it. Long before the royal party reached the North, the news of the King's march, and of the gathering together of considerable forces, ran on before, and, as Edward had supposed, the very rumour crushed the insurrection in the egg. But Henry still resolved to advance as far as Nottingham, and promised the Earl of Ashby to spend some time with him at his castle of Lindwell. The Earl sent on messengers to prepare everything for the monarch's reception, and two days before the time named for entering Nottinghamshire, the party of the King halted in the fair little town of Mountsorrel. The castle was then in ruins; but in the priory below, the King, the Prince, and several of the chief nobles in attendance on them, found lodging for the night, while the rest of the court were scattered in the houses round about. The good monks of Mountsorrel, who since the beginning of of the century, when the castle was destroyed, had managed matters their own way, were celebrated for the excellence of their cheer; and their refectory certainly displayed, for the Monarch's entertainment, a repast that night, which, in point of excellence of materials and skill in cookery, excelled all that he had met with on the road. The hour was late when the King arrived; and Henry, who loved the pleasures of the table, sat long, tasting all the exquisite meats--partridges, which had been kept in a mew, and crammed with a spoon to make them fat--peacocks the flesh of which had been rendered as white as driven snow, by the method of feeding them--fish brought across the country from the sea, and others which had tenanted for years the tanks of the priory, nourished with especial care, and treated with a stream of running water conducted from the Soar river to the pond, to render them fresh and healthy, together with a thousand other dainties under which the table groaned. Nor did the King merely continue at the table himself, but he contrived to keep all his guests there likewise, conversing between the dishes with the prior, who knew well how to season meat with merriment, and had many a light and jesting tale for the Monarch's not very scrupulous ear. While such things were proceeding at the Priory, however, the rest of the royal party, broken into bodies of five or six, occupied, as we have said, three or four neighbouring houses, besides the small hostelry, making themselves as merry and as much at ease as men can do who care nothing for the comfort of their host, or the report he will make of them when their backs are turned. It was about ten o'clock at night when, in the best room of the inn, three gentlemen were sitting with the relics of their supper still before them--a fat capon and a venison pasty remaining almost uninjured, the one only having lost a leg in the conflict, and the other having a breach in its wall of not more than a couple of inches in diameter. This fact, however, did not by any means evince that the party had wanted appetite, but merely that various dishes had gone before, leaving no room for anything but wine in the stomachs of the well-fed guests. The red juice of the Bordeaux grape was flowing profusely amongst them, and great was the merriment and uproar going on, when the sound of several horses' feet, coming rapidly down the street, and then stopping at the door, called their attention. Whoever were the riders, nothing more was known of their proceedings for several minutes, at the end of which time a step was heard descending the little flight of stairs that led from the road into the parlour which was somewhat sunk below the level, of the ground. "We can have no more here," cried one of the gentlemen, starting up, resolved to defend the inviolability of their dining chamber--"whoever it is, must find a lodging elsewhere." But just as he spoke, the door, which was fastened with the happy old contrivance of a pulley and weight, was pushed sharply open, and a man, dressed in a riding costume, and muffled in a large loose gabardine above his pourpoint, appeared before them. The one who had been speaking, prepared, in a somewhat sharp tone, to enforce his objections to the admission of a new guest; but suddenly he seemed to recognise the new comer, and holding out his hand to him, he exclaimed--"Richard de Ashby, as I live! Why who thought to see you here? We fancied that you were with your cousin, Alured, keeping down the men of Westmoreland. At all events, you are welcome, though, by my life, you will find the supper we have left you but scanty, and the wine barrel not so full as when we began." Richard de Ashby declared that there would be quite enough of both for him, and summoning the host to provide him with fresh wine, he proceeded with his meal, from time to time asking such questions as might best lead his companions to tell him all they knew of what was taking place at the English Court. "Gay doings, I find," he said,--"gay doings, I find, between Eltham and Leicester. Why, the whole country rings with it!" "Well may it ring," replied the other gentlemen; "well may it ring, and rejoice too, to see such sights. I have never beheld the like, since I followed the Court of England. But during all that time, it is true, we have had nothing but civil wars, or the rule of grim De Montfort; so it is no wonder things have gone sadly." "They will be merrier now, I trust," said Richard de Ashby. "It is high time, however, that my own affairs should go a little more merrily; and surely I have every right to expect it, for to me the Prince owes his liberty. Ay! and to me, they owe the first seeds of dissension sown amongst De Montfort's people. It is but fair that my claim should be heard." "On my life," cried the gentleman to whom he spoke, while Richard de Ashby filled himself a cup of wine and drained it off; "on my life, our good King and Prince seem fonder of their enemies than their friends. Here is this young Monthermer, one of the chief favourites of the Court." A malevolent scowl passed over the dark face of Richard de Ashby, but as the host was coming in at that moment with more wine, he remained silent, hewing the meat before him with his knife, but without tasting it. When the landlord was gone, however, he composed his countenance, and exclaimed, with an affected laugh--"A pretty favourite, indeed!--But tell me what bright ladies follow the Court? I hear there never was a fairer train." "You have heard true, Sir Richard," said the same gentleman who had hitherto spoken to him, the others being busily engaged in a conversation of their own--"you have heard true; a bevy of lovelier dames has seldom been seen. There is the Countess of Pembroke, and Mortimer's wife; but she is ugly enough, Heaven knows! Then there is the young lady, De Veux, and Lord Audley's daughter; and chief of all, Hugh de Monthermer's lady-love, your fair cousin, Lucy de Ashby." There was a certain touch of malice in his tone as he spoke, for it is wonderful how soon men discover any weak point in their fellow-men, and still more extraordinary how much pleasure they derive from saying things that may give pain to others, without producing the slightest benefit whatever to themselves. Perhaps the courtier, Sir Harry Grey, who now spoke with Richard de Ashby, had in view to provoke him to one of those outbursts of passion which to our corrupt hearts generally afford matter of merriment rather than commiseration; but if he did so, he was disappointed. A momentary expression of intense wrath convulsed the features of Richard de Ashby, but he uttered not a word in reply. He paused thoughtfully, filled another cup of wine, but did not drink it, gazed down upon the edge of his knife, and then turning round to his companion, said, "How warm it is! How can you all sit here with the casement closed?" "The boys of the village were staring in," answered Sir Harry Grey, "looking at us like wild beasts in a cage, so we were forced to close the casement and draw the curtain. They are gone now--you can open it.--But you do not tell me what you think of this coming alliance. He is very wealthy, handsome, renowned; we all think it will answer very well. "Do you?" said Richard de Ashby, drily. "Why, I rather think, Sir Harry, it is no business either of yours or mine; although, to speak the truth, I believe you are mistaken, and that there is no such alliance toward." "Oh, but it is the talk of the whole court!" cried the other. "He is ever with her, or with the Lord of Ashby, and besides, the Earl has been known to say--" and he went on to repeat some twenty rumours of the day concerning the marriage of Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby, not one of which contained a word of truth. Still, however, Richard de Ashby remained unmoved--at least, to all appearance; and after merely asking who else was at the court, and receiving a somewhat lengthened answer, giving him the names of fifteen or sixteen ladies in whom he had no interest whatsoever, he arose, saying, "I must to bed, for I depart at daybreak to-morrow." "What! do you not visit the King?" demanded one of the other gentlemen, who had not yet spoken. "No, no," replied he, "I go on to Nottingham to meet him. I have business of importance. Good night--good night;" and he left the room. "You galled him, Grey," said Sir Andrew Geary--"You galled him hard about that marriage." "I know I did," answered Sir Harry Grey; "once let me know a man's folly, and I will pink you him to the quick, if his skin be as thick and hard as a German gambesoon.--Not that he thinks of marrying fair Lucy himself; but it is his hatred to the Monthermers touches him." "Faith, you're mistaken," rejoined Sir Andrew Geary, who was one of those keen-sighted men who seem intuitively to see into men's motives, under whatsoever specious disguises they may endeavour to conceal them--"faith, you are mistaken. This Richard de Ashby is one of more ambition than you believe. He knows right well, that in the many accidents of the day the good Lord Alured may find his way to the kingdom of Heaven, and then--though he be now but the poor kinsman, treated not so well as many a worthy retainer of the house--he becomes heir presumptive to the title, though to none of the lands, except the small estate of Ashby. It would suit him but little to see Hugh of Monthermer, as the husband of the heiress, sweep up the whole wealth of the house. What he will try," added Sir Andrew, musing, "I do not know; but be sure he will do something to break the marriage--if there be any truth in the story at all." "Then Monthermer will cut his throat," replied Sir Harry Grey, "and there will be an end of it. But now what say you to the dice, Geary? let us try a cast or two." "Not I," answered Sir Andrew Geary; "I am not in the mood. I am not well to-night, and shall betake me to my rest." "I will throw with you, Grey," cried a young man from the other side of the room. "Geary's wings are drooping like a sick hen's. Don't you see? So let him go and carry himself to the isle of pipkins, and seek some stewed prunes for his queasy stomach. I am with you till cock crow, if your purse be long enough, and the wine good." CHAPTER XXVI. Richard de Ashby mounted the stairs with a slow step, paused at the first landing-place and grasped his forehead with his extended hand, then turned upon his steps; and, descending to the kitchen, in which were seated an immense number of various classes, he beckoned to one of his servants, who was near the fire-place. The man started up, and came to him at the door, when his master said, in a low tone, "You must take your horse as soon as he is fed, and speed across the country as if for life and death, to bear a letter from me to the Lord Alured, in Cumberland.--Have every thing ready in an hour." "What! to-night, sir?" demanded the servant. "Ay, to-night, villain!" replied his master; "to-night, I say!--Do you grumble?" and without waiting for any further answer, he turned, and once more ascended the stairs. The inn was a rude old building, having a square court in the centre. It consisted of two stories above the ground-floor; and two ranges of open galleries ran round the whole yard, the chambers having no screen between them and the free air of heaven but the single door by which one entered or went out of each. It was to the highest of the galleries that Richard de Ashby now directed his steps, for arriving late, it had been with difficulty he had found lodging at all. He had no light with him; but finding his way by the dim glare of some lanterns in the court, he stopped at the last chamber on the right hand side: and, after another halt of more than a minute passed in stern meditation, he threw, open the door and went in. The room was a large one, forming the corner of the building, and having windows either way. There was a wide chimney, in which was a blazing log of wood, lighted to dispel the damp which the chamber might have contracted by disuse; and gazing at the changing aspect of the flame, sat fair, but unhappy, Kate Greenly, with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes full of deep and sorrowful thought. "Get thee to bed," cried Richard de Ashby, in a rude and angry tone, as soon as he saw her; "did I not bid thee get to bed before?" "I have had many things to think of," answered the girl. "I wish thou hadst left me behind thee, Richard. I love not going so near what was once my home." "It was my will," replied he; "that must be enough for thee. Get thee to bed, I say.--I have to write and think." Kate took a step away from him, but then looked round, and said, "Tell me first, Richard, art thou taking me back, wearied of her you used to love, to the once happy dwelling from which you brought me not six months ago?--If so, I will not go with you any farther." "Thou wilt do what I order," he answered, sternly; "I am in no mood either for squabbling or jesting to-night.--Thou wilt go no farther, ha! By heaven thou wouldst make me resolve to take thee back by force, or send thee with a billet like some packet of goods.--But no, I will not send thee," he added, "I will not take thee; and knowest thou why? Not that I love thee--not that I care for thee more than for the flower that was yesterday in my breast, and is now cast away into the dust. But they have asked me to send thee back--they have ordered me; and therefore I will not! There is no power on earth shall tear thee from me; but I will take care to make thee serviceable, too. Get thee to bed, I say, and importune me no more.--What! send thee back to please Hugh de Monthermer!" "He is a noble gentleman," answered Kate, "and in good sooth wished me well, though I knew it not." "Thou art a fool!" cried Richard, violently; and, at the same moment, he took a step forward and struck her a blow on the cheek with his extended hand, adding, "Get thee to bed, minion, and let me hear thy tongue no more." Kate's flashing eyes glared at him as if she could have stabbed him where he stood; but the instant after she darted towards the bed, cast herself upon her knees beside it, and, hiding her weeping face upon the coverings, she murmured forth some rapid and eager words, which her base seducer neither heard nor cared to hear. Seating himself by a table on which stood a lamp, he took forth the materials for writing from some large leathern bags which lay near; but ere he commenced the letter which he proposed to send, he passed a full half hour in deep meditation. Once during the time he looked round, apparently to see if the poor girl he had treated so basely was still up; but she had retired to bed; and, hearing her breathing deep and slow, he concluded that, like a child, she had wept herself to sleep. He then turned himself to meditate again, and we must look into his bosom, and give the turbulent words which were uttered in his inmost heart as if they had been spoken aloud. "Ay," he thought, "if Alured had been here this mischief would not have occurred. The old fool is in his dotage! I wonder how it happened, when many a brave, strong man fell at Evesham, ere the battle had raged half-an-hour, this feeble old wiseacre went through the whole day unwounded! Had he been killed it might have made a mighty difference to me, and no great harm to any one." At that point his thoughts seemed to pause for several minutes, ruminating on the advantages which might have accrued to himself had the Earl fallen at Evesham. "And yet," he continued, "this bull-headed cousin of mine, Alured, were nearly as great a stumbling-block in my way, even if the old man were removed. He would not be long, if left alone at the head of the house, ere he wedded some fair and fruitful lady, to exclude my claims for ever with a whole host of healthy white-headed children. I was in some hopes, if he sought out Monthermer in the battle, as he said, our enemy's lance might have proved friendly to me, and sent my noble cousin to another world. But it was not to be, and I suppose I must go on the poor dependent all my life. "No," he continued, after another pause, "no, it shall not be so.--Why should I fear for drivelling tales of other worlds told by the monks and priests, and invented by them also?--Were Alured once dead, 'twere an easy matter to remove that weak old man--and yet, perhaps, it were better to send him first to his account.--Ha! I see, I see.--If one could manage it so as to cast suspicion on Monthermer, Alured would speedily accuse him of the deed; wager of battle must follow, and I were a fool if I could not contrive it so that Alured's vain strength should go down before Monthermer's skill and courage." "In such fields as those," he added, speaking, though in a low, thoughtful tone, "such men separate not with life.--Methinks the matter were easily managed.--'Tis no light prize one plays for!--the earldom of Ashby, the broad lands, the parks, the woods, the fields--ay, and to crown the whole, the fair hand of Lucy herself; for, her brother and her father dead, she must needs become my ward, and if my ward, my wife. It is worth striving for, and by heaven and hell, it shall be so,--ay, let what will stand in the way,--Could I but breed a quarrel between this old dotard Earl and the ancient enemy of our house, whom he is so ready to take to his bosom, I would soon accomplish the rest. But it shall be done,--it shall be done!" And leaning his dark brow upon his hands, he revolved the means for carrying his plan into execution. For several minutes he hesitated as to whether he should write to his cousin as he had proposed or not; but then again he thought--"I will not do it!--his presence would but embarrass me. In some chance encounter with this Monthermer, with arms and weapons unprepared by me, he might prove the conqueror, and once having vanquished him, he would take him to his heart and give him half his fortune--the hand of Lucy--anything. I know my vain-glorious cousin well! No, no, we will deal with the father first.--But I must on to Nottingham, and seek the tools to work with. I will write to Ellerby too, he is ready for any desperate work, and in his store of knowledge has always information where to find persons as fearless and as shrewd as himself." Having thus made up his mind, Richard de Ashby rose, and once more sought out the kitchen of the inn, taking the lamp with him. Revelry and merriment were still going on in all quarters of the house, and it was no unpalatable news to the groom, who was waiting below, ready to depart, that his master had changed his purpose, and would not send him as he had proposed, though he had orders to be prepared to set out by cock-crow. After having given this intimation, the Earl's kinsman retired to his chamber again, and, sitting down at the table, wrote a few lines to the man whose unscrupulous assistance he required. It was not without long pauses of thought, however, that he did so, and in the end he put his hand to his head, saying, "I am tired." Well indeed he might be so; for though the body had been still, the mind had struggled and laboured during the last few hours, with that eager and painful energy, which communicates afterwards to the corporeal frame itself no slight portion of the lassitude which follows great exertions. He next sought to seal the letter he had written, but he could find neither wax nor silk, and laying it down upon the table again, he said, aloud, "It must wait till to-morrow; but I must take care that no one comes in and sees it before I wake, for that were ruin indeed!" Thus speaking, he turned to the door of the room and locked it; and then, after a few minutes more given to thought, he undressed himself, and, without prayer, lay down to rest.--Without prayer!--he never prayed: the blessed influence even of an imperfect communion with Heaven never fell like the summer rain upon his heart, softening and refreshing. The idea of his dependence upon Providence, or his responsibility to God, would have been far too painful and cumbersome to be daily renewed and encouraged by prayer. He was one of the idolaters; and the god of his heart was himself. His cunning was the wisdom of his Deity, his passions, his pleasures, his power, its other attributes; and to the Moloch of self he was ready at any time to sacrifice all else that the world contained. He rose without asking a blessing on works that he knew were to be evil, he lay down supplicating no pardon for the offences of the day. Ay! reader, and he slept, too, with sound, unbroken, heavy sleep. What between passions, and pleasures, and schemes, and exertions, his body and his mind were usually exhausted together; and throughout a long course of years he had slept each night, as he did now, with a slumber, deep, dreamless uninterrupted. The lamp remained unextinguished in the chamber; and for about an hour all was still, his heavy breathing being the only sound that made itself heard; except the occasional voices of revellers in other parts of the house, becoming more and more faint as the night advanced. At the end of that time, however, a female figure glided from between the curtains of the bed and approached the table. Richard de Ashby had left, lying across the letter which he had been writing, the dagger, with the pommel of which he had prepared to seal it, and Kate Greenly, with her teeth tight shut, and her brow knit, took up the weapon, drew it from the sheath, gazed upon the edge, and felt the sharp point. She then turned her head towards the bed, and strained her eyes upon it with a wild fierce look. The moment after, she thrust the blade back into its covering, and pressed her hand upon her brow, murmuring--"Not now!--No, no, no!--Not now!--The time may come, however--the time may come, Richard!--But I will have thee in my power--at all events, I will have thee in my power! The worm thou treadest on may sting thy heel, oppressor.--Thanks to the good priest who taught me to read and write!" she continued, taking up the letter and unfolding it. "Would I had attended to his other teaching as well;" and bending over the lamp, she read:-- "Come to me post haste, Ellerby,"--so ran the letter--"I have a stag of ten for you to strike. My mind is made up, and I am resolved to throw down the screen that keeps me from the sun. If we succeed--and success is certain--your reward shall be in proportion to the deed: ten thousand sterlings to begin with. But you must not come alone, you must bring some three or four men with you, able and willing to perform a bold act; so make no delay, but quit all vain pastimes and idle pleasures, and hasten to certain fortune and success. "Yours, as you shall use diligence, "R. A." Kate Greenly read the lines again and again, as if she wished to fix them indelibly on her mind; then folding up the letter again, she laid it down upon the table, placed the dagger across it, and remained musing for several minutes in deep thought. "No, no," she murmured, at length, "I will not believe it. No; he may wrong a poor girl like me; he may break his vows, oppress, and trample on the creature in his power; but murder--the murder of a kinsman?--No, no!--And yet," she added, "what can the words mean? They are strange--they are very strange! I will think of it no more--and yet I must think of it. I wish I had not seen that paper! But having seen it, I must see more.--I must watch--I must inquire. There shall be nothing kept from me now.--Murder? It is very horrible.--But I will go to sleep." Kate Greenly crept quietly back to bed again; but the reader need not be told that she found there no repose. Had her heart not been burdened even with her own sin, the dangerous knowledge she had acquired of the guilt of others would have been quite sufficient to banish sleep from her eyes. Hour after hour she lay and thought over the words which she had read. She strove to find some other meaning for them; but, alas! she had, more than once before, heard muttered hints and dark longings for the possessions of others, which directed her mind ever to the same course, and ever to the same conclusion. The thought was agonizing to her; for, notwithstanding all her wrongs--notwithstanding anger and indignation--notwithstanding her knowledge that he was a villain--notwithstanding her certainty that he would cast her off whensoever it pleased him--ay, doom her to poverty, contempt, and disgrace--love for Richard de Ashby yet lingered in the heart of poor Kate Greenly. At length, just as the morning was growing grey, her heavy eyelids fell for a moment; and she was still asleep when her seducer rose and began his preparations for departure. He discovered not that the letter had been examined; but making her get up in haste to find some wax and silk, he sealed the epistle; and, after dispatching it by a messenger, set out himself for Nottingham, carrying the unhappy girl with him, followed by only two attendants. CHAPTER XXVII. "What seekest thou, fat friar?" said one of a party of three gentlemen, who were standing under the arch which gave entrance into the great court of Nottingham Castle. He was speaking to a large heavy-looking man, with round rosy face and double chin, who had been wandering hither and thither in the court for some time, but apparently without any very definite object--"What seekest thou, incarnation of the jolly god?" "I seek, my son," replied the friar, with a leer, "what you, perhaps, can show me, but which, nevertheless, it would be well, were you to seek it yourself." "Nay, nay, no riddles, most jovial sphinx," replied Sir William Geary; "speak in plain language and I may help thee, but I am not inclined to play [OE]dipus for thy convenience. What is it thou meanest?" "I mean that I seek the right way," replied the priest. "But whither? whither?" asked Sir William. "Who, or what is it you want?" "I want to speak with the noble lord, Hugh de Monthermer," answered the friar, "who, I hear, comes in the King's train." "Is brought, you mean," said Sir Harry Grey; "for he comes as a prisoner. But to tell the truth, his captivity seems to captivate the whole court, for there is none now who receives any notice but Hugh de Monthermer." "The court must be getting wise in its old age," rejoined the friar. "Methinks I shall follow it, too, as merit meets advancement. But, I beseech you, fair sir, tell me where the young lord makes abode; for though I find the doors of this castle as strait for, my fat sides as those of heaven, they are as many as those of the other place." "By my life, friar," replied Sir William Geary, "you will find him, if I judge rightly, with a lady, in the deep window of the great hall, taking thy trade over thy head; for, as I passed them, she seemed very much as if she were making confession." "She made the only one that was needful long ago," exclaimed Sir Harry Grey; "for as I rode near them on the way from Huntingdon, I heard her say, 'You know I do, Hugh,'"--and he mimicked the tone of Lucy's voice, adding, "what was wanting must have been--'love you'--of course." "Nay, then, Heaven forefend that I should interrupt confession," said the friar, with a laugh; "'tis contrary to the ordinance of Holy Church; but if you will show me, my son, which is his chamber, I will go thither and wait; for a small boy whom I met but now at the outer gate made a mock of me, and told me that if I took the third door, on the right hand, in the left hand corner, just beyond the fourth tower, after passing through the second gate, I should find a staircase which would lead me to the top of the castle; and when I had gone up, I might come down again. By my faith, if I could have reached him with my staff, I would have given him some wholesome correction; but he was too nimble for me; and my infirmities would not let me follow him." "Your fat, you mean, friar," replied Sir Harry Grey. "But tell me, how many casks of beer and butts of wine has it cost to complete that carcase of thine and paint that face?" "Neither are finished yet, my son," answered the friar, "but when they are, I will sum up the items, and send thee in the bill. It will profit thee nothing, however, for thou, wilt never grow fat." "Why not?" demanded the other, somewhat piqued. "Show me the way, and I will tell thee," replied the friar. "Well, then, go through that door under the arch," said Sir Harry, "and up the stairs, and the second door you come to leads to the Lord Hugh's chamber.--Now, then, why shall I never get fat? By my faith, I am glad to hear such news." "Didst never hear the old rhyme?" asked the friar-- "'A pleasant heart, a happy mind, That joy in all God's works can find, A conscience pure without a stain, A mind not envious nor vain, Shall on man's head bring down God's benison, And fatten more than ale or venison.' Heaven speed ye, gentlemen--thanks for your civil entertainment." Thus saying, he rolled off with a low chuckle, and took his way through the door to which the courtier had directed him. One of the three gentlemen, as the reader may have observed, had taken no part in the conversation with the friar; he now, however, turned at once to Sir William Geary, asking--"Do you know the scurvy knave?" "Not I," answered Sir William Geary; "this is the first time I ever set eyes upon him; but he is evidently a shrewd and caustic villain, ready to make himself serviceable in many ways: Do you know him, De Margan, for you look mysterious?" "I have seen him within the last ten days," replied De Margan, "but in a different part of England, and with companions from whom doubtless he brings messages to this noble Lord Hugh.--This matter must be watched, Geary. I have some old scores of friendship to clear with Hugh de Monthermer; so let us mark well what follows this good priest's interview with him." "Yes, I have heard of your adventure," said Sir William Geary, "and of your resolution to tell the old Earl of certain moonlight meetings; but you may tell what you will, De Margan, now, it will have no effect. Why, the father seems as much in love with him as the daughter; and though the noble and right valiant old lord is now over at Lindwell, preparing to eclipse all that has gone before, in his reception of the king, Hugh de Monthermer, each day since we have been here, has ridden over and spent the whole morning there, alone, I verily believe, with his lady-love." "I heard as much," answered Guy de Margan, impatiently--"I heard as much last night after my arrival; but I will find means, one way or another, to make this Hugh de Monthermer rue his braggart insolence." Sir William Geary paused for a moment with a thoughtful and somewhat bitter smile--"Well, De Margan," he said at length, drawing him aside from the rest, "if you want vengeance, methinks I know where there is a man to be found who will help you with his whole heart. No one knows of his being in Nottingham but myself; but I have found him out, and will take you to him if you like to go." "Who is he--who is he?" demanded the other. "No less a person than Richard de Ashby, the fair lady's cousin," answered Geary. "He is possessed of a goodly hatred towards these Monthermers, and, methinks, of no little love towards his bright cousin, Lucy." De Margan, however, scoffed at the idea--"What!" he cried, "a poverty-stricken beggarly dependant like that, to dare to lift his eyes to one so much above him!" "It may be to her dower he lifts his eyes," said Sir William Geary. "Ambition is always a bold lover. But, however that may be, depend upon it, he will help you to your vengeance upon Monthermer if you but concert your schemes together." "Well--well!" replied Sir Guy; "I will go to him, Geary. But let us first discover, if we can, something more regarding the errand of this friar. The man is a rank rebel, and a fautor of rebels. I saw him last with Sir William Lemwood, and all the rest of that crew, who were then hot for rebellion. I was sent to negotiate; but since then, that nest of treason has been suppressed, and doubtless he now comes to Nottingham to hatch some new conspiracy if he prove strong enough. But we must watch him--we must watch him! and if Hugh de Monthermer do but trip, I will answer for it, he shall fall--ay, and heavily, too; so let him take care. I fear there is no chance of getting into some ante-chamber, and overhearing what passes?" "None--none!" cried his companion, "that is quite out of the question; but my room looks out upon the end of the staircase, whence we can easily see when this friar issues forth again." "We will watch him--we will watch him!" exclaimed De Margan; "the very visit of such a man is in itself suspicious.--Say you not so, Geary?" "Assuredly," answered Sir William, with a bitter smile--"assuredly--to a suspicious mind;" and with this sarcasm, he turned, and led the way to his own apartment in the castle. Whatever was the Friar's errand with Hugh de Monthermer, he remained in his chamber more than an hour; and, when he issued forth, he was followed, not long after, by the young nobleman, who, on foot, and with a cloak of a sombre colour covering his gayer garments, took his way out into the town through the same gate by which the jolly cenobite had issued forth. "Let us see where they go--let us see where they go!" cried Guy de Margan; and hurrying down, he and his companion also quitted the castle, and soon caught sight of the young nobleman. Nottingham in those days was not so large a town as at present, but nevertheless, it was a place of very considerable importance; and then, as at present, its steep streets and rocky flights of steps running down the curious sort of cone on which it stands, gave one the idea of its being built upon a beehive. Walking down the road which led from the castle, Hugh de Monthermer proceeded for some way, and then took the first flight of steps that he came to, descending towards the lower part of the town; but, as at the bottom there were two ways which he might pursue, the gentlemen who were fulfilling the honourable office of spy upon his actions, and both of whom knew Nottingham well, separated for the time, appointing a spot to meet again, in order that he might not escape them. They had just rejoined each other in the lower part of the town, near the old gate, when Hugh, of whom Guy de Margan had not lost sight, paused and looked round him, as if not quite certain of his way, causing his pursuers to draw back behind a booth which protruded into the street. The moment after, he proceeded again, directing his steps straight through the gate; and they, darting out, followed him so quickly that they had well-nigh come suddenly upon him, as he stopped by the side of the friar whom they had before seen. The worthy monk however, was no longer on foot, but mounted upon a strong, tall, vicious looking mule; and, at the same time, he held by the bridle a large bony horse, equipped as for a journey. Hugh de. Monthermer was at that moment putting his foot into the stirrup, and in an instant was upon the beast's back. "This looks very like a prisoner making his escape," said Guy de Margan. "Shall I call upon the people to stop him?" "No--no!" replied Geary, "he is not making his escape; and if he were, he would be gone before you could do anything. He has a thousand opportunities of escaping every day if he likes it. 'Tis unlucky we have no horses with us." "He is going on no lawful errand, depend upon it," exclaimed Guy de Margan, "with that monk for a guide. I doubt not his journey will end in a meeting with some of the very rebels the king has come down to quell.--I will go and tell the Prince what I have seen, and what I suspect likewise." "Pshaw! never think of telling the Prince," said Geary, with his usual shrewd look and sarcastic turn of the lip, "that will never answer _your_ purpose, De Margan. The Prince is a sensible man; and, besides, you could not if you would. Edward is away; he set out this morning with five hundred men for Derby. Tell the King--tell the King! You can make him believe anything you like.--Your mother was a Jewess, wasn't she?" Guy de Margan turned upon him with a furious look and his hand upon his dagger, for the words of his companion implied what in that day was the grossest insult which one gentleman could offer to another; but Geary added, immediately, "An Italian, I mean--an Italian. What was I thinking of? You know a single drop of foreign blood in any one's veins is quite enough to secure the favour of the King. But come and see Richard de Ashby first; and concoct your scheme together. I will leave you with him; for I do not want to share your councils. It will be jest enough to see the result." The gibing spirit of Sir William Geary did not well accord with Guy de Margan's mood at the moment; and he was not at all sorry to find that he was soon to be delivered from his society. Walking on through some of the narrow streets which then formed the lower part of the good town of Nottingham, with the projecting gables of the upper stories shading them from the sun, and nearly meeting overhead, they at length reached a curiously carved and ornamented wooden house, small and sunk in amongst the others, so as scarcely to be seen by any one passing hurriedly along, like a modest and retiring man jostled back from observation by the obtrusive crowd. Here Sir William Geary applied for admittance, but before it was granted a full observation was taken of his person, and that of his companion, by a servant looking through a small round window at the side. At length the door was opened, and after some difficulty Sir Guy de Margan was permitted to enter, Sir William Geary leaving him as he went in. CHAPTER XXVIII. It was on the day following that which saw the visit of Guy de Margan to Richard de Ashby, that the two lovers stood together at the open casement of one of the magnificent rooms in Lindwell Castle, with joy in their hearts, such as they had never before known in life. They had thought, indeed, during the journey from Eltham to Nottingham, that it was hardly possible anything so bright and sweet could last as the dream-like and uncertain delight which they then enjoyed in each other's society, in the sort of toleration which their love received, and in the hopes to which that toleration gave rise. But now Hugh de Monthermer had come with happier tidings still; and, with his arm circling her he loved, her hand clasped in his, and her head leaning on his shoulder, he told her that her father had been with him for an hour that day, previous to his noon visit to the King, and had given his decided consent to their union. He had expressed some doubts, the lover said, as to her brother Alured's view of the matter, but had promised to take upon himself the task of bringing his son's fiery and intractable spirit to reason; and certain it is that when the young nobleman left Nottingham Castle to proceed with his small train to Lindwell, the Earl of Ashby had fully and entirely made up his mind to bestow his daughter's hand upon Hugh de Monthermer with as little delay as possible. Nor was it merely caprice which had produced so favourable a change of feeling in the present instance, although he was by nature, it must be confessed, somewhat capricious and undecided. He had always liked the young knight, even when the two houses of Ashby and Monthermer were opposed to each other in former days. He had once or twice bestowed a caress upon the boy, when he had met him accidentally at the court of the King, and Hugh had shown a degree of affection for him in return, which had produced one of those impressions in his favour that time strengthens rather than effaces. Various circumstances had since caused him to vacillate, as we have seen; but when after the battle of Evesham he found that Hugh was in high favour with the gallant Prince, who had just saved his father's throne, when he saw the way open before him to the brightest career at the court of his Sovereign, and remembered at the same time that he must inevitably unite in his own person all the power and fortune of the two great branches of his noble house, he felt, that in a mere worldly point of view, a better alliance could not be found throughout the land. He was, therefore, but little inclined to throw any obstacle in the way; and during the progress down to Nottingham,--a progress which in those times occupied sixteen or seventeen days--he perceived two facts which fixed his resolution: first, that his daughter whom he loved better than aught else on earth, had staked her happiness on a union with Hugh de Monthermer; and next, that it was the earnest desire of Edward--though the Prince did not make it a positive request, that no obstacle should be thrown in the way of his friend's marriage with her he loved. Thus, he himself had, during that morning, led the way to a conversation which ended in his promising Lucy's hand to Hugh de Monthermer; and it had been arranged that, as the King, at the end of two days, was to visit Lindwell and be there entertained for a week, the announcement of the approaching marriage should be publicly made on the morning of the Monarch's arrival. Such were the happy tidings which Hugh himself bore over to Lucy, and they now stood at that window gazing over the fair scene before their eyes, with feelings in their hearts which can never be known but once in life--feelings, the same in their nature and their character in the bosom of each, though modified of course, by sex, by habits, and by disposition. It was all joy and expectation and the looking forward to the long bright days of mutual love; but with Lucy that joy was timid, agitating, overpowering. All her gay and sparkling cheerfulness sunk beneath the weight of happy hopes, as one sometimes sees a bee so overloaded with honey that he can scarce carry his sweet burden home; and she had neither a jest to throw away upon herself or any one else, but, as we have said, stood quiet and subdued by Hugh de Monthermer's side, his arm half supporting her, and her head leaning on his shoulder. He, too, though always tender and kind towards her, seemed softened still more, by the circumstances in which he was placed. Even the eager love within his bosom controlled itself, lest its ardour should alarm and agitate the gentle being, whom he now looked upon as all his own. He soothed her, he calmed her, his caresses were light and tender; and he even strove to win her thoughts away from the more agitating parts of the subject on which they rested, to those which would give her back firmness and tranquillity. He called her mind back to the day they had spent together in the forest, to the promises they had made, and to the restrictions she had placed upon hers. He acknowledged that it was better she had done so, but he added--"I may now ask you unhesitatingly, dear Lucy, to pledge me here the vow that you will soon make at the altar, and to tell me that you are mine, and will be for ever mine." "Oh, willingly, willingly, now!" answered Lucy, withdrawing her hand for a moment, and then giving it back again. "Yours I am, Hugh, whatever betide--yours and none but yours,--yours through weal and woe, through life, till death--oh, yes, and after death!" and she hid her eyes for a moment on his bosom, with the sweet tears of happy emotion rising is them till they well-nigh over-ran the dark fringed lid. Then, turning again to the view before their eyes, they both gazed forth in silence, with their hearts full and their minds busy. Alas, poor lovers! they little knew that their fate was like the changeful autumn day, whose clouds and sunshine were sweeping rapidly over the wide forest scene on which they looked, now sparkling in the full glory of light, and the next moment, ere one could see the storm in its approach, dark and heavy with the raindrops rushing down, and tearing the brown leaves from the fading trees. One of those heavy showers had just cleared away, and the rays of the sun were sparkling again over the jewelled ground, when, about an hour after Hugh's arrival, a large and splendid train was seen coming across the green slopes from Nottingham, betokening the return of the Earl. He rode on quickly, and Lucy and her lover advanced into the richly carved stone balcony, to wave the hand and welcome him back with looks that spoke their gratitude and joy; but the Earl did not raise his eyes, and both Hugh and his fair companion perceived, as he approached, that in the train of the Earl were several gentlemen not belonging to his own household. A moment or two after, steps were heard ascending, and as they were many, Lucy darted away through a small door which led, by another staircase, to her own apartments, believing that her father was bringing some strangers to the castle, and wishing to remove the traces of recent agitation from her countenance before she met them. Hugh de Monthermer was not long left alone. Lucy was scarcely gone when the voice of the Earl of Ashby was heard speaking to some of those who had accompanied him. "Stay you here, gentlemen," he said, "he will return with you to the King--be not afraid; I will be his surety.--Let me speak with him first;" and the next instant the Earl entered the hall, with his eyes bent upon the ground and a cloud upon his brow. Though conscious of perfect innocence, and knowing of no danger that was likely to befal him, the heart of Hugh de Monthermer sunk at the words which he heard the Lord de Ashby utter. They came upon his ear like the announcement of new misfortunes, of new obstacles between Lucy and himself. It is true they might have meant a thousand other things, they might have referred even to some other person, but how often do we see a boy in the midst of a sunshiny holiday take alarm at the shadow of a light cloud, and fancy that a storm is coming on. Hugh de Monthermer was too brightly happy not to tremble lest his happiness should pass away like a dream. Advancing, then, rapidly towards the Earl, he said, with his usual frank and generous bearing, "What is the matter, my noble lord? You seem sad and downcast, though you were so gay and cheerful this morning." "Everything has changed since this morning, sir," answered the Earl, "and my mood with the rest. The King forbids your marriage with my daughter; and, as my consent was but conditional----" Hugh's indignation would not bear restraint. "This is most unjust and tyrannical"--he replied aloud; "but I do believe some one has poisoned the King's mind against me, for until yesterday morning he was all favour and kindness. Prince Edward is now absent, and some villain has taken advantage thereof to abuse the Monarch's ear." "Of that I know nothing," answered the Earl, coldly, "but at all events he has forbidden the marriage--and consequently I require you to give me back my plighted word that it should take place." "Never!" exclaimed Hugh de Monthermer, vehemently, "Never!--I will never be accessory to my own bitter and unjust disappointment.--You may, my lord, if you will--but I do not think you will--you may break your promise, you may withdraw your consent, but it shall be your own act and none of mine. I stand before you here, as honest and innocent of all offence as ever man was; and, if there was no cause this morning why you should refuse me your dear daughter's hand, there is none now." "There is--there is," cried the Earl, sharply,--"the King's express command." "Given upon some false showing," said Hugh de Monthermer. "I will go to him this moment. I will dare my accusers to bring forward their charge to my face. I will prove their falsehood upon them--first by show of witnesses, and next by arms--and bitterly shall they repent the day that they dared sully my name by a word. I know them,--I know who they are, and their contrivances, right well. I had a warning of their being near, last night.--I do beseech you, my lord, tell me, of what do they accuse me? and fear not that I will soon exculpate myself." "Nay, I know not, accurately, Hugh," replied the Earl, in a kindlier tone than he had hitherto used. "I have heard, however, that there is a charge against you, a general charge of conspiring with those enemies of the state who have been striving to raise once more the standard of rebellion in the North and in the marches of Wales." "It is false--it is as false as hell!" cried Hugh; but then, after a moment, growing calmer, he took the old Earl's hand, saying, "Forgive me, my dear lord, if, in the heat of so bitter a disappointment, I have said anything that could pain or offend you. Forgive me, I entreat you--and promise me two things." "What are they, my good lord?" demanded the Earl. "I will, if they are meet and reasonable." Hugh de Monthermer lowered his voice from the tone in which he had before been speaking, and replied, "They are meet and reasonable, my lord, or I would not ask them. First, promise me that the moment I am gone you will write a letter to Prince Edward, telling him that his humble friend, Hugh de Monthermer, is accused of crimes which he declares he never dreamt of. Beseech him to return with all speed to see justice done, and send the packet by a trusty messenger to Derby, where the Prince now lies." "I will--I will," answered the Earl; "it shall be done within an hour. But what more, Hugh--what more?" "This, my dear lord," replied the young nobleman,--"your messenger will reach Derby to-night; and, if I know Prince Edward rightly, ere to-morrow's sun be an hour declined from high noon, he will be in Nottingham. I will beseech the King to wait till that moment, to hear my full defence. What I ask then is, that you will meet me in the presence, and, if you cannot lay your hand upon your heart and say that you believe me guilty, you will renew your promise of dear Lucy's hand, and urge the King with me to give his consent likewise." The old Lord hesitated, but at length answered, "Well!" "Then now farewell, my lord," said Hugh de Monthermer. "I must not stay till your dear daughter comes. After the happy hour we passed but now together, 'twould well-nigh break my heart to see her under other circumstances." Thus saying, he wrung the old man's hand, and strode towards the door, but turning for an instant before he quitted the chamber, he saw that the Earl stood fixed in the midst of the hall, with a hesitating air; and he added, aloud, "You will not fail, my lord!" "No, no," replied the Earl, "I will meet you at the hour you named.--Fear not, I will not fail." There was a wide landing-place between the top of the stairs and the door of the hall; and Hugh de Monthermer found it crowded with gentlemen belonging to Henry's court. The moment he appeared, Sir Guy de Margan advanced towards him, saying, "Lord Hugh de Monthermer, I am commanded by the King----" But Hugh interrupted his address, frowning upon him sternly, "To summon me to his majesty's presence!" he said. "I go thither, at once, sir, and that is enough!--Take care, Sir Guy de Margan!" he added, seeing him still approaching him; "remember, I am not fond of your close presence!"--and he brought the hilt of his long sword nearer to his right hand, striding onward to the top of the staircase, as he did so; while the gentlemen who occupied the landing, not exactly liking the expression of his countenance, made way for him on either side, and Guy de Margan bit his lip with an angry frown, not daring to approach too closely. The young nobleman's horse, and the attendants who had accompanied him, were ready in the court; and springing into the saddle, without giving the slightest attention to those who followed, he shook his bridle rein, and galloped on towards Nottingham. The others came after at full speed: and both parties entered the city, and passed the gates of the castle almost at the same moment. Dismounting from his horse, Hugh proceeded at once towards the royal apartments, leaving several of the pages and attendants behind him, unquestioned, on his way. In the ante-room of the audience chamber he met William de Valence, for the time one of the prime favourites of the Monarch; and stopping him, he asked, "Can I speak with his Majesty, my Lord of Pembroke? I find I have been accused wrongfully, and must clear myself." "His Grace expects your lordship," answered the Earl, with an icy look; "but he expects to see you in custody." "There was no need, sir," replied Hugh; "I fear not to meet my King, and never need force to make me face my foes. Will you bring me to the presence--that is all I require." "Follow me, then," said the Earl; and opening the door, he announced the arrival of the young knight to Henry, who immediately ordered him to be brought in. The Monarch was seated near a table, with the Lord Mortimer standing by him. They were apparently jesting upon some subject, for both were smiling when Hugh de Monthermer entered; but the moment the weak and tyrannical Sovereign's eyes fell upon him, an angry scowl came upon his countenance, which brought King John strongly back to the minds of those who remembered that feeble and cold-blooded Prince. "So, sir," said Henry, "you have come of your accord, to meet the reward of your high merits!" "I come, your Grace," replied Hugh, bowing low, "to meet my accusers in your royal presence, and to give them the lie in their teeth, if they dare to charge me with any act contrary to my allegiance or my duty." "What!" said the King--"was consorting with De Montfort, was fighting at Evesham, not contrary to your allegiance?" "Oh! my lord," answered Hugh, "if the charge goes as far back as that, I must plead both your Grace's special pardon, and your general amnesty to all who laid down their arms, made submission, and offended not again!" "But you have offended again," exclaimed the King; "that is the chief charge against you." "And whoever does make it," replied Hugh de Monthermer, "is a false and perjured traitor, and I will prove it upon him, either by investigation before your Majesty, or by wager of battle--my body against his, with God for the judge." "Nay--nay, sir," said Henry, "we know your strength and skill in arms right well; and this is not a case where we will trust plain justice to be turned from its course by a strong arm and a bold but perverse heart. We ourselves will be your accuser, with whom there can be no wager of battle; and those we call to prove your crime shall be but witnesses." "My lord, that cannot be," replied Hugh, boldly. "My King will never be judge and accuser, both in one." "Then you shall have other judges," cried the Monarch; "your peers shall judge you. But, if you be truly innocent, you will not scruple now to answer at once the charges made against you." "It is for that, I come," replied the young knight. "Unprepared, not knowing what these charges are, I come to meet them as I may. I pray you, let me hear them." While he and the King had been speaking, a number of new faces had appeared in the audience chamber, comprising all those who had followed the young nobleman from Lindwell; and Henry, running his eye over them, exclaimed--"Stand forth, Guy de Margan--and you, Hugh Fitzhugh--and you, Sir William Geary, come near also, and say of what you accuse Lord Hugh de Monthermer." "'Faith, sire," replied Sir William Geary, with his usual sarcastic grin, "I accuse the noble knight of nothing. I was at the pass of arms at Northampton, my lord, when he unhorsed the four best lances in the field. Now, I never was particularly strong in the knees, and, moreover, am getting somewhat rusty with years; so God forbid that I should accuse any man who talks of the wager of battle. When I heard it, I trembled almost as much as Sir Guy de Margan here." "It is false! I trembled not!" exclaimed Sir Guy. "True--true," answered the other, "you only shook, and looked sickly." "Sir William Geary," cried the King, "this is no jesting matter! Speak what it was you told me that you saw." "I saw a fat monk," replied Sir William Geary, whose inclination for a joke could hardly be restrained--"a jolly monk as ever my eyes rested upon, and this fat monk, sire," he continued, more seriously, seeing that the King was becoming angry, "stopped, and asked his way to the apartments of the noble lord. He jested as wittily with Sir Harry Grey as a court fool does with a thick-headed country lad; but when he had gone on his way, Sir Guy de Margan here, a very serious and reputable youth, as your Majesty knows, told me, in mysterious secrecy, that the friar was a very treacherous piece of fat indeed--a traitor's messenger--a go-between of rebels--a personage whom he had himself known with Sir William Lemwood and the rest, in the marches of Wales. So, inviting him sweetly into my chamber, we two watched together for the monk's going forth from this noble lord's apartments which was not for more than an hour. In the meanwhile, pious Sir Guy entertained me with his shrewd suspicions, of how the monk and the valiant knight were hatching treason together, which, as you know, sire, is a cockatrice's egg, laid by male fowls, and hatched by dragons looking at it. A very pretty allegory of a conspiracy, if we did but read fools for fowls--that by the way; but to return to my tale:--the monk at length appeared in the courtyard again, and shortly after the Lord Hugh de Monthermer, him following. Thereupon; one of those irresistible inclinations which set the legs in motion, whether man will or not, seized upon me and good Sir Guy; and drawn as if by that rock of adamant on which the Earl is fixed, we pursued, without power of resistance, the path of knight and friar. Just at the gate of the city we found our ascetic friend mounted on a mule, and holding a horse for his knightly acquaintance, on which we saw the gallant Lord spring, and after that they rode away together. This is all I have to say, sire, and what I have said is true; but far be it from me to take any accusation against a knight who can squeeze a horse to death between his two knees, or stop a charger in full course by catching hold of an iron ring, and grasping the beast with his two legs." "What have you to answer, sir?" demanded the King, turning to Hugh. "Simply that I saw a monk yesterday, sire," replied the young nobleman, "and that he stayed with me nearly an hour, talking much of venison, and somewhat of hunting. He may, from his language, have committed the crime of taking a fat buck when he had no right to do so; but, by my faith, that is the only treason I should suspect him of, and not one word did he utter in my presence, either about risings, rebellions, or aught else that could move your royal displeasure." "Ha! what say you to this, Sir Guy de Margan?" asked the King. "Tell us, who is this friar? Is he a rebel, or is he not?" "Notoriously so, my lord," replied Guy de Margan. "I found him with Lemwood and the other traitors, to whom you, sire, sent me for the purpose of negotiation; and it would seem that he had come to comfort them with promises of assistance from the North." "But yet that does not prove," said Mortimer, "that the Lord Hugh held any treasonable converse with him. His business with that good lord might have been of a very simple kind." Malevolent injustice becomes most dangerous when it assumes the garb of equity; and Mortimer, who knew the whole that was to come, only assumed the style of an impartial judge, that his after persecution of the young nobleman might seem dictated by a sense of justice. "It might have been so, indeed," replied Guy de Margan, "had it but been a visit from the friar to my Lord of Monthermer; but their setting forth together would seem strange; and the secrecy observed in the monk quitting the castle first, and the knight following at a little distance, renders it more strange still. Perhaps Lord Hugh will condescend to explain why he went, and where." "Methinks," answered Hugh, "that the honourable spies who crept after my footsteps from the castle to the town gate, might have carried their inquiries a little farther, when they would have saved the necessity of such questions here." "In regard to one point," said Hugh Fitzhugh, a large, burly Norman gentleman--"in regard to one point, I, at least, can give some explanation. What he went for I can but divine, but where he went I know right well. He rode out with all speed to the forest, for I saw him there with this same monk they mention. The truth is, I had somewhat missed my way; and coming through some of the by-paths of the wood, I suddenly chanced upon a party of five persons in deep and earnest conversation. Three of them had vizards on their faces, too, and the two that were unmasked were Hugh de Monthermer and the friar we have heard of. Now, my lord the King, unless he explain that, we have no explanation at all. But your wisdom will judge." "Let him explain, if he will," said the King, "or rather, if he can. I doubt it much; but I am willing to hear." "My lord," replied Hugh de Monthermer, "for once in their lives these noble gentlemen have told the truth: I did go out after the priest; I did accompany him into the forest; I did meet three men there--but with no evil purpose; nor did one word transpire which any man could call treason." "Who were the men you went to see?" demanded the King. "Nay, sire," replied Hugh, "you must forgive me, if I give not their names. My accusers, if they charge me with crime, must show that I have been guilty of it. Now no such thing is even attempted to be proved. All that they assert is, that I spoke with a friar, rode out with a friar, and was seen conversing with three unknown persons in Sherwood. If this be held as treason, God defend the innocent!" "But, my good lord," said Mortimer, to whom the King turned his eyes, "it is shown that this friar, who took you forth to speak with three other men, is himself a notorious traitor, and you must show that the others were not so also, or the imputation will lie against you of consorting with, and concealing the counsel of, the King's enemies." "Which is a high crime, my lord," added Henry, sternly. Hugh de Monthermer gazed down thoughtfully on the ground for a moment, for he found that he was placed in a situation of much greater difficulty and danger than he imagined; but looking up at length, he answered, "My lord the King, I am here in this presence without friends or counsellors to aid or to assist me. I have come without forethought or preparation, as fast as my horse would hear me, to answer a charge, cunningly contrived beforehand by my enemies. I do beseech you, give me but four-and-twenty hours to consider well how I ought to act. If I may have any one to advise with me, I shall esteem it as a grace; but if not, at all events let me have time for thought myself. I know that I can prove my innocence, beyond all doubt, if I have time to do it." "You shall have time and counsel too," replied the King, "but it shall be under custody. My Lord of Mortimer, attach him in our name. Let him be conveyed to his chamber; set a strong guard upon the door; and give access to any one of his servants, but not more, that he may have free leave to send for what counsellor he will; let that counsellor visit him; and as he asks for four-and-twenty hours, bring him before us again at this same time to-morrow." The Earl of Mortimer took a few steps forward, as if to attach the young nobleman for high treason, but Hugh de Monthermer bowed his head, saying, "I surrender myself willingly, my lord, and fixing my full reliance on the King's justice, await the event of to-morrow without fear." He then left the presence under the custody of Mortimer, and was conducted to the chamber which he had occupied since his arrival at Nottingham, and which comprised, as was usually the case with those assigned to noblemen of high rank, a bed-room for himself, and an ante-room, across the entrance of which one or two of his attendants usually slept, barring all dangerous access to their lord during the night. Having beckoned some of the King's guard as they passed along, Mortimer stationed two soldiers at the door of the ante-room, and took measures for their regular relief on the rounds. He then entered with his prisoner, and finding stout Tom Blawket in the ante-room, he asked whether the young nobleman would choose him as the attendant who was to be permitted to wait upon him, or would send for any other. "I should have asked for him, my lord, had I not found him here," replied Hugh. "I thank you for your courtesy, however, and trust that the time may come when, having proved my innocence, I may repay it." "I hope to see you soon at liberty," rejoined Mortimer, with a dark smile; and retiring from the chamber, he ordered another guard to be stationed at the foot of the staircase. No sooner was he gone, than Hugh called the stout yeoman into the inner room, and bade him shut the door. "Nay, look not downcast, Blawket," he said, as the man entered with a sad and apprehensive look, "this storm will soon pass away. Indeed, it would have been dissipated already, but that I was embarrassed by a matter which will be joyful tidings to you." "I know what you would say, my lord," replied the good yeoman, "for, since we have been here, I have heard of the noble Earl. That urchin boy who served you some time at Hereford, sprang up behind me one day when I was crossing the forest, and told me all about it." "Well, then, Blawket," continued Hugh, "no time is to be lost; get to your horse's back with all speed, and ride along upon the east side of Sherwood, taking the Southwell road till you come to the _Mere mark_--a tall post painted with red stripes--There turn into the wood for some five hundred yards, and sound three mots upon your horn, whoever comes to you, will lead you to my uncle. Tell him I have been watched; that the man who passed while we were speaking together yesterday recognised me; and combining that fact with others, has given a face of truth to an accusation of treason against me. Show him that I dare not say who it was I met, lest the forest should be searched and his retreat discovered. When twenty-four hours are over, however, I must speak, if I would save my head from the axe, for I see that there is a dark conspiracy against me, and I am without support. Beseech him to put as many miles as may be between himself and Nottingham, ere this hour to-morrow, for the King's wrath burns as fiercely against him as ever. Away, good Blawket--away!--Should any one stop you, and ask you where you are going, say for Master Roger More, a clerk well skilled in the laws, and lose no time." "I will not spare the spur, my lord," replied Blawket, and withdrew, leaving Hugh de Monthermer in meditations, which were sad and gloomy, notwithstanding all his efforts to convince himself that no real danger hung over him. CHAPTER XXIX. The wind was from the south, sighing softly through the trees--the sun had gone down about half an hour--the moon was rising, though not yet visible to the eye, except to the watchers on castle towers, or the lonely shepherd on the mountain. The night was as warm as midsummer, though the year had now waned far; and in the sky there were none but light and fleecy clouds, which scarcely dimmed the far twinkling stars as they shone out in the absence of the two great rulers of the night and day. It was one of those sweet evenings which we would choose to wander through some fair scene with the lady that we love, looking for the moon's rising from behind the old ivy-clad ruin, and re-peopling the shady recesses of wood and dale with the fairy beings of old superstition, though they have long given place to the harsher realities of a state of society which has become, to use Rosalind's term, "a working-day world indeed." Such was the night when, under the brown boughs of the wood, with yellow leaves overhead and long fern around, sat a party of some seven or eight stout men, dressed in the green garb which we have already described in another place. Their bows rested against the trees close by, their swords hung in the baldrics by their side, some horses were heard snorting and champing at no great distance, and a large wallet lay in the midst, from which the long-armed dwarf, Tangel, was drawing forth sundry articles of cold provision, together with two capacious leathern bottles and a drinking cup of horn. There were two persons there whom the reader already knows--the bold leader of the forest outlaws, and the old Earl of Monthermer--now, alas! an outlaw likewise. Though his wounds had been severe, and he had suffered much both in body and in mind, the old knight's spirit seemed still unquenched. On the contrary, indeed, with no weighty matters pressing on his mind, with the fate and fortune of others, nay, of his country itself, no longer hanging on his advice, it seemed as if a load had been removed from his bosom; and as he half sat, half lay, upon the turf, he could jest with the men around him more lightly than in his stately hours of power and influence. "Poor hunting, Robin! poor hunting!" he said. "Now I would not have this day's sport recorded against us, as true foresters, for very shame." "'Tis no want of craft, my good lord," replied Robin, "'tis the nearness of the court which drives all honest beasts away. We might have had bucks enough, but that they are rank just now." "Like the age, Robin--like the age!" answered the Earl. "However, we must e'en make the best of our fate, and put in the bag what fortune chooses to send. There are hares enow, and a fine doe, though you were as tender of them as if they had been children." "I never love to wing an arrow at a doe," said Robin Hood. "I know not why, they always look to me like women, and often do I lie in the spring time and see them trip along with their dainty steps, their graceful heads moving to and fro, and their bright black eyes looking as conscious as a pretty maid's at a May-day festival; and I think there must be some truth in the old story of men's souls sometimes taking possession of a beast's body." "Not so often, Robin," rejoined the Earl, "as a beast's soul taking possession of a man's body. I could pick you out as goodly a herd from the court of England as ever trooped through the shades of Sherwood, or were driven out by the piping swineherd to eat acorns in the lanes by Southwell." "Doubtless, doubtless, my lord," replied Robin; "men will make beasts of themselves in all places, while the honester four-legged things of the forest seem as if they wanted to gem up, manward. Why, down by that very place, Southwell, there is a fallow doe who knows me as well as if she were one of my band; she comes when I call her, if she be within hearing, and lets me rub her long hairy ears by the half-hour. Then what long talks will we have together! I ask her all sorts of questions; and she contrives to answer one way or another, till, if I be too saucy with her about her antlered loves, she butts at me with her round hornless head, and stamps her tiny foot upon the ground. You would say 'twas a very woman, if you saw her." "'Tis a wonder that she has escaped without an arrow in her side," replied the Earl. "Nay," cried Robin; "there is not a man in Sherwood or twenty miles round, who would pierce a hole in her brown bodice for all that he is worth. Every one knows Robin Hood's doe; and foul befal him that hurts her. But come, Tangel, what hast thou got there? 'Tis so dark, I cannot see." "A huge hare pie," said Tangel, "and bottles of stuff to baste it with; but the crust's as hard as the sole of a shoe, and unless thine anelace be somewhat sharper than thy wit, thou wilt go without thy supper, and be obliged to take the testament of the Scotch tinker." "And what is that?" asked Robin. "Drink for all," replied the dwarf; "but I will light a torch, Robin, lest thou shouldst cut thine invaluable thumb, and spoil thy shooting for the next month." A torch was soon lighted; and, seated round the great hare pasty, Robin Hood and his friends began their evening meal. But the horn cup had only gone once round when the outlaw held up his hand, crying, "Silence!" and interrupting a burst of merriment which one of Tangel's hard jests upon a forester opposite had just produced. All was silent in a moment amongst the little party; but no other sound reached their ears, and Robin Hood was again resuming the conversation, saying, "I thought I heard a horn," when the notes were repeated, but it was still far in the distance. "It is Yockley, from the second mere," said the outlaw, starting up. "It must be your nephew, my lord, who sounded first. I expect no one from such a quarter to-night; but I must answer; and Yockley will bring him hither." Thus saying, he put his horn to his lips and blew a long blast upon it, very different from that which they had just heard, but well understood by all the foresters as indicating where their leader was to be found. "Is it not dangerous, Robin?" said the Earl. "I expect not my nephew here, and we are but six." "We could soon call more," replied Robin; "and our horses are near. But if there be any danger in the party, Yockley will not bring them hither. Now, take some more food, my lord, and send round the cup again. It must be the Lord Hugh, escaped from the revel of the castle, to take a ride in Sherwood by the moon's light." No more was said in regard to the sounding of the horn; and the merry jest again went on, around the green table where their viands were spread. The torch, stuck in a hole in the ground, shed its light upon the various faces in the circle and upon the sylvan repast; and a song from one of the foresters cheered the minutes, till, at length, again the horn hastened much nearer, and Robin again gave his accustomed reply. In about three minutes more the forms of a man on horseback and another on foot by his side, were seen coming through the trees, while the eyes of the whole party round the torch were turned towards them. "Why, who is this?" exclaimed the Earl; "my good yeoman, Tom Blawket, as I live! He has found his old lord out, even in Sherwood." The eyes of Blawket had not been idle as he came up; and though the Earl was no longer habited as the high noble of a splendid and ostentatious age, the faithful servant singled him out instantly. Springing from his horse, he kissed his master's hand with affectionate reverence, while a tear stood in his eye; but he could utter nothing except, "Oh, my lord!" "Well, Blawket," replied the Earl, laying his hand on the yeoman's shoulder, "I am glad to see thee, my good friend, though thy coming may be somewhat dangerous." "I come not without cause, my lord," said Blawket, "and sad cause too, and I must give my message hastily, for there is no time to lose. Your nephew, sir, has been arrested on suspicion of treason, being seen conversing with three masked men in the forest. He dared not say that one of them was yourself, my lord, because a price has been set upon your head; and the first word of your being near would send half the nobles of the court hunting you through Sherwood." "Let them come!" said Robin Hood, calmly; "we would entertain them well." "He refused to answer their questions," continued Blawket, "and has gained some four and twenty hours--that is, till to-morrow at the hour of two or three, when they will be put to him again, he, in the meantime, remaining a close prisoner. He therefore prays you, my lord, to provide for your own safety with all speed, leaving this part of the forest, and betaking yourself to a distance from Nottingham." "Where is the Prince?" demanded the old Earl. "He is gone to Derby, as I hear," replied the yeoman, "to put down some rough-handed clowns amongst the mountains there, who will not believe that the great Earl of Leicester is dead." "These are bad tidings, indeed," said Robin Hood; "we cannot storm Nottingham Castle, I fear, and set him free." "Bad tidings, indeed," repeated the Earl; "and I know not well whether to go at once to the King's court and justify poor Hugh, or----" "Nay, nay, my lord," cried Robin Hood, "that will not do. I have always found it best when one of sound discretion, whom we love, beseeches us for his sake to do this or that, not to aim at more than he requires, thinking that we can better his advice, but simply to perform his bidding if we can. Otherwise, not knowing all the secret causes of his desire, we often break his purpose while we seek to mend it. He asks you to go, my lord; 'twere better to do so far. I will remain: nay, go nearer still to Nottingham, this very night; and the castle walls will be thicker and stronger than they ever have been yet, if I hear not all that takes place within them. Nay, more--should danger threaten the good young lord, we will find means to give him help. Although, as the old song goes, 'The castle walls are strong and high,' yet there are means of leaping over them, if one have but a good will.--Fear not, my lord--fear not! All that your nephew asks is to be enabled, by your absence in some place of safety, to acknowledge whom it was he met in the forest here, without danger to yourself. Was it not so, Tom?" "Exactly so," replied the yeoman, "and he seemed no way cast down. But the King's people are eager enough after him, that is clear, for I found that they dogged me nearly to Lambley Haggard, which made me so long, otherwise I should have been down two hours ago, for I was forced to ride on, and then come back again. I found one of them still waiting near the Mere; but, as he was teasing a pretty boy who seemed to have lost his way, I picked a quarrel with the vermin, and so belaboured him that he will dog no honest man again for some weeks to come, even if he can contrive to drag his bones back to Nottingham to-night." "Well done, yeoman--well done, Tom!" cried several voices; and the old Earl, who had been buried in thought while his servant spoke, now turned to his forest companion, saying, "Send a quick messenger to the Prince, Robin. It is with him that Hugh's safety rests. It seems that I ought to go hence, and therefore I will do so at once; but, Blawket--you speed back to Lord Hugh, and tell him, that if need be, I am willing, at a moment's notice, to surrender myself into the Prince's hand--ay, or the King's, though that, I know, were death--for the few days of my old life are worth nought compared with the long high course before him. Speed you back, Blawket, at once, while I will mount and away! Robin, let me have one of your men with me. Come, Morton of the Moor, you shall show me the way." A few words more passed between Robin and the Earl, ere the old nobleman departed; but, as soon as he was gone, the bold forester turned to Blawket, who was already on his horse's back, exclaiming, "Stay, Tom, a moment! Who was this boy you spoke of?--Where have you left him?" "I know not, the boy," answered Blawket, "and I left him with one of your people, upon assurance of safety and of freedom to come and go, for he was weary and seemed terrified." "He is with Harry of Mansfield," joined in Yockley, who had accompanied the yeoman thither, "and we both promised that we would let him go when he liked, for it was of being kept he seemed most afraid. But he asked for you, Robin, and so Harry is bringing him along down the vert course and by the roe lane." "We must on, and meet them," said Robin Hood. "Go you back, good Blawket, speedily, and should anything new happen, come again to the second mere. You, Yockley, go on to the lodge as fast as your legs can carry you, and bring up the people there to the Royal-hart Pond. Lead on the horses,--I will afoot." Thus saying, he walked on, with his arms folded on his broad chest and his eyes bent upon the ground. His countenance was seldom, if ever, gloomy, for serenity was one of its peculiar characteristics. Sometimes it was grave indeed, and very often thoughtful, but the wrinkled frown had no place there, and even when the quick burst of anger crossed it, it showed itself only in the lightning of the eye and the expansion of the nostril. His face was now anxious, however, and as he walked along, his lips, as was very frequent with him, gave unwitting utterance to that which was passing in his heart. "We must not let him perish," he said. "I doubt this King--he is too weak to be honest. 'Tis strange how near the fool and the rogue are akin. Wisdom and goodness,--ay, wisdom and goodness,--they are brother and sister; the one somewhat gentler than the other, but of the same blood." The pace of a thoughtful man is generally slow, but it was not so with Robin Hood upon the present occasion; for while he thus meditated, and murmured broken sentences to himself, he strode on at a rapid rate, till, at the distance of about a mile from the spot where he had been seated with the Earl, the sound of voices speaking met his ear, and pausing, he turned to one of those behind him, saying, "You must ride to Derby, Dickon; seek out the Prince, say you bring him a message from the Lord Hugh de Monthermer, and, when you see him, add that if he would save a friend's life, he must to Nottingham with all speed. Take one of the horses as far as Beeston--it will carry you well so far; but you must use speed. So, knock up the merry miller, and bid him, for love of Robin Hood, to lend you his black mare to Derby. Away, with you, good Dickon, and when in Derby, tell good Margery Green, of the Setting Sun, to send me what tidings she has had out of Cumberland,--Here, bring forward the torch!--Now, boy, what do you want with me?" These last words were addressed to a slight youth, dressed in a page's habit, but not such as we represent--upon the stage or in pictures--as the garb of a page of the middle ages. The upper garment which he wore was one of the loose cassocks then very generally is use, of a rich purple cloth, descending considerably below the knee, and somewhat longer indeed than the ordinary petticoat of the English peasant girl of the time. From underneath this, appeared a small foot, covered with long-toed riding boots; and a green hood with a trimming of grey squirrel fur, clasped round the neck with a gilt fermail or buckle, was brought far over the forehead, concealing the greater part of the face. Over the right shoulder was slung a belt, holding a long dagger, underneath which appeared a wallet or pouch of velvet trimmed with fur. To judge from his size and general appearance, the boy might be some fourteen years of age, and apparently not of a very strong and hardy make. Ere he answered, he shaded his eyes with his hand, somewhat dazzled it seemed by the light of the torch, and Robin had to ask him again, "What want you with me, my good lad?" "I would speak with you alone," said the boy--"I would speak with you alone, and immediately; for the matter is of life and death." Robin Hood took the torch from the man that held it, and bade the rest stand back. Then, fixing his eyes with a calm, searching gaze upon the part of the youth's countenance which was visible under the hood, he waited in silence to hear what the boy had to say. The page hesitated for a moment, and then murmured, "The Lord Hugh de Monthermer----" "Oh, we know about him!" cried Robin Hood. "Stale news, young gentleman, if that be all!" The boy, who had seemed at first abashed and uncertain, now lifted his head with an angry toss, as if offended, replying boldly, "You are rash and hasty. Hear before you answer, Sir Forester. The news is not stale, though you think yourself so wise. You know that the Lord Hugh is in prison, for you have had his man with you; but you know not that he is condemned to death, and that his head will be struck off in the castle-yard, to-morrow, at daybreak. Do you know that?" "No, by the Blessed Virgin!" replied Robin Hood, "I do not know it; and I say that it shall not be, if I have power to help it!" "Ay, there is the question," cried the boy. "Have you the power?" "Of that anon," replied Robin Hood; "first show me that the tidings are true." "There," said the page, "read that, if thou canst read. If not, I will for thee;" and he held out an open letter to the Outlaw, who took it eagerly from his hand, and gazed at it by the light of the torch. The writing consisted of two parts, traced by different hands, the latter being evidently an answer to the former, scrawled down in haste at the bottom of the paper. The first was to the following effect:-- "To, my noble and well-beloved Lord the Earl of Mortimer, greeting. These from the humblest and most devoted of his servants, Richard de Ashby. "If the time given, my good lord, till three to-morrow, be permitted to run on, the game will escape us, for I doubt not the Prince is already informed; and be you sure that he will set off with all speed, and if he arrive in time, will save the criminal. I therefore send you up a man who is ready to swear that he heard the criminal say to the monk, as they passed through the gates together, that out of De Montfort's ashes would soon rise up a ph[oe]nix to destroy his enemies. The fellow is well tutored in his tale, so that you shall not catch him tripping, and I do beseech you to make use of him before the King without delay, so that, if possible, there may be an axe between our enemy's head and his body before noon to-morrow. If the forfeited estates be divided between you and my good lord of Pembroke, I would advise the one I love best to choose the northern ones. They are worth five hundred marks a year more than the others." All this was written in a fine and clerkly hand, while the letters below were rough and dashing, and somewhat difficult to read. The words, however, were as follows:-- "TRUSTY FRIEND,-- "The matter is settled. The King has called together all the Barons on the spot--luckily, Gloucester was away, and Talbot's voice was drowned in the rest. He dies to-morrow at daybreak. I have the warrant under the King's hand. Thanks for the hint. The northern estates are mine, and friends shall not go unrewarded by yours, "MORTIMER." "Ha!" said Robin Hood, after he had read the letter and the reply--"ha! this is mighty good. Why, what a nest of scorpions have we here; and this is the court of England! Oh, De Montfort!--noble De Montfort! if thou didst want an advocate to plead thy cause and justify thy holy zeal to crush the venomous reptiles that infest the land, this paper has a tongue that would convince the dead. But we will see. May God so help me, as I am at this execution to-morrow--if we find not other means to stay it! and beware, my Lord of Mortimer, how you come within mark of the English yew--for thy breast must be cased in steel, indeed, if I drown not the peacock's feather in your heart's black blood!--Do you hear them coming from the lodge, Miller?" "Not yet, Robin," replied the man to whom he spoke. "Tom is upon the hill--he will sound his horn." "We must give the youth warning what we are about to do," said Robin Hood, running his eye attentively over the form of the page before him--"we must give him warning.--Ha! Richard de Ashby! So--so!--Boy, this is news, indeed, you have brought me. Have you aught else to tell?" "Not now," answered the boy, "for I must be back to Nottingham with all speed, lest I be missed. To-morrow will do for my other tidings--I cannot think he will be so hasty there." "Nay--nay, if thou hast aught to tell," exclaimed Robin; "tell it now. One never can say to-morrow's sun will rise. There are precipices at every rood on the highway of human life, over which our best intentions fall, and dash themselves to pieces. Speak out--speak out! it will but take thee a spare minute." "Well, then," replied the boy, "doubtless you love not much the Earl of Ashby?" "Not much," answered Robin Hood, bluffly, "but his son much less." "It matters not," rejoined the page; "but I tell you the Earl's life is in danger from secret foes. There is a man--a base, bad man--the betrayer of all that trust in him----" The boy paused, and seemed to gasp for breath. "He seeks the Earl's death; ay, and that of his son also," he continued, "in order that--that--that he may wed the heiress of the house, and himself become its head. If I did know a friend of the Earl, I would beseech him earnestly to watch the old man well; ay, to watch his food--to watch his steps--to have his wine tried before he drinks it--never to let him forth alone, if it be but to taste the morning air upon a sunny bank.--But you are his enemies." "Yet we will act as friends," said Robin Hood. "He shall have warning, ay, and assistance at hand, in case of need.--And now," he added, in a low and soft tone, advancing a step, and taking the page's hand--"and now what is to become of thee, poor thing?--Dost thou think I do not know thee, Kate?" She shook terribly, and cast down her eyes, without reply. "'Tis well," he continued, finding that she did not answer. "But listen to me, Kate Greenly--listen to one that speaks to thee kindly. Thou hast done a good act this night; let it be balm to thy heart; nay, let it be more--let it be but as seed that thou hast sown, to bring forth still more plentiful fruit hereafter. Cast off the villain, whom thy better nature hates; leave him to the deeds which will, ere long, bring down destruction on his head; let him receive the reward of his own wickedness, and then----" "Die!" said Kate Greenly--"there is nothing else left for me to do. Nay, speak not of my father--utter not his name, for it is worse than fire even to hear it mentioned. Talk not to me of the cloister, where I might linger out long days of miserable memory. My life is near its close--my heart is broken--by my own act, I know; but all the more dreadful is the wound. There is no balm that can heal this--there is no time that can soothe it. He whom I trusted is a villain. Me he might have injured, betrayed, cast off, trampled upon. I might have wept, or raved, and still lived on; but to find him a traitor--a murderer--a fiend--to be forced, as if for my punishment on earth, to betray him who has betrayed me, and to blast his schemes and his fame who has blasted my name and my happiness--this is the cup of death, I tell thee, and a bitter death it is!--But I must go back! Thy people have promised that they will not stay me, and I must go back. Whatever tidings I can give, you shall have; for I have sworn to unravel the dark clue--to frustrate the wicked scheme, and to bring down upon his head the punishment he merits. God will give me strength to tread this path where every step is agony; and, oh! when it is done, may he receive the broken heart and penitent spirit, for the sake of Him who died to save us!" "Amen!" said Robin Hood. "Yet stay a moment, thou must have some one to guide thee back; thou art nearer the town than thou thinkest for.--I will speak a word with thee by the way." CHAPTER XXX. It was an hour past midnight--the sentries had just been relieved upon the castle wall--and Hugh de Monthermer sat by the window, looking out into the depth of sight, and gazing at the far twinkling of the stars. The mind was occupied in the same manner as the body, for it was looking forth into the dark night of death, and marking the small bright shining lights from heaven, that tell of other worlds beyond. His fate had been announced to him--that he had been judged and condemned without his presence--and that the first ray of the morning sun was to witness his death. He had solemnly appealed against the sentence, telling Lord Pembroke, who had brought the announcement thereof, that such a deed was mere murder. Neither had he left anything undone that behoved him to do, to check the base purposes of his enemies, by apprehensions of after retribution. But they scoffed at his threats, and heeded not his remonstrances, justifying the illegal course they pursued by declaring that he had been taken in the act of treason. All communication was denied him with the world without, and even the materials for writing were refused--perhaps to guard against the chance of his doom being made known to others who might interfere to stay the execution, or, perhaps, to prevent him from recording for after times the iniquity that was about to be committed. A priest eras promised him in the morning; but in the meanwhile he remained in solitude. He heard his good yeoman, Blawket, driven back from the door by the guards; and, with nought but his own thoughts to comfort and console him, he sat preparing himself for the grave as best he might. How often had he met the abhorred enemy, Death, in the battle-field? How often he staked life's bright jewel on the chances of an hour? How often had fate seemed near at hand in the burning march through the barren sands of the east, and in the deadly pestilence? But in all these shapes had the grim inevitable Lord of the grave seemed less terrible than when waiting through the livelong night, with the certainty of being murdered, unresisting, on the morning. Active exertion, gallant daring, the exercise of the high powers of the soul, set at nought the idea of annihilation; and when, with eager fire, man puts forth all his faculties in the moment of danger, their very possession tells him that he is immortal, and makes the open gate of the tomb appear but the portal of a better world. It is the cold, calm, slow approach of the dark hour of passage, when the mind has nought to work upon but that one idea, which smears the dart with all the venom that it is capable of bearing. Then rise up all those dark doubts and apprehensions with which the evil spirit besieges the small garrison of faith. Then come the sweet and lingering affections of the world--the loves, the hopes, the wishes, the prospects, the enjoyments. Then speak the memories of dear things past, never to be again--of voices heard for the last time--of looks to be seen no more. Oh! it is a terrible and an awful thing, even for the stoutest heart and best prepared spirit, to wait in silence and in solitude for the approach of the King of Terrors! The young knight strove vigorously to repel all weakness; but he could not shut out regret. Twelve hours had scarcely passed, since, in the pride of success and the vanity of hope, he had clasped her he loved in his arms, and fancied that fate itself could scarcely sever them--and now he was to lose her for ever. Would she forget him when he was gone? Would she give her hand to another? Would the gay wedding train pass by, and the minstrel's song sound loud, and the laugh, and the smile, and the jest go round, and all be joyful in the halls of Lindwell, and he lay mouldering in the cold earth hard by? But love, and trust, and confidence said, No; and, though it might be selfish, there was a balm in the belief that Lucy would mourn for him when he was gone--ay, that she had promised to love him and be his even beyond the grave. Of such things were his thoughts, as he gazed forth on that solemn night; but suddenly something, he knew not what, called his attention from himself; and he looked down from the window of his chamber upon the top of the wall below. The distance was some thirty feet, the night was dark, for the moon had gone early down, but, even in the dim obscurity, he thought he saw something like a man's head appear above the battlement. In a moment after, with a bound as if it had been thrown over by an engine, a human body sprang upon the top of the wall, ran forward to the tower in which he was confined, and struck the stonework with its arm. The next instant, without any apparent footing, he could perceive one leg stretched upwards, while the hand seemed to have obtained a grasp of the wall itself, and then the rest of the body ascended to the height of about four feet from the ground, sticking fast, like a squirrel swarming up a large beech tree. A long thin arm was then extended, far overhead, to a deep window, just beneath that at which the young knight stood, and by it the whole body was drawn up into the aperture of the wall, while a sentinel passed by with slow and measured steps. As soon as the soldier was gone, the arm was again stretched forth in the direction of the casement from which Hugh was gazing down, and the hand struck once or twice against the wall, in different places, making a slight grating sound, as if it were armed with some metal instrument. At length it remained fixed, and then the head and shoulders were protruded from the opening of the window below, the feet resting upon the stonework. Then came one of those extraordinary efforts of agility and pliability of limb which Hugh had never witnessed but in one being on the earth. By that single hold which the fingers seemed to have of the wall, the body was again swung up till the knee and the hand met, and the left arm was stretched out towards the sill of the casement above. Although the figure appeared to be humpbacked and, consequently, in that respect unlike the dwarf, Tangel, Hugh de Monthermer could not doubt that it was he, and, reaching down as far as possible, he whispered, "Take my hand, Tangel!" In an instant the long, thin, monkey-like fingers of the dwarf clasped round his, as if they had been an iron vice, and with a bound that nearly threw the stout young soldier off his balance, Tangel sprang through the window into the room. "Ha, ha!" said he, in a low tone, "who can keep out Tangel?" "No one, it seems, my good boy," answered Hugh, "but what come you here for? I fear I cannot descend as you have mounted." "Here, help me off with my burden," rejoined the boy, "and thou wilt soon see what I come for. But we must whisper like mice, for tyrants have sharper ears than hares, and keener eyes than cats. Here's a priest's gown and a hood for thee, and a chorister's cope for Tangel. Thou art just the height of the king's confessor, and I shalt pass for his pouncet-bearer. Here's a ladder, too, not much thicker than a spider's web, but strong enough to bear up the fat friar of Barnesdale." The feelings of Hugh de Monthermer, at that moment, must be conceived by the reader, for I will not attempt to describe them. Life, liberty, hope, were before him; and the transition was as great from despair to joy as it had lately been from happiness to grief. He caught the poor dwarf in his arms, saying, "If I live, boy, I will reward thee. If I die, thy heart must do it." "No thanks to me," replied Tangel, in a somewhat trembling voice, "no thanks to me, good knight. It is all Robin's doing, though I was glad enough to have finger in the pie, and he, great cart horse, could no more climb up that wall than he could leap over Lincoln Church. But, come, come, fix these hooks to the window--get the gown over thee, and then let us look out for the sentinel--he will pass again before we have all ready." "But there are sentries in the outer court, too," said Hugh de Monthermer. "How shall we manage, if we meet with any of them?" "Give them the word," said Tangel. "I waited, clinging as close to the wall as ivy to an old tower, till I heard the round pass, and the word given. It was 'The three leopards.' But there he goes now--let us away--quick!--he will soon be back again!" Letting the ladder, made of silken rope, gently down from the window, Hugh bade the dwarf go first, but Tangel replied, "No, no, I will come after, and bring the ladder with me. I have got my own staircase on the four daggers that I fixed into the crevices. Go down, holy father, go down, and if that book be a breviary take it with you." "It may serve as such," said Hugh; "but, ere I go, let me leave them a message;" and, taking a piece of half-charred wood from the fire, he wrote a few words with it upon the wall. Then approaching the window he issued forth, and descended easily and rapidly to the battlements. The dwarf seemed to have some difficulty in unfastening the hooks of the ladder, however, for he did not follow so quickly as Hugh expected; and, whether the sentinel had turned before he got fully to the end of his beat, or his pace was more rapid than before, I know not, but, ere the boy began to descend, the soldier's steps were heard coming round from the other angle of the wall. Hugh gave a quick glance up to the window in the tower, and saw that the dwarf was aware of the sentry's approach, and also that the ladder hung so close to the building as not to be perceptible without near examination. His mind was made up in an instant; and, folding his arms upon his chest, he drew the hood farther over his face, and walked on to meet the sentinel, with a slow pace, and his eyes bent upon the ground. The moment the soldier turned the angle, and saw him, he exclaimed, "Who goes there? Stand! Give the word!" "The three leopards," replied Hugh, in a calm tone. "Pass," cried the sentinel. "Your blessing, holy father! This is a dark night." "Dominus vobiscum," replied Hugh; "it is dark, indeed, my son. But no nights are dark to the eye of God;" and turning with the sentinel on his round, he added, in a loud tone, as they passed immediately under the window, "You did not see my boy upon your round, did you! He was to come hither with the books; but, marry, he is a truant knave, and is doubtless loitering with the pages in the King's ante-room." "I saw him not, holy father," said the soldier. "Is the King still up?" "Ay, is he," answered Hugh, "and will be for this hour to come." And on he walked by the side of the man till they were out of sight of the window. "The boy is marvellous long in coming," observed the pretended priest. "Shall we turn back and see, good father?" asked the soldier. "Oh, no!" replied Hugh; "this is the way he should come; for he has to pass round by the court, you know; unless, indeed, he goes up the steps at the other side." Just as he spoke, the sound of quick feet following was heard, and the sentry turned sharply once more, exclaiming, "Who goes there?" "The three leopards," said a childish voice, very unlike that of Tangel, but Tangel it proved to be, dressed in his white cope and hood, and bearing a small bundle beneath his arm. "Thou hast been playing truant," cried the knight, "and shalt do penance for this." But he did not venture to carry far his pretended reprimand, lest some mistake between him and Tangel might discover the deceit; and walking on by the side of the sentinel to the top of the flight of steps which led down into the great court close by another of the towers; he there wished him good night, giving him a blessing in a solemn tone. The guard at the bottom of the stone stairs heard the conversation between his comrade and the seeming priest above, and without even asking the word walked on beside the young knight and the dwarf, and passed them to the sentry at the gate. The large wooden door under the archway was ajar, while several of the soldiery were loitering without, telling rude tales of love to some of the fair girls of Nottingham, who had ventured upon the drawbridge, even at that late hour, to lose their time and reputation (if they had any) with the men-at-arms; for human nature and its follies were the same, or very nearly the same then as now. At the end of the drawbridge, however, was a sentinel with his partizan in his hand, taking sufficient part in the merriment of the others, notwithstanding his being on duty, to make him start forward in alarm at the sound of a step, and show his alertness by lowering his weapon and fiercely demanding the word. Hugh gave it at once; adding, in a quiet tone. "Ought you not to be more upon your guard, my son, against those who come in than those who go out?" "Pass on, and mind your own business, Sir Priest!" replied the sentry, who was not a very reverent son of the church. "These knaves in their black gowns," he murmured, "would have no one speak to a pretty lass but themselves." Hugh had continued to advance, and he certainly did not now pause to discuss the question of duty with the soldier, but hastened into the town through a great part of which it was absolutely necessary to pass, and then through the dark streets of Nottingham, descending the hill rapidly, and breathing lighter at every step. "Hark!" he said at length, speaking to the boy in a low tone. "Do you not hear people following!" "It is likely," replied the dwarf; "I am not alone in Nottingham. We may have some difficulty at the gates, however; for the warder at the tower is as surly as a bear, and though we all know him well, yet it is a robe of cendal to a kersey jerkin he refuses to get up and turn the key." In another minute the question was put to the proof the boy running forward to the town gate, and knocking at the low door under the arch. At first there was no answer whatsoever, and the dwarf, after knocking again, shouted loudly. "Ho, Matthew Pole! Matthew Pole! open the door for a reverend father, who is going forth to shrive a sick man." "To shrive a harlot, or a barrel of sack!" grumbled an angry voice from within. "I will get up for none of ye; and if I did, I could not open the gate wide enough at this hour of the night for the fat friar of Barnesdale to roll his belly out." "'Tis neither he of Barnesdale nor Tuck either," cried the boy, "but a holy priest come from the castle." "Then he had better go back whence he came," replied the warder. "Get you gone, or I will throw that over thee which will soil thy garments for many a day. Get thee gone, I say, and let me sleep, till these foul revelling lords come down from the castle, who go out every night to lie at Lamley." A noise of prancing horses, and of eager voices, was heard the moment after coming rapidly down the hill; and Hugh de Monthermer, putting his hand under his black robe, seized the hilt of the anelace, or sharp knife, which had been accidentally left with him when his sword was taken away. "I will sell my life dearly," he said, speaking to the dwarf. "Stand in the dark," whispered Tangel, "and they will not see you;--these are the Lords who sleep out of the town." Hugh de Monthermer had scarcely time to draw back when a troop of horsemen, who had in fact left the castle before him, came down to the gate having followed the highway, while he had taken a shorter cut by some of the many flights of steps of which the good town of Nottingham was full. "What ho!" cried a voice, which the young lord recognised right well. "Open the gate. Are you the warder's boy?" "No, please you, noble lord," replied Tangel. "And I cannot make old surly Matthew Pole draw a bolt or turn a key, although he knows we are in haste." "What ho! open the gate," repeated the voice in a loud tone. "How know you that I am a noble lord, my man?" "Because you sit your horse like the Earl of Mortimer," answered the boy. "You may say so, indeed," said the other, laughing. "But who is that under the arch?" "That is my uncle," replied Tangel, "the good priest of Pierrepont. He is going to shrive the man that fell over the rock, as your lordship knows, just at sun-down." "I know nothing about him," exclaimed Mortimer; "but I do know, that if this warder come not forth, his thrift shall be a short one. Go in, Jenkin, and slit me his ears with thy knife till they be the shape of a cur's,--Ha! here he comes at length. How now, warder! How dare you keep me waiting here? By the Lord, I am minded to hang thee over the gate." The burly old man grumbled forth something about his lanthorn having gone out; and then added, in a louder tone, "I did not expect you, my lord, so soon, to-night. You are wont to be an hour later." "Ay, but we have some sharp business at daybreak to-morrow," cried Mortimer; "so we must be a-bed by times." Slowly, and as if unwillingly, the warder drew down the large oak bar, saying, "You must give the word, my lord." "The three leopards," replied Mortimer. "Come, quick, open the gate, or, by my halidome, it shall be worse for you." With provoking slowness, however, the old man undid bolt after bolt, and then threw wide the heavy wooden valves; and, without further question, the train of Mortimer rode out, his very robes brushing against Hugh de Monthermer as he passed. The young knight and the boy followed slowly; and before the gates could be closed again, coming rapidly from the neighbouring streets, several other men on foot issued forth in silence, without giving any word to the warder. "Ah, you thieves!" said good Matthew Pole to the last of them, "if I chose to shut you in, there would be fine hanging to-morrow." "No, no," replied the man, "there would be one hung to-night, good Matthew, and he would serve for all. You don't think we let the hanging begin without having the first hand in it?" A straggling house or two on the outside of the gate were passed in a few minutes; a lane amongst trees lay to the right and left, and a little stile presented itself in the hedge, formed of two broad stones laid perpendicularly, and two horizontal ones for steps. Over these the boy sprang at a leap before Hugh de Monthermer, who followed quickly, though somewhat more deliberately. The moment he was past, a hand seized his arm, and a voice cried, "Free, free, may good lord! By my fay, we shall have all the honest part of the Court under the green boughs of Sherwood ere long. Taking the king's venison will become the only lawful resource of honest men; for if they don't strike at his deer, he will strike at their heads." "Ah! Robin, is that you?" said Hugh. "This is all thy doing, I know; and I owe thee life." "Faith, not mine," replied Robin Hood, "'tis the boy's--'tis the boy's! My best contrivance was to get into the castle court to-morrow, by one device or another; secure the gate, send an arrow into Mortimer's heart, and another into the headsman's eye; make a general fight of it, while you were set free, and then run away as best we could. 'Twas a bad scheme; but yet at that early hour we could have carried it through, while one half the world was asleep, and the other unarmed. But Tangel declared that he could run up the wall like a cat, so we let him try, taking care to have men and ladders ready to bring him off safe if he were caught. So 'tis his doing, my lord; for you contrived to get the elf's love while he was with you." "And he has mine for ever," answered Hugh. "But alas! my love can be of little benefit to any one now." "Nay, nay, never think so," replied the Outlaw; "as much benefit as ever, my good lord. Cast off your courtly garments, take to the forest-green, with your own strong right hand defend yourself and your friends, set courts and kings at nought and defiance, and you will never want the means of doing a kind act to those who serve you. I ought not, perhaps, to boast, but Robin Hood, the king of Sherwood, has not less power within his own domain than the Third Harry on the throne of England--but, by my faith, I hoped the blessed Virgin has holpen Scathelock and the Miller with their band to get out of the gates, for they are long a coming, and there will be fine hunting in every hole of Nottingham to-morrow morning--I came over the wall with Hardy and Pell." "They are safe enough--they are safe enough, reckless Robin," cried Tangel, "I heard the Miller's long tongue, bandying words with surly old Matthew Pole, as if ever one bell stopped another. But hark! there are their steps, and we had better get on, for I have a call to sleep just now." "Well, thou shalt sleep as long as thou wilt to-morrow," said Robin, "for thy good service to-night; but by your leave, my lord, you and I must ride far, for it were as well to leave no trace of you in the neighbourhood of Nottingham. Here are strong horses nigh at hand, and if you follow my counsel, you will be five-and-twenty miles from the place where they expect to find you by daybreak. It will be better for us all to disperse, and to quit this part of the county; my men have their orders, and I am ready." The counsel was one that Hugh de Monthermer was very willing to follow, and ere many minutes more had passed, he and Robin Hood were riding through the dark shady roads of Sherwood, as fast as the obscurity of the night would permit. CHAPTER XXXI. It was in the small wooden house in the lower part of the town, to which we have seen Sir William Geary lead his worthy companion Guy de Margan, that unhappy Kate Greenly sat in the recess of a window which looked over the meadows, and through which a faint gleam of the autumnal sun was streaming in upon her. She was as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so, for her face was paler and more refined, and though she had lost the glow of rustic health, her countenance had gained a peculiar depth of expression which was fine, though sad to see. Her eyes were fixed intently upon those autumnal fields, with a straining gaze, and a knitted brow; but it was not of them she thought--no, nor of any of the many things which they might recal to her mind. It was not of the happy days of innocence; it was not of the companions of her childhood; it was not of the sports of her youth; it was not of her father's house; it was not of the honest lover whose pure affection she had despised, whose generous heart she had well-nigh broken. No, no, it was of none of these things! It was of him who had wronged and betrayed her, it was of him who had trampled and despised, it was of him whom she now hated with a fierce and angry hate--ay, hated and feared, and yet loved--strange as it may seem to say so,--of him whom she had resolved to punish and destroy, and for whom she yet felt a yearning tenderness which made every act she did against him seem like plunging a knife into her own heart. Oh! had Richard de Ashby then, even then, suffered his hard and cruel spirit to be softened towards the girl whom he had wronged, if he had soothed and tranquillized, and calmed her, if he had used but one tender word, one of all the arts which he had employed to seduce her, Kate Greenly would have poured forth her blood to serve him, and would have died ere she had followed out the stern course which she purposed to pursue. But he was all selfishness, and that selfishness was his destruction. Hark, it is his step upon the stairs! But she no longer flies to meet him with the look of love and total devotion which marked her greeting in former days. The glance of fear and doubt crosses her countenance; she dare not let him see that she has been thoughtful; she snatches up the distaff and the wheel; she bends her head over the thread, and with a sickening heart she hears the coming of the foot, the tread of which was once music to her ear. He entered the room, with a red spot upon his brow, with his teeth hard set, with his lip drawn down. There was excited and angry passion in every line of his face, there was a fierceness in his very step which made her grieve she had not avoided him. It was too late, however; for though he scarcely seemed to see her, she could not quit the room without passing by him. He advanced as if coming direct towards her, but ere he had much passed the middle of the chamber, he stopped and stamped his foot, exclaiming--"Curses upon it!" Then turning to the Unhappy girl, he cried--"Get thee to thy chamber! What dost thou idling here, minion? Prepare in a few days to go back to thy father--or, if thou likest it better," he added, with a contemptuous smile,--"to thy franklin lover; he may have thee cheaper now, and find thee a rare leman." Kate stood and gazed at him for a moment; but for once passion did not master her, and she answered, well knowing that whatever seemed her wish would be rejected--"I am ready to go back to my father. I have made up my mind to it,--Thou treatest me ill, Richard de Ashby, I will live with thee no longer. I will go at once." "No, by the Lord, thou shalt not!" he cried, resolved not to lose the object of his tyranny. "Get thee to thy chamber, I say; I will send thee back when I think fit--away! I expect others here!" And Kate Greenly, without reply, moved towards the door. As she passed, he felt a strong desire to strike her, for the angry passion that was in his heart at that moment, called loudly for some object on which to vent itself. She spoke not, however; she did not even look at him; so there was no pretext; and biting his lip and knitting his brow, he remained gazing at her as she moved along, with a vague impression of her beauty and grace sinking into his dark mind, and mingling one foul passion with another. When she was gone and the door was closed, Richard de Ashby clasped his hands together, and walked up and down the room, murmuring, "That idiot Mortimer!--When he had him in his hand--to leave him in his chamber which any child could scale!--Out upon the fool! With dungeons as deep as a well close by!--But he cares nought, so that he get the land. How is this step to be overleaped? Ha! here they come!" In a moment or two after, the door of the room again opened, and four men came in; two dressed as noblemen of the Court, and two as inferior persons. Those, however, whose apparel taught one to expect that high and courteous demeanour for which the Norman nobleman was remarkable, when not moved by the coarse passions to which the habits of the time gave full sway, were far from possessing anything like easy grace, or manly dignity. There was a saucy swaggering air, indeed, an affected indifference, mingled with a quick and anxious turn of the eye, a restless furtive glance, which bespoke the low bred and licentious man of crime and debauchery, uncertain of his position, doubtful of his safety, and though bold and fearless in moments of personal danger, yet ever watchful against the individual enmity or public vengeance which the acts of his life had well deserved. "Well, Dickon," cried the first who entered, "we have thought of the matter well.--But what makes thee look so dull? Has the Prior of St. Peter's made love to thy paramour? Or the king won thy money at cross and pile, or----" "Pshaw! no nonsense, Ellerby," exclaimed Richard de Ashby; "I am in a mood that will bear no jesting. What is the matter with me? By my faith, not a little matter. Here, my bitterest enemy--you know Hugh of Monthermer.--He was in Mortimer's hands, doomed to death, his head was to be struck off this morning at daybreak. Mortimer and Pembroke were to divide his lands; and I and Guy de Margan to have revenge for our share----" "I would have had a slice of the lands too," interrupted Ellerby, "or a purse or two of the gold, had I been in your place.--Well?" "Well! Ill I say," replied Richard de Ashby. "What would you? the fool Mortimer, instead of plunging him into a dungeon where no escape was possible, leaves him in his chamber, thinking he cannot get out, because the window is some twenty or thirty feet from the top of the wall, with a sentry pacing underneath. Of course the man who knows his life is gone if he stays, may well risk it to fly, and when the door is opened this morning, the prisoner is gone; while on the wall of the room, written with charcoal, one reads--'My Lord the Prince,--Taking advantage of the permission you gave, in case the base falsehood of my enemies should prevail against me, and having been condemned to death unheard, ere you could return to defend me, I have escaped from this chamber, but am ever ready to prove my innocence in a lawful manner, either by trial in court, or by wager of battle against any of my accusers. Let any one efface this ere the Prince sees it, if he dare.'--With this brag he ended; and now Guy de Margan raves--but Mortimer and Pembroke laugh, believing that they shall still share the lands! I threw some salt into their mead, however, telling them that as they had left him with his head on, he had a tongue in it that would soon clear him at the Prince's return, and as he had saved his life would save his lands, also.--Is it not enough to drive one mad, to see such fools mar such well-laid schemes?" "No, no," replied the man who had followed Ellerby, "nothing should drive one a whit madder than the drone of a bagpipe drives a turnspit dog.--Give a howl and have done with it, Sir Richard." "I will tell you what, Dighton," said Richard de Ashby; "you men wear away all your feelings as the edge of a knife on a grindstone----" "That sharpens," interrupted Dighton. "Ay, if held the right way," replied Richard, "but you have never known hate such as I feel." "Perhaps not," answered Dighton, with a look of indifference, "for I always put a friend out of the way before I hate him heartily.--It is better never to let things get to a head. If on the first quarrel which you have with a man, you send him travelling upon the long road which has neither turning nor returning, you are sure never to have a difference with him again, and I have found that the best plan." "But suppose you cannot?" asked Richard de Ashby. "You may be weaker less skilful, may not have opportunity--suppose you cannot, I say?" "Why then employ a friend who can!" replied the bravo. "There are numbers of excellent good gentlemen who are always ready, upon certain considerations, to take up any man's quarrel; and it is but from the folly of others who choose to deal with such things themselves, that they have not full employment. Here is Ellerby tolerably good, both at lance and broadsword; and I," he continued, looking down with a self-sufficient air at the swelling muscles of his leg and thigh--"and I do not often fail to remove an unpleasant companion from the way of a friend. Then if secrecy be wanting, we are as wise as we are strong--are we not, Ellerby?" "To be sure," answered Ellerby, in the same swaggering manner, "we are perfect in everything, and fit for everything--as great statesmen as De Montfort, as great soldiers as Prince Edward, as great generals as Gloucester, as great friends as Damon and Pythias." "And as great rogues," added Richard de Ashby, who was not to be taken in by swagger--"and as great rogues, Ellerby, as--But no, I will not insult you by a comparison. You are incomparable in that respect at least, or only to be compared to each other." "Very complimentary, indeed," said Ellerby, "especially when we come here to do you a favour." "Not without your reward present and future," replied Richard de Ashby; "You come not to serve me without serving yourselves too." "Well, well," cried Dighton, who carried the daring of his villany to a somewhat impudent excess--"we must not fall out, lest certain other people should come by their own. There's an old proverb against it"--for the proverb was old even in his day. "But to overlook your matter of spleen, dearly beloved Richard, and forgetting this Monthermer affair, let us take the affair up where Ellerby was beginning. We have thought well of the business you have in hand, and judge it very feasible indeed. We are willing to undertake it. If we can get the old man once to come out of sight of his people alone, we will ensure that he shall never walk back into Lindwell gates on his own feet. However, there is a thing or two to be said upon other affairs;--but speak you, Ellerby--speak! You are an orator. I, a mere man of action." "Well, what is the matter?" asked Richard de Ashby; "If you can do the deed, the sooner it is done the better." "True," said Ellerby, "but there is something more, my beloved friend. The doing the deed may be easier than getting the reward. When this old man is gone, there still stands between you and the fair lands of Ashby a stout young bull-headed lord, called Alured, who having ample fortune and fewer vices, is likely to outlive you by half a century, and bequeath the world a thriving race of younkers to succeed to his honours and his lands." "Leave him to me," replied Richard; "his bull-head, as you call it, will soon be run against some wall that will break it, as I shall arrange the matter." "But even if such be the case," rejoined Ellerby, "how can we be sure that Richard Earl of Ashby will not turn up his nose at us, his poor friends--as is much the mode with men in high station--refuse us all reward but that small sum in gold which he now gives, and dare us to do our worst, as we cannot condemn him without condemning ourselves likewise? We must have it under your hand, good Richard, that you have prompted us to this deed, and promise us the two thousand pounds of silver as our reward." Richard de Ashby looked at him with a sneering smiles though his heart was full of wrath, and he answered-- "You must think me some boy, raw from the colleges, and ready to play against you with piped dice. No, no, Dighton! Ellerby, you are mistaken! Being all of us of that kind and character of man who does not trust his neighbour, we must have mutual sureties, that is clear. Now hear me:--I will make over to you by bond, this day, my castle in Hereford, with all the land thereunto appertaining.--You know it well.--In the bond there shall be a clause of redemption; so that if I pay you two thousand pounds of silver before this day two years, the castle shall be mine again. Such is what I propose. But, in the meantime, you shall give me a covenant, signed with your hand, to do the deed that we have agreed upon. Then shall we all be in the power of each other." "And pray what are we to have?" asked one of the two inferior men, who had followed the others into the room, and who seemed to have been almost forgotten by the rest. "What you were promised," replied Richard de Ashby; "each of you fifty French crowns of gold this night, when the deed is done!" "Ay," cried the spokesman; "but we must have a part of that two thousand pounds of silver." But Dighton took him by the breast, in a joking manner, saying, "Hold thy tongue, parson! I will settle with thee about that. If thou art not hanged before the money is paid, we will share as officer and soldier. You and Dicky Keen shall have a fourth part between you, and we two the rest." This promise appeared to satisfy perfectly his worthy coadjutor, who seemed to rely upon the old proverb, that "there is honour amongst thieves," for the performance of the engagement. Such, however, was not the base with Richard de Ashby and the two superior cutthroats, who proceeded to draw up the two documents agreed upon for their mutual security. The bond of Richard de Ashby was soon prepared, and the only difficulty that presented itself regarded the written promise he had exacted from his two friends; for Dighton boldly avowed that he could not write any word but his own name, and Ellerby was very diffident of his own capacity, though either would have done mortal combat with any man who denied that they were gentlemen by birth and education. Richard de Ashby, for his part, positively declined to indite the document himself, even upon the promise of their signature; and at length Ellerby, after much prompting and assistance, perpetrated the act with various curious processes of spelling and arrangement. "And now," said Richard de Ashby, when this was accomplished, "all that remains is to lure the old man from the castle, which we had better set about at once; for if Alured were to return, our plan were marred." "But upon what pretence," asked Dighton, "will you get him to come forth?" "I have one ready," answered Richard de Ashby; "one that will serve my purpose in other respects, too. But who we shall get, to bear the letter, is the question." "Why not the woman you have with you?" said Ellerby. "We could dress her up as a footboy." "No," replied Richard de Ashby, thoughtfully, "no!--I did buy her a page's dress to employ her in any little things that might require skill and concealment, for she is apt and shrewd enough; but in this matter I dare not trust her. When the old man and the note were found she would tell all.--She needs some further training yet, and she shall have it; but at present we must deal by other hands.--You must get some rude peasant boy as you go along, and only one of you must show himself even to him. But I will write the note and come along with you myself. There is no time to spare." Richard de Ashby then--who was, as we have hinted, a skilful scribe--sat down and composed the fatal letter to his kinsman which was to draw him from his home and give him to the hands of the murderers: and, knowing well the Earl's character, he took care so to frame the epistle as to insure its full effect. The handwriting, too, he disguised as much as might be; though never having seen that of the person whose name he assumed, he endeavoured to make it as much like the hand of a clerk or copyist as possible. The note was to the following effect:-- "To the most noble and valiant Lord the Earl of Ashby, greeting. "Dear and well-beloved Lord, "A false, cruel, and horrible accusation having been brought against me, and I having been doomed to death unheard by the ears of justice and clemency, have been compelled to seek my own safety by flight from the castle of Nottingham, leaving my fair fame and character undefended. Now I do adjure you, as one who has ever been held the mirror of chivalry, and the honour of arms and nobility, to meet me this day at the hour of three, by what is called the Bull's Hawthorn; which you, my lord, know well, and which is but one poor mile from your manor of Lindwell. I will there give to you, my lord, the most undoubted proofs of my perfect innocence, beseeching you to become my advocate before the King and the Prince, and to defend me as none but one so noble will venture to do. Lest you should think that I seek to entangle you more on my behalf, I hereby give you back all promises made to me regarding the Lady Lucy, your daughter, and declare them null and void, unless at some future time you shall think fit to confirm them. It is needful, as I need not say, that you should come totally alone, for even the chattering of a page might do me to death. "HUGH DE MONTHERMER." Richard de Ashby mentioned to none of his companions what the letter contained; but folding it, he tied it with a piece of yellow silk and sealed it, stamping it with the haft of Ellerby's dagger. "Now," he cried--"now all is ready; let us be gone.--Are your horses below?" "They are at the back of the house," said Dighton. "Quick, then, to the saddle!" cried their companion. "I will get mine, and join you in a minute, to ride with you some way along the road; for I must have speedy tidings when the deed is done." "By my faith," said Ellerby, walking towards the door, "you are growing a man of action, Richard!--But keep us not waiting." "Not longer than to come round," replied Richard de Ashby, descending the stairs with them; and in a minute after, the heavy door of the house banged to behind the party of assassins. Scarcely were they gone, when poor Kate Greenly ran into the room, and snatched up a large brown wimple which lay in the window, casting it over her head as if to go forth. Her eyes were wild and eager, her face pale, her lips bloodless, and her whole frame trembling. She seemed confused, too, as well as agitated, and muttered to herself, "Oh, horrible! Where can I find help?--What can I do?--I will seek these men; but it will be too late if I go afoot. I will take the page's dress again, and hire a horse." She paused, and thought for an instant, adding, "But the mere is far from Lindwell,--'tis the other way. It will be too late! it will be too late!" Her eyes fixed vacantly on the window, and a moment after she uttered a slight scream, for she saw a head gazing at her through the small panes. Shaken and horrified, the least thing alarmed her, so that she caught at the back of a tall chair for support, keeping her eyes fixed, with a look of terror, upon the face before her, and asking herself whether it was real, or some frightful vision of her own imagination. "It is the boy!" she cried, at length, "it is the dwarf boy I saw with them in the wood!" and, running forward with an unsteady step, she undid the great bolt of the casement. Tangel instantly forced himself through, and sprang in, exclaiming, "Ha! ha! I watched them all out, and then climbed to tell you----" But, before he could end his sentence, Kate Greenly sank fainting upon the floor beside him. CHAPTER XXXII. There was a low deserted house, standing far back from the road, in a piece of common ground skirting the forest between Lindwell and Nottingham. There were some trees before it, and some bushes, which screened all but the thatched roof from observation as the traveller passed along. There was a dull pond, too, covered with green weed, between it and the trees, which, exhaling unwholesome dews, covered the front of the miserable-looking place with yellow lichens, and filled the air with myriads of droning gnats: and there it stood, with the holes, where door and window had been, gaping vacantly, like the places of eyes and nose in a dead man's skull. All the woodwork had been carried away, and part even of the thatch, so that a more desolate and miserable place could not be met with, perhaps, in all the world, though, at that time, there was many a deserted house in England; and many a hearth, which had once blazed brightly amidst a circle of happy faces, was then dark and cold. It was a fit haunt for a murderer; and before the door appeared Richard de Ashby, a few moments after he had parted from his fell companions, sending them onward to perform the bloody task he had allotted them. His dark countenance was anxious and thoughtful. There was a look of uncertainty and hesitation about his face; ay, and his heart was quivering with that agony of doubt and fear which is almost sure to occupy some space between the scheme and the execution of crime. The ill deed in which he was now engaged was one that he was not used to. It was no longer some strong bad passion hurrying him on, step by step, from vice to vice, and sin to sin; but it was a headlong leap over one of those great barriers, raised up by conscience, and supported by law, divine and human, in order to stop the criminal on his course to death, destruction, and eternal punishment. He sprang from his horse at the door--he entered the cottage--he stood for a moment in the midst--he held his hands tightly clasped together, and then he strode towards the door again, murmuring, "I will call them back--I can overtake them yet." But then he thought of the bond that he had given--of the objects that he had in view--of rank, and wealth, and station--of Lucy de Ashby, and her beauty--of triumph over the hated Monthermer. Never, never, did Satan, with all his wiles and artifices, more splendidly bring up before the eye of imagination all the inducements that could tempt a selfish, licentious, heartless man, to the commission of a great crime, than the fiend did then for the destruction of Richard de Ashby. He paused ere he re-crossed the threshold--he paused and hesitated. "It is too late," he thought, "they will but scoff at me. It is too late; the die is cast, and I must abide by what it turns up. This is but sorry firmness after all! Did I not resolve on calm deliberation, and shall I regret now?" He paced up and down the chamber for a while, and then again murmured, "I wish I had brought Kate with me. I might have toyed or teased away this dreary hour with her--But no, I could not trust her in such deeds as this.--They must be at the hawthorn by this time. I hope they will take care to conceal themselves well, or the old man will get frightened; he is of a suspicious nature. There's plenty of cover to hide them.--I will go tie the horse behind the house that no one may see him." His true motive was to occupy the time, for thought was very heavy upon him, and he contrived to spend some ten minutes in the task, speaking to the charger, and patting him; not that he was a kindly master, even to a beast, but for the time the animal was a companion to him, and that was the relief which he most desired. He then turned into the cottage again, and once more stood with his arms folded over his chest in the midst. "What if they fail?" he asked himself. "What if he suspect something, and come with help at hand? They might be taken, and my bond found upon them--They might confess, and, to save themselves, destroy me--'Twere a deed well worthy of Ellerby.--No, no, 'tis not likely--he will never suspect anything--Hark! there is a horse! I will look out and see;" and, creeping round the pond to the side of the bushes, he peered through upon the road. But he was mistaken, there was no horse there. The sound was in his own imagination, and he returned to his place of shelter, feeling the autumnal air chilly, though the day was in no degree cold. It was that the blood in his own veins had, in every drop, the feverish thrill of anxiety and dreadful expectation. No words can tell the state of that miserable man's mind during the space of two hours, which elapsed while he remained in that cottage. Remorse and fear had possession of him altogether--ay, fear; for although we have acknowledged that perhaps the only good quality he possessed was courage, yet as resolution is a very different thing from bravery, so were the terrors that possessed his mind at that moment of a very distinct character from those which seize the trembling coward on the battlefield. There was the dread of detection, shame, exposure, the hissing scorn of the whole world, everlasting infamy as well as punishment. Death was the least part indeed of what he feared, and could he have been sure that means would be afforded him to terminate his own existence in case of failure, the chance of such a result would have lost half its terror. But there was remorse besides--remorse which he had stifled till it was too late. He saw his kinsman's white hair; he saw his countenance. He endeavoured in vain to call it up before his eyes, with some of those frowns or haughty looks upon it, which his own vices and follies had very often produced. There was nothing there now but the smile of kindness, but the look of generous satisfaction with which from time to time the old earl had bestowed upon him some favour, or afforded him some assistance. Memory would not perform the task he wished to put upon it. She gave him up to the anguish of conscience, without even awakening the bad passions of the past to palliate the deeds of the present. He leaned on the dismantled window-frame with his heart scorched and seared, without a tear to moisten his burning lid, without one place on which the mind could rest in peace. The hell of the wicked always begins upon earth, and the foul fiend had already the spirit in his grasp, and revelled in the luxury of torture. At length there came a distant sound, and starting up, he ran forth to look out. His ears no longer deceived him, the noise increased each moment, it was horses' feet coming rapidly along the road. He gazed earnestly towards Lindwell; but instead of those whom he expected to see, he beheld a large party of cavalry riding by at full speed, and as they passed on before him, galloping away towards Nottingham, the towering form of Prince Edward rising by the full head above any of his train, caught the eye of the watcher, and explained their appearance there. The rapid tramp died away, and all was silent again. Some twenty minutes more elapsed, and then there was a duller sound; but still it was like the footfalls of horses coming quick. Once more he gazed forth, and now he beheld, much nearer than he expected, four mounted men approaching the cottage, but avoiding the hard road, and riding over the turf of the common. One of them seemed to be supporting another by the arm, who bent somewhat feebly towards his horse's head, and appeared ready to fall. In a minute they came round, and Ellerby--springing to the ground, while the man they had called Parson, held the rein of Dighton's horse--aided the latter to dismount, and led him into the cottage. "It is done," said Ellerby, in a low voice, "it is done, but Dighton is badly hurt. The old man passed his sword through him, when first he struck him, and would have killed him outright, if I had not stabbed the savage old boar behind. We cast him into the little sandpit there--but poor Dighton is bad, and can scarce sit his horse." "Yes, yes, I can," said Dighton, in a faint tone; "if I had a little wine I could get on." "I have some here in a bottle," cried one of the others. Dighton drank, and it seemed to revive him. "I have had worse than this before now," he said, "I can go on now; and we had better make haste, for there were certainly people coming." "Away, then," said Richard de Ashby, "away then to Lenton, and then run down to Bridgeford. If you could get to Thorp to-night, you would be safe. I will to the castle, and be ready to console my fair cousin when the news reaches her." "She will have heard it before that," murmured Dighton, "for I tell you there were certainly people coming," and taking another deep draught of the wine, he contrived to walk, almost unassisted, to the horse's side, and mount. There was a black look, however, under his eyes, a bloodless paleness about his face, and a livid hue in his lips, which told that his wound, though "not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door," to use the words of Mercutio, "was enough." "Fail not to give me tidings of you," said Richard de Ashby, speaking to Ellerby; and going round to the back of the cottage, he mounted his horse--which by his pawing, seemed to show that the long delay had not been less tedious to himself than to his master--and galloped away to Lindwell, anxious to reach the castle before the news. Even at the rapid pace at which he went, he could not escape thought. Black care was behind him; and eagerly he turned in his mind all the consequences of the deed that had been done. His own conduct was the first consideration, and a strange consideration it was. What was he to say? what was he to do? At every step he must act a part: ay, and--like the poor player, who sometimes, distressed in circumstances, pained in body, or grieved in mind, has to go laughing through the merry comedy--the character which Richard de Ashby had now to play, was the direct reverse of all the feelings of his heart. Crime, however, produces an excitement of a certain kind independent of the very gratification obtained. We have, in our own day, seen murderers laugh and sing and make merry, with hands scarcely washed from the blood of their victim; and, strange to say, when Richard de Ashby resolved to assume a face of cheerful gaiety on arriving at Lindwell Castle, the only danger was that he would over-act the part. In truth, remorse, like a tiger, lay waiting to spring upon him the moment action ceased; but for the time his mind was much relieved, and more buoyant than it had been while watching in the cottage. Doubt, hesitation, apprehensions regarding the failure of the deed, were all gone: it was done irretrievably. It was accomplished, not only without any mischance, but with a circumstance which promised to remove one of his accomplices, and that was no slight satisfaction. So smooth does one crime make the way for another, that he who had lately pondered with no small hesitation the very deed in which he was engaged, now felt glancing through his mind with satisfaction the thought of disposing of Ellerby also by some similar means, and leaving none but the two inferior ruffians, whom he might easily attach to himself, and render serviceable in the future. Crimes are gregarious beings, and are seldom, if ever, met with single. His horse was fleet; the distance was not great; and in the space of about a quarter of an hour, he saw the towers of Lindwell rising over the woody slopes around. He then checked his speed, in some degree, going on at a quick, but still an easy canter, knowing that there was always some one on the watchtower, who might remark the furious gallop at which he came, unless he slackened his pace. He had soon reached the open space--he had soon mounted the hill. The drawbridge was down, the doors of the barbican were open, one of the warders sitting quietly on a bench in the sun, two or three stout yeomen and armed men were amusing themselves between the two gates, and all turned to salute their master's kinsman as he passed, without giving the slightest indication that anything was known amiss within the walls of Lindwell. Dismounting at the inner gate, and giving his horse to one of the grooms, Richard de Ashby was upon the point of asking for his cousin Lucy, but recollecting his part again, he inquired if the Earl were there, adding, "I thought to have met him between this and Nottingham." "No, Sir Richard," replied the porter, moving slowly back the great gate of the hall; "my lord had ordered his horses and train to be ready for Nottingham by noon, but news came from the city, which stopped him; and then the son of old Ugtred, the swine-driver, brought a letter, on which my lord went out on foot and alone. He would not even have his page, but carried his sword himself." "Methinks that was rash," said Richard de Ashby; "these are not times to trust to. Can I speak with the lady Lucy? Know you where she is?" "In her own chamber, I fancy, poor lady," replied the porter. "Go, Ned, and tell her, that Sir Richard is in the hall, and would fain see her." Richard de Ashby was a hypocrite--he was a hypocrite in everything. Though a man of strong passions and of fierce disposition, it was not when he seemed most furious or most angry that he really was so, any more than when, as on the present occasion, he seemed most gay and light-hearted, that he was in reality cheerful. While the page went to seek for his fair cousin, he walked up and down the hall, humming a light tune, and seemingly occupied with nothing but those dancing phantasms of imagination which serve a mind at ease to while away a few idle minutes. The only thing which, during the whole time he was kept waiting, could have betrayed even to eyes far more keen and scrutinizing than those which now rested upon him, that there were more deep and anxious thoughts within, was a sudden start that he gave on hearing some noise and several persons speaking loudly in the court; but the sounds quickly passed away, and the next minute Lucy herself entered the hall. She was pale, and her countenance seemed thoughtful; but her demeanour was calm; and though she had never loved the man that stood before her, she addressed him in a kind tone, saying, "I give you good day, Richard; we have not seen you for a long time." "No, fair cousin," he replied, "and I rode here in haste from Nottingham, thinking I might be the bearer of good tidings to you; but I fancy from your look you have heard them already." "What may they be?" said Lucy, the colour slightly tinging her cheek. "Why," answered Richard de Ashby, "they are that a certain noble lord, a dearer friend of yours than mine, fair cousin, who lay in high peril in Nottingham Castle, has made his escape last night." "So I have heard," replied Lucy, her eyes seeking the ground; "people tell me they had condemned him to death without hearing him." "Not exactly so," said Richard de Ashby; "they heard him once, but then----" "Oh, lady! oh, lady!" cried one of the servants, running into the hall, with a face as pale as ashes, and, a wild frightened look, "here's a yeoman from Eastwood who says he has seen my lord lying murdered in the pit under the Bull's hawthorn!" Lucy gazed at the man for a moment or two, with her large dark eyes wide open, and a vacant look upon her countenance, as if her mind refused to comprehend the sudden and horrible news she heard; but the next moment she turned as pale as ashes, and fell like a corpse upon the pavement. "Fool! you have killed her!" cried Richard de Ashby, really angry; "you should have told her more gently.--Call her women hither." The man remarked not, in his own surprise and horror, that Richard de Ashby was less moved by the tidings he had given, than by the effect they produced upon Lucy. All was now agitation and confusion, however; and in the midst of it, the poor girl was removed to her own chamber. The peasant, who had brought the news, was summoned to the presence of the murdered man's kinsman; and informed him that, in passing along, at the top of the bank, he had been startled by the sight of fresh blood, and at first thought some deer had been killed there, but, looking over the hedge, he had seen a human body lying under the bank, and, on getting down into the pit, had recognised the person of the Earl. He was quite dead, the man, said, with a cut upon the head, and a dagger still remaining in a wound on his right side. Instantly coming away for help to bear him home, he had found by the way, not far from the pit, the murdered man's sword, which he picked up and brought with him. On examination, the blade was found to be bloody, so that the Earl had evidently used it with some effect, but the peasant had found no other traces of a conflict, and had come on with all speed for aid. One of the flat boards, which in that day, placed upon trestles, served as dining-tables in the castle hall, was now carried out by a large party of the Earl's servants and retainers, in order to bring in the corpse. Richard de Ashby put himself at their head, and by his direction they all went well armed, lest, as he said, there should be some force of enemies near. It was now his part to assume grief and consternation; and as they advanced towards the well-known spot, he felt, it must be acknowledged, his heart sink, when he thought of the first look of the dead man's face. But he was resolute, and went on, preparing his mind to assume the appearance of passionate sorrow and horror, calculating every gesture and every word. The old hawthorn tree, which was a well-known rendezvous for various sylvan sports, was soon in sight, and a few steps more brought them to the bloody spot, near the edge of the pit, where both the green grass and the yellow sand were deeply stained with gore in several places. Many an exclamation of grief and rage burst from the attendants, and Richard de Ashby, with a shudder, cried, "Oh, this is terrible!" "Hallo! but where's the body?" cried a man, who had advanced to the side of the pit. "Don't you see it?" said the peasant who had brought the news, stepping forward to point it out. "By the Lord, it is gone!" Richard de Ashby now became agitated indeed. "Gone!" he exclaimed, looking down, "Gone!--The murderers have come back to carry it off!" and, running round to a spot where a little path descended, after the manner of a rude flight of steps, into the sandpit, he made his way down, followed by the rest, and searched all around. The spot where the body had lain was plainly to be seen, marked, both by some blood which must have flowed after the fall from above, and also by a fragment of the Earl's silken pourpoint, which had been caught and torn off by a black thornbush, as he fell. "They cannot be far off," said the peasant, "for the poor gentleman was a heavy man to carry, and there seemed nobody near when I was here." "Pshaw!" cried Richard de Ashby, "there might have been a hundred amongst the bushes and trees without your seeing them. However," he continued, eagerly, "let us beat the ground all round. Some one, run back to the castle for horses; if we pursue quickly, we may very likely find the murderers with the corpse in their hands." "It may be, Sir Richard," said one of the attendants, "that some of the neighbouring yeomen, or franklins, coming and going from Eastwood to Nottingham market, which falls today, may have chanced upon the body, and carried it to some house or cottage near." "Well, we must discover it at all events," said Richard de Ashby, who feared that one-half of his purpose might be frustrated if the letter, which he had written under the name of Hugh de Monthermer, was not actually found upon the corpse. "Spread round! spread round! Let us follow up every path by which the body could be borne, shouting from time to time to each other, that we may not be altogether separated. But here come more men down from the castle; we shall have plenty now. Let six or eight stay here till the horses arrive, then mount, and pursue each horse-road and open track for some two or three miles; they cannot have gone much farther." All efforts, however, were vain. Not a trace could be found of the body, or of those who had taken it; and, although Richard de Ashby at first had entertained no doubt that they would find it in the hands of some of the neighbouring peasantry, and only feared that the important letter might be by any chance lost or destroyed, he soon became anxious, in no ordinary degree, to know what had become of the body itself. Had it been found, he asked himself, by those bold tenants of Sherwood, whose shrewdness, determination, and activity he well knew? and if so, might not the dagger, which Ellerby had left in the wound, and with the haft of which he himself had sealed the letter, prove, at some after period, a clue to the real murderers? His heart was ill at ease. Apprehension took possession of him again; and, towards nightfall, he returned to the castle, accompanied by a number of the men who by that time had rejoined him, with a spirit depressed and gloomy, and a heart ill at ease indeed. CHAPTER XXXIII. The grey twilight hung over the world when Richard de Ashby re-entered the outer court of the castle at Lindwell; but still he could perceive horses saddled and dusty, attendants running hither and thither, armed men standing in knots, as if resting themselves for a moment after a journey, and every indication of the arrival of some party having taken place during his absence. His first thought was, that the corpse must have been found and brought back by some of the small bodies of Prince Edward's troops, which were moving about in all directions; but he soon saw that such an event was impossible, as he himself, or some of those about him, must have met any party which had passed near the scene of the murder. The next instant, in going by one of the little groups of soldiers we have mentioned, he recognised the face of some of the retainers of the house of Ashby, and exclaimed, "What! has the Lord Alured returned?" "Not half an hour ago, Sir Richard," replied a soldier; and Richard de Ashby hurried like lightning into the hall. There was a coldness at his heart, indeed, as he thought of meeting the man whose father's blood was upon his hand, and against whose own life he was devising schemes as dark as those which had just been executed. But he was most anxious nevertheless to meet his cousin, ere he had conversed long with Lucy, and to give those impressions regarding the causes of the bloody deed which best suited his purposes. Alured de Ashby was not in the great hall, but Richard, without a moment's delay, mounted the great staircase to the upper chamber, where Hugh de Monthermer's last happy hour had been passed with Lucy. There were voices speaking within, but the kinsman paused not a moment; and opening the door, he found the sister weeping in the arms of her brother. They had been sometime together; the first burst of sorrow, in speaking of their father's death, had passed away; an accidental word had caused them to converse of other things connected therewith, indeed, but not absolutely relating to that subject, and the first words that met Richard de Ashby's ear were spoken by the Lord Alured. "Never, Lucy," he was saying--"never! Fear not, dear girl! I will never force your inclination. I will try to make you happy in your own way. As my poor father promised, so I promise too." Their dark kinsman saw at once that the proud and stubborn heart of his hasty cousin was softened by the touch of grief, and that he had made a promise which no other circumstances would have drawn from him, but which--however much he might regret it at an after period--would never be retracted. Lucy started on her cousin's entrance; and, why she knew not, but a shudder passed over her as she beheld him. He advanced towards them, however, with an assumption of frank and kindly sympathy, holding out a hand to each. But Lucy avoided taking it, though not markedly, and saying in a low voice to her brother, "I cannot speak with any one, Alured," she glided away through the door which led to her own apartments, leaving Richard de Ashby with all the bitter purposes of his heart only strengthened by what he had seen and heard. Alured took his cousin's hand at once, asking, "Have you brought in the body? Where have you laid him?" In a rapid but clear manner, Richard explained that the search had been ineffectual, and told all that had been done in vain for the discovery of the corpse. After some time spent in conjectures as to what could have become of the body, the peasant who had first discovered it was called in, and questioned strictly as to what he had seen, and his knowledge of the old Lord's person. His replies, however, left no doubt in regard to the facts of the murder; and when he was dismissed, Alured turned, with a frowning brow and a bewildered eye, to his cousin, asking, "Who can have done this?" Richard de Ashby looked down in silence for a moment, as if almost unwilling to reply, and then answered, "I know of but one man whom he has offended." "Who, who," demanded Alured, sharply. "I know of none." "None, but Hugh de Monthermer," said Richard de Ashby. "Hugh de Monthermer!" cried the young Earl.--"Offended him! Why he has loaded him with favour. 'Twas his letter, telling me that he intended to give our Lucy's hand to one of our old enemies, that brought me back with such speed. Offended him! He is the last man that had cause of complaint." "You know not, Alured--you know not all," cried his false cousin. "Far be it from me to accuse Hugh de Monthermer behind his back. I have ever said what I have had to say of him boldly, and to his face; and all I wish to imply is, without making any accusation whatsoever, that I know of not one man on earth whom your poor father has offended but Hugh de Monthermer." "And how offended him?" asked the young Earl. "By withdrawing his promise of your sister's hand," answered his cousin. "'Tis but yesterday, upon some quarrel--I know not what--that he who is now dead retracted every rash engagement of the kind, and told him he should never have her. Lucy will tell you the same." "Ha!" cried Alured, knitting his brows thoughtfully--"Ha! But--no, no, no! To do him justice, Monthermer is too noble ever, to draw his sword upon an old man like that. His name was never stained with any lowly act. He might be a proud enemy, but never a base one." "I dare say it is so;" answered Richard; "though I have seen some mean things, too. Did he not avoid meeting you in arms, on quarrel concerning my poor little paramour? But all this matters not; I bring no charge against him--'tis but suspicion, at the most. Only when I recollect that yesterday your father crossed all his hopes, and that Guy de Margan, Geary, and the rest who were with this poor Earl, told me that there was a violent quarrel, with high and fierce words on both sides, I may well say that he was offended--and, as far as I know, he was the only one offended--by the good old man. Lucy will tell you more, perhaps." "Stay!" cried Alured, "I will go and ask her." "Nay," rejoined his cousin, "I must away with all speed to Nottingham, to learn if aught has been heard of the body there. I will ask Guy de Margan and the others, what really passed when they were here yesterday, and let you know early to-morrow." "Bring them with you--bring them with you said Alured. "I will," replied Richard; "but in the meantime, by your good leave, my lord. I will take some of your men with me, for I came alone, and am not well loved, as you know, of these Monthermers." "Take what men you will," said the young Earl; "but yet I cannot think they have had a hand in this. Good night, Richard--good night!" So prone is the mind of man to suspicion, so intimately are we convinced in our own hearts of the fallibility of human nature at every point, that accusation often repeated will ever leave a doubt in the most candid mind. "Be thou as cold as ice, as chaste as snow, thou shalt not 'scape calumny," cried Shakspeare, addressing woman; and he might have said to the whole race of man--"Armour thyself in the whole panoply of virtue, cover thee from head to foot in the triple steel of honour, honesty, and a pure heart, still the poisoned dart of malice shall pierce through and wound thee, if it do not destroy." In the heart of Alured de Ashby, there had never been a doubt that Hugh de Monthermer was, in every thought and in every deed, as high, as noble, and as true, as ever was man on earth; and yet--alas, that it should be so!--the words of a false, base man, whom he himself knew to be full of faults and detected in falsehoods, left a suspicion on his mind, in favour of which, his jealous hatred of the race of Monthermer rose up with an angry and clamorous voice. It was with such feelings that he now strode away to his sister's chamber; but ere he knocked at the door he paused thoughtfully, remembering that she was already grieved and shaken by the sad events of that evening. He called to mind that he was her only protector, her only near relation, now; and a feeling of greater tenderness than he had ever before suffered to take possession of his heart rose out of their relative position to each other, and caused him to soften his tone and manner as far as possible. He knocked at the door, then, and went in, finding Lucy with her maids; the latter following mechanically the embroidery--on which one half a woman's life was then spent,--the former sitting in the window, far from the lamp, with her cheek resting on her hand, and a handkerchief beside her to wipe away the tears that ever and anon broke from the dark shady well of her long-fringed eyes. As gently as was in his nature to do, Alured sat down beside her, and questioned her as to what had passed on the preceding day. She answered very briefly; for his inquiries mingled one dark and terrible stream of thought with another scarcely less dreadful. She knew little, she said, as she had not been present. She was not aware why her father had so acted; but she acknowledged that he had withdrawn his consent to her union with the man she loved, and had spoken words concerning him which had wrung and pained her heart to hear. So far, the tale of Richard de Ashby was confirmed; and Alured left her, with a moody and uncertain mind, hesitating between new-born suspicions and the confidence which the experience of years had forced upon him. He paced the hall that night for many an hour, ever and anon sending for various members of the household, and questioning them concerning the transactions of the day. But he gained no farther tidings; and in gloom and sadness the minutes slipped away--the gay merriment, the light jest, the tranquil enjoyment, all crushed out and extinct, and every part of the castle filled with an air of sorrow and anxiety; all feeling that a terrible deed had been done, and all inquiring--"What is to come next?" The last words of the young Earl, ere he retired to rest, were, "Let horses be prepared by nine in the morning. I will to Nottingham myself. This must be sifted to the bottom." Ere he set out, however, Richard de Ashby, accompanied by several gentlemen of the court, had reached Lindwell, and were met by Alured in the hall, booted and spurred for his departure. "Ha! give you good day, sirs," he exclaimed, in his quick and impetuous manner, "I was about to seek you, if you had not come to me." "This is a sad affair, my lord the Earl!" said Sir Guy de Margan. "Little did I think, when I rode over hither the day before yesterday with your noble father, that it was the last time I should see him living!" "Sad, indeed, sir--sad, indeed!" replied the young Earl. "But the question now is, 'Who did this deed?'" "Who shalt say that?" said Sir Guy de Margan. Alured de Ashby paused, and crushed his glove in his hand, wishing any one to touch upon the subject of the suspicions which had been instilled into his mind, before he spoke upon them himself; but finding that Guy de Margan stopped short, he said, at length, "May I ask you, Sir Guy, to tell me the circumstances which took place here during your stay with my father yesterday? Any act of his is of importance to throw light upon this dark affair." "I can tell you very little, my noble lord," replied Sir Guy. "When we arrived, we were told that the Lord Hugh de Monthermer was in the upper hall with your fair sister, the Lady Lucy. We all went thither together; but, as we came to the Lord Hugh with a somewhat unpleasant summons to the presence of the King, your noble father, wishing to spare his feelings, desired us to wait without at the head of the stairs, while he went in to break the tidings. We soon, however, heard high words and very angry language on the part of the young lord. Then there was much spoken in a lower tone; and then Monthermer came nearer to the door, where he stopped, and said aloud, 'You will not fail, my lord?' Your father answered, in a stern tone, 'I will meet you at the hour you named. Fear not, I will not fail!'" Alured de Ashby turned his eyes upon his cousin with a meaning look, and Richard de Ashby raised his to heaven, and then let them sink to the earth again. "I heard those words myself," said Sir William Geary, "and thought it strange Monthermer should appoint a meeting when he was aware he was going to a prison. It seems, however, that he well knew what he was about." "God send he met him not too surely!" burst forth Alured de Ashby, with his eyes flashing. "After all, we may be quite mistaken," observed Richard, who knew that now, having sown the suspicions,--ay, and watered them, too,--it was his task to affect candour, and seem to repress them; as a man lops off branches from a tree to make it grow the stronger. "Hugh de Monthermer was always noble and true, and of a generous nature, as you well said last night, Alured." "But you forget," said Guy de Margan, "he was at this very time under a strong suspicion of a base treason, and had been seen speaking secretly in the forest with three masked men unknown!" "Ha!" cried Alured de Ashby, seizing the speaker by the arm, and gazing into his face, as if he would have read his soul. "Ha! three masked men?" "It is true, upon my life!" replied Guy de Margan. "Be calm--be calm, my dear cousin," exclaimed Richard de Ashby. "Calm!" shouted the young Earl--"Calm! with my father's blood crying for vengeance from the earth, and my sword yet undrawn!" "But listen," said Richard. "I have thought, as we came along, of a fact which may give us some insight into this affair. Yesterday evening, on my arrival here, ere any of us knew aught of your father's death, the old hall porter told me, on my inquiring for him, that the Earl had gone forth alone, having received a letter brought by some peasant boy. He mentioned the boy's name, for he seemed to know him, and therefore I ventured, as we passed the gates just now, to bid the warder speak with the old man, and have the boy sent for with all speed. 'Tis but right that we should know who that note came from." "Let the porter be sent for," cried Alured--"let the porter be sent for." "I will call him," said Richard, and left the ball. In a moment after, he returned with the old man, followed by a young clown of some thirteen years of age. The boy stayed near the door, but Richard de Ashby advanced with the porter, the latter bowing low to his lord as he came up. "Who brought the letter given to my father just before he went out yesterday?" demanded the young Earl, in a stern tone. "Dickon, the son of Ugtred, the swine-driver, my lord," replied the porter; "he lives hard by, and there he stands." "Did he say aught when he delivered it?" asked Richard de Ashby. "Nothing, Sir Richard," answered the porter, "but to give it to my lord directly." "Come hither, boy," cried Alured. "Now speak truly; who gave you that letter?" "There were four of them, my lord," replied the boy; "but I never saw any one of them before." "Were they masked?" demanded Richard de Ashby. The boy replied in the negative; but his wily questioner, having put suspicion upon the track, was satisfied, so far, and Alured proceeded. "What did they say to you?" he asked. "They bade me take it to the castle," replied the boy, "and tell the people to give it to my noble lord the Earl, as fast as possible." "Did they say nothing more?" demanded Alured de Ashby. The boy looked round and began to whimper. "Speak the truth, knave," cried the young Earl, "speak the truth, and no harm shall happen to you; but hesitate a moment, and I'll hang you over the gate." "They told me," answered the boy, still crying, "that if I saw the Earl, I might say it came from the Lord Hugh de Monthermer, but not to say so to any one else." The whole party looked round in each other's faces, except Richard de Ashby, who gazed down upon the ground, as if distressed, though to say truth, his heart swelled with triumph, for the words the men had used had been suggested by him at the last moment before he left them. He would not look up, however, lest his satisfaction should appear; and Alured set his teeth hard, saying, "This is enough!" "But one more question, my good lord," cried Sir William Geary, "Do you know the Lord Hugh de Monthermer, boy?" "Yes, sir, very well," replied the boy; "I have seen him many a time with my lord and my lady." "And was he amongst them?" asked Sir William Geary. "Oh, no," cried the boy, his face brightening up at once. "There was one of them as tall, and, mayhap, as strong, but then he was black about the mazzard; and the other who was well-nigh as tall, had a wrong looking eye." "This serves no farther purpose," said the young Earl. "I must to Nottingham at once. You, gentlemen, will forgive a son who has his father's death to avenge; but you must not quit my castle unrefreshed. Richard will play the host's part while I am absent; so fare you well, with many thanks for your coming.--Ho! are my horses ready, there?" CHAPTER XXXIV. It was night; and in the castle of Nottingham sat the Princess Eleanor, with one or two ladies working at their embroidery near. Each had a silver lamp beside her; and while they plied the busy needle, they spoke in low tones, sometimes of the rumours of the day, sometimes of the colours of this or that flower, that grew up beneath their hands upon the frame. The princess was differently employed; for though an embroidery frame stood near her also, she had turned away from it, and by the light of a taper at her side was reading attentively a paper which she held in her hand. There was a pleased smile upon her countenance, the high and noble expression of which was seldom what may be called very cheerful, though rarely very sad; for as yet she never had cause for actual sadness; and even during the imprisonment of her beloved husband, amidst the wild chances of civil war, and the daily dangers of faction and strife, her heart had been lighted by high hope and confidence in the all-protecting hand of Heaven. In every countenance that is at all capable of displaying what is passing in the mind--every countenance, except the dull, unlettered book, where mere animal desires appear written in their unvarying coarseness--there are two expressions; the one permanent, pervading every change and indicating the natural disposition--the inherent qualities of the spirit within; the other, altering with every affection of the mind, brightening with joy or hope, growing dark under sorrow and disappointment, but still receiving a peculiar character from the permanent expression, as the sunshine and the cloud cast different light and shade upon the brown masses of the wood and the wild waters of the sea. The permanent expression of Eleanor's countenance was calm, and full of that thoughtfulness which approaches, in some degree, the bounds of melancholy; and yet the transient expression was often gay and happy in a very high degree; for that very thoughtfulness and sensibility of character which produced the former, enabled her to love, and hope, and enjoy, with the high zest which sparkled in the latter. And now, upon her countenance was a look of well-pleased relief, as if something had grieved her and was taken away; and after she had read the paper, she suffered her hand to drop over the arm of the chair, looking up, with her large, dark eyes, towards heaven, as noble minds generally do when the heart is busy with high and elevating thoughts. "I was sure," she murmured to herself--"I was sure that young man was not guilty of that crime with which they charged him; and I am convinced also that he is as little guilty of this that they now lay to his account." A page stood near the door, as if waiting for some reply, now fixing his eyes upon the ground, now stealing a furtive glance at the pretty faces bending over their embroidery. To him Eleanor now beckoned, saying, "Come hither; take the letter back to my dear lord, and say I thank him for the sight of it. Tell him I would fain speak with him when his leisure serves; and that I beseech him, when the Lady Lucy comes, to send her to me, that I may accompany her to the presence of the king. She will need a friend beside her." The boy took the letter, bowed, and retired; and Eleanor resumed her work, pausing, from time to time, as if to think, and then busying her hands again, though her mind went on with other things. In about a quarter of an hour the door opened, and Edward entered, with a brow somewhat sad and gloomy. Nor did that expression altogether pass away, though the accustomed smile cheered it for a moment, as he met her whom he so deeply loved. "She cannot be long," he said, after a few words of greeting. "This is a strange as well as a dark affair." "But you do not think him guilty?" demanded Eleanor. "Assuredly not," replied the Prince; "but it has so happened--all has been so arranged, that I fear he will seem guilty though he be not. You read that letter, and you saw how easily he explained all that appeared suspicious in his former conduct; and yet a body of barons, Mortimer amongst the rest, were ready enough to urge my father to put him to death, without those forms and circumstances of customary law which are the only safeguards of men's liberty." "Do you think they would have executed him?" demanded Eleanor. "They would have murdered him," replied the Prince, "for such a death without law is murder." Eleanor put her hands before her eyes, and after a moment's pause, added, "And yet he was innocent, clearly innocent--oh! I never doubted it, Edward! I have seen him, when you knew it not, gaze upon the countenance of my noble prince; and in his face, as in a moving picture, rise up a thousand images of kindly thoughts within;--affection, gratitude, esteem, and admiration; and I could have sworn that he would never plot against your father's throne, however reckless be the men of this world, of faith and honesty." "I was sure also," answered Edward, "for I know him well, and am convinced that when, with a mistaken zeal, he was once found in arms against us, 'twas that he thought duty and honour called him to do that which wounded his own heart even in the doing.--But 'twas not alone that conviction which made me think the late accusation false," he continued, in a lower tone, that the women near might not catch his words--"I knew the men who made it, Eleanor: I knew Mortimer to be cruel and treacherous; I knew Pembroke to be cold, and hard, and selfish. And now I find," he added, with a smile, "they were to divide his lands between them. Here was Guy de Margan, too--a thing so light and frail, one would scarce think that such a delicate vessel could hold strong passions and fierce hatreds; yet 'tis evident to me that there was no slight rancour there." "Oh! I know, I know!" replied Eleanor. "One night, when Lucy and her lover--with my connivance, I will own--walked by the moonlight under the southern cloisters at Eltham, this Guy de Margan, with some three or four other young idlers of the court, would have stopped her by force as she was returning to me, when the knight, whom she had just left, came up, and felled him with a blow. But hark! she is coming, Edward. See if that be the Lady Lucy, Alice." One of the ladies who sat near, rose, went to the door, and returned immediately, bringing Lucy de Ashby with her. She was pale and very sad, but not less beautiful than ever; and as she came forward to the Princess, and knelt down upon the cushion at her feet to kiss her hand, she kept her dark eyes fixed upon the ground, as if she feared that, should she open them, the fountain of tears, which had so lately sprung up, would well over. "The King has sent for you, fair lady," said Prince Edward, after Eleanor had spoken a few words of consolation to her--"the King has sent for you to ask you some questions with his own voice upon a matter very painful to you in all respects, I fear. But be comforted; the bitter loss you have sustained is one that every child who lives the ordinary length of life must undergo. The death of those we love is a salutary preparation for our own; and, as to the other cause of the anxiety and pain which may mingle with your feelings to-night, be assured that the noble lord who has fallen under some wrongful suspicion has now a friendly voice near to do him justice, and be raised in his behalf. We are confident of his innocence, and will maintain him to be guiltless till he can appear in person and defend his own cause." The Prince paused, as if for an answer; but Lucy would not trust her voice with many words, merely replying, "I thank you deeply, my most gracious lord." "I will go then to the King," continued Edward, "who has been expecting your arrival for some time. The Princess will accompany you to his presence, when he is ready to receive you. So be calm, dear lady, and firm; and, ever before you reply, think well what you are saying." The Prince quitted the room, and Eleanor proceeded to give that womanly comfort to her fair young friend which was better calculated to support and calm her than even the Prince's encouraging tone; for whatever may be the wisdom and the strength of man's exhortations, there is a roughness in them far different from that soothing balm which was given to the lips of woman to enable her to tranquillize and console. But little time, however, was afforded them for conversation, a summons being almost immediately received for the lady Lucy to appear before the King; and drawing the fair girl's arm through her own, Eleanor led her to the hall where Henry was seated. The first glance of the King's countenance shewed that he was in an irritable state of mind. Weak and vacillating, as well as oppressive, he yielded, it is true, to the influence of his wiser and nobler son, but not without impatience and resistance. The Prince was now standing on his right hand, a circle of nobles was formed in front, and next to Edward appeared Alured de Ashby--his brows bent, his eyes cast down upon the ground, and his left hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. He gave no glance towards his sister as she entered, but remained stern and gloomy, without moving a feature or a muscle. The Princess seated herself in a chair beside the King, but still holding Lucy's hand, and drawing her gently close to her side. "Lady," said Henry, smoothing down his look, and affecting a tone of sadness, "we have been compelled to send for you, even though we thereby break in upon the sanctity of your sorrow; for it becomes necessary immediately, or at least as speedily as may be, to ascertain the author of a terrible crime, which has deprived you of a father, and us of a loving subject and faithful friend. Speak, then, and tell us what you know of this matter." "Sire, I know nothing," replied Lucy, "but that my poor father left me in health some short time before the hour of three yesterday, and that long after, while I was speaking with my cousin Richard, who had just arrived from Nottingham, news came that my father was murdered." "Nay," said the King, "we must hear what took place previously regarding the gentleman accused of this offence." "I know not who is accused, sire," replied Lucy, looking up with an air of surprise; "I have not heard that the murderer was discovered." "The gentleman on whom strong suspicion lights," rejoined the King, in a stern tone, "is an escaped prisoner from this castle, Hugh de Monthermer." Lucy clasped her hands with a start, and turned as pale as death. But the next instant, the blood rushed glowing into her face, and throwing back her head with a sparkling eye and a curling lip, she cried--"It is false! my lord the King--it is false!--I know whence this foul suspicion has arisen. Ay, and perhaps art may have overdone itself. I have gained a light I never thought of till now, which may yet perhaps bring the felon to justice." The King seemed somewhat surprised at the sudden energy which had taken possession of the fair and gentle being before him. "Pray tell me," he said, after gazing at her for a moment "whence you think this suspicion has arisen, since you say you know." "It has sprung, sire," replied Lucy, in a calmer tone--"it has sprung from a letter which was given to my father shortly before his death. He was with me at the time. We were speaking of him who is now accused of a deed that he never dreamed of, and my father showed me the letter, saying, it came from him. I answered instantly that it was not his writing, which I have often seen. My father replied that he must have made some clerk write for him, as is so common. The explanation satisfied me, and I thought no more of it till this moment; but now I see that letter was a forgery to lure my poor father to his death." "You read the letter, then?" enquired the King. "I did," replied Lucy. "Can you repeat what it contained?" asked Edward, with a look of keen anxiety. "The matter, not the words," answered Lucy, her voice slightly faltering. "It told my father that Hugh de Monthermer, doomed to death unheard, though innocent, had escaped from the castle of Nottingham, leaving behind his fair fame undefended; and it besought the Earl to meet him alone at the place called the Bull's hawthorn." "The very place where he was murdered," said a voice from the circle. "Peace, Sir Guy de Margan," cried Prince Edward, turning suddenly upon him; "you are a known enemy of the man accused." "I, my lord!" exclaimed Guy de Margan. "Ay, sir," replied the Prince, "we know more than you suppose. You hate him for chastising your insolence towards a lady; and we little doubt that you were well aware the friar whom you accused of carrying treasonable communications between him and Sir John Lemwood, had only been sent by the old Earl of Monthermer to beseech Sir John not to risk the life and honour of his friends by hopeless rebellion. I have it, sir, under the knight's own hand, and have also reason to believe you knew it when you made the charge. Let me not discover that you are bringing other false accusations, for there is a punishment for such offences." "Go on, lady," said the King, as Guy de Margan shrunk back from the stern eye of the Prince. "Go on. What more did the letter say?" "I think it promised, sire," replied Lucy, "to give my father full proof of the innocence of the Lord Hugh, and it besought him to come alone, not even bringing a page with him. But I assert now, my lord, that letter was a forgery of some one to decoy my poor father to his death." "May it not," asked the King, "have been the letter of an angry and disappointed man, seeking means to wreak his vengeance upon one who had denied him his daughter's hand, and disappointed his hopes? Here it is proved, fair lady that your lover and your father quarrelled, and that the Earl promised to meet him--wherefore, or when, no one knows,--and that as soon as this young stubborn lord makes his escape from this castle of Nottingham, your father receives a letter from him, calling upon him to come alone to a secluded place. Your father is there found murdered; the boy that bears the letter is bidden to tell no one that it comes from Hugh de Monthermer; it wants but the letter to be in his writing to make the whole case clear enough." "My lord," replied Lucy, earnestly, "clear your mind from the false tales of deceitful men. Hugh and my father did not quarrel; though natural disappointment regarding one whom he loved--though scarcely worthy of such love--might make the friend of your noble son speak loud and hasty words, even to the father of his promised wife. But they did not quarrel, sire. My father saw him go, in the full hope that he would prove his innocence before your Majesty, and induce you to withdraw the bar you had placed against our union--He came and told me so, the moment Hugh was gone. Then, sire, as to the promised meeting, I can tell you, wherefore, and when, and where, from my dead parent's lips. It was to be here in this presence; it was to be at one hour after noon yesterday it was to hear him fully exculpate himself of the charge then made against him, not only in the presence of your Majesty, but in the presence of Prince Edward also; and the noble Prince himself knows that my father sent a messenger to him, calling him to Nottingham with all speed, lest the voice of many enemies without one friend might prevail even with your majesty." "It is true," replied Edward, "the messenger came, and had he not been kept from me somewhat foolishly, I should have been here shortly after noon this day." "He did wrong," said the King, "to suspect that we would not do him justice." The colour came into Edward's cheek, and he bent down his eyes upon the ground, feeling the ridicule of his father talking of justice, when so gross an act as the late condemnation of Hugh de Monthermer had just been committed. But Henry went on to cross-question poor Lucy, to whom zeal and anxiety for her lover had given a temporary strength which was now failing rapidly. "You said, lady," he continued, "that the explanation which your father gave of this letter being written in another hand satisfied you completely at the time. What makes you think now that it is a forgery?--Has love nothing to do with the defence?" The colour mounted into Lucy's cheek, and Eleanor was about to interpose, to shield her from such questions, before such an assembly. But the poor girl gained courage both from the depth and strength of her own feelings, and from the discourteous mockery of the King. She raised her eyes, bright and sparkling, to his face, and answered--"Perhaps love has, my lord. But has hate no part in the accusation?--God in his mercy grant that it may have none in the judgment!" A dead silence succeeded for a moment to this bold reply; and then Lucy, turning pale again and dropping her eyes, went on to say--"You asked me why I think it forged, my lord? Because I now see a motive for the forgery, which I did not see before--because I perceive no cause why Hugh de Monthermer should not write with his own hand--because he could have had still, less to kill the father of her beloved--because he did not even sign the letter; for the name was not his writing--because not even the seal was, from his signet. These are strong reasons, sire--even," she added, with the tears rising into her eyes--"even if there were not a reason stronger still:--that he has ever been honest, honourable, and true; that no mean, dark act lies chronicled against him; that his whole life gives the lie to the accusation; and that he has never taken advantage of any opportunity to do a thing that he thought to be wrong, even when the opinion of the world might have extolled the act." She wiped the tears from her yes, for they were now running; over fast, and Eleanor rose from her seat, saying, "I beseech you, sire, let her depart. She is grieved and faint--I see it." "One more question," rejoined Henry, "and she shall go. You say, lady, that you see a motive for the forgery;--is it that you have any suspicion of another having done this deed?" Lucy ran her eye round all the circle, suffering it to pause for a moment upon the face of Richard de Ashby, which turned pale under her glance. She carried it round to the other extreme, however, and then replied, "I have a strong suspicion, sire." "Of whom?" demanded the King, eagerly. "Forgive me, gracious lord," answered Lucy; "though strong, it is but suspicion, and I, for one, will not make a charge upon suspicion alone. But let me warn my brother Alured, who is too noble to doubt and too brave to be prudent, that those who have destroyed the father may not have any greater tenderness for the son." Again her words were followed by a silent pause, and Eleanor, taking advantage of it, drew Lucy away, saying, "We have your leave, sire--is it not so?" The King bowed his head; and the moment the Princess, her fair companion, and her attendants, had departed, a buzz ran round the room, while the Prince and the King spoke in a low tone together. The young Earl of Ashby, let it be remarked, had not uttered one word during the whole of his sister's interrogation, and had scarcely moved a muscle from the time she entered, excepting changing his hand occasionally from the pommel of his sword to the hilt of his dagger. But he now stepped forward, as soon as Edward raised his head, saying, "Sire, this is a doubtful case, which, without farther evidence, cannot be tried by an ordinary court. Perhaps Lucy is right, and Hugh de Monthermer innocent. She loves him, and I love him not; but still I will do justice to him, and own that the case is not proved against him, so far as to warrant his peers in condemning him; but there is an eye that sees, though ours be blinded--there is a Judge to decide, though mortal judges are debarred of proof. To that great Judge I will appeal the cause, and my body against his try, under God's decision, whether this man be guilty or not guilty. A son must not sit quiet, even under a doubt concerning his father's murderer; and I do beseech you, sire, to cause proclamation to be made over the whole land, that Hugh de Monthermer stands charged with the murder of William, Earl of Ashby, and is bound to appear and clear himself within fourteen days of this time." "I must not refuse," replied the King; "the request is just and lawful." "I must, moreover, entreat you, my lord," continued the young Earl, "not to proclaim the name of the accuser. I say it in no vanity, for, though my lance be a good one, there is not a better in all Christendom than that of Hugh de Monthermer. But yet I doubt that he would meet me in the field, on such a quarrel as this. For his love's sake, he would not bar himself for ever from Lucy's hand, by risking the death of her brother--that is to say, if he be innocent." "That is fair, too," replied the King; "Lord Pembroke, see such proclamation made!--and now to more cheerful thoughts! for, by my faith, our time passes here but gravely." CHAPTER XXXV. The forest of Sherwood, which we have already had so much occasion to notice, though at that time celebrated for its extent, and the thickness of the woody parts thereof, was not even then what it once had been, and vestiges of its former vastness were found for many miles beyond the spots where the royal meres, or forest boundaries, were then placed. A space of cultivated country would intervene; meadows and fields would stretch out, with nothing but a hawthorn or a beech overshadowing them here and there; but then suddenly would burst upon the traveller's eye a large patch of wood, of several miles in length, broken with the wild, irregular savannahs, dells, dingles, banks, and hills, which characterized the forest he had just left behind. This was especially the case to the north and east, but one of the largest tracts of woodland, beyond the actual meres, lay in the south-eastern part of Yorkshire. It was separated by some three or four miles of ground irregularly cultivated, and broken by occasional clumps of old trees, and even small woods, from Sherwood itself, and, being more removed from the highway between the southern portion of England and the northern border, was more wild and secluded than even the actual forest. In extent it was about five miles long, and from three to four broad, and had evidently, in former times, been a portion of the same vast woody region which occupied the whole of that part of England. No great towns lying in the country immediately surrounding it, and no lordly castle, belonging to any very powerful baron, this tract was without that constant superintendence which was exercised over the forest ground in the southern parts of the island; and the game was left open as an object of chase, alike to the yeomen of the lands around, the monks of a neighbouring priory, and some of the inferior nobles who held estates in that district. Under a yellow sandy bank, then, upon the edge of this wood, with tall trees rising above, and the brown leaves of autumn rustling around, sat the old Earl of Monthermer, with his nephew, Hugh, six or eight of his own retainers, and four of the band of the bold Outlaw, finishing their forest meal, on a fine afternoon, some three days after the escape of the young nobleman from Nottingham Castle. The old Earl and his own personal attendants had all donned the forest green, but Hugh still remained in the same attire which he had worn at the court; and looking daily for the intelligence that Prince Edward had justified him with the King, and pleaded his cause with the old Earl of Ashby, he entertained not the slightest intention of taking upon him either the outlaw's life or garb. His uncle, indeed, was of a somewhat rougher school of chivalry than himself, and, from his earliest days till his hair had grown white with age, had known little but a life of adventure and privation, so that the calm and tranquil passing of peaceful hours seemed dull and wearisome to one whose corporeal vigour was but little decayed, and the wild sports of the forest, the mimic warfare of the chase, the constant change of circumstance, the very dangers of the outlaw's life, were to him as familiar things, pleasant as well as wholesome in their use. The old Earl had never loved but once, and that had been in early days, but love had been followed by bitterness and regret; and fixing his hopes upon his brother's son, he had forsworn the bonds of domestic life, and had no tie in wife or children to make him regret the castle hall, when he was under the boughs of the forest. It was not so, however, with Hugh; and, though it might be agreeable enough, for a day or two, to roam the country with a bold band of foresters, yet he looked forward anxiously to the day of his return to the court, from no great love to the court itself, but for the sake of Lucy de Ashby. Uncle and nephew, however, and all around, saw cheerfully the sun sinking, growing of a brighter and a brighter yellow as he went down, and beginning to touch the tips of the hills of Derbyshire and the clouds above them with purple and with gold. The merry song, the gay laugh, and jest passed round; and, if a memory of friends he had lost, and fortunes that were gone, and plans that were defeated, and expectations that were blasted, crossed the mind of the old Earl, they shadowed him but for a moment; and, with the true philosophy of the old soldier, he thought--"I have done my best, I have won renown, I have fought for the liberty of my country, and as for the rest, 'twill be all the same a hundred years hence." With Hugh, hope had risen up, as we have shewn, almost as bright as ever; for in the heart of truth and honour there is a spring of confidence which needs all the burdens of age, experience, and disappointment, to weigh it down for any length of time. "Look there!" he cried, at length--"there are three horsemen coming hither by the green road! News from the court, I'll warrant.--A letter from Prince Edward, perhaps." "Who are they, Scathelock?" demanded the Earl. "My eyes are dim, now-a-days; and yours are sharp enough." "The man that made the millstone," answered Scathelock, "cannot see much further through it than another. And, good faith, my lord, they are still too far for me to tell who they are; though I do wish with all my heart you, my good lord, had trusted to my eyes some six months ago. We should have had no Evesham, then." "How so?" demanded the Earl, turning eagerly towards him. "Why," replied Scathelock, "I sent you word there was a traitor amongst you, and told you who he was; but I was not believed. And Richard de Ashby was left to snap asunder the ties between his house and the cause of the people, and to furnish the horse that bore Prince Edward from Hereford. There is more venom yet in that viper's fangs--it were well they were drawn." "'Tis Robin himself!" cried another of the men, who had risen, and, shading his eyes from the setting sun, was gazing out over the grounds below, while the old Earl had let his head droop at the memories which Scathelock's speech called up, and sat looking sadly on the green blades of grass. "'Tis Robin himself! I see his broad shoulders and his little head. You will hear his horn anon." "By my faith, your eyes are keen!" cried Scathelock, as the moment after, the mellow winding of the Outlaw's horn came in round, soft notes, up the side of the hill. "'Tis Robin's own mots! There's none can bring such sounds out of the brass as he can. Forgive me, my lord!" he continued, to the Earl--"I have vexed you." "Not so, not so, good fellow," answered the old man; "'twas but the memories of the past. I acted then as ever, Scathelock--by what seemed best and noblest to be done; and that man's a fool, be his conduct what it will, who, having shaped it by the best light God gives, feels regret when he can lay his hand upon his breast, and say, 'My heart is pure!'--This, then, is Robin coming? Doubtless he brings good news." "To us, he is rarely an ill-omened bird," replied Scathelock; "but, by my faith, the Abbot of St. Anne's, after he has skinned his poor tenants of a heavy donation, or a king's warden, full of fines and free gifts, or the Sheriff of Nottingham's bailiff and collector, would not think the sight of Robin Hood's nut head and brawny arms the pleasantest apparition he could meet with between Nottingham and Doncaster." "Well, well," rejoined another, "if he frightens the purse-proud and the greedy, his footstep, on the threshold of the poor and the oppressed, has no ill sound, Scathelock." "Wind your horn, Tim of the Lane!" cried Scathelock. "He cannot see us though we see him." In such conversation some ten minutes passed away; at the end of which time Robin Hood and two of his companions came round under the bank, and sprang to the ground in the midst of the little party there assembled. He greeted them all frankly and with cheerful speech; but although no frown wrinkled his brow, it was easy to perceive that his mood was not a gay one. "Come," he said, after his first salutation to the two noblemen was over, "what have you here to eat? By my life, we three are hungry and thirsty too. A fat brawn's head and a bustard scarcely touched! By our Lady, a supper for an emperor! Why, my lord, it seems you have not finished yet?" "We had well-nigh ended," said the Earl: "but in such an evening as this one loves to prolong the minutes with careless talk, good Robin. There is rich store of the prior's wine, too, under the bank. Scathelock, it seems, resolved to make us merry." "He is right, he is right," replied Robin; "the King can make men rich and noble too; but not every one can make you merry for the nonce. I wish it were." "Why, Robin, you seem sad," observed Hugh de Monthermer, sitting down beside him. "If you bring me bad tidings, let me hear them quickly." "Good or bad, as you take them," answered Robin Hood; "though some are foul enough for any ears." "Well, then, speak, speak!" said Hugh de Monthermer. "The sting of bad tidings is suspense, Robin. The burden is soon borne, when once it is taken up.--They do not believe my story;--is it so?" "No," answered Robin Hood; "the Prince, as I hear, has done you justice. He came over from Derby at once. I took care your letter should reach him instantly; and ere twelve hours from the time your head was to be struck off, the sentence was reversed, and you were declared innocent." "And this is the administration of the law under Henry the Third?" said the old Earl. "The life of a peer of England is a king's plaything.--This will mend itself." "Ha!" cried Robin Hood, with a degree of sorrowful impatience in his tone, "others have been making sport of peers' lives besides the King. Has not that news reached you, that Lindwell Castle has a new lord?" Hugh de Monthermer started up, with a look of half incredulous surprise--"Dead?" he exclaimed,--"the Earl of Ashby dead?" "Ay, marry," answered Robin Hood.--"murdered! so they say, by the Bull's hawthorn, under Lindwell Green, nor far from the skirt of Thornywood--You know the place, my lord?" "Right well," replied Hugh de Monthermer;--"but is it sure, Robin?" "Nothing is sure," answered Robin Hood--"nothing is sure in this world that I know of. But this news is all over the country; and as I came by Southwell this morning, I heard proclamation made upon the Green concerning this sad murder." "This is most strange," said Hugh; "such things will make us infidels: while fools and villains reach to honours and renown, honest men are driven to herd in Sherwood with the beasts of the forest, and good men murdered at their own castle-gate. Who can have done this, Robin?--Do you know?" "I know right well," replied Robin Hood. "'Tis Richard de Ashby has done it; and now the base beast--part wolf, part fox, part serpent--contrives to put the bloody deed upon another. But he shall find himself mistaken, if my advice is followed--I will see to it, I will see to it; for I am somewhat in fault in this matter. I was warned of the purpose, and might have stopped it; but in the hurry of other things, I forgot, and was too late." "Yes," said Hugh de Monthermer, "it could be none other--the base villain! But can you bring him to punishment, Robin?" "That must be your affair," replied Robin Hood, "I will prove his guilt; but you must punish him." "That will I, right willingly," cried Hugh de Monthermer, "I will accuse him of the deed, and dare him to show his innocence in arms." "Nay, that is not needful," answered Robin Hood; "'tis he accuses you." "Me? me?" asked Hugh de Monthermer. "What! my nephew," exclaimed the old Earl--"a prisoner or a fugitive?" "Even so," replied the Outlaw, "ay, and with fair and specious showing, makes his case good; forges a letter, as I hear, and doubtless has hired witnesses, too. I have not been able to gather much of how this new plot has been framed; but, as I was going to tell you, my good lords: on Southwell Green this morning, as I passed, I saw a king's pursuivant with sundry men-at-arms, and stopping amongst the crowd, who laughed to see bold Robin Hood, the outlaw, the robber, the murderer, of much venison, stay and front the royal officers, I heard them make proclamation, saying, 'Know all men that Hugh Monthermer, Lord of Amesbury and Lenton, is accused, on strong suspicion, of traitorously and feloniously doing to death William Earl of Ashby, and that he is hereby summoned to appear before the King at Nottingham, to purge himself of the said charge by trial, oath, ordeal, or wager of battle, at his choice, according to the laws of the realm and chivalry.'--Those are the very words." "And strange ones, too," said the old Earl. "The form is somewhat varied from the usual course, and the name of the accuser left unmentioned." "All is out of course now," answered Robin Hood, "and this not more than the rest. But it matters not--'twill come to the same in the end." Hugh de Monthermer, while this was passing, stood buried in thought, with his arms folded on his chest. "The villain!" he repeated, at length--"the villain! But he shall rue the day.--I will away at once, Robin, and face him ere the world be a day older. If my right hand fail me against Richard de Ashby, my conscience must be worse than I believe it. I will away at once; I must not lie beneath such a charge an hour longer than needful." "Nay, nay, my good lord," cried Robin Hood, "sit down and be ruled by me!--haste may spoil all. I have the clue fully in my hands; and although I do hope and trust to see your lance an arm's length through the traitor, or your good sword in his false throat, yet I promise, that you shall, moreover, have the means in your hand of proving to all men's conviction, not only that you are innocent, but that he himself is the doer of the deed. In the first place, then, you must not go to the court of England without a safe-conduct. Methinks you should know better than that." "Oh, but Prince Edward!" cried Hugh de Monthermer. "Prince Edward may be away again," interrupted the Outlaw; "you must have a safe-conduct, and the time spent will not be lost. Sit you down--sit you down, my lord, and take a cup of wine.--This news has shaken you.--I will arrange it all. The third day hence, you shall be at the English court; but even then you must contrive to delay the combat for a week. Then, ere you go to the lists, you shall put the proofs which I will give you in the hand of the Prince, to be opened when the fight is over. Come, sit you down, and let us talk of it; I'll show you reasons for so doing. Here, one of your own men shall ride to the Prince, and ask for a safe-conduct.--He may be back by to-morrow night." Hugh sat down beside him again, the old Lord leaned upon the grass, his faithful followers and those of the bold forester made a circle at a little distance, passing the wine-cup round; and--as with the general world, in which mirth and gaiety and every-day idleness have their common course, while many a tragedy is acting in the houses near--while, in the one group the jest, and the laugh, and the song went on; in the other, was grave and deep thought, regret, and indignation, and that feeling of awe with which great crimes naturally inspire the mind of man. The golden sun went down, and a cold, clear, autumnal night succeeded. A fire was lighted of dry branches, serving the purpose of a torch likewise, and still those three sat discussing the subject which was uppermost in their thoughts with long and earnest debate. About an hour after nightfall a letter was written with materials which one or other of the forest party was seldom without; and, as soon as it was ready, it was dispatched to Nottingham by an attendant of the old Earl, who promised to return with all speed. Still, however, the Earl, his Nephew, and the Outlaw continued their conversation, while the stars came out bright and clear, and everything around was lost to the eye but the dim outlines of the trees. The wind whispered through the branches with a long, sighing sound, and every now and then, in the manifold long pauses that broke the conference, the rustling noise was heard of a withered leaf dropping upon its dead companions that once flourished green upon the same bough, but had fallen before it to the earth. It was as an image of the passing away of mortal life; and such, probably, as the rustle of that leaf, is the only sound that rises up to superior beings as, one by one, we drop into the tomb which has received before us the bright and beautiful we have known; an existence is extinguished, a state of being is over, and other things are ready to spring up from the mouldering remnants of our decay. At length, however, the quick ear of the Outlaw caught something more: a creeping, quiet, but rapid noise--and exclaiming "Hark!" he looked around, adding in a loud voice, "Who goes there?" There was no answer, but the instant after, with a bound from the top of the bank, came down the dwarf Tangel into the party below. "Ha! Robin--ha!" he exclaimed--"I never yet could discover whether thou art ass or hare." "How now, sirrah?" cried Robin Hood, striking him a light blow with his hand; "I pr'ythee find more savoury comparisons." "Why one or the other thou must be," said Tangel, "by thy long ears. Do what I will, I cannot catch thee napping. But I think thou art most like a hare, which we see sitting with one long ear resting, while the other stands upright, like a sentinel upon the top of a mound. But I have come far, Robin, to bring a lady's errand to a truant knight. Here, runaway--here is a billet for thee!--It was sent for Robin Hood or any of his people--the messenger took me for a people, and so gave it to me, though, Heaven knows, they might as well have taken me for a steeple, as far as the difference of size is concerned." As he spoke, he handed a small billet or note, to the Outlaw, who stirred the fire into a blaze, and was opening it to read, when he remarked some words written on the outside, which ran--"To the Lord Hugh of Monthermer, with speed, if he may be found--If not, for Robin Hood of Sherwood." "'Tis for you, my lord," said Robin, handing it to Hugh, who instantly tore it open, and ran his eye eagerly over the contents. When he had done so, he turned back again and read aloud, omitting one sentence at the beginning. "Your accuser is Richard de Ashby,"--so ran the letter; "and I tremble when I tell you my suspicion lest it should be unjust. But I have marked it on his face,--I have seen it in his changing colour,--I have heard it in the very tone of his voice. There is an impression upon me which nothing can efface that this deed was his. I know not how to counsel or advise, but it is fitting that you should know this; your own wisdom must do the rest. I fear for you; I fear for my brother Alured, too. There is but one between that man and the wealth and rank which he has long envied; he has gone too far to pause at any human means; and my apprehensions are very great for him who stands in the way." "Thus it is," said the old Earl--"thus it is with the wicked; they very often contrive to cloak their acts from the wise and prudent of this world, but to innocence and simplicity seems to be given light from Heaven to detect them under any disguise." "Give me a woman for finding out man's heart," cried Robin Hood; "that is, if she loves him not; for then all are fools.--But, come, my lord--let us seek a better place of shelter for the night; my blood is not very chilly, but still I feel it cold.--Make much of Tangel, merry men, and give him a leg of the bustard and a cup of wine; but look to the flask, look to the flask, with him. Remember last Christmas eve, Tangel, when you mistook a stag-hound for a damsel in distress, and sagely wondered in your drunkenness how she came by such a beard." CHAPTER XXXVI. In a dark small room, high up in the back part of one of the houses in the lower town of Nottingham, with the wall covered on one side by rough oak planking, and having on the other the sharp slope of the roof; on a wretched truckle bed, with a small table and a lamp beside it, lay the tall and powerful form of a wounded man, with languor in his eyes, and burning fever in his cheek. On a stool at the other side sat Richard de Ashby, looking down upon him with a countenance which did not express much compassion, but on the contrary bore an angry and displeased look; and, while he gazed, his hand rested upon his dagger, with the fingers clutching, every now and then, at the hilt, as if with a strong inclination to terminate his companion's sufferings in the most speedy manner possible. "It was madness and folly," he said--"I repeat, it was madness and folly to bring you here into the very midst of dangers, when I showed you clearly how to shape your course." "We saw a party of horse upon the bridge, I tell you," replied Dighton, for he it was who lay there, with the punishment of one of his evil deeds upon him, "and could not find a ford. But, in the name of the fiend, do not stand here talking about what is done and over; let me have 'tendance of some kind. Send for a leech, or fetch one." "A leech!" cried Richard de Ashby, "the man's mad! There is none but the one at the court to be found here. Would you have the whole story get abroad, and be put to death for the murder?" "As well that, as lie and die here," answered Dighton. "Why I tell thee, Dickon, I feel as if there were a hot iron burning through me from my breast to my shoulder, and every throb of my heart seems to beat against it, and add to the fire. I must have some help, man!--If thou art not a devil, give we some water to drink. I am parched to death." Richard de Ashby walked thoughtfully across the room, and brought him a cup of water, pausing once as he did so, to gaze upon the floor and meditate. "I will, tell thee what, Dighton," he said, "thou shalt have 'tendance. Kate here, it seems, saw them bring thee in. She is a marvellous leech; and when I was wounded up by Hereford at the time of the Prince's escape, she was better than any surgeon to me. She shall look to thy wound; but mind you trust her not with a word of how you got it; for a woman's tongue is ever a false guardian, and hers is not more to be depended on than the rest." "Well," answered the man, discontentedly, "anything's better than to lie here in misery, with nobody to say a word to; I dare say you would as soon see me die as live." "No," replied Richard de Ashby, with a bitter smile, "I should not know what to do with the corpse." "I thought so," said Dighton, "for I expected every minute, just now, that your dagger would come out of the sheath. But I have strength enough still left, Dickon, to dash your brains out against the wall, or to strangle you between my thumbs, as men do a partridge; and I do not intend to die yet, I can tell you. But come, send this girl quick; and bid her bring some healing salve with her. There is a quack-salver lives at the top of the high street; he will give her some simples to soften the wound and to take out the fire." "I will see to it--I will see to it," replied Richard de Ashby, "and send her to you presently. I cannot visit you again to-night, for I must away to the castle, but to-morrow I will come to you." Thus saying, he quitted the wretched room, and closed the door after him. The wounded man heard the key turn in the lock, and murmured to himself--"The scoundrel! to leave me here a whole night and day without help or 'tendance; but if I get better, I'll pay him for his care--I'll break his neck, or bring him to the gallows. I surely shall live--I have been wounded often before, and have always recovered,--but I never felt anything like this, and my heart seems to fail me. I saw worms and serpents round me last night, and the face of the girl I threw into the Thames up by the thicket,--it kept looking at me, blue and draggled as when she rose the last time. I heard the scream too!--Oh yes, I shall live--'tis nothing of a wound! I have seen men with great gashes--twice as large. Ha! there is some one coming!" and he started and listened as the lock was turned, and the door opened. The step was that of a woman, and the moment after, Kate Greenly approached his bed-side. Her fair face was pale, her lips had lost their rosy red, her cheek had no longer the soft, round fulness of high health; and though her eye was as lustrous and as bright as ever, yet the light thereof was of a feverish, unsteady, restless kind. There was a sort of abstracted look, too, in them. It seemed as if some all-engrossing subject in her own heart called her thoughts continually back from external things, whenever she gave her mind to them for a moment. Walking straight to the bed, and still holding the lamp in her hand, she gazed full and gravely upon Dighton's face; but the brain was evidently busy with other matters than that on which her eyes rested; and it was not till the wounded man exclaimed, impatiently--"Well, what do you stare at?" that she roused herself from her fit of abstraction. "He has sent me," she said, "to tend some wounds you have received, but I can do you little good. The priest of our parish indeed gave me some small skill in surgery; but methinks 'tis more a physician for the soul than for the body that you want." "That is no affair of thine," replied the man, sharply--"look to my wound, girl, and see if thou hast got any cooling thing that will take the fire out, for I burn, I burn!" "Thou shalt burn worse hereafter," said Kate, sitting down by his bed-side; "but show me the hurt, though methinks 'tis of little avail." "There," cried the man, tearing down the clothes, and exposing his brawny chest, "'tis nothing--a scratch--one may cover it with a finger; and yet how red it is around, and it burns inwardly, back to my very shoulder." Kate stooped her head down, and held the lamp to the spot where the sword of the old Earl of Ashby had entered, and examined it attentively for a full minute. As the man had said, it was but a small and insignificant looking injury to overthrow the strength of that robust form, and lay those muscular limbs in prostrate misery upon a couch of sickness, as feeble as those of an infant. You might indeed have covered the actual spot with the point of a finger; but round about it for more than a hand's breadth on either side, was a space of a deep red colour, approaching to a bluish cast as it came near the wound. It was swollen; too, though not much, and one or two small white spots appeared in the midst of that fiery circle. When she had finished her examination, she raised her eyes to the man's face, and gazed on it again, with a look of grave and solemn thought. "Art thou in great pain?" she said. "Have I not told you," he answered, impatiently--"it is hell." "No," she replied, shaking her head, "no, 'tis nothing like hell, my friend. Thou mayest some time long to be back again there, on that bed, writhing under ten such wounds as this, rather than what thou shalt then suffer. But thou wilt be easier soon. Seest thou that small black spot upon the edge of the wound?" "Ay," he answered, looking from the wound to her face with an inquiring glance--"what of that?--Will that give me ease?" "Yes," she replied, "as it spreads.--Art thou a brave man? Dost thou fear death?" "What do you mean, wench?" he cried, gazing eagerly in her face, "Speak out--you would drive me mad!" "Nay," she replied, "I would call you back to reason. You have been mad all your life, as well as I, and many another!--Man, you are dying!" "Dying!" he exclaimed, "dying!--I will not die! Send for the surgeon--he shall have gold to save me.--I will not--I cannot die!" and he raised himself upon his elbow, as if he would have risen to fly from the fate that awaited him. He fell back again the moment after, however, with a groan; and then, looking anxiously in the girl's face, he said, "Oh, save me--I cannot die--I will not die in this way! Send for a surgeon--see what can be done!" "Nothing!" replied Kate. "If all the surgeons in England and France were here, they could do nothing for thee. The hand of death is upon thee, man!--The gangrene has begun. Thou shalt never rise from that bed again--thou shalt never feel the fresh air more--thou art no longer thine own--thou art Death's inheritance--thy body to the earth, thy spirit to God that gave it, there to render an account of all that thou hast done on earth.--Think not I deceive thee!--Ask thine own heart Dost thou not feel that death is strong upon thee?" "I do," groaned the man, covering his eyes with his hand. "Curses be upon my own folly for meddling with this scheme! Curses be upon that foul fiend, Dickon of Ashby, for bringing me into it, and leaving me here till it is too late--till the gangrene has begun!--Curses upon him!--and may the lowest pit of hell seize him for his villany!" "Spare your curses," said Kate, "they can only bring down fresh ones upon your own head. Think upon yourself now, poor wretch!--think whether, even at this last hour, you may not yet do something to turn away the coming anger of God!" "God!" cried the man--"shall I see God?--God who knows all things--who has beheld all I have done--who was near when--Oh! that is terrible--that is terrible, indeed!" "It is terrible, but true," replied Kate; "but there is hope, if thou wilt seek it." "Hope!" exclaimed the man, mistaking her--"hope! Did you not tell me I must die?" "Ay, your body," replied Kate, "'tis your soul that I would save. A thief obtained pardon on the cross. God's mercy may be sued for till the last." "But how--how?" cried he, "I know naught of prayers and paternosters. 'Tis twenty years since, when a beardless stripling, I got absolution for stealing the King's game;--and what have I not done since? No, no, there is no hope! I must die as I have lived! God will not take off his curse for aught I can say now! If I could live, indeed, to undo what I have done--to fast, and pray, and do penance--then, in truth, there might be a chance." "There is still hope," answered Kate--"thou hast still time to make a great atonement. Thou hast still time to save thy soul. God, as if by an especial mercy, has provided the means for you to cancel half your wickedness. I know all the tale: thou hast slain a poor old man, that never injured thee: but I tell thee that another is accused of his murder--an innocent man, who--" "I know! I know!" cried Dighton, interrupting her, "'tis all his fiendish art!" And then, gazing in her face for a moment, he added, "but why talkest thou to me of repentance?--why preachest thou to me, girl, and dost not practise thine own preaching? Art not thou a sinner, too, as well as I am, ha?--and do not they tell us that the soft sins damn as surely as the rough ones? Why dost thou not repent and make atonement?" "I do," said Kate, firmly; "at this very hour I am aiming at nought else. Thinkest thou that I love that man? I tell thee that I hate him--that I abhor the very sight of his shadow, as it darkens the door--that the touch of his very hand is an abomination. But I abide with him still to frustrate his dark deeds--to protect those that are innocent from his fiendish devices--to give him to the arm of justice--and then to lay my own head in the grave, in the hope of God's mercy." "But who tells thee thou shalt find it?" asked Dighton. "God's word," replied Kate, "and a good priest of the holy church, both tell me that, if, sincerely repenting, I do my best to make up for all that I have done amiss--if, without fear and favour, I labour to defend the innocent even at the expense of the guilty, I shall surely obtain mercy myself in another world, though I wring my own heart in this." "Did a priest say so?" demanded Dighton, looking up, with a ray of hope breaking across his face--"send for that priest, good girl!--send for that priest!--quick! He may give me comfort!" Kate paused for a moment, without reply, gazing down upon the ground, and then said, "'Twould be hard to keep thee from the only hope of forgiveness, yet----" "Yet what?" exclaimed he, impatiently. "In God's name, woman, I adjure thee----" "Wilt thou do what the priest bids thee do?" demanded Kate. "Yes--yes!" cried he--"I will do all sorts of penance!" "Even if he tells thee," continued Kate, "to make such a confession----" "Ay, ay," said the man, "that's what I want--I want to confess." "Nay, but," replied Kate Greenly, "not a mere confession to the ear of the priest, buried for ever under his vow, but such a confession as may save the innocent--as may bring the guilty to justice--as may declare who was the murderer, and who instigated the murder?" "No," cried the man, "I will not betray Ellerby. As to Richard de Ashby, if I could put a stone upon his head to sink him deeper into hell, I would do it,--but I wont betray my comrade." "Well, then," said Kate Greenly, "you must even die as you have lived.--I can do nothing for you." "Get thee gone, then, harlot!" cried the man. "If thou art not a fiend, send me a priest!" Kate Greenly's eye flashed for a moment at the coarse name he gave her, and her cheek burnt; but the next instant she cast down her gaze again, murmuring, "It is true!" Then turning to the wounded man, she said, "I mind not thy harsh words; but it is needless for me to seek a man of God, unless thou wilt promise to do what I know he will require before he gives thee absolution. I promised to let no one see thee at all. To send for any one I must break my promise, and I will not do so for no purpose. Wilt thou do what the priest tells thee, even if it be to make public confession of who did that deed?" "No," cried the man, "I will not betray him! Get thee gone, if thou wilt!--Curses upon you all!" Kate moved towards the door, but turned ere she went, and said, "I am in the chamber beneath! Think well what it is to go into the presence of God unrepenting and unabsolved--to meet all that thou hast injured, and all that thou hast slain, accusing thee at the high throne above, without the voice of a Saviour to plead for thee! Think of all this, I say; and if thy heart turn, and thou wilt resolve to do an act of atonement and repentance, strike on the ground with thy sword, it stands at thy bedhead; and I will come to thee with the best physician that thou cant now have. One that can cure the wounds of the spirit." The man glared at her without reply, and Kate Greenly passed out, closing and locking the door. She paused at the stairhead, and clasped her hands, murmuring, "What shall I do?--He must not die without confession.--He must have consolation--Perhaps Father Mark might persuade him. But he will last till morning. 'Tis now near eight; I will wait awhile--solitude is a great convincer of man's heart." And, descending the stairs, she entered the room below. Half an hour passed without the least sound, and Kate sat gazing into the fire, unable to occupy herself with any indifferent thing. The time seemed long; she began to fear that the murderer would remain obdurate, and she had risen, thinking it would be better to send for Father Mark at once. She had scarcely taken three steps towards the door, however, when there was a stroke or two upon the floor above, and then the clanging fall of some piece of metal, as if the heavy sword had dropped from the weak hands of the wounded man. Kate ran up with a quick foot, descended again in a few minutes, and, ere half an hour was over, a venerable man, with silver hair, was sitting by the bed of death; and Kate Greenly kneeling with paper before her, writing down the tale of Dighton's guilt from his own lips. CHAPTER XXXVII. The King and Prince Edward stood in the great hall of Nottingham Castle, about to go forth on horseback. But few attendants, comparatively, were around them; and a good deal of unmeaning merriment was upon the King's countenance, as he jested with a horribly contorted humpback, who, tricked forth in outrageous finery, displayed upon his own deformed person more ribands, feathers, and lace, than all the rest of the Court put together. Full of malice, wit, and impudence, every tale of scandal, every scurvy jest and ribald story of the Court, were familiar to him, and with these he entertained the leisure hours of the King, when the monarch was not seeking amusement in the society of his foreign favourites. The brow of Edward, on the contrary, was somewhat stern and sad. Many things had gone contrary to his wishes; his father seemed resolved not to perform any of the promises which he had made to the more patriotic noblemen who had supported the royal cause; and though Edward carried filial respect and deference to an extent which his commanding mind, high purposes, and great achievements, might perhaps have justified him in stopping short of, yet he could not but suffer his countenance to show his disappointment and disapprobation. The King had descended from his apartments before his horses had been brought into the court; and when the door at the farther end of the hall opened, he took a few steps towards it, followed by the gentlemen who were with him, supposing that some of the attendants were coming to announce that all was ready. Two or three of the royal officers did certainly appear, but in the midst was seen the tall and powerful form of Hugh de Monthermer, with an old knight, Sir John Hardy, on one side, and a page on the other. He advanced with a quick step up the hall, and, bowing reverently to the King and to the Prince, he said-- "I have come, your grace, according to the tenour of the safe-conduct I have received, with one well known in feats of arms to be my god-father in chivalry, and with twenty-five attendants and no more, to meet my accuser face to face, to declare that his charge is false before God and man, and to do battle with him in this behalf--my body against his, according to the law of arms. I do beseech you, my lord, let me know my accuser." "'Tis I," answered a voice from behind the King, and Alured de Ashby stepped forward to Henry's side--"'tis I, Alured de Ashby, who do accuse you, Hugh of Monthermer, of feloniously and maliciously doing to death William de Ashby, my noble father. I put myself on the decision of Heaven, and God defend the right!" Hugh of Monthermer had turned very pale. His lip quivered, his eye grew anxious and haggard, and for a moment or two he remained in deep silence. At length, however, he replied-- "You do me bitter wrong, Alured de Ashby--you should know better." "How so?" demanded his opponent; "there is strong and dark suspicion against you." "Which I can disperse in a moment," said Hugh de Monthermer, "like clouds scattered by a searching wind. But even were there suspicions ten times as strong, I say that you, of all men, should not receive them." "How pale he turns!" observed one of the noblemen near, loud enough for Hugh to hear. "Ay, sir, I do turn pale," replied the young nobleman, looking sternly at him "I turn pale to find that one against whom I would less willingly draw the sword than any man living, is he, who, by a false and baseless suspicion, forces me to do so. Alured de Ashby, you knew right well when you concealed the name of my accuser that no provocation would induce me to dip my hand in the blood of your sister's brother." "I did," replied Alured de Ashby; "that was the reason I concealed it." "Then should you not have likewise known," demanded Hugh, "that the same reason which makes me shrink from injuring her brother, would still more withhold my arm, if raised, to spill the blood of her father. You know it, Alured de Ashby--in your heart you know it well. Nothing, so help me God, would have made me do one act to injure him, even if there had been quarrel or dispute between us, when, I call Heaven to witness, there was none." "This is all vain," answered Alured de Ashby, with an unmoved countenance; "you, Hugh de Monthermer, underlie my challenge; you have accepted it, and I will make it good. There lies my glove!" and he cast it down before the King. Sir John Hardy instantly advanced and took it up, saying, "In the name of the most noble lord Hugh de Monthermer, Baron of Amesbury, I take your gage, Alured, Earl of Ashby, and do promise on his behalf that he will do battle with you in his quarrel when and where the king shall appoint, on horse or foot, with the usual arms and equipments, according to the law of arms, and the customs of the court of England." Hugh de Monthermer folded his arms on his chest, and bent down his eyes upon the ground; and oh, how bitter were his feelings at that moment! The deed was done--the irretrievable engagement was made; he must either dip his hand in the kindred blood of her he loved best on earth, or he must abandon honour, and name, and station, for ever--ay, and remain gained with the imputation of a base and horrible act, which would equally put a barrier between him and the object of his long-cherished hopes. Darkness was round him on every side, Between two black alternatives, both equally menacing and fearful, he could but go on upon the course before him--upon the course to which he seemed driven by fate. He must meet his accuser in arms, he must do battle with him at outrance, he must conquer, he must slay him. He knew well his own powers and his own skill, and he doubted not that he should obtain the victory; but he also knew that Alured de Ashby was not one to be overthrown with ease, that he was not one whom he should be able to wound, disarm, or save. Once in the field together, it was hand against hand, body against body, life against life, till one or the other was no more. Death was the only warder that would part them after the barrier of the lists fell behind him. Nor could he hesitate, nor could he spare his adversary, even though he were willing to risk or lose his own life rather than slay the brother of Lucy de Ashby; for with the accused, ignominy, and condemnation followed overthrow, and it was not alone death, but disgrace, that was the mead of the vanquished. No; his fate was sealed, his doom determined, with his own hand was he destined to destroy his own happiness, to tear the sweetest ties of the heart asunder, and to consign himself to grief, and disappointment, and solitude through life. As the last words broke from the lip of Sir John Hardy, the scene around him seemed to disappear from his eyes. He felt like one of those, who, on some bitter sorrow, forswear the world and the world's joys for the dark cell of the monastery, the living tomb of the heart. He felt like one of them, when the vow is pronounced, when their fate is sealed, and when all earth's things are given up for ever. The whole hall and all that it contained swam indistinctly before him, and he bent down his eyes lest their giddy vacancy should betray the intensity of his feelings to these who watched him. In the meanwhile Henry and the Prince conferred for a moment apart; and the King turned first to the accuser, then to the accused, saying, "My lords, we will name Monday next for the decision of this wager of battle; the place to be the Butts by the side of Trent, below the bridge. We will take care that fitting lists be prepared; and, until the day of combat, we charge you both to keep the peace one towards the other, to live in tranquil amity, as noble knights and gallant gentlemen may do, although there be mortal quarrel between them, to be decided at a future time." Thus speaking, the King turned to leave the hall, but Edward paused a moment, and took Hugh de Monthermer's hand. "I grieve, Hugh," he said, "most deeply that by some sad mistake--ay, and by some reckless conduct," he continued, aloud, "on the part of some gentlemen of this court, a false and wrongful charge was brought against you in the first instance, out of which this second accusation has in some degree arisen. Of the first charge you have cleared yourself, to the satisfaction of the King and every honourable man; and of the second, I know you will clear yourself also as becomes you. In the meantime, you are my guest; one of the towers on the lower wall is prepared for you and your people, and as the day fixed is somewhat early for this trial, my armourer is at your command, to furnish you with such things as may be needful; for your own dwelling is too far distant to send for harness; and we know this gallant Earl too well," he added, turning towards Alured de Ashby, "not to feel sure that his opponent in the lists must use every caution and defence which the law of arms permits." The young Earl smiled proudly, and followed the King, who, together with his son and the rest of the court, quitted the hall, leaving Hugh de Monthermer standing in the midst, paying but little attention to anything but his own sad thoughts. "My lord, I have charge to show you your apartments," said an attendant, approaching with a simpering air. "The tower is very convenient, but the stables are not quite so good, and you must put six of your horses in the town. This way, my lord, if you so please." Hugh de Monthermer followed in silence, and the man led him accordingly across the court to one of the towers, which stood as an independent building, only connected with the rest of the castle by the walls. "This, sir," said the servant, entering with him, "is the hall for your people, who will be supplied by the King's purveyors with all they need. Here are two sleeping chambers behind, and here a chamber for this gallant knight. Now, up these steps, my lord--Here is a vacant room for you to range your arms, and see that all be well prepared for man and horse; here is a pinion for your hood and chapel-de-fer, here are stays for your lances, and nowhere will you find better wood than in Nottingham; a hook for your shield, and a block for the hauberk and other harness. This way is the ante-room, my lord, with truckle-beds for a yeoman and a page. That door leads direct through the wall to the apartments of the Prince, and this to your bed-room." Hugh gave him some money; and, saying, "Largesse, my lord, largesse," the man withdrew, promising to send in the young nobleman's followers, and to show them where to stable their horses. "Take heart, my lord--take heart," said Sir John Hardy, after the royal attendant was gone; "this is a bitter change of adversaries, it is true; but now 'tis done, it cannot be helped, and you must do your devoir against this Earl, who will bring his fate upon his own head." "I thought him two hundred miles away," replied Hugh; "but, as you say, I must do my devoir. See to all things necessary, Hardy; for I have no heart to think of anything but one. A good plain harness is all I want: the horse that brought me hither will do as well as another." "Nay, my lord, you must not be rash," answered the old. Knight, "lest some misfortune happen." "The worst misfortune that life has in store for me is sure to befal," replied Hugh de Monthermer: "it is, to slay the brother of Lucy de Ashby, Hardy; for he fights with a desperate man, one to whom all things on earth are indifferent--who must live, though life be hateful to him--who cannot die, as he would fain do, lest ignominy should cleave unto his name. I will trust all to you, Hardy--I will trust all to you; but I cannot think or talk of anything at present, so I betake me to my chamber. If any one should come, tell them I am busy--busy enough, indeed, with dark and bitter fancies." Thus saying, he retreated to the bed-room which had been assigned him, and casting himself down on a settle, he spread his arms upon the table, and buried his eyes in them. It were vain to attempt by any words of ours to depict the state of Hugh de Monthermer's heart, as he sat there, given up entirely to sad memories and gloomy expectations. Oh, how his thoughts warred with one another--how the idea of flying from the task he had undertaken was met by the repugnance of an honourable spirit to disgrace and shame--how the image of Lucy de Ashby's brother dying beneath his blows, rose up before his sight, followed by the cold, averted look with which she would meet him ever after, the chilling tone of her voice, the shrinking horror of her demeanour, when she should see the destroyer of her nearest kinsman. Then came the thought of what if he were to avoid the combat?--What would be the consequences then? Would he not be considered recreant and coward? The time allowed was so short, too--but three brief days--that there was no hope of gaining proof of his own innocence, and of the guilt of another, before the period appointed. A week, a fortnight--often more, was allotted for the preparation; but in this instance the time had been curtailed as there were evil tidings from the Isle of Axholme, which were likely to call Prince Edward speedily from Nottingham. He could send, indeed, to the forest; he could even make inquiries in person, if he liked--for his safe-conduct specified that he was free to come and go as he thought fit; but he had been especially warned, that the proofs against Richard de Ashby could not be produced for at least a week, and his own eagerness to meet the charge had led him to the court much sooner than the judgment of his forest friends warranted. Thus, on every side he seemed shut in by difficulties, and nought was left him but to defend his innocence, to the utter extinction of all happiness for life. "Would she could see me," he thought; "would that she could see the agony which distracts my heart, at the very idea of raising my hand against her brother!--However that may be," he continued, "that villain shall not escape. Although I cannot dare him to the field, now that I underlie the challenge of another, yet I will publicly accuse him before I enter the lists; and, either by my lance or the hand of the executioner, he shall die the death he has deserved." He raised his head quickly and fiercely as he thus thought; the door opposite to him was slowly opening when he did so, and the face of Prince Edward appeared in the aperture. "I knocked," said the Prince, "but you did not answer." "Forgive me, my gracious lord," replied Hugh, rising, "but my thoughts have been so sadly busy, that it would seem they close the doors of the ear lest they should be interrupted. I heard no one approach; but, God knows, your presence is the only thing that could give me comfort." "This is a sad business, indeed," said Edward, seating himself. "Come, sit, Monthermer, and tell me how all this has happened." "Good my lord, I know not," replied Hugh. "You must have more information than I have; for here, in this neighbourhood, has the plot been concerted. Here, in your father's court, where they contrived to have me doomed to death some time since, untried, unheard, undefended--here have they, when frustrated in that, devised a new scheme for my destruction." "Nay," said Edward, "it was not that I meant. I asked how it is you proposed this rash appeal to arms, when I expected that you would demand fair trial and judgment according to law?" "I have been deceived, my lord," replied Hugh--"terribly deceived! Even Lucy herself supposed that Richard de Ashby was my accuser, and I never knew that Alured had returned; otherwise, well aware of his quick and fiery spirit, I should have judged that he would make the quarrel his own, whether he believed the charge or not." "That Richard is the real accuser, there can be no doubt," said the Prince. "His cousin is but a screen for his malice; but yet you were rash, Monthermer, and I know not now what can be done to help you.--Who is there that can prove where you were, and how employed, upon the day that this dark deed was done?" "Outlaws and banished men--none else, my lord," replied Hugh de Monthermer; "witnesses whose testimony cannot be given or received. But I will beseech you to let me know in what arises the suspicion that I had any share in this? I do not believe that there is a single act in all my life which could bring upon me even the doubt of such a crime." "The scheme has been well arranged," answered Edward; "the proofs are plausible and various--but you shall hear the whole;" and he proceeded to tell him all that the reader already knows concerning the accusation brought against him. For a moment, Hugh remained silent, confounded, and surprised; but gradually his own clear mind, though for an instant bewildered by the case made out against him, seized on the clue of the dark labyrinth with which they had surrounded him. "Well arranged, indeed, my lord," he replied, "but too complicated even for its own purpose. Villany never can arrive at the simplicity of truth. Was there no one, sir, who, even out of such grounds as these, could find matter to defend me?" "Yes," answered Edward, "there was, and she was one you love. She stood forward to do you right--she swept away half of these suspicions from the minds even of your enemies--she showed that one half of the tale was false, the other more than doubtful." "Dear, dear girl!" cried Hugh de Monthermer; and, gazing earnestly in Edward's face, he asked, "and shall my hand spill her brother's blood?" "Nay, more," continued the Prince, without replying to what the young Lord said, "she declared her belief that the real murderer had brought suspicion upon you to screen himself." "The scheme, my lord, is deeper still," answered Hugh de Monthermer--"the scheme is deeper still, or I am very blind. Did this dear lady point at any one whom she believed the culprit?" "She would not say," replied Edward, "she would not even hint, before the whole court, who was the object of her suspicions; but since, in private, the Princess has drawn from her the secret of her doubts. We entertain the same.--Have you, too, any cause to fix upon the murderer?" "Cause, my lord!" cried Hugh, "I know him as I know myself. _I_ have no doubts. Mine are not suspicions. With me 'tis certainty, and full assurance.--Were it not a fine and well-digested scheme, my lord--supposing that between you and high fortune and the hand of the loveliest lady in the land, there stood a father and a brother and a lover--to slay the old man secretly, and instigate his son to charge the daughter's promised husband with the deed--to make them meet in arms, in the good hope that the lover's well-known lance would remove from your path the sole remaining obstacle, by drowning out, in her brother's blood, the last hope of his marriage with the lady? Thus, father, brother, lover would be all disposed of, the lands and lordship yours, and the lady almost at your mercy likewise. Do you understand me, my lord?" "Well!" answered the Prince, "But who is the man?" "Richard de Ashby, my lord; and, if the day named for this sad combat had not been so soon, I was promised evidence, within a week, which would have proved upon the traitor's head his cunning villany." Edward mused, and turned in his mind the possibility of postponing the event. But--though it may seem strange to the reader that such a state of things should ever have existed--a judicial combat of that day was a matter with which even so great and high-minded a prince as Edward I. dared not meddle as he would. We know how far such interference, at an after-period, contributed to lose his crown to Richard II.; and Edward saw no possibility of changing the day, or even hour, appointed for the trial by battle, unless some accidental circumstance were to occur which might afford a substantial motive for the alteration. Otherwise, he knew that he would have the whole chivalry of Europe crying out upon the deed; and that was a voice which even he durst not resist. "'Tis unfortunate, indeed," he said, "most unfortunate; but my father having fixed it early, and at my request, too, it cannot be changed. But do you feel sure, quite sure, that within one week you could bring forward proofs to exculpate yourself, and to show the guilt of this wretched man?" "As surely as I live," replied Hugh de Monthermer. "I have the word of one who never failed me yet--of one who speaks not lightly, my good lord." "And who is he?" demanded Edward. A faint smile came upon Hugh de Monthermer's countenance: "He is one of the King's outlaws," he answered; "but yet his word may be depended on." The Prince mused for a moment or two without reply, and then rejoined--"It is probable these forest outlaws in our neighbourhood may know something of the matter. Think you they had any share in it?" "What! in the murder?" cried Hugh de Monthermer. "Oh, no, my lord, Would to God you had as honest men in Nottingham Castle as under the boughs of Sherwood!" "You are bitter, Hugh," replied the Prince, and then added--"I fear the day cannot be changed; and all that remains to be done is, to send to these friends of yours as speedily as may be, bidding them give you, without delay, whatever proofs may be in their hands. 'Tis probable that other things may arise to strengthen our conviction. When we see what they can furnish us with, our course will be soon decided. If there be anything like fair evidence that Richard de Ashby has done this deed, I will stop the combat, and proclaim his guilt; but unless I am sure, I must not pretend to do so, lest I bring upon myself the charge of base ingratitude. He it was, Hugh, who furnished me with the swift horse, whereon I fled from Hereford; and though I own that I would have chosen any other man in all England to aid in my deliverance rather than him, yet I must not show myself thankless. And 'tis but yesterday that I moved my father to give him the lands of Cottington as his reward." "The very act, my lord," replied Hugh, "which merits your gratitude, was one of treachery to the party which he pretended to serve. For that I will not blame him, however; but he is a dark and deceitful man, and the proof can be made clear, I do not doubt. I will send instantly, as you direct. All that I gain in way of proof I will give into your hand, my lord, and let you rule and direct my conduct. It is so terrible a choice which lies before me, that my brain seems bewildered when I think of it." "It is sad, indeed!" replied Edward. "I have put it to my heart, Monthermer, how I should act, were I placed as you are, and I know how painful would be the decision. Whatever happens in the lists--whoever lives, whoever dies--you must be the loser. If you are vanquished--if, by a hesitating heart or unwilling hand, you give the victory to your adversary, you lose not only renown, but honour and esteem with all men; you lose not only life but reputation. If you conquer--if you win honour, and maintain your innocence--your love and happiness is gone for ever. 'Tis a hard fate, Monthermer; and whatever can be done to avert it shall be done by me;--but I must leave you now. You will of course be present at the King's supper. Bear, I beseech you, a calm and steady countenance, that your enemies may not triumph. Your accuser is gone back to Lindwell; and Edward's friend must not seem cast down." Thus saying, he rose to quit the chamber; but before he went, he bent his head, adding, in a lower voice, "Doubtless you know your lady-love is here--ay, here, in Nottingham Castle, with the Princess Eleanor. Of course, in these days of mourning, she mingles not with the court; but if it be possible, I will contrive that you shall see her. Methinks the laws of chivalry require it should be so." "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Hugh, clasping his hands--"wherever she were, I would demand to see her; and no one bearing knightly sword and spur would venture to refuse me. Have I not to tell her how my heart is wrung?--Have I not to show her that this is no deed of mine?--Have I not to prove to her that I am but a passive instrument in the hands of fate?--that the death which he calls upon his head, is her brother's own seeking; and that I am no more answerable for it than the lance that strikes him?--Oh yes, my lord, I must see her!" "You shall, you shall," replied Edward, "but it must not be to-night. Farewell, for the present;" and thus saying, he quitted the room. CHAPTER XXXVIII. It was evening; but one day remained to pass away before the arrival of that appointed for the wager of battle; and all Nottingham had been in hurry and confusion with the excitement of the approaching spectacle. The residence of the King in the Castle had already filled the town fuller than it was ever known to be before; but now a still greater influx of people poured into it from all the country round, to witness a transaction, which combined all the splendor and display of one of the military pageants of the day with the interest of a deep tragedy. The citizens had flocked out of the town during the morning, to see the preparation of the lists; parties of pleasure had been made to the spot where the deadly struggle was to take place; and mirth and merriment had surrounded the scene, where two fellow-creatures were soon to appear armed for mutual destruction--where bright hopes and fair prospects were to be blighted, and death and sorrow to share the victory. No tidings had been received by Hugh de Monthermer from his forest friends. No circumstance had transpired which could aid him in proving his innocence, or could fix the guilt upon another. Prince Edward was evidently anxious and uneasy; and the only person who seemed pleased with the whole affair was the King himself, who, affecting a dignified grace and calmness and declaring that he assumed the young Lord of Monthermer to be innocent till he was proved guilty, treated him with courtesy, and even with distinction. It was the pampering of a gladiator before sending him into the arena; for the secret of Henry's good humour was, that he was pleased at the excitement, and satisfied with those who contributed to it. Not to show favour, however--as one of the most favourite-ridden monarchs that ever lived thought fit to term it, he sent expressly to invite the young Earl of Ashby to repair with his train to Nottingham Castle, and partake of the royal hospitality before the combat; and Alured had already arrived, and taken possession of the apartments prepared for him. He had twice met with Hugh de Monthermer, once in the hall, when many others were present, and once in the court when they were nearly alone. Their meeting had been watched by the frivolous and malicious, always so numerous in courts, who hoped and expected to see some outburst of angry feeling, which might afford amusement for the passing hour. But in this they were altogether disappointed--the two adversaries saluted each other with grave courtesy; and it was particularly remarked, that Alured's fierce impetuosity and somewhat insolent pride were greatly softened down and moderated. Nay, more, when his eyes lighted upon Hugh de Monthermer, the expression was more sad than stern, and some thought that there was hesitation in it also. "It is clear enough," said Sir Harry Grey to Sir William Geary--"it is clear enough, he doubts the truth of the charge he has made--he does not think the Monthermer guilty." "He knows that some one must be guilty," answered the other, "and that is generally enough for an Ashby, to make him vent his rage upon the first thing near." "But what has become of his good cousin Dickon?" demanded Grey. "I have not seen him all day, nor yesterday either." "I suppose be keeps at Lindwell," replied Sir William Geary, "or else has gone to his new manor of Cottington. People look cold on him--I know not why." "There are two or three reasons why," said Sir Harry Grey. "First, it is evident that this charge is of his hatching, and yet he puts the fighting part upon his cousin." "And very wise, too!" exclaimed Sir William Geary. "First, because Hugh de Monthermer would break his neck, as a man does a rabbit's with his little finger; next, because there is but one between him and the Earldom of Ashby, and a good lance and a fair field is very likely to diminish the number." "Is it just possible," said Grey, "that he may have taken means to diminish the number already?" Sir William Geary shrugged his shoulders significantly, but made no other answer, and the conversation dropped. Such as it was, however, it was a fair specimen of many others that took place in Nottingham that day. But Richard de Ashby heard them not, for he was many miles away, deep in conference with his companion, Ellerby, who remained to watch the progress of events, hidden in the wild and mountainous parts of Derbyshire. Nevertheless, that night towards seven o'clock, when every one in Nottingham had returned home from the sight-seeing and amusements of the day, and all was profoundly quiet, both in the castle and the town, two armourers, who sat burnishing a magnificent hauberk in the outer chamber of the young Earl of Ashby's apartments in Nottingham Castle, were interrupted by some one knocking at the door. In a loud voice they bade the visitor come in; and in a moment after, the brown face and head of an old woman were thrust into the room, asking to see the Earl of Ashby. The two men had been going on merrily with their work, giving no thought or heed to the bloody purposes which the weapons under their hands were to be applied to, nor of the danger that their lord ran, should that linked shirt of mail prove insufficient to repel the lance of an enemy. They looked up then as cheerfully as if the whole were a matter of sport, and one of them replied, "He will not receive you, good dame, seeing you are old and ugly. Had you been young and pretty, by my faith, you would have found admission right soon.--What is it that you wish?" "I wish to tell him," answered the old woman, "that he is wanted immediately down at the house of Sir Richard de Ashby." "Well--well," cried the man, "I will tell him. Get thee gone, and close the door after thee, for the night wind is cold." Thus saying, he went on with his work, and seemed to have no inclination to break off, for the purpose of carrying any messages whatsoever. "Come--come!" cried his companion, "you must tell my lord." "Pooh, that will do an hour hence," he replied; "to-morrow morning will be time enough, if I like it. What should Richard de Ashby want with my lord:--Borrow money, I dare say. Some Jew has got him by the throat, and wont let him go. There let him stay--nasty vermin!" "Nay--nay, then I will go," said his brother armourer, rising, and proceeding into another chamber, where several yeomen and a page were sitting, to the latter of whom he delivered the message, and then returned to his work. The young Earl of Ashby was seated in an inner room, with but one companion, when the old woman's commission was at length executed. "Ay! I am glad to hear he has returned," he said, as the page closed the door. "I wonder he comes not hither! but I will go and speak with him. My mind misgives me, Sir Guy--my mind misgives me! And what you say does not convince me. My sister knows better--Lucy is truth itself. Remember, sir, I have to swear that my quarrel is just--that I believe, so help, me, God! that my charge is true. I doubt it, Guy de Margan--I doubt it. If you can give new proof--speak! But 'tis useless to repeat over and over again what I have heard before, and what has been refuted." "It may be that your cousin, my lord, can furnish you with new proof," said Guy de Margan. "'Tis on that account, perhaps, he has sent for you." "I will go directly," cried the Earl, starting up--"I will go directly!--But where does he live in Nottingham?--I thought he was in the castle with the rest, or at our lodging in the town.--Down at the house of Sir Richard de Ashby!--Where may that be, I wonder?" "I can show you, my lord," answered Guy do Margan--"'tis half-a-mile hence or more." "Tell me--tell me," replied the Earl; "I will go by myself." "I will put you in the way, my lord," said his companion, "and leave you when you are in the street.--You will never find it by yourself." Giving him but little thanks for his courtesy, the young Earl strode into the ante-room; and with none but a page to carry his sword, and Guy de Margan by his side, issued forth into the court of the castle, and thence through the gates into the dark streets of Nottingham. "Had you not better have a torch, my lord?" said Guy de Margan. "No--no," replied the Earl, "'tis but that our eyes are not accustomed to the obscurity, We have no time to wait for torches; the hour of supper will be here anon." "Down the first flight of steps, my lord," said Guy de Margan, "let us not miss the mouth of the alley--Oh, 'tis here!" and hurrying on with a quick step, the two gentlemen and their young attendant descended to the lower part of the town, and entered the street in which Richard de Ashby had hired the house we have so often mentioned. When they had proceeded some way down it, the young Earl asked, with even more than his usual impatience--"Are we not near it yet?" "Yes, my good lord," replied Guy de Margan; "you can now find it for yourself, I doubt not. 'Tis the first small house standing back between two large ones, with eaves shooting far over into the street." "I shall find it!--I shall find it!" cried Alured de Ashby, "Good night, and thanks, Sir Guy. We shall meet again to-morrow." With this short adieu, he took his way forward, and in his quick, impetuous haste, had well-nigh passed the house which he was seeking, but the boy pulled him by the sleeve, saying, "This must be it, my lord;" and looking round, he plunged into the dark, retreating nook in which it stood, and feeling for the door, struck sharply upon it with the hilt of his dagger. For near a minute there was no sound, and the young Earl was about to knock again, when a light, shining through the chinks, shewed him that somebody was coming. He drew back a step; and a moment after, the door was opened with a slow and deliberate hand, which suited ill with the young nobleman's impatient mood. The sight that he beheld, however, when his eyes recovered from the first glare of the light, struck him with surprise, and calmed him also, by the effect of gentler feelings than those which had lately agitated his bosom. It was the form of fair Kate Greenly that presented itself--it was her face that the rays of the lamp shone upon; but oh, what a change had been wrought in that face, even within the last three days! Still more terrible was the alteration since the Earl had last seen it, when he jested for a moment with his cousin's leman some months before in Hereford. Then it had been bright and blooming, full of life and eagerness, with much of the loveliness which then characterized it depending upon youth and high health. Now, though beauty still lingered, and the fine line of the features could not be altered, yet the face was sharp and pale and worn, the lips bloodless; and the bright, dark eyes, though shining, with almost preternatural lustre, had a fixed, stern look, no longer wild and sparkling, but full of intense thought, and strong, yet painful purpose. The form, too, seemed shrunk and changed; the grace indeed remained, but the rounded contour of the limbs was withered and gone. "Why, Kate," exclaimed the Earl--"why how now--what is this? You seem ill." "I seem what I am, my lord," replied Kate Greenly. "I am glad you are come; your presence is much wanted." "Where?" demanded the Earl. "What do you mean, my poor girl? Some new mishap, I warrant you. Where is my presence wanted, Kate?" "I will show you, my lord," replied Kate Greenly, "if you will follow me;" and she led the way up the stairs. At the end of the first flight, the Earl paused, saying, "Is not Dickon here, that he comes not forth?" Kate gave him no direct answer, merely replying, "This way, my lord--this way, sir." "He must be ill," thought the Earl, "and she, too, is ill, that is clear. 'Tis some fever, belike. I have heard there is one in Nottingham." At the top of the next flight, the girl laid her hand upon the latch of a rough door, formed of unsmoothed wood, holding the lamp so as to give the Earl light in his ascent. The moment after, she opened the door and entered, leading the way towards the foot of a small bed, by which was burning a waxen taper. The Earl followed, murmuring, "This is a poor place," but raised his eyes as he approached the foot of the bed, and to his surprise, beheld the ghastly face of a dead man, stretched out, with a sprig of holly resting on his breast. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed.--"Who is this?" "The murderer of your father!" replied Kate Greenly, without adding a word more. Alured de Ashby clasped his hands, with deep and terrible emotion. His mind at the moment paused not to inquire whether the tale were true or false; but flashing at once through, his heart and brain came the feeling of wrath, even at the inanimate mass before him, for the deed that had been done, mingled with grief and anxiety at having charged it upon another, and the memory of all the embarrassments which that charge must produce. "The murderer of my father!" he said, "The murderer of my father--Is that the murderer of my father!--Then Monthermer is innocent!" "As innocent as yourself," replied Kate Greenly. "This is one of those who did the deed; but there were more than one, Hugh de Monthermer, however, was many a mile away, and there lies the man who struck the first blow. Look here!" she cried, and partly drawing down the sheet, she pointed to the wound upon the dead man's breast, saying, "There entered your father's sword; for the old man died gallantly, and sent one at least to his account." "Ay, I remember," replied the Earl, thoughtfully, "they found his sword naked and bloody--But how is this?" he continued, turning towards Kate, and gazing on her face. "You seem to know it all, as if you had been present.--Now I perceive what makes you haggard and pale." "'Tis seeing such sights as this," replied Kate Greenly--"ay, and many another sad cause besides. But you ask, how I know all this? I will tell you, Earl of Ashby: by taking down from that man's own lips, in his dying moments, the confession of his crime. The priest adjured him to make full avowal of the truth, not only to the ear of the confessor, which could but benefit his own soul, but for the ear of justice, that the innocent might not be punished for the guilty. Such confession as he did make, I myself wrote down, he signed it with his dying hand, and I and Father Mark were the witnesses thereunto. Here is the paper--read and satisfy yourself! The priest I have sent for--he will soon be here." Alured de Ashby took the paper, and, by the light of the lamp held by Kate Greenly, read the few words that it contained:-- "I do publicly acknowledge and confess," so ran the writing, which followed exactly the broken words of the dying man; "that I, Ingelram Dighton, did, on the afternoon of Tuesday last, together with three others--no, I will not mention their names--who had come down with me the day before from the good city of London, lay wait for the Earl of Ashby, at a place called the Bull's Hawthorn. I struck at him first, but only wounded him; whereupon he drew his sword and plunged it into my side, from which I am now dying. The Lord have mercy upon my soul! El----, but no, I will not mention his name--another man then stabbed him behind, and we threw him into the pit. The Lord Hugh de Monthermer had nothing to do with the deed. We used his name, because the person that set us on wanted the charge to fall on him, and a letter was written, as if from him, asking the old Earl to see him alone, at the place of the murder; but he never wrote it, or knew of it. I have never seen him or spoken to him in my life, but only heard that morning that he had escaped from prison. This has been read over to me now dying, at the house of Sir Richard de Ashby; and I swear by the Holy Sacrament and all the Saints, that it is true, so help me God!" It was signed, with a shaking hand, "Ingelram Dighton," and below were the names of Kate Greenly and the priest, as witnesses. The young Earl read and re-read it, and then looking upon his companion somewhat sternly, he asked, "Why did you not produce this before?" "For many reasons," replied Kate Greenly, calmly:--"first, because I had not the means. Do you suppose that the cruel and deceitful villain into whose power I have fallen leaves me to roam whither I please? 'Tis but when he is absent that I dare quit the house. In the next place, you were at Lindwell; and in the next, I wished, ere I brought forward even so much as this, to have the whole in my hands; to be able not only to say, 'This man is innocent,' but also, 'That man is guilty!' I tell you, Earl, I would not now have told you what I have, but that you must not risk your own life in a false quarrel, nor bring upon yourself the guilt of slaying another for deeds that he did not commit. Knowing as much as you do now know, it is your task and duty to sift this matter to the bottom, and to discover the instigator of this murder; for he who now lies there, and his companions, were but tools. I am ready and willing to speak all I know, when the time and place is fitting. Yet you must be neither too quick nor too slow: for if you are slow, I shall not be here--my days are numbered, and are flying fast; and if you are hasty, the guilty one will escape you." "And who is the guilty one?" demanded Alured de Ashby, bending his brows sternly upon her--"Who is the guilty one? Name him, girl, I adjure thee--name him! Name him, if ever thou hast had the feelings of a child towards a father!" Kate gave a low cry, as if from corporeal pain, and then, shaking her head mournfully, she said, "I have had the feelings of a child towards a father, Earl of Ashby; and for the sake of your false cousin, I tore those feelings from my heart in spite of all the agony--for his sake, I brought disgrace upon that father's house--for his sake, I strewed ashes upon a parent's head--for his sake, I poured coals of fire upon my own; and how has he repaid me! But you ask me, who is the man? I will not be his accuser till all other means fail. I must not be accuser and witness too. You have the clue in your hands; use it wisely and firmly, and you will soon discover all you seek to know." The Earl gazed in her face for a minute with a keen and searching glance, then turned his look once more upon the corpse, took a step or two nearer, and examined the features attentively. "Give me the lamp," he said; and taking it from her hand, he bent down his own head, and seemed to scan every lineament, as if to fix them on his mind for ever. But his thoughts were in reality turning to the past, not the future; and raising himself to his full height again; he added, aloud, "I have seen that face before, though where I cannot tell. The memory will return, however. How came he here?--Who brought him here to die?" "Those who took him hence to slay," answered Kate Greenly. "Didst thou ever see him before that day?" demanded the Earl. "Twice," was the reply. "Hark! there is the curfew," exclaimed the Earl. "I must away." "Stay till the priest comes!" cried Kate, eagerly. "He will be here ere long." "I cannot," answered Alured de Ashby; "I am expected at the castle even now. But fear not that I will forget this business. I will find out the truth, even if I have to cut it from the hearts of those that would conceal it; and I will be calm, too--tranquil, and calm, and cautious." "Go, then!" said Kate. "Yet tell me--But no, you will not dream of it!--You have no thought of meeting in arms an innocent and blameless man upon a false and unholy charge? Promise me--promise me!" "I will make no promise!" answered the Earl. "You seem to feel some deep interest in this Monthermer?" "I never saw his face but twice!" replied Kate, solemnly. "I never heard his voice but once--I have no interest in him; but, weak and fallen and disgraced as I am, I have still an interest in right and truth! Neither would I see you fall before his lance--for fall assuredly you will, if you go forth to meet him! Nay, look not proud, Earl of Ashby, before a dying girl, who knows nought of these haughty strifes, and can little tell whether you or he--if all were equal--would bear away the prize of chivalry. But, I say, all is not equal between you; and if you meet Hugh de Monthermer, you fall before his lance as sure as you now live: for he is armoured in high innocence, with a just quarrel, and an honest name to vindicate; you fight, weighed down with the consciousness of wrong upon your arm, a false oath upon your lips, and doubt and discouragement at your heart! Were you twenty times the knight you are, that burden were enough to make you fall before a peasant's staff! One thing, however, I have a right to demand: you shall give that paper to Prince Edward, fully twelve hours before you go into the lists--this you must promise me to do, or I myself will go and cast myself--" "I have no right to refuse," interrupted the Earl; "on my honour, as a knight, the Prince shall have the paper. Be you ready to prove that it is genuine?" "I am ever ready," answered Kate; "and though I may shrink and quiver, like a wounded limb when a surgeon draws the arrow forth, yet I shall be glad when each step of my bitter task is begun, and the time of rest comes nearer. If they wish to remove this body?"--she added, as the Earl walked towards the door, "Let them do it," answered Alured--"let them do it--they shall be watched!" Thus saying, he left the room, and slowly descended the stairs, Kate Greenly lighting him down to the bottom. He went thoughtfully and sadly, with a heart full of gloom, anxiety, and strife; but there were kindly parts in his character, too; and when he reached the bottom step, he turned and looked once more in the face of his unhappy companion. Then, taking her hand, he said, "Poor girl, I am sorry for thee! Can nought be done to save thee?" "Nothing, my lord!" replied Kate Greenly, calmly; "I have but one Saviour, and he is not of earth." CHAPTER XXXIX. "THE King has sat down to supper, my good lord," said one of the young Earl's attendants, meeting him at the door of his apartments, "and wondered that you were not there. A seat is kept for you, however." "Is it near the Prince?" demanded Alured. "Nay, my lord, the Prince is gone," replied the man; "did you not know it?" "Gone!" exclaimed the young nobleman. "Gone, whither?" "To Leicester, my lord," said the servant. "While you and Sir Guy de Margan were conversing here, news came from Leicester of a revolt amongst the peasants there; and the Prince set out at once, with some fifty men--'tis not half an hour since." "Why, he is to be the judge of the field the day after to-morrow!" cried the Earl, in surprise and evident disappointment. "I heard film tell the King myself, my lord," replied the man, "that he would be back ere sunset to-morrow." "This is unfortunate," murmured Alured--"this is most unfortunate; but it can't be helped!" and after making some slight change in his apparel, and giving some orders in a low but earnest voice, he hastened to the hall. Henry, as soon as he appeared, greeted him with light merriment, saying, "You are late for the banquet, noble Earl; but we forgive you, as we doubt not some fair lady held you in chains of dalliance not to be broken." "Nay, sire," replied the Earl, gravely, "my heart is too full of other things to think of levities. I was with a sick friend, and the time, though it passed heavily, was not noted." "A sick friend is as good an excuse as a fair lady," said the King, "and one that may be pleaded at all times." "Nay, sire," replied Mortimer, who was sitting near, "neither fair lady nor sick friend can be a moment's excuse for delay in day of battle, or even, I hold, of tournament." "A high question of chivalry," replied the King. "Let some of our old knights decide it. What say you, Sir John Hardy?" "That the matter has been decided often, my liege," said the old soldier, who was placed some way down the table, and who spoke with grave deliberation on the subject which he considered all-important. "No excuse on earth can be received for the man who has touched a challenger's shield, or taken an accuser's glove, or received his leader's command to prepare for battle, if he be more than a quarter of an hour behind the time appointed. That space is given in case of accident, or men's judgment differing as to time. Thus the trumpets may sound thrice, with five minutes between each blast; but if he comes not at the third call, he is held coward and recreant by all civilized men, and can plead nothing, unless it be the commands of his sovereign, as his excuse." "The honour of a knight," said another old soldier, in an authoritative and somewhat pedantic tone, "should be as bright as his shield, as clear and cutting as his sword, and as pointed and steady as his lance. What he has once asserted, that he should maintain to the death; for whatever cause there may be for retracting, an imputation on his courage will still lie, if he make a moment's delay in meeting an enemy in the field." Hugh de Monthermer remained calm and pale, but the cheek of Alured de Ashby flushed as if every word he heard was fire. As soon as possible after the banquet, he quitted the hall and sought his apartments, with a hurried and irregular step. He found the armourers still busy in their task, as he passed through the outer chamber; and, pausing at the bench where they were working, he gazed down upon the weapons under their hands with a thoughtful but abstracted look. Then, with a sudden start, clenching his hand tight, he said, "See that all be firm and strong, Mapleton, yet not too heavy." "Fear not, my lord--fear not," replied the armourer, "there never was better steel in all the world; and these poylins are a rare invention for the defence of the elbows and knees. I have prepared a garland, too, my lord, for your neck. I know you love it not, but 'tis much safer, if you will but wear it, though it does spoil the look of the hauberk, it must be confessed. But very often I have known the blow of a lance right in the throat kill or disable a knight, though the spear went not through the rings--'tis a trick with the Lord Hugh, too, I hear, to aim at the throat. They say he killed two men so at Evesham, and the Soldan of Egypt's brother, when he was in Paynimrie." Alured de Ashby had long ceased to listen; but with his brow bent and his eyes fixed upon the arms, he stood thinking of other things, till the armourer ceased and looked up in his face; and then, turning away, he quitted the room without any reply. When in his own chamber, he closed the door, and for nearly two hours his foot might be heard, walking to and fro, sometimes, indeed, pausing for a minute or two, but still resuming its heavy tread. Who can depict all the stormy passions that agitated him at that moment--the struggle that was taking place in his bosom, so different from that which had torn the heart of Hugh de Monthermer, though as violent in its degree, and proceeding from the same events. To fight in an unrighteous quarrel!--to go, solemnly appealing to Heaven for the justice of his cause, and to feel that that cause was unjust!--deliberately to persist in charging an innocent man with a horrible crime, of which he knew him to be innocent!--It was a fearful contemplation for one in whom conscience had not been smothered under many evil deeds, notwithstanding the faults and follies which sometimes blinded his eyes to right and wrong. But yet, to retract the accusation he had made--to acknowledge that he had erred--to own that he had been rash and weak--to see Hugh de Monthermer triumph--all this was repugnant to the most powerful vices of his character--to jealous pride and irritable vanity. Nevertheless, this he might have overcome; for, as we have shown, there was a high sense of honour in his nature, and the voice of conscience was strong enough, when the question was one of such mighty moment, to overpower the busy tongue of passion, and lead him to what was right; but, alas! there was another consideration. He feared the loss of renown! The very suspicion of any dread of his adversary was enough to put every good resolution to flight; and, unhappily, the laws of chivalry opposed a barrier to his pursuing the only course of rectitude, which would have been difficult enough to surmount even had his natural disposition been different from what it was. Then came back the remembrance of the conversation which had taken place at the banquet. It seemed to him as if the two old knights, who had declared the rules of arms, had been sitting in judgment on the cause pleaded by the disputants in his own bosom. They had pronounced against the voice of conscience--they had given sentence in favour of that fantastic honour which was based more on personal courage than on truth. Good Heaven! he thought, that the world should suspect he was afraid to meet in arms the man he had accused! That _he_ should fear Hugh de Monthermer--that _he_ should take advantage of any new risen doubt to withdraw a charge which he had solemnly made, and shrink from a combat which he had himself provoked! How would men jeer at his name--how silent would the heralds stand, when he entered the court or the tilt-yard? He pictured to himself a thousand imaginary insults:--he saw knights refusing to break a lance with one who had shrunk from the wager of battle he had demanded; he saw ladies turning away their heads in scorn from the craven knight who had feared to meet an equal in the field. He could not--he would not do it!--and yet conscience still cried aloud; ay, and the voice of Kate Greenly rang in his ears, telling him that conscience was powerful to overthrow as well as to admonish; prophesying to him that he would fall before the lance of the man he knowingly injured, and that shame and defeat, as well as injustice and falsehood, would be his companions on that fatal field. "Foul befal the girl!" he cried, "for putting such thoughts into my head; they hang upon me like a spell--they will cling to me in the hour of battle. Many a man has fought in an unjust cause--ay, and many a one has fallen. In this ordeal, is the judgment of God shown, or is it not? Is it possible to conceive that we can appeal to Him, and call upon Him to defend the right, and solemnly swear that our cause is just, all the time having a lie upon our lips, and that He will not punish? He were worse than the God of the Moslemah, if he did not. What then shall I gain? For the first time in life, I shall soil my soul with an untruth--I shall take a false oath--I shall be defeated, disgraced, with the judgment of God pronouncing that I am perjured, and die, leaving a stained and blackened name behind.--And yet, to withdraw the charge is impossible!" he continued. "Better disgraced, and hide me from contumely in the grave, than live and meet the scornful looks of every knight in Europe! My only chance is in the Prince--perhaps he may stop it. Would he were here!--I would give him the paper now! Yet I must show no desire to recant the accusation. I remember how his proud lip curled when that braggart, De Poix, slunk from the mêlée at the Northampton tournament, on pretence that his horse was lame. Curses on my own precipitate haste!--but still deeper curses on that traitor, Richard, who urged me on!--Would I could know the truth.--Oh! if I thought that it was so, I would tear his heart from his body, and trample it quivering in the dust.--The foul villain!--And my father so good to him!" Such were some of the broken and disjointed thoughts which crossed the mind of Alured de Ashby, and from them the reader may form some idea of the agitated state of his feelings during that night. He slept scarcely at all till morning; but he then fell into a deep slumber, which lasted several hours, and from which he rose refreshed and calmer, but, nevertheless, stern and sad. He was restless, too, and the hesitating and undecided state of his mind on the most pressing subject before him, rendered him wavering in all his actions. In the morning, several of his servants, who had been out all night, according to orders he had given them, came in to make their report, and informed him, that though they had watched steadily at the spot which he had pointed out, no one had come out of the house but a priest and a little boy bearing a torch. He then sent for some of the old retainers of the family, who had been at Lindwell when his father was slain, and on their arrival questioned them minutely on many points; and then he told his people that he was going to the apartments of his sister; but, when he came to the foot of the stairs, he paused, turned back again, and strode up and down the court for half an hour. His next proceeding was to order his horses instantly, and he set out the road to Leicester. When he was about halfway there, however, he turned his charger's head, and reached the gates of Nottingham just as night was falling. The city warder told him, in answer to his questions, that the Prince had not returned, but that a messenger from him had arrived an hour before, and it was rumoured that Edward would not be back until the following morning. The Earl shook the bridle of his horse fiercely, and galloped up to the castle. Before he reached it, however, the fit of angry impatience had passed away; and on dismounting, he proceeded direct to the apartments of the Prince, and sent in a page to say he wished to see the Lady Lucy. He was instantly admitted to her chamber, where the sight of her fair face, bearing evident marks of tears, and full of deep and inconsolable sorrow, shook his purposes again, and added to all the bitterness of his feelings. Alured kissed her tenderly, but he perceived that though she uttered not a word of reproach, she shrunk from him, and that was reproach enough. At his desire she sent away her maids, and then, sitting down beside her, he took her hand in his, saying, "Lucy, I have come to see you--perhaps for the last time!" She cast down her eyes, and made no reply, and he went on--"It is not fit, Lucy, that you and I should part with one cold feeling between us; and I come to ask forgiveness for any pain that I have caused you throughout life." "Oh, Alured!" exclaimed Lucy, "the last and most dreadful pain may yet be avoided; but I know your stern and unchangeable heart too well to hope. You cannot but feel how horrible it is to see my brother and my promised husband armed against each other's life--meeting in lists, from which one or the other must be borne a corpse. You cannot but know, Alured, that to me the misery is the same, whichever is the victor--that I have nothing to hope--that I have nothing to look for. If Hugh de Monthermer is vanquished, my brother is the murderer of him I love.--Ay, murderer, Alured!" she added, solemnly; "for you are well aware, that in your heart you believe him innocent. If you fall before Hugh de Monthermer's lance, the man I love becomes the butcher of my brother, and I can never see his face again." "Stay, Lucy, stay," said the Earl; "it is on this account that I have come to you. I have had much and bitter thought, Lucy. Hugh de Monthermer may be innocent--God only knows the heart of man, and he will decide; but if I die in the lists to-morrow, and he you love is proved to be innocent of my father's death, let my blood rest upon my own head; hold him guiltless of my fate, and wed him as if Alured de Ashby had not been." "Oh, Alured!" cried Lucy, touched to the heart, casting her arms around him, at the same time, and weeping on his bosom. "No--no! that can never be." "Yes, but it must, and shall be!" replied her brother. "I will not do you wrong, Lucy, in my dying hour. Here I have put down in a few brief words my resolution and my wishes. Read, Lucy.--What! your eyes are dim with tears!--Well, I will read it. Mark!--'I, Alured de Ashby, about to do battle with the Lord Hugh de Monthermer, to whom the hand of my sister Lucy was promised by my father before his decease--having lately had some cause to doubt the truth of the charge which I have brought against the said lord, of having compassed the death of my father--do hereby give my consent to the marriage of my sister with the said Hugh de Monthermer, if at any time he can prove fully, and clearly, that he is innocent of the deed; and I do beseech my sister--entreat, and require her, in that case, to give her hand to Hugh de Monthermer, whatever may have taken place between him and myself.'--There, girl--keep that paper, and use it when thou wilt.--Now, art thou contented?" "Contented, Alured!" cried Lucy, looking reproachfully in his face--"contented! Do you think I can be contented, to know that either he or you must die? What you take from one scale you cast into the other. If my heart can be lightened respecting him by this generous act, how much more heavy the grief and terror that I feel for you. Oh! Alured, you say, that you now doubt his guilt. Why not boldly, and at once, express that doubt?--Why not----" "My honour, child--my honour, and renown!" cried Alured de Ashby. "But you will unman me, Lucy. Here, give this sealed packet to the Prince whenever he returns." "Perhaps he has returned," said Lucy--"the Princess told me he would be back ere nightfall." "He has changed his purpose," replied her brother, "and will not be in Nottingham till to-morrow." "Alas! alas!" exclaimed Lucy, "that is unfortunate." "It cannot be helped!" answered the young Earl--"but give it to the Prince whenever he comes. Tell him, that therein are contained the proofs which have lately made me doubt the justice of my charge against Monthermer.--He must act as he thinks fit regarding them. But, remember, Lucy, that if I fall, and you become Monthermer's wife, he takes the retribution of blood upon him, and must pursue the murderers of our father till he approve their guilt upon them, and give them up to death.--And now, girl, fare thee well!" "Nay, Alured!" she cried, clinging to him. "Listen to me yet one word. If you be so doubtful, can you swear----" "Hush--hush!" he answered. "My mind is now made up beyond all alteration. I will do everything to clear me before God, and make my conscience easy; but I must never shrink from battle--I must never sully my renown--I must never bear the name of coward, or know that one man suspects I am such.--Farewell, Lucy, farewell--not one word more!" and kissing her tenderly, he unclasped the clinging arms that would have held him, and left her chamber. For a moment, Lucy covered her eyes and wept, but the next instant, clasping her hands together, she cried, "I will go to Hugh, and will beseech him! He is more tender; he has more trust in his own great renown. The victor at Damietta, the conqueror of the lists at Sidon, need fear no injurious suspicion. I will go to him. I will entreat him on my knees.--But first to the Princess, with this packet. She must give it to her husband.--What does it contain, I wonder?" Lacy gazed at it for a moment, and then at the other paper which her brother had given her. Suddenly a light like that of joy broke upon her face, and she exclaimed, "He will! he will!--Why should I fear? why should I doubt? He told me himself that in seven days he could prove his innocence.--He will, he will!---and with this before me, I need fear no shame. But now to the Princess." And with a quick step she hurried to the apartments of Eleanor, whom, for once, she found alone. She was too deeply agitated for courtly ceremony; and gliding in, she approached the Princess as she sat reading, and knelt on the cushion at her feet. "What is it, my poor Lucy?" said the Princess, bending down her head, and kissing her fair forehead, with a look of tender compassion; "there seems some happiness mingled with the sorrow of your look." "'Tis that I have hope!" replied Lucy; and with rapid but with low words she related all that had passed between her brother and herself. She then put the packet into Eleanor's hands, saying, "It will prove his innocence, I am sure; but the Prince is absent, and I am afraid you will not open it." "Nay," answered Eleanor, "I must not venture on such an act as that. I am only bold where it is to show my love for him, but not to meddle in matters of which he alone can judge. Neither is there occasion here, my Lucy; he will be back ere long." "But Alured thought not," replied her fair companion. "He had heard that the Prince's journey from Leicester was put off till to-morrow morning!" "Not so, not so!" cried the Princess; "'twas but delayed for an hour or two, and he sent lest I should fear the rebels had detained him. I expect him each minute, Lucy. But in the meantime, tell me more clearly what caused that look of joy just now?" Lucy hesitated. "'Twas that a hope has crossed my mind," she said--"a hope that I might yet save them both; and surely, lady," she continued, raising her soft, dark eyes to Eleanor's face--"and surely to save both the life of a brother and a lover; to spare them deeds that can never be atoned; to shield Alured, not only from Monthermer's lance, but from the more terrible fate of going to his God with a false charge upon his lips--a charge which he knows to be false,--a woman may well put on a boldness she would otherwise shrink from--ay, and do things which maiden modesty would forbid, were not the cause so great and overpowering." "Certainly," rejoined Eleanor, "so long as virtue and religion say not nay." "God forbid that I should sin against either!" replied Lucy, eagerly. "That could never be, lady--But there be small forms, and prudent cautions, reserves, and cold proprieties, which, in the ordinary intercourse of life, are near akin to virtues, though separate. These surely may be laid aside, when the matter is to rescue from crime, from death, or from disgrace, beings so much beloved as these?" "Assuredly!" exclaimed Eleanor, "who can doubt it? To save my Edward, what should stand in my way? Nothing but that honour which I know he values more than all earthly things, or even life itself." "Thanks, lady, thanks!" cried Lucy; "you confirm me in my purpose." "But what is your purpose, my sweet cousin?" asked the Princess. "I do not yet comprehend you." "Will you promise me," said Lucy, "that if I tell, you will let me have my will; that you will put no bar or hindrance in my way, nor inform any one of my scheme, but with my leave." Eleanor smiled. "I may well promise that," she answered, "for if you please, you may conceal your scheme, and then I am powerless. No bar or hindrance will I place, dear Lucy, but kind remonstrances, if I think you wrong. What is this plan of yours?" "This, this!" cried Lucy. "Here on this paper has my brother written down that he doubts Hugh de Monthermer's guilt; that he so much doubts the truth of the charge which he himself has made, as to require his sister to overlook the shedding of his blood, and unite her fate with the man who slays him, if he should fall in those fatal lists.--Nay, lady, look you here; he puts no condition, but that Hugh de Monthermer should prove his innocence." "Well," said Eleanor, "I see he is kind and generous, and evidently believes the charge was rashly made, and is not just." "Yet nought will keep him," replied Lucy, "from sustaining that charge to-morrow at the lance's point, although he knows it to be false. Tears, prayers, entreaties, appeals to conscience and to honour, are all in vain with him: he will die, but yield no jot of what he thinks his fame requires. He would not withdraw the accusation if an angel told him it were untrue. But Hugh is not so stern and cruel, lady; he will listen to reason and to right. He told me himself that he would have laid down his battle hand, would but the King have named a few days later; for he is as sure as of his own life, to prove the guilt upon another man. Oh, lady! in that long, sad interview, he was as much shaken as I, a poor weak girl. Yet what could I say, what could I do, so long as my brother maintained the charge in all its virulence? Now, however, now I will hie to him--ay, lady," she continued, "even to his chamber! I will beseech him, for mercy's sake, for my sake, for our love's sake, to avoid this unholy encounter; for the peace, for the comfort throughout life of the lady that he loves, to quit this place ere morning's dawn to-morrow." "He will not do it," answered Eleanor, sadly; "you will but wring his heart, and break your own.--He will not do it." "I will soften him with my tears!" said Lucy vehemently, "I will kneel to him on the ground; I will cover his hand with my kisses and water it with my eyes--" Eleanor shook her head. "I will offer to go with him!" said Lucy, in a low and thrilling tone, fixing her eyes, with a look of doubt and inquiry, on the Princess's face. "Ha!" cried Eleanor, starting, while, for a moment, the colour mounted into her cheek. But the next instant she cast her arms round Lucy, and bent her head towards her with a smile, saying--"And thou wilt conquer!--Dear, devoted girl, I dare not altogether approve and sanction what you do; yet, I will add, hard were the heart, and discourteous were the lip, to blame thee. The object is a mighty one; no common means will reach it; and, surely, if thou dost succeed in saving thy brother both from a great crime and a great danger, and proving thy lover innocent, without risking his renown, thou shalt deserve high praise and honour, and no censure, even in this foul-tongued world in which we live. But stay yet awhile, Edward will soon be here, and perchance this letter itself may render the trial needless. You say that it contains proofs of your lover's innocence?" "So my brother told me!" replied Lucy--"proofs that have shaken even his stern spirit; but, lady, you must not betray my secret to the Prince, for he will stop our departure." "If I tell him," answered Eleanor, "my promise shall bind both; but, doubtless, the King, if there be any clear proofs here, in these papers, will order the wager of battle to be delayed. But go--get thee ready for thy task, dear Lucy; when Edward comes, I will send for thee again." CHAPTER XL. About an hour before the return of the young Earl of Ashby from his ride towards Leicester, his cousin Richard had presented himself in his ante-chamber, expecting to find him within. He was no favourite of the servants of the house, and a feeling of doubt and distrust towards him had become general amongst them. A cold look from the armourers, and a saucy reply from a page--importing that the Earl was absent, and that no one could tell when he would come back--was all the satisfaction which Richard de Ashby could obtain; and, returning into the court, he paced slowly across towards the gate where he had left his horses. Sir William Geary passed him just at that moment, but did not stop, merely saying, with his cold, supercilious look, "Ha, Dickon! thou art in the way to make a great man of thyself, it seems!" "Stay, Geary, stay!" cried Sir Richard, not very well pleased either with his tone or his look. But Sir William walked on, replying, "I can't at present, Dickon. For once in my life, I am busy." "They all look cold upon me," muttered Richard de Ashby, as he walked slowly on; "can anything have been discovered?" His heart sunk at the thought, and the idea of flying crossed his mind for a moment. But he was, as we have shown, not without a dogged sort of courage, and he murmured, "No, I will die at the stake sooner. I must find out, however, what has taken place, that I may be prepared." He somewhat quickened his pace, and had already put his foot in the stirrup, to mount his horse, when he heard a voice calling him by name, and turning round with a sudden start, he beheld Guy de Margan coming after him with rapid steps. "I saw you from my window," said the courtier, hastening up, "and have much matter for your ear. But let us go down by the back way into the town, and let your horses follow." In a moment, Richard de Ashby had banished from his countenance the look of anxiety and thought which it had just borne, not choosing that one, who was already somewhat more in his confidence than he liked, should see those traces of painful care, which might, perhaps, lead him, joined with the knowledge he already possessed, to a suspicion of those darker deeds which had not been communicated to him. "Well, Guy!" he said, as they walked on, "how flies the crow now? I find my noble cousin, the Earl, has gone out to take an afternoon ride--not the way, methinks, that men usually spend the last few hours before a mortal encounter. But he does it for bravado; and, if he do not mind, his life and his renown will end together in to-morrow's field." "Perhaps 'twere better they did," answered Guy de Margan, shortly; and then--replying to a look of affected wonder which Richard de Ashby turned upon him, he continued, "I know not your plans or secrets, Dickon; but I fear you will find your cousin Alured less easy to deal with than even Hugh de Monthermer. He doubts the truth of the charge he has brought!" "Then he should not have brought it!" said Richard de Ashby. "What have I to do with that?" "Nothing, perhaps," replied Guy de Margan, "but he loves not any of those whose reports induced him to make it. I found that, myself, while I was sitting with him last night. He was strangely uncivil to me; but you are foremost on the list, Dickon!" "Pooh!" cried the other. "Let him but conquer in to-morrow's lists, and the pride of having done so will make him love us all dearly again. I know Alured well, De Margan, and there is no harm done, if that be all!" "But it is not all!" said Guy de Margan. "While I was sitting with him, an old woman--a withered old woman, the servants told me after--came up to call him to your house, bearing a message, as if from you." "'Twas false! I was far away--Did he go?" exclaimed Richard de Ashby, now moved indeed. "That did he immediately," answered his companion. "I walked down with him, and saw him in." "Why, in the name of hell, did you not stop him?" cried Richard de Ashby. "Old woman! I have no old woman there!" "Perhaps he went to see the young one you have there," said Guy de Margan, in a careless tone. "Curse her! if she have--" exclaimed Richard de Ashby; and then suddenly stopped himself, without finishing his sentence. "Yes!" proceeded Guy de Margan, with the same affected indifference of tone; "yes, he did go down, and went in, and stayed for more than an hour, for I was at the King's banquet, and saw him come back; and I spoke with his henchman, Peter, afterwards, who told me that he was mightily affected all that night, and brought with him, from your house, a paper, which he sealed carefully up. Look to it, Dickon--look to it!" They had now come to a flight of steps which led them down over one of the rocky descents which were then somewhat more steep than they are now in the good town of Nottingham, and Richard de Ashby, pausing at the top, ordered the horses to go round, while he with Guy de Margan took the shorter way. He said nothing till he reached the bottom; but there, between two houses, neither of which had any windows on that side, he stopped suddenly, and grasping his companion's arm, regarded him face to face with a bent brow and searching eye. "What is it you mean, Guy de Margan?" he asked. "You either know or suspect something more than you say." "I know nothing," replied Guy de Margan, "and I wish to know nothing, my good friend. So tell me nothing. I am the least curious man in all the world. What I suspect is another affair. But now listen to me. The death of Hugh de Monthermer, sweet gentleman though he be, would not be unpleasant to me; the death of the Earl, though you would have to wear mourning for your Earldom, would not, I have reason to believe, be very inconvenient or unpleasant to you. Now mark me, Dickon; if these two men meet to-morrow, your cousin Alured, doubting the justice of his cause, and shaken by foolish scruples, will fall before the lance of Hugh de Monthermer as sure as I live. Every one of the court sees it, and knows it. That would suit your purpose well, you think? But you might be mistaken even there. Nothing but dire necessity will drive Monthermer to take the Earl's life. The Prince is to be judge of the field, and he will drop his warder on the very slightest excuse. Thus you may be frustrated, and both you and I see our hopes marred in a minute.--But there is something more to be said: I do not choose that your purpose should be served, and not my own." "Why, Guy de Margan," exclaimed his companion, in a bitter tone; "you do not think that I am tenderly anxious for Monthermer's life?" "No, nor I for Alured de Ashby's," answered de Margan; "but either both shall die or both shall live, Richard de Ashby. Your cousin's mind is now in that state, that but three words from me, turning his suspicions in another channel, will make him retract his charge, and offer amends to him he has calumniated.--Ay, and worse may come of it than that. Now I will speak these words, Richard de Ashby, in plain terms--I will prevent this conflict, unless you assure me that both shall fall." "But how can I do that?" demanded Richard de Ashby, gazing upon him with evident alarm. "How is it possible for me to insure an event which is in the hand of fate alone?" "In the hand of fate!" cried Guy de Margan, with a scoff. "To hear thee speak, one would think that thou art as innocent as Noe's dove. Art thou not thy cousin's godfather in the list to-morrow?" "Ay, so he said," replied Richard de Ashby. "Then instruct him how to slay his adversary," rejoined Guy de Margan. "Tell him not to aim at shield or helmet, but at any spot; his shoulder--his arm--his throat--his hip, where he can see the bare hauberk." "Alured knows better," said Richard. "He will drive straight upon him with his lance; and then the toughest wood--the firmest seat--the steadiest hand--the keenest eye, will give the victory." "Nay, but tell him," answered Guy de Margan, in a lower tone, "that you know what is passing in his mind, the doubts, the hesitation, and that the conflict on foot is that wherein alone he can hope to win the day. Ask him if he ever saw Hugh de Monthermer unhorsed by a straight-forward stroke of a lance whoever was his opponent? But show him that, by striking him at the side, and turning him in the saddle, he may be brought to the ground without a doubt." "But still what is this to me?" asked Richard, impatiently; "the one or the other must win the day." "No--no!" cried Guy de Margan. "I will show you a means by which, if you can ensure that Alured de Ashby's lance dips but its point in Hugh de Monthermer's blood, it shall carry with it as certain a death as if it went through and through his heart; a scratch--a simple scratch--will do it.--When I was in the land of the old Romans--now filled with priests and sluggards, who have nought on earth to do but to sit and debauch the peasant girls, and hatch means of ridding themselves of enemies--a good honest man, who took care that none should be long his foe, and was possessed of many excellent secrets, gave me, for weighty considerations, a powder of so balmy a quality, that either dropped into a cup or rubbed on a fresh wound, though the quantity be not bigger than will lie on a pin's-head, it will cure the most miserable man of all his sorrows, or within half an hour will take out the pain of the most terrible injury--for ever!" "I understand--I understand," said Richard de Ashby. "Give me the powder; would I had had it long ago. But how can one fix it to the lance's point, so that in the shock of combat it is not brushed off?" "Mix it with some gentle unguent," answered Guy de Margan; "'twill have the same effect." "I will, I will," replied his companion; "then with a thick glove I will feel the lance's point, to make sure that all is right, like a good cautious godfather in arms, first carefully trying the wood upon my knee, with every other seeming caution which the experienced in such matters use. No fear but Alured, one way or other, will draw his blood. Oh yes! and both shall go on the same road.--Half an hour, say you?--Will he have strength to end the combat? "Fully," replied Guy de Margan; "for within two minutes of his death he will seem as strong as ever. I tried it on a hound--just scratched his hanging lip, then took him to the field, and on he went after the game, eager and strong and loud tongued; but in full cry down dropped he in a moment, quivering and panting, and after beating the air for some two minutes with his struggling paws, lay dead." "Give it me--give it me!" cried Richard de Ashby, and then burst into a fit of laughter, as if it were the merriest joke that ever had been told. Guy de Margan put his hand into the small embroidered pouch he wore under his arm, and took forth an ivory box, not bigger than a large piece of money. "What, is this all?" exclaimed Richard de Ashby, taking the little case. "Is this enough?" "To slay more men than fell at Evesham," replied Guy de Margan; "but be careful how you mix it. Remember, the slightest scratch upon your own hand sends you to the place appointed for you, if but a grain of that finds entrance." "I will take care--I will take care," said Richard de Ashby; "and now look upon the deed as done. Ere this time to-morrow, you will have had your revenge--and I shall be Earl of Ashby." "Ha! ha!" cried Guy de Margan, "is the truth out at length? Well, good Richard, fare thee well; we shall meet to-morrow in deep grief for the events of this sad field. In the meantime I will go to your cousin, the short-lived Earl, and nerve him for this battle. I will inform him with mysterious looks that there is a plot afoot to delay the combat, and to make him believe his adversary innocent. You harp on the same string, when you see him; and I will tell him, too, that he shall have proof sufficient early to-morrow of Monthermer's guilt. If we but get him to the field, the matter's done--he will not retract." "Farewell, De Margan--farewell!" said Richard de Ashby, "I will go home and make inquiries there;" and as he turned away, he murmured--"If this powder be so potent, there may be enough for you also, my good friend--but I shall have another to deal with first. Kate Greenly, my pretty lady, you have a secret too much to carry far; if you have not betrayed me already, I will take care that you shall not do so now." A few minutes brought him to the house he had hired in Nottingham, and knocking hard, the door was almost instantly opened by a young lad whom he had left behind with his unhappy paramour. "Where is the lady?" was the first question that the youth's master put to him. "In her own chamber?" "No, noble sir," replied the servant; "she went forth some time ago." "Gone forth!" exclaimed his master--"gone forth, when I forbade her to cross the threshold!" "I could not stay her, sir," rejoined the youth, who had been brought up in no bad school for learning impudence, as well as other vices. "Women will gad, sir, and who can stop them?" "Hold thy saucy prate, knave!" cried the knight, "and answer me truly. Who has been here since I went?" "Nobody, sir," replied the boy--"nobody but the old priest." "What old priest?" demanded his master, with a bent and angry brow. "The old priest who was here before, noble sir," said the boy, in a more timid tone, for his lord's look frightened him. "He who was here the night you went to Lindwell." "Ha!" cried Richard de Ashby; "a priest here that night? 'tis well for him I caught him not!--When was he here again?" "Twice, sir," replied the youth; "once in the morning; and last night she sent me for him again." "And no one else?" asked Richard de Ashby. "No one," answered the boy, firmly; and then added, in a more doubtful tone--"no one that I remember." "Boy, 'tis a lie!" replied his master. "I see it on thy face: thou know'st thou liest!"--and as he spoke, he caught him by the breast, giving him a shake that made his breath come short. "Who has been here? If thou speak'st not at a word, thou shalt have a taste of this!" and he laid his hand upon his dagger. "No one, indeed--no one that I know of," said the boy. "I may suspect----" "And who do you suspect?" asked Richard de Ashby. "Why, noble sir, last night," replied the boy, "as I was going up the street to seek the priest, I saw two gentlemen come near the house; and one of them, who was the noble Earl, your cousin, I am sure, went up as if to the door, and, I think, was let in; the other turned away." "Did my cousin go in?" demanded Richard. "Say me but yea or nay.--Did he go in, I say?" "I think so, sir," replied the youth--"I think so, but cannot be sure; there came a sudden light across the road as if the door opened, but by that time I was too far up the street to see." "'Tis as De Margan said," thought the knight; and striding up at once to the chamber where the corpse was laid, he found the door wide open, and the body fairly laid out and decked, as it was called. A crucifix and some sprigs of holly were on the breast; a small cup of holy water stood near; a lamp was burning, although the sun was not yet down, and everything gave plain indication that the man had not died without the succour of the church, and that the corpse had been watched by other eyes besides those of poor Kate Greenly. "I have been betrayed!" said Richard de Ashby to himself.--"I have been betrayed! Yet if it be but the priest, there is no great harm done. The secret of confession, at all events, is safe. But where is the girl herself, and what has been her communication with Alured? That must be known ere many hours be over--perhaps I shall know it soon enough.--And yet what can she tell, but that a wounded man died in my house, brought in by people who had once visited me, and that, too, while I was absent?--'Tis my own conscience makes me fear. If Ellerby would but betake himself to Wales or France, or anywhere but here, all would be safe enough; but he keeps hovering about, like a moth round a candle. Where are this man's clothes, I wonder?"--and taking up the lamp, for it was now rapidly growing dark, he sought carefully about the room; but neither clothes, nor sword, nor dagger were to be found. "There is a plot against me," he continued; "'tis evident enough now. She may have gained more information than I think; she may have overheard something. A paper!--What paper could she give to Alured! Perhaps the covenant that I foolishly gave to these men! He might have had it about him. Ellerby may have forgotten it. That were damnation, indeed! Perhaps 'twere better to fly, while there is yet time!--Fly? no, never!--to be a wandering outcast upon the face of the earth, seeking my daily sustenance at the sword's point, or else by art and cunning, when the earldom of Ashby is almost within my grasp! No, never! I will go face it at once, and woe to him that crosses me!--If I could but find that girl--Hark, there is a noise below!" and with a nervous start he turned to listen, and soon heard that the sounds proceeded from the servants, whom he had sent round with his horses, talking with the lad in the hall. "I will go face it at once," he repeated to himself--"I will wait for him at his lodging, and soon find out what he knows: doubtless he has kept it to his own breast. Alured is not one to cast a stain upon his race. No, no; he will not accuse one of the name of Ashby!" Thus saying, he descended the stairs; and bidding his servants keep good watch in the house till he returned, he took his way back to the castle on foot. On reaching the apartments of his cousin, he found a number of attendants in the outer room, apparently not long returned from a journey. Some time had since passed, however, for they were eating and drinking merrily, and little did they seem disposed to interrupt their meal for their lord's poor kinsman. "My lord is out, Sir Richard," said one, "he is gone to the Prince's lodging." "Nonsense, Ned!" cried another--"he's come back again; but he told Peter that he did not wish to be disturbed by any one." "Of course, he did not thereby mean me," replied Richard de Ashby, sternly. "Go in, Ned, and tell him I am here." The man obeyed, sullenly enough, and the moment after, the knight heard his cousin's voice, saying, in a hasty tone--"I want not to see him. Tell him I am engaged--going out on matters, of moment. Yet, stay, send him in." Richard de Ashby's eyes were fixed sternly upon the ground as he heard the bitter confirmation of his fears, and he muttered to himself--"Aye, he has heard more than he should have known." When the servant returned, however, and bade him follow to his lord's presence, he cleared his brow, and went in with as satisfied an air as he could well assume. The table was laid for supper, and his cousin was standing at the end, in the act of setting down from his hand a drinking cup of jewelled agate, the contents of which he had half-drained. "I would not have disturbed you, Alured," said the knight, "but as I am to go with you to the field, it is necessary that we should talk over our arrangements." "I have no arrangements to make," cried the young Earl, looking at him askance, like a fiery horse half inclined to kick at the person who approaches. "I am going to fight--that is all. I have had a lance in my hand before now, and know how to use it." "Yes," replied Richard de Ashby, "and you will use it right well, and to the destruction of your adversary. I am aware of that, Alured; but still there may be many things to be said between us. When one knows one's opponent in the lists, consideration and skill may be employed to baffle his particular mode of fighting his art--his trick, call it what you will. Now I have often seen Hugh de Monthermer run a course--you, I think, never have but once?" "I met him hand to hand at Evesham," replied his cousin impatiently; "that is, enough for me. I want neither advice nor assistance, cousin mine; and more, as we are now upon the subject, you go not to the field with me--I will choose another godfather.--Nay, no attitudes or flashing eyes. I tell thee, Dickon, things have come to my knowledge which may touch your life, so make the most of the hint. The time is short, for as soon as the Prince returns, he shall be made acquainted with all the facts." "But, Alured, explain!" exclaimed Richard de Ashby. "No need of explanation," replied his cousin; "you will hear enough of it ere long, if you wait. Let your conscience be your guide to stay or fly. At any rate, remain not here. I go for a moment to, shake hands with Hugh de Monthermer, ere I meet him to-morrow at the lance's point, and to tell him that I bear him no ill will, though honour compels me to appear in arms against him. I would not find you here when I return; and let me not see your face at to-morrow's lists, for it would bring down a curse upon me." Thus saying, he strode out of the room without waiting for a reply, and Richard de Ashby, in the passion of the moment, writhed his fingers in his own hair, and tore it out by the roots. "A curse upon him!" he cried, "a curse upon him! Well, let it fall! Tell the Prince? Blast his own blood? Stain the name of Ashby for ever? Bring me to the block? But I know better," he continued, suddenly recovering himself--"he shall never do that;" and looking anxiously round the room, he drew from his pouch the small box that Guy de Margan had given him, approached the door, which his cousin had left partly open, pushed it gently to, and then, returning to the table, he poured a small portion of the white, powder it contained into the drinking cup of Alured de Ashby. A triumphant smile lighted up his countenance as he saw the powder disappear in the wine which still remained in the cup. "He will drink again when he comes back," said the villain. "I know him, Ha! ha! ha!--and he must tell his story soon to Prince Edward's ear, or his tongue may fail him, by chance.--On my life, I think he is a coward, and afraid to face this Monthermer. But doubt and hesitation are past with me. Kate Greenly, 'tis your turn now. She is with the priest, doubtless--she is with the priest.--Her tongue once silenced, and I Earl of Ashby, who will dare to accuse me then?--Or if they do, why let them! I will unfurl my banner on my castle walls, call around me the scattered party of De Montfort, and set Edward at defiance, till, by a soft capitulation, I ensure the past from all inquiries. But now for the girl--she must see no more suns rise!" And thus saying, he quitted the room and castle with a hasty step. CHAPTER XLI. "The Earl of Ashby, my good lord, desires to speak with you," said stout Tom Blawket, addressing Hugh de Monthermer, as he sat at a table, writing. "Admit him instantly," answered Hugh. "Is he alone?" "Quite alone, my lord," replied the man, and retired. The burst of anger to which Alured de Ashby had given way, when irritated by his cousin's presence, had passed off; and he now entered the chamber of Hugh de Monthermer, grave and sad, but with feelings of a high and noble kind. He turned his eye back, as he passed the door towards the ante-room, where a page and some yeomen were seated; and Hugh de Monthermer, divining the meaning of the glance, bade Blawket, as he ushered the Earl in, clear the outer chamber and let no one remain there. The Earl advanced at once towards his adversary, and with a frank though grave air, held out his hand. Hugh took it and pressed it in his own, and seating themselves together, Alured de Ashby began upon the motive of his coming. "Monthermer," he said, "I cannot meet you to-morrow in the field, as needs must be in consequence of my own rashness and the world's opinion, without saying a word or two to clear my conscience and relieve my heart. When I made the charge I did make, I was induced by artful men to believe you guilty. Since then, however, reason and thought, and some accidental discoveries, have made me doubt the fact. "Doubt?" exclaimed Hugh de Monthermer, in a tone of reproach. "Well, well," said Alured, "to believe that the charge is false. Will that satisfy you?" "It must," replied Hugh de Monthermer. "Am I then to suppose, that it is the world's opinion, the fear of an idle scoff alone, which makes you draw your sword against a friend, which makes you still urge--but I will not use a term that can pain you--which makes you risk your life and mine, a sister's happiness, and your own repose of mind for ever, all for an idle scoff?" "Even so, Monthermer, even so!" said Alured de Ashby, in a sad, but determined tone. "I know it all--all you could urge; but yet you and I are well matched in arms; both have some renown--yours, perhaps, higher than my own, from having fought in Palestine--and it is impossible that, after having called you to the field, I can in aught retract, without drawing down upon myself a charge of fear, which must never rest upon my name. Men would say I dared not meet you, and that must not be." Hugh rose from his seat, and walked twice across the room, then shook his head with a grieved and sorrowful expression, replying, "Ashby, you are wrong; but I, on my part, must say no word to shake your resolution. As you judge best, so must you act, but I go to the field with a heart free from wrong; sad, bitterly sad, that I am forced to draw the sword against a man whom I would fain take to my heart with love;--sad, bitterly sad, that whether I live or die, a charge I have not merited brings sorrow upon me. But, as I have said, I will urge no motive upon you to change your purpose; only hear me, Alured, when I call God and all the holy saints to witness, that the thought of injuring your father by word or deed never could cross my mind--that I am, in short, as guiltless of his death as the babe unborn!" "I believe you--I do believe you, indeed," said the young Earl. "Well, then," replied Hugh, "I have a charge to give you, Alured. None can tell what the result of such a day as to-morrow may be. I go with my heart bent down with care and sorrow; your sister's love blunts my lance and rusts my sword--hatred of the task put upon me hangs heavy on my arm--and 'tis possible that, though mine be the righteous cause, yours the bad one, I may fall, and you may conquer. If so, there is a debt of justice which you owe me, and I charge you execute it--ay, as an act of penitence. Proclaim with your own voice the innocence of the man you have slain, seek every proof to show he was not guilty, and bring the murderers to the block--even should you find them in your own house." The Earl covered his eyes with his hands, and remained silent for a moment, but then looked up again, saying, "No, no; 'tis I that shall fall. The penalty of my own rashness at first, the penalty of my own weakness now--for it is a weakness--will be paid by myself, Monthermer. I feel that my days are at an end; my death under your lance will clear you of the charge that I have brought against you, and yours will be the task to seek and punish the assassins of my father." "And your sister?" said Hugh de Monthermer. "I have seen her," replied her brother. "I have seen her, and told her my wishes and my will. Of that no more; only remember, Monthermer, that when to-morrow I call God to witness that my cause is just, the cause I mean is not my charge against you, but the defence of my own honour against the injurious suspicions of the world." Hugh looked at him with a rueful smile. "Alas, Alured!" he said, "I fear the eye of Heaven will not see the distinction. Ask your confessor what he thinks of such a reservation. But if it must be so, so let it be!! Yet 'tis a strange thing that two men, most unwilling to do each other wrong, should be doomed by one hasty word to slaughter each other against conscience." "Ay, so goes the world, Hugh," replied the Earl, "and so it will go too, I fear, till the last day. We must all do our devoir as knights." Hugh de Monthermer remembered of his knightly oath and the true duties of chivalry, and he could not help thinking that the mere reputation of a lesser virtue was held to be of more importance than the great and leading characteristics of that noble institution. He said nothing, however; for he would not urge the Earl to forego his purpose, and he knew that reproach would irritate, but not change him. "I grieve, Alured," he said, "that you feel it so; but as you are the mover in all this, with you must it rest. I can but defend my innocence as best I may." The tone which the young knight assumed, the calmness, the kindness, the want of all bravado, touched Alured de Ashby's heart more than aught else on earth could have done, and wringing Hugh de Monthermer's hand, he said, "Good bye, good bye! I believe you innocent, from my soul, Monthermer, and I would give my right hand that you or I were a hundred miles hence this night." With these words he quitted the room, and turned his steps toward his own lodging. He had thought, by visiting his adversary, to satisfy those better feelings, which, under the pressure of dark and terrible circumstances, had arisen in his heart--he had thought to relieve his bosom of the load that sat upon it, to make his conscience feel light and easy, and to cast off the burden of regret. But the result had been very different: the bitterness in his heart was doubled; sorrow, shame, anxiety, were all increased; and yet not one word or look of him whom he had deeply injured, gave human nature the opportunity of rousing up anger to take the place of regret. He felt his heart burn within him, his eyeballs seemed on fire, his head ached, and, ere he entered the door which led to his apartments, he threw back his hood, and walked three or four times up and down the court. He was just about to go in, when another figure, coming across from the same side where his lodgings lay, approached and cut him off, as it were; and in a moment after, Guy de Margan was at his side. "Give you good evening, my lord," he said. "Good night," rejoined Alured, advancing as if to pass him. "Pray what is the matter with your cousin Richard?" asked the other. "I met him hurrying through the gates but now like a madman." "I know not, sir," replied Alured, impatiently; but, the moment after he continued, in a changed tone--"By the way, Sir Guy, I would fain speak with you. Thou hast been a friend and companion of Richard de Ashby." "Well, my lord!" exclaimed Guy de Margan. "Thou hast aided him with all thy might, to fix the crime of my father's death on Hugh de Monthermer!" said the Earl, and then paused, as if for a reply. None was made, however, and he went on. "The accusers may be the accused some day--so look to it! look to it!" and he turned hastily towards his lodging. Guy de Margan stayed for a moment in the middle of the court, and then darted after Alured de Ashby, exclaiming, "My lord--my lord! one word. Do you mean to charge me with any share in your father's death? If you do, I demand, that this instant, before the King, you make it publicly. I know, too well, my lord, to dare you to arms upon such a quarrel; but if the Earl of Ashby thinks fit first to accuse one, and then another, I will put myself upon my trial by my peers, who will force you to prove your words." "Out of my way, reptile!" cried the Earl--"Out of my way, or I will stamp upon thy head, and crush thee like a poisonous worm. Who accused thee? I did not!" "I thought the Earl of Ashby might seek to avoid fighting his adversary," said Guy de Margan, drawing a step or two back, "and wish to do it at my expense--Hugh de Monthermer is a renowned knight, and no pleasant foe to meet at outrance." Alured felt for the pommel of his sword, but he had left it on the table behind him; and springing at once upon Guy de Margan, he caught him by the throat before he could dart away, and hurled him backwards with tremendous force upon the pavement. Stunned and bleeding, Guy de Margan lay without sense or motion; and the young Earl, crying, "Lie there, fox!" strode back to his apartments. Passing hastily through the other rooms to his own chamber, he paused by the side of the table, in deep thought; and then, pronouncing the words, "A set of knaves and villains!" he filled the agate cup to the brim with wine, raised it to his lips, and drained it to the dregs. CHAPTER XLII. Some half hour after she had left the Princess--and we will venture to hope that the reader has particularly marked at what precise moment of time each of the scenes which we have lately described were taking place in the castle of Nottingham--some half-hour after she had left the Princess, Lucy de Ashby, covered with one of those large gowns of grey cloth which were worn by the less strict orders of nuns, while travelling, with her fair head wrapped in a wimple, and a pilgrim's bag hung over shoulder, filled with a few trinkets and some other things which she thought necessary to take with her, leaned thoughtfully upon the table in the wide, oddly-shaped chamber, which had been appropriated to her in Nottingham Castle. Near her stood one of the maids, whom we have seen with her before, and who now watched her mistress's countenance and the eager emotions that were passing over it, with a look of anxiety and affection. At length, with a sudden movement, as if she had long restrained herself, the girl burst forth, "Let me go with thee, lady! "You know not where I go, Claude," replied Lucy; "you know not, indeed, that I am going anywhere!" "Yes, yes," said the girl, "I am sure you are going somewhere; if not, why have you put on that disguise?" "But--but to see if it would do, in case of need," answered Lucy. "Here, take it off good girl! I should not recognise myself, much less would others!" "Ay, lady, but still thou art going somewhere," said the girl, aiding her to pull off the wimple and gown. "I know not where, 'tis true, but I will go with thee, anywhere--neither distance nor danger will scare me; and I am sure I can help thee!" "Well, be it as thou wilt!" replied Lucy, after a moment's thought, "but it may be that we shall leave behind us courts and soft beds for ever, Claude." "I care not--I care not!" cried the girl, "I would rather live with the bold foresters in the wood than at Nottingham or Lindwell either." Lucy smiled, as the girl's words brought back the memory of one happy day, and with it the hopes that then were bright. "Well, haste thee," she said, "haste thee to make ready; there are many here who know thee, Claude, and we must both pass unrecognised." "Oh!" answered her attendant, "I will transform me in a minute in such sort that my lover--if I had one--should refuse me at the altar, or else be forsworn! Hark! there is some one knocks." "Pull it off--pull it off!" cried Lucy, disembarrassing herself of the gown. "Now run, and see!" "The Princess, madam, requires your instant presence," said the girl, after having spoken for a moment to some one at the door; and, with a quick step, and eager eye, Lucy de Ashby advanced along the corridor, following one of Eleanor's ladies who had brought the message. The latter opened the door of the Princess's chamber for her young companion to enter, but did not, as usual, go in herself; and Lucy found Eleanor and her husband alone. Edward was clothed in arms, as he had come from Leicester, dusty, and soiled with travelling, but his head was uncovered, except by the strong curling hair which waved round his lordly brow, while a small velvet bonnet and feather, in which he had been riding, was seen cast upon one of the settles near the door. He was walking, with a slow step, up and down the room, with his brows knit, and a glance of disappointment and even anger in his eye. Eleanor, on the contrary, sat and gazed on him in silence, with a grave and tender look, as if waiting till the first ebullition of feeling was past and the moment for soothing or consolation arrived. "Here she is, Edward," said the Princess, as soon as Lucy entered; and those words showed her that the conversation of her two royal friends had been of herself, and made her fear that the evident anger of Edward had been excited by something she had done. The timid and imploring look which she cast upon him, however, when he turned towards her instantly banished the frown from his brow; and taking her hand, he said, "Be not afraid, dear lady; I am more angry perhaps than becomes me, but 'tis not with you or yours. When I came here, some twenty minutes since, my sweet wife gave me this paper, which tends to clear our poor friend Hugh, and I instantly took it to the King to beseech him but to delay the combat for a week. Judge of my surprise, when he refused me with an oath, and swore that either your brother should make good his charge or die. But 'tis not my father's fault, lady," he continued, seeing a look of horror, mingled somewhat with disgust, come upon Lucy's face--"'tis not my father's fault, I can assure you. Mortimer and Pembroke, and some others who have his ear, have so prepossessed his mind, that for the moment all words or arguments are vain; and yet this combat must not take place, or one of two noble men will be murdered." "Then let me try to stop it," answered Lucy, "Has the Princess, my lord----" "Yes--yes, she has," cried Edward, "and you must try, sweet Lucy; but I doubt that even your persuasions--I doubt that even the bribe of your fair hand will induce Monthermer to fly and leave his name to ignominy even for a day." "Nay--nay, he will," said Eleanor; "certain of his own innocence, with the confession of her brother which Lucy has, that he believes him guiltless----" "'Tis but an expression of doubt," interrupted Edward, "if you told me right." "Nay, Edward," asked the Princess, rising and laying her hand upon his arm; "if the case were our own--if I besought you with tears and with entreaties, and every argument that she can use, would you not yield?" "'Twere a hard case, dear lady mine," replied Edward, kissing her--"'twere a hard case, in truth, yet I may doubt. His answer might be clear; with honour, innocence, and courage on his side, why should he fly?" "To save _my_ brother," said Lucy, looking up in the Prince's face. "Ay, but his renown!" exclaimed Edward.--"Yet he must fly. Some means must be found to persuade him." "Cannot you, my most gracious lord?" asked Lucy, "Ay, that is the question," rejoined the Prince, again walking up and down the room. "What will be said of me, if I interfere?--My father's anger, too.--To tell a Knight to fly from his devoir!--Yet it must be done.--Hark ye, fair lady; go to him, as you have proposed, use prayers, entreaties, whatever may most move him--do all that you have proposed--offer to go with him and be his bride. He scarcely can refuse that, methinks;" and he turned a more smiling look towards Eleanor. "But if all fails, tell him that I entreat--nay, that I command him--if he be so sure of shortly proving his innocence, that no man can even dream I have done this thing for favour--tell him I command him to fly this night, and that I will justify him--that I will avow 'twas done by my express command; and let me see the man in all my father's realms to blame it!" "Will you, most gracious lord," said Lucy--"will you give it me under your hand? If I have but words, Hugh may think it is a woman's art to win him to her wishes." "Is there an ink-horn there?" demanded Edward, looking round. "Here--here," said the Princess, shewing him the materials for writing; and with a rapid hand Edward traced a few words upon the paper, and then read them, but still held the order in his hand. "Remember," he said, turning to Lucy, and speaking in an earnest, almost a stern tone, "this is to be the last means you use, and not till every other has been tried in vain. 'Tis a rash act, I fear, and somewhat an unwise one, that I do, though with a good intent, but I would fain it were never mentioned were it possible." "This makes all safe," said Lucy, taking the paper; "he will go now, my lord, that his honour is secure. But I promise you no entreaties of mine shall be spared to make him go without it. I will forget that I have this precious thing, until he proves obdurate to all my prayers. Even then, methinks, I may show some anger to find him go at any words of yours when he has scorned all mine.--But, good sooth, I shall be too grateful to God to see him go at all, to let anger have any part." "Well--well, fair lady," said the Prince, "may God send us safely and happily through this dark and sad affair! We are told not to do evil, that good may come of it; but here, methinks, I only choose between two duties, and follow the greater. I act against my father's will, 'tis true; but thereby I save the shedding of innocent blood, and I spare the King himself a deed which he would bitterly repent hereafter. God give it a good end, I say once more! for we act for the best." "Fear not--fear not, my Edward," said Eleanor; "God will not fail those that trust in him. May He protect thee, Lucy!" and as she spoke she kissed her young friend's forehead tenderly. "Now tell me," she continued, "is all prepared for your expedition?" "All," replied Lucy. "My girl Claude has got me a grey sister's gown, which will conceal me fully." "Is that all?" cried the Prince. "Where are the horses?--but leave that to me. If Monthermer consents to go, bid him make no delay, nor stay for any preparation. He will find horses at the city gate--the northern gate, I mean. In half an hour they shall be there. Know you the way to his lodging?" "Not well," said Lucy; "'tis, I think, the third door down the court;--but Claude will find it quickly, I don't doubt." "There is a speedier way than that," replied the Prince. "Follow the passage running by your room, then down the steps, and you will see a door; if you knock there, you will find his page or some other servant, for it leads into his ante-room. It were better," he continued, thoughtfully, "that you made a servant carry the disguise, and not assume it till you are sure that he will go. Were you to visit him in such a garb, fair lady," he added, taking her hand kindly, "and after to return unwedded, men might speak lightly of your reputation; and that which in holy purity of heart you did to avert a most needless combat, might turn to your discredit." The blood came warmly into Lucy's cheek, but the moment after she looked up in the Prince's face, replying, with an air of ingenuous candour, "You think me, doubtless, somewhat bold, my lord, and many men may censure me, but I have something here"--and she laid her hand upon her heart--"which blames me not, but bids me go, in innocence of purpose, and share his fate whatever it may be. God knows this is a sad and painful bridal, such as I never thought to see. A father's death, a brother's rashness, and a lover's danger, may well cloud it with sorrow. But there is a higher joy in thinking I am doing what is right,--in thinking that I, a poor weak girl, by scorning idle tongues, and the coarse jests of those who cannot feel as I can, have a power to save my brother's life, and to spare him I love the dreadful task of putting a bloody barrier 'twixt himself and me for ever.--Judge me aright, my lord!" "I do--I do," replied Edward; "and now, farewell. God speed you, lady, on your noble enterprise!" Lucy kissed his hand, and without more ado returned to her own chamber. "Quick, Claude!" she cried; "are you ready?" "Yes, madam," she answered. "Will you not put on the gown?" "No," said Lucy, still pausing at the door; "bring them with you, and follow quickly." The girl gathered up her lady's disguise and her own in haste, and Lucy led the way along the passage as the Prince had directed her. There were no doors on either side, and but a loophole every here and there, which showed that the corridor, along which they went, was practised in the wall. Full of renewed hope, and eager to see her scheme put in execution, the lady descended the steps, and was about at once to knock at the door, when her raised hand was stayed by hearing some one speaking. She felt faint, and her heart beat quickly, for she recognised her brother's voice. Lucy listened, and distinctly heard the words--"I believe you innocent, from my soul, Monthermer; and I would give my right hand that you or I were a hundred miles hence this night." A smile came upon her countenance. "He is preparing the way for me!" she murmured to herself; and again she listened, but all was silent, save a retreating step and a closing door. "He is gone," said Lucy, turning to her maid. "Stay you here, Claude, for a minute or two;" and without knocking, she gently opened the door and looked in. There was a small room before her, with a fire on the opposite side, and three stools near it, but no one there; and entering with a noiseless step, Lucy gazed round. A door appeared on either hand: that on the right was closed, but through it she heard sounds of talking and laughter: that on the left was in a slight degree ajar, but all was silent within. Gliding up to it with no noise but the light rustle of her garments, Lucy approached, and pushed it gently with her hand--so gently that she saw before she was seen. Nearly in the centre of the room stood he whom she loved, with his arms folded on his broad chest, his fine head bent, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and an expression both sorrowful and stern upon his lip and brow. As the door moved farther open, it roused him from his reverie, and he looked up; but what a sudden change came instantly upon his countenance. An expression mingled of joy, surprise, and anxiety, passed across his face, and exclaiming, "Lucy, dearest Lucy!" he sprang forward to meet her. Drawing her gently into the room, he closed the door, and then held her for a moment to his bosom while both were silent; for the throbbing of her heart left Lucy's tongue powerless, and Hugh dared not speak lest it should dispel what seemed but too happy a dream. "Dearest Lucy," he said, at length, "even while I thank and bless you for coming, I must ask what brings you here? It was rash, dear girl--it was rash! If you had sent to me, I would have been with you in a moment. It is not a minute yet since your brother was here." "I know it," replied Lucy--"I know it all, Hugh. I know it was rash to come; but I am going to do everything that is rash to-night, and this is but the beginning. It is in general that you men sue to us women--till you are our masters, at least; now I come to sue to you." "Oh, Lucy!" cried Hugh, with a sort of prescience of what she was about to say--"what is that you are going to ask? Remember, Lucy--remember my honour. If you love me, that honour ought to be dearer to you than my life. Ask me nothing that may bring shame upon me." "Listen to me--listen to me," she replied. "You must hear me, Hugh, before you can judge. Your honour _is_ dearer to me than your life; and oh, Hugh! you have yet to learn how dear that is to Lucy de Ashby;" and as she spoke, the tears rose into her eyes, but she dashed them away, and went on. "Yet it is not for your life I fear, dear as it is to me. Oh, no! your heart is safe. Panoplied in innocence and strength, you go but to conquer. It is for my brother that I fear--for my rash and hasty brother--ay, and guilty, if you will--for he who brings a false accusation against an innocent man is guilty. I tremble for him, Hugh; I tremble for myself, too; I fear that Hugh de Monthermer will draw upon his hand my brother's blood; and a hand so stained can never clasp mine again." "I know it," said Hugh; "but what can I do? I have no choice, Lucy, but to live for misery or to die disgraced!" "Yes," cried Lucy, eagerly--"yes, you have. Fly, Hugh de Monthermer! give no reason to any one why you go. You are sure, ere long, to establish your innocence.--appear not at the sound of the trumpet--appear not till you can prove his guilt upon the foul wretch who did the deed with which they charge you." "What!" exclaimed Hugh de Monthermer--"to be condemned, not only as a criminal, but as a coward and a recreant--to have my name pass from mouth to mouth throughout all Europe as a byword--to have heralds say, when they would point out a craven and a traitor--'He is like Hugh de Monthermer!' Oh, Lucy, Lucy! think of my honour--think of my renown!" "But your honour is safe, Hugh," answered Lucy, clinging to his arm. "Alured himself admits your innocence. I heard him say but now----" "Ay, in this room between him and me," replied Hugh de Monthermer; "but to-morrow he goes into the lists, and calls God to witness that his cause is just. To me he owns the falsehood of the charge, but to the world upholds that it is true." "Not so!" cried Lucy--"look here, Monthermer--see what he says to me here!"--and she drew forth the paper which Alured had given her. Hugh read it eagerly; and as he saw her brother's wish expressed, that, if he fell, their hands might be united, he turned his eyes towards the sweet girl beside him, with a look of tenderness and love deep and unutterable; but then the moment after, waving his head with a melancholy air, he said, "He knows you not as I know you, Lucy. His wish is kind and generous--noble--most noble, and atones for all. But would Lucy follow it?" "No!" she replied, raising her head, firmly. "Were I to waste away my life in hopeless regret and misery, my hand should never be given to him who sheds my brother's blood. I vow it, so help me God at my utmost need! But hear me; Hugh," she continued, her cheek, which had been very pale during the last words, becoming crimson--"Hear me, Hugh! hear me, my beloved!--hear me, and ho, grant my request! As eagerly, as fondly as ever you have sued for this hand, I now beseech you to take it.--On my knees, Hugh de Monthermer," and she sunk upon her knees before him--"on my knees thus, bedewing your hand with my tears, I beseech you to make Lucy de Ashby your wife." "But how, dearest Lucy!" he cried, stooping to raise her. "What--what do you mean? How--how is this to be!" "Fly!" exclaimed Lucy--"fly _with me_ this night! Here is my brother's full consent--here, also, is your justification--here, at the very first, he proclaims your innocence!" "Ah, no!" replied Hugh de Monthermer, shaking his head; "he says, but that he doubts my guilt. Oh, Lucy! you will drive me mad to give me such a precious sight in prospect, and then to sweep it all away. I tell thee, my beloved, there is not an honest man in all the realm that would not call me coward, if I fled." "Is that all that stays you?" demanded Lucy. "What, if I show you that, amongst the highest and most honourable of the land, there are those who will exculpate and defend you?" "You cannot do it, Lucy," replied Hugh. "You may think they would. They may have said some chance words--that 'twere better to fly--that I might avoid the combat for some days; but when the time came, their voices would be raised with all the rest against me. You can shew me no more than this, dear girl." "I can!" answered Lucy. "There! read that; and if you hesitate a moment more, 'tis that Hugh de Monthermer loves not his promised bride, rejects her proffered hand, and scorns the rash and giddy girl, who for the sake of any ungrateful man cast from her every thought but one--the saving those she loves." Hugh de Monthermer held the paper in his hand for a moment without reading it, gazing upon the beautiful being beside him, as with her eyes full of lustre and light, her cheek glowing, her lip quivering, she addressed to him the only reproachful words which had ever fallen from her lips. "Lucy," he said, "I will not merit that reproach. You yourself have told me that my honour is dearer to you than my life. Let it be dearer than all other things, Lucy, and then tell me whether I can go with honour. Whether, if I do, men will not cry coward on me?--whether my renown will not suffer in the eyes of Europe? If you say yes, oh, with what joy will I fly, with Lucy for my companion! With what deep devotion will I strive through life to repay her generous self-devotion, and to show her what I think of that heart which could cast away all idle forms and ceremonies, set at nought empty opinion, and entertain, as you say, but the one thought--the saving those she loves." As he spoke, he clasped his arms around her, and Lucy hid her eyes upon his bosom, for they were running over with tears. But after a moment, she raised them again, saying--"Read--read, Hugh, that will satisfy you!" Hugh de Monthermer approached nearer the lamp, and looking at the paper, exclaimed--"Prince Edward's writing! What is this?-- "'Follow the plan of your fair lady, Monthermer. Fly with her as speedily as may be--she will tell you more; but fear not for your honour--I will be your warranty, and will say 'twas my command. You are my prisoner still, remember, and as such, cannot fight without the consent of "'EDWARD'" "This changes all!" cried Hugh de Monthermer; "but why not give me this before, dear Lucy?" "Because the Prince required me so to act," replied Lucy--"only to use this as a last resource; and she went on to tell him briefly but clearly all that had occurred. "Let us be quick," she said, "dear Hugh! There will be horses down at the north gate by this time. My poor girl, Claude, is waiting on the steps with a nun's gown for me, and some cunning disguise for herself. Have you nothing that you could cast over these gay garments? for as you are about to travel by night with a poor grey sister, 'twere as well not to seem so much the courtly cavalier." Poor Lucy's heart, relieved from the burden that had rested on it, beat up high with renewed hope; but still the agitation which she suffered remained, like the flying clouds that follow a summer's storm, and filled her eyes with tears, while the jest was still upon her lips. Hugh held her to his heart; and soothed her, and might have felt inclined to spend a few minutes more in such a sweet employment, but Lucy reminded him of how quickly moved the wings of time. "Remember, Hugh," she said, "the minutes and my courage are not stable things, and both are ebbing fast. My heart beats strangely quick and fearfully, and I must not faint or lag behind till we have passed the gates." "Nor there either!" cried Hugh; "but your courage will rise, dear Lucy, when the immediate danger is past. We had better not go quite alone, however, for we may yet have to use the strong hand by the way. I will send down Blawket and another to the gate with horses for themselves." "But a disguise!" cried Lucy--"a disguise for you. Ere we quit the castle, all this gold and silk will send the tale abroad to every horse-boy in the place." "I have one ready," answered Hugh; "the priest's gown, in which I escaped before, may answer well a second time. Where Is this girl of yours?" "Upon the steps," replied Lucy. "I will call her." "Nay, let me," said Hugh de Monthermer; and, opening the door of the ante-room and then that which opened on the stairs, he whispered, "Come in, my pretty maiden; bring the lamp with you--I will be back directly;" and passing on into the outer room, as soon as the maid was in his chamber and had shut the door, he called Blawket aside and gave him orders. Then sitting down at a table, he wrote a few words on a scrap of paper, which he entrusted to one of the armourers, saying, "Do not disturb Sir John Hardy to-night, but give him that at day break to-morrow morning." "'Twere a hard matter to disturb him, sir," answered the man; "for he's asleep by this time, and when once his eyes are shut, lightning will not make them wink for eight hours to come." "It matters not," rejoined Hugh, "to-morrow will be soon enough--only be sure to give it;" and thus saying, he returned to his chamber, closing the doors carefully behind him. The young knight actually started when he beheld Lucy in the grey gown and wimple, such was the change which it had made. "You see, Hugh," she cried, smiling as she remarked his surprise--"you see what Lucy's beauty is made of. It all disappears when you take away from her her gay apparel, and cover her with the dull stole of the nun." There might be a little coquetry in what she said, for Hugh de Monthermer could make but one answer, and he made it; but to say the truth, it was the coquetry of agitation, for Lucy sought to cover her own fears, and prevent her mind from resting on them. No time was now lost, however; the black gown of the priest was speedily found and thrown over the other garments of the young Knight; and then the question became how they were to go forth, without passing through the room in which the servants and followers of Hugh de Monthermer were sitting. "Can we not return by the steps in the passage, madam?" asked Claude. "Close to the door of your room there is the little staircase which leads by the tower into the great court." "That will be the best way," said Hugh. "Draw the veil over your face, dear Lucy. No one will know us in such a guise as this; and there is little chance that we shall meet any one." The plan proposed was adopted, and neither in the corridor nor on the staircase did they find a living creature, though, as they came near the apartments of the Prince and Princess, steps were heard going on before them, and then a door opened and shut at some little distance. They reached the court, too, in safety, and Hugh de Monthermer took a step or two forward to see that all was clear. A flash of light, however, proceeding from the main building, caused him instantly to draw back again under shelter of the doorway. "There are torches coming," he said. "Does the King ascend by this staircase?" "Never, that I know of," replied Lucy. "Never," said the girl Claude--"never!" Hugh de Monthermer pushed the door partly to, but looked out through the remaining aperture to see what was passing. "There is a crucifix," he said, "and the host: they are carrying the sacrament to some one in extremis." "St. Mary bless me!" cried the girl Claude, as he mentioned the word crucifix, "I have forgot mine;" and away she ran up the stairs again, to seek her cross, which she had left behind. CHAPTER XLIII. Richard de Ashby smoothed his brow, and calmed his look, as he crossed from a tavern, where he had been making some inquiries, to a house on the opposite side of the street, not very far from the gates of the castle. It was a large stone building--close to an old church which then stood on that part of the hill--and as it contained several habitations, the entrance of the common staircase was, as usual in such circumstances, left open. Ascending cautiously, guided by a rope, which passing through iron rings followed the tortuous course of the staircase, Richard de Ashby reached the first floor, and knocked at a small door on his right hand. Nobody appeared, and after waiting for several minutes; he knocked again. This time he was more successful, the door was opened by a small strange-looking being, dressed in the garb of an old woman, with a brown and wrinkled face, and little, bright, grey eyes. She held a lamp in her hand, and gazing upon the countenance of the visitor with a keen and not very placable look, she asked--"What do you want?" "I want Father Mark," replied Richard de Ashby. "He is out visiting the sick," said the old dame.--"Nay, now," she continued, in a petulant tone, "I will answer all your questions at once, before you can put them. They all run in the same round. Father Mark is out--I don't know where he is gone--I don't know when he'll come home.--If you want to see him here, you must come again--If you want him to come to any sick man, you must leave word where.--Now you have it all." Richard de Ashby had some acquaintance with the world, and fancied that he knew perfectly the character of the person before him. Drawing out, therefore, a small French piece of gold, called an aignel, he slipped it into the old woman's hand, who instantly held it to the lamp, crying, "What's this--what's this?--Gold, as I live! Mary mother! you are a civil gentleman, my son. What is it that you want?" "Simply an answer to a question," said Richard de Ashby: "Is there a young lady staying here--a pretty young lady--called Kate Greenly? You know her, methinks,--do you not?" "Know her? to be sure I do," replied the old woman. "A blessing upon her pretty heart, she's been up here many a time, and I've carried a message for her before now; and she gave me some silver pieces, and a bodkin--I've got it somewhere about me now," and she began to feel in her bodice for poor Kate Greenly's gift. "Then is she not here now?" said Richard de Ashby. "No, no," answered the old woman, "she was here an hour before sunset, but she went away again. Oh, I know how it is!" she cried, as if a sudden thought had struck her--"you are the gentleman whom good Father Mark has been preaching to her to run away from, because you are living in a state of naughtiness. These friars are so hard upon young folks; and now you'd give another gold piece, like this, I'd swear, to know where she is, and get her to come back again." "Ay, would I," replied Richard de Ashby, "two." "Well, well," continued the old woman, "I know something, if I choose to say. She is not in Nottingham, but not far off." "Can you show me where she is?" demanded Richard de Ashby. "Not to-night--not to-night!" cried the old woman. "Sancta Maria! I would not go out to-night all that way--not for a purse full of gold. Why it is up, after you get out of the gates, through Back Lane, and down the Thorny Walk till you come to the edge of Thorny Wood, and then you turn to the right by old Gaffer Brown's cottage, and, round under the chapel, and along by the bank where the fountain is, and then up by the new planting, just between it and the fern hill; and then if you go straight on, and take the first to the left, and the fourth to the right, it brings you to old Sweeting's hut, where she has gone to live with him, and his good dame." Richard de Ashby saw no possible means of discovering the way from the old lady's description, and he was about to propose some other means of arranging the affair, when, with a shrewd wink of the eye, she said--"I am going out to her in the grey of the morning myself, and if you have any message to send her, I can take it; or, if a gentleman chooses to wait at the gate, and walk into the country after an old woman, who can help it?--I mustn't go with you through the town, you know, for that would make a scandal." "I understand--I understand!" said Richard; "and if by your means I get her back again, you shall have two gold pieces such as that." "Oh, an open hand gets all it wants," replied the priest's maid--"a close fist keeps what it has got; an open hand gets all it wants. 'Tis a true proverb, Sir Knight--'tis a true proverb. At the north gate, you know, in the grey of the morning. Wait till you see me come out with my basket, and then don't say a word, but come after." "You are going to her, then?" asked Richard de Ashby. "Yes, yes," said the old woman, impatiently; "I am going to carry her news, from the good father, of all that happens at the Castle to-night. But go along, now--go along! I am afraid of his coming back and finding you here: then he might think something, you know. At the north gate in the grey of the morning." "I will not fail," replied Richard de Ashby, and turning away, he slowly descended the stairs. The old woman paused not to look after him, but closed the door, muttering and talking to herself. The life of Richard de Ashby had arrived at one of those moments so fearful, so terrible, in the career of wickedness, when one offence following another has accumulated scheme upon scheme, each implying new crimes, and new dangers, and each, though intended to guard the other, offering, like the weakened frontier of an over extended empire, but new points of peril, but fresh necessity of defence. "'Tis unfortunate," he thought, as he turned from the door--"'tis unfortunate that I have not found her; but she is absent from the city, and that is one point gained." The moment, however, that his mind had thus cast off the thought of Kate Greenly, and the secret she possessed, it turned with maddening rapidity to all the other points of his situation. "What shall I do with the body?" he asked himself. "I cannot let it lie and rot there.--I wonder how fares my cousin Alured? He has surely drank the wine. Oh, yes; I know him, he has drank it, and more too.--If that man Ellerby were not hovering round about, all might be secure still." The word _still_ showed better than any other the state of his mind, though he hid it from himself. He knew, in short, that he was anything but secure. Over his head hung the awful cloud of coming detection and punishment. He saw it with his eyes, he felt it in his heart, that the tempest was about to descend; and, as those who, in a thunderstorm, gallop away from the flashing lightning, are said to draw it more surely on their own heads, so his desperate efforts to save himself, only called down more surely the approaching retribution. The next minute his mind reverted to the corpse again. "This carrion of Dighton," he thought; "it were well, perhaps, to dare the thing openly--to give him a simple but a public funeral--to call the priests to aid, and pay them well. With them, one is always sure to get a good word for one's money.--'Tis but to say he was brought to my house in my absence, and died there while I was away. What have I to do with his death? 'Tis no affair of mine.--I will hie up to the castle, and spy what is going on. Oh, that I could prove that Alured has drank wine or broken bread in the room of Hugh de Monthermer!--That were a stroke indeed! But, at all events, he has been with him. Who can tell how a man may be poisoned? 'Tis at all events suspicious, that he should be with him just before his death.--I will not go into the court; I will just look through the gates, and speak with the warder for a moment or two. The gates are not closed till nine." And thus saying, he retrod his steps to the castle gate. When he reached it there was nobody there; but as he looked through the archway into the court, he saw the figures of the warder and several soldiers standing with their backs turned towards him, gazing towards the other side of the building. There was a bright light coming from that point; and taking a step farther forward, under the archway, he perceived a procession of priests and boys of the chapel, with torches and crucifixes borne before them, while a tall old man was seen carrying reverently the consecrated bread. The solemn train took its way direct towards the lodging of Alured de Ashby; and turning back with feelings in which were mingled, in a strange and indescribable manner, anguish and satisfaction, horror and relief, Richard de Ashby murmured--"It is done!--It is done!" and sped his way homeward with the quick but irregular footstep of crime and terror. It were painful to watch him through the progress of that night. Sleep was banished from his eyelids--sleep, that will visit the couch of utter despair, came not near the troubled brain of doubt, and apprehension, and anxiety. He walked to and fro in his chamber--he laid not down his head upon his bed--he sat gloomily gazing on the pale untrimmed lamp--he rested his eyes upon his folded arms, while dizzy images of sorrow and distress, and dying men, and shame, and agony, and scorn, and anguish here, and punishment hereafter, whirled before his mental vision, from which no effort could shut them out. Thus passed he the hours, till a faint blue light began to mingle with the glare of the expiring lamp; and then, starting up, he hastily threw on a hood and cloak, and, leaving his servants sleeping in the house, proceeded towards the north gate of the town. It had been an angry and a stormy night, and the rain, which was running off the rocky streets of Nottingham, still hung upon the green blades of grass and the boughs of the trees, which in that day came almost up to the walls of the city. The clouds were clearing off, however, and blue patches were seen mingling with the mottled white and grey overhead, while to the right of the town a yellow gleam appeared in the sky, showing the rapid coming of the sun. Such was the scene as Richard de Ashby looked through the gate of Nottingham, which was thronged with peasantry, bringing in their wares to the market even at that early hour. It was a sight refreshing and bright to the eye, and might have soothed any other mind than his; but the fire that burnt internally, that throbbed in his heart and thrilled through his veins, made the cool air of the autumnal morning feel like the chill of fever where shivering cold spreads over the outer frame, while the intense heat remains unquelled within. One of the first objects that his eye lighted upon was the form of the old woman, standing without the gate, and looking back towards it; and hurrying on, he was at her side in a minute. "Ha, ha!" she said, in her usual broken and tremulous voice, "you are a lie-a-bed--I thought you were not coming. Well, let us speed on." And forward she walked, certainly not at the most rapid pace, while Richard de Ashby asked her many a question about old Gaffer Sweeting and his good dame--what was his age? whether he had any sons, and whether there were many cottages thereabout? The old woman answered querulously, but none the less satisfactorily. He was an old man of seventy-three, she said, and he had had two sons; but one had died in consequence of a fall from a tree, and another had been killed at Lewes. "Houses!" she exclaimed. "Few houses, I trow. Why; that's the very reason that good Father Mark sent the girl there. Wherever there are houses or young men, there is temptation for us, poor women. But this place is quite a desert, like that where the Eremites lived that he talks of. If you don't tempt her, I don't know who will, there." Thus talking, she tottered on, leading the way through sundry lanes and hamlets; and explaining to her companion, at each new house they came to, that this was such a place which she had mentioned the night before, and that was another. Very soon, however, the cottages grew less and less in number, for towns had not at that time such extensive undefended suburbs as they have acquired in more peaceful days and at length they came to the chapel which she had named, the bell of which was going as they approached. The good dame would needs turn in to say a prayer or two, and it was in vain that Richard de. Ashby urged her to go forward, for she seemed one of those who harden themselves in their own determinations, as soon as they see themselves in the slightest degree opposed. "No, no," she said, "you would not have me pass the chapel, and the bell going, would you? It's very well for you men, who have no religion at all--so, go on, go on, if you will, I will not be a minute. I have five aves, and a pater-nosier, and a credo to repeat, and that wont take me a minute. You can't miss the way. Go on, I will soon overtake you." Richard de Ashby did not think that the usual rate of the old lady's progression would produce that result; but, as the idea of prayer, and all connected with it, was unpleasant to his mind, he strode gloomily on, for some hundred yards, from the chapel, revolving still the same painful images which had tormented him during the livelong night. In a shorter time than he had expected, however, the old woman came out of the chapel; and he again proceeded on the path, walking on before her, and losing all sight of human habitation, but following a small bye-way, along the sandy ground of which might be traced sundry footsteps, and the marks of a horse's hoofs. Though his step was slow, the old woman did not overtake him for near three quarters of a mile, still keeping in sight and talking to herself as she came after. The trees soon grew thicker on the left hand, the country more wild and broken on the right; and, at length, about a hundred and fifty yards in front, appeared a small, low cottage, or rather hut, resting on the edge of the wood. The path now spread out into an open green space, a sort of rugged lane some forty yards broad, extending from the spot where Richard de Ashby first saw the cottage, to the low and shattered door; and the place looked so poor and miserable that he said to himself, "If this be the abode the priest has assigned to her, 'twill not be difficult to persuade her to come back to softer things. I will tell her I am going to take her with me to London, and to the gay things of the capital.--Is this the cottage, good dame?" he continued, turning his head over his shoulder, and speaking aloud to the old woman, who was now not more than a couple of yards behind. "To be sure," replied she; "did I not tell you it was here?" Richard de Ashby took two or three steps more in advance, straining his eyes upon the hut; but then, he thought he saw first one figure and after that another dart from the wood, and disappear behind the cottage, with a rapidity of movement not like that of old age. A sudden fear came over him, and stopping short, he exclaimed, "What is this, old hag?--There are men there?" Dropping the basket from her hand in an instant, with a bound like that of a wild beast, and a loud scream, unlike any tone of a human voice, the old woman sprang upon the shoulders of Richard de Ashby, and writhed her long thin arms through his, with tightening folds, like those of a large serpent. "Ha, ha, ha!" she shouted. "Come forth, my merry men!--come forth! Tangel has got him!--Tangel has got him! We'll eat his heart!--we'll eat his heart!--and roast him over a slow fire!" In vain Richard de Ashby writhed--in vain he struggled to cast off the grasp of the strange being who held him. With a suppleness and strength almost superhuman, Tangel clung to him like the fatal garment of Alcides, not to be torn away. His fingers seemed made of iron--his arms were as ropes; and Richard de Ashby, casting himself down, rolled over him upon the ground, struggled, and turned, and strove to break loose, without unclasping in the slightest degree the folds in which he held him. At the same time, the steps of men running fast reached his ear; his eye caught the figures of several persons hurrying from the cottage; and, when Tangel at length relaxed his grasp, Richard de Ashby found himself a prisoner, bound hand and foot. CHAPTER XLIV. In a wide, open field, by the side of the Trent, were erected the lists for a battle at _outrance_. All the usual preparations had been made--there was a pavilion for the king to keep his state; there were galleries for the ladies; there were tents for the challenger and the challenged; and there were numerous other booths, for the shelter and refreshment of any who might come from far to witness one of the most solemn acts of chivalry. Before the hour of eleven, a great multitude had assembled, and every moment the crowd was increasing; for rumours of strange kinds had not only spread through Nottingham, during the early morning, but had found their way to all the country around about, and every one was eager to see with his own eyes how the whole would end. In all parts of the field men might be seen, each inquiring what the other knew, and, for the most part, each acknowledging his own ignorance of the exact state of the case; although here, as everywhere else, persons were to be found, who pretended to know a great deal of subjects with which they were utterly unacquainted. All that seemed certain was, that the gates of the castle had been shut since the morning, and nobody had been suffered to issue forth, but one or two servants of the King and the Prince, who, after delivering some brief message in the city, had returned immediately, answering no questions, and affording, even accidentally, no information. Two or three people reported, indeed, that a body of some ten or twelve men had entered the castle, coming from the side of Pontefract. They wore no armour, and did not seem soldiers, and, by the appearance of their dress and horses, it was judged that they had travelled all night. Numerous other rumours, indeed, circulated round the lists, and the opinion was generally gaining ground that there would be no combat at all, when this supposition was at once done away by the appearance of heralds and pursuivants on the ground, examining it scrupulously, to ascertain that all was clear and fair, without pitfall, trap for the horse's foot, molehill, or inequality, which could give an undue advantage to one or other of the combatants. Shortly after, these officers were followed by several of the King's pages and attendants, who first busied themselves in putting the pavilion prepared for him into neat and proper order, and then stood talking in the front, making great men of themselves, and fancying that they might be mistaken for some of the royal family. The blast of a trumpet was then heard at a short distance, and, coming at a quick pace, a body of men-at-arms appeared, and took up their station, in military array, at either end of the lists, keeping on the outside of the barriers. A pause of some five minutes ensued, and the people, watching and commenting upon all the arrangements, congratulated themselves on the certainty of seeing two fellow-creatures engage in mortal conflict, and began to speculate upon which would be the victor. Many there present, merely guided by fancy or report, decided upon the chances of the field without ever having seen either of the two competitors. But there were many of the tenantry of Lindwell, and peasantry from the neighbourhood of the Earl of Ashby's castle, who, of course, maintained the honour of their lord, and asserted that he would win the field from any knight in Europe. It was remarked, however, that even their boldest statements regarding their young lord's prowess were coupled with an expression of their conviction that, "howsoever that might be, they were sure enough the young Lord of Monthermer had never killed the old Earl. Why should he?" Hugh de Monthermer, indeed, was not without his partisans amongst the people, for he was well known in that part of the country; and a very general feeling that he was both innocent and injured raised up in his favour that generous spirit which is almost always found, though strangely mingled with prejudices and passions, in the bosom of an Englishman. About half-past eleven, a number of yeomen, dressed in their holiday clothes, mingled with the crowd. They were without bows, but each had his six arrows at his side, and his short sword and buckler. Each, too, had many acquaintances amongst the crowd; and, with others, to whom they did not actually speak, a gay glance of recognition and familiar nod were interchanged as they made their way up to the lists. "What! Miller," said one of the farmers, as a yeoman in the gay green passed him; "why have you brought your arrows with you? There are no butts here!" "There are butts everywhere, Winken," replied the person addressed. "But you have no bow," rejoined the countryman. "Bows wont be wanted, if we need them," answered the yeoman, and passed on. Scarcely was this conversation concluded, when, slowly riding down from the side of Nottingham, was seen a gallant train of gentlemen, and many a fair lady, too, it must be confessed, notwithstanding the bloody nature of the scene about to be performed. "The King!--the King!" shouted many voices; "the King and the Prince! God bless Prince Edward!" But few added the monarch's name to the benediction. All that Henry heard, however, was the shout of gratulation; and fancying himself popular, he bowed gracefully to the people, and rode on to the entrance of the pavilion prepared for him, which was soon filled with the lords and ladies of his court. To the surprise of most there present, the Princess Eleanor was seen upon the King's right hand, and many were the comments made upon her appearing, for the first time, to witness a judicial combat. In the meanwhile, Prince Edward, followed by several heralds in their brilliant tabards, and accompanied by two knights unarmed, rode on to the other end of the lists and entered the field. He himself was clothed in a shining hauberk of steel rings, with a hood of the same, but with his _chapel de fer_, shield, and lance, borne by esquires on foot. His face was thus completely seen, and it was gay and smiling. His princely carriage--his commanding height--his management of the strong fiery horse that bore him--his frank and noble expression of countenance--all had their effect upon the hearts of the people around; and loud and reiterated shouts of gratulation rent the sky as he rode along the lists. After he had spoken for a few minutes with the heralds and pursuivants, Edward turned to one of the knights who had accompanied him, saying, "Go to the Earl of Ashby's tent, and tell him, he is too weak to fight in this day's field.--The yeoman who first drank of the cup is dead, you say?" "He died very shortly after, my lord," replied the knight, "having scarce time to make confession, and to acknowledge that, when Sir Richard had left the Earl's lodging, he went into the chamber, and finding the cup well-nigh full of wine, drank it off." "It must have been a subtle poison, indeed," rejoined the Prince; "Gadsden tells me it cost him all his skill to save the Earl. But go to him, and say that he is too weak. If he will withdraw the charge, well--if not, let him put off the combat for a week. No dishonour shall follow in either case." The knight rode away, and Edward, turning to the other who had accompanied him, demanded--"They have not found him yet?" "No, my lord," replied the other; "every place was searched in vain. There lay the dead body in the room above. It is that of a man called Dighton. I knew his face at once, having seen him often with Ellerby, and other such scurvy cattle, hanging about London and Westminster." "Sir John has got a short answer," said the Prince, as looking towards a tent at the western corner of the lists he saw the knight he had sent away remounting his horse to return. "I have seldom seen a man so obstinate." In two minutes the messenger was by the Prince's side again. "He will not bear of it, my lord," exclaimed the knight as he rode up; "he declares that men, indeed, would call him coward now, if for a few hours' sickness he should shirk the conflict." "Well, then, it must go on," replied the Prince, looking down; "he may find himself mistaken yet. Go to the other tent, and speak With Sir John Hardy; see what he says." While the knight was absent, the Prince rode round the lists, and approached the spot where Henry and Eleanor were seated. He spoke a few words to each; but as he was about to turn away, Eleanor, whose look displayed some small anxiety, bent her head forward and asked, in a low voice, "Are you quite sure, dear lord?" "I think so," answered the Prince; "but yet I see no one appears. It will never be too late, however, to interpose myself.--The letter said they would be here before the time.--Ha! here comes the challenger!" At the moment that he spoke his eyes were fixed upon the tent or pavilion of the young Earl of Ashby, from which was seen to issue forth a figure clothed in a complete suit of armour--consisting of the hauberk, or shirt of mail, the chausses of mail, and the casque of steel, with a crest and a moving visor, or avantaille of bars. He wore no pourpoint over his armour; and the only thing that distinguished him from the ordinary man at arms were the poylins, or joints of steel plates at the knees and arms of the hauberk, which were the first approximation to the plate armour which soon after came into use. All eyes were turned in that direction, as well as those of the Prince; and every one remarked, that the young Earl leaned, as he walked from the entrance of the tent to his horse's side, upon the arm of Sir Harry Grey, who appeared in the field as his godfather. And as the rumour had become by this time general, that an attempt had been made to poison him on the preceding night, a loud murmur ran amongst the people of--"He's not fit! he's not fit!--Don't let him fight!" But Alured de Ashby put his foot into the stirrup, and mounted his horse with apparent difficulty, but then sat firm and upright in the saddle. "Well, beast," he cried, patting the charger's neck, "thou canst bear the arms that weary me." And moving onward to the other end of the lists, his attendants following with his lance and shield, he saluted the King and Princess as he passed, and bowed his head lowly to the Prince. "This is mere madness, my good lord," said Edward, riding up to his side; "I really feel that, as judge of the field, I cannot let this go on." "I must do my devoir, fair sir," answered Alured de Ashby. "I am neither craven nor recreant; and here I stand in arms to defend my honour." Edward was about to reply; but, at that moment, the knight he had sent to the other pavilion approached at a quick pace, and whispered something in the Prince's ear. "That they are ready for the field!" said Edward, in a tone of amazement. "What may this mean?--well, let the heralds make proclamation, then; and we will part the sun and wind." At a sign from the Prince's truncheon, or warder, the trumpet sounded aloud, and a herald, spurring forward his horse, proclaimed that all persons were to quit the field but the knight challenger and his respondent, the heralds, and officers of arms, the judge of the combat, and his esquires. A momentary bustle and much confusion took place, for a number of persons, upon one pretence or another, were at this time within the lists. But all was soon clear, and Alured de Ashby being placed in the spot adjudged by the heralds to the challenger, braced on his shield, and took his lance in his hand, bearing it perpendicular with the steel in the air, and the other end resting on his foot. An esquire unarmed stood on each side, with two pages behind; and the field being clear, Sir Harry Grey placed a purse of gold in the hands of the principal herald, saying, "That for the good knight's casque." The herald bowed his head, replying, "Largesse! noble sir. Is the combat both of lance and sword?" "That matters not," said Sir Harry Grey; "he pays for the lance, and the lance covers the sword." The herald then spurred forward some twenty steps, followed by his pursuivants, and after a loud flourish of the trumpets, proclaimed that there stood Alured, Earl of Ashby, ready to do battle against Hugh of Monthermer, Lord of Amesbury, on certain charges brought by him, Alured, against the said Hugh, having first made oath, according to the law of arms, that his quarrel was just and righteous, and was ready to wager his body on God's decision. "Now, if the said Hugh of Monthermer," continued the herald, "will maintain that the said charge is false and groundless, and venture his body in that behalf, let him appear before the third sound of the trumpet, or if not, let him surrender himself into the hands of our Lord the King, to be dealt with according to his demerits!--Oyez! oyez! oyez! Let no man, on pain of forfeiture of life or limb, according to the pleasure of the King, give any comfort or encouragement to either the said Alured, Earl of Ashby, or Hugh, Lord of Monthermer, by sign, word, or cry; and let God defend the right!--Sound trumpets!" A long loud call of the trumpet succeeded, and all looks turned towards the other pavilion, before which appeared two horses fully caparisoned, the banner of the house of Monthermer, and several pages and attendants. The pavilions themselves, it must be remarked, were encircled with rails, joining those of the lists, but separated from the actual field of combat by a small movable barricade. Behind the tent, on which every one was now looking, and at the side of it farthest from the royal scaffolding, a good deal of bustle and confusion seemed to be taking place; and the space of time allotted after the first call of the trumpet passed away without any one appearing to answer the challenge. "Sound again!" cried the herald, and again the blast of the trumpet was heard, upon which the hangings of the tent were almost immediately drawn back, and Hugh de Monthermer, armed, but bare headed, advanced towards the barrier. "This is not right," murmured the Prince, when first his eyes fell upon him; but the next instant he saw more. On the right hand of Hugh was Sir John Hardy, and on the left his uncle, the old Earl of Monthermer. Two esquires bore the knight's lance and shield, a page between them carried his helmet; and in this guise the whole party advanced on foot towards the barrier, which was raised to give them admission into the lists. But close behind them came four men, bearing on their shoulders something like a bier, covered with a little tilt and curtains formed of some light cloth. A party of yeomen followed, guarding two men, who walked between them, with their arms tied. Their hoods were turned back, exposing the whole head and face; and, as they advanced, the first of the two prisoners rolled his eyes fiercely round, with a look like that of a maniac; while the second bent his gaze steadfastly upon the ground, and never gave a glance on either side. "Ha! What is this?" exclaimed Alured de Ashby. "What means all this?--Ah! I see now!--'Tis Richard they have got--and the dead body in the bier, most like.--My lord, I guess the rest!" "And so do I," said Edward; "let us ride on and see." Both spurred forward quickly at the same moment, and reached the spot before the royal pavilion, just as Hugh de Monthermer paused there also. "Now, Hugh, now," cried the Prince; "What is all this? But first, my good lord," he continued, extending his hand to the old Earl, "welcome back to your duty, and to England. My lord the King, may not your son promise this gentleman grace and pardon?" It is probable that at any other time Henry would not have yielded without much entreaty; but at this moment he was too eager for explanations to hesitate, and bowing his head, he replied, "Well, be it so.--What now?" "My lord," said Hugh, "I come before your grace to prove my innocence as may seem fit unto your grace to order, either in arms, according to the challenge given, or by still better proof, if so you will." "None can be better, sir," answered the King; "God's own decision must surely be more just than that of men." "Well, sire," replied Hugh de Monthermer, with a smile; "be it as your grace pleases. Alured," he continued, holding out his hand, "if I needs must fight with you, I must; but you will be compelled to seek some other cause than your good father's death. Of that, at least, I am innocent, whatever I be guilty of.--Here is a witness cannot lie.--Draw back the curtains.--Will you believe himself?" Alured de Ashby, already pale, turned for an instant paler still, but it seemed as if the blood had but withdrawn itself into the fountain of the heart to gush forth again, purified, renewed, invigorated. For a moment he was as white as the ashes of an extinguished fire, but the next his cheek glowed, his eyes sparkled, and springing from his horse, with a light bound, as if all sickness were departed, he cast himself upon his knees beside the litter, in which, lying on a soft bed, but partly raised upon his arm, appeared the old Earl of Ashby. The son dewed the father's hand with his tears; then starting up and casting his arms round Hugh de Monthermer, he pressed him to his mailed breast, exclaiming, "I have injured you!--forgive me, my good brother!" Hugh wrung his hand, and said, "This is all joyful, Alured; but there is something painful still behind. There stand the murderers!--the assassin and his tool! My lord the King, into your hands I give them, to be dealt with as in your high judgment you shall deem expedient. The one makes full confession of his crime, the other has not the daring to deny it; and indeed, it would be useless so to do; for, as the very consequences of our sins prove often by God's will their punishments, a poor unhappy girl, whom he seduced from virtue and her peaceful home, overheard in his house the foul conspiracy for murdering this good earl, and charging the crime on me. She told it to those she thought might best prevent it, who came not in time to stop the deed, but soon enough to find the Earl, and staunch the bleeding of his wounds, before life was extinct. She is now ready, though her heart is broke, to give such evidence as leaves no doubt of these men's guilt, even if they still denied it." "Oh, villain!" said Alured de Ashby, gazing on his cousin, who still looked fiercely from under his frowning brows upon him, "Oh, villain! To bring such a stain upon our house!" "Hush, Alured, hush!" said the old Earl, "I will beseech my lord the King to pardon him." "Ay, pardon me! pardon me!" cried Richard do Ashby, darting forward. "King, I saved your son from bondage--I gave him means of flight!--But for me there had been no Evesham--But for me De Montfort had still ruled--but for me you had both been prisoners at this hour." "What say you, Edward?" asked the King. "I beseech you, my lord, pardon him, pardon him," exclaimed Mortimer and Pembroke, in a breath. "My lord, I dare not speak," said Edward, "for though justice calls for the death of the blackest villain I ever did yet know, gratitude ties my tongue. I must not speak." "Untie his hands," cried the King, after a moment's pause. "We give him life, but banish him the realm for ever. If in ten days he be found within the seas, let him be put to death!" "Thanks! my lord, thanks!" exclaimed Richard de Ashby, while the yeomen unwillingly loosed his arms from the cords. As soon as he was free, he passed his cousin and Hugh de Monthermer, as if to cut straight across the lists; but when he had taken two or three steps, he turned and shook his clenched fist at them, crying, "Curses upon ye both!--but the time for vengeance may yet come!--I have not done with you!" Even while he spoke there was a little movement amongst the crowd beyond the barriers; and as he turned again to pursue his way, a loud, clear, powerful voice, which was heard echoing over the whole field, exclaimed, in the English tongue, "This for the heart of the murderous traitor, Richard de Ashby!--Whom kings spare, commons send to judgment!" None saw the man from whom the voice proceeded; but, the moment after, there came a sharp sound, like the twang of bowstring, the whistle of a shaft through the air, and then a dull stroke, such as an arrow makes when it hits a target. A shrill scream, like that of a wounded seabird, burst from the lips of Richard de Ashby, and casting up his arms in the air, as if in the effort to clutch at something for support, he fell back upon the grass. Several persons ran up; but he was dead! The arrow had gone through and through his heart; and between the peacock feathers, that winged it on its way, was found written, "Robin Hood." Almost at the same moment a tall, stout yeoman was seen to mount a white horse, at the other side of the lists, and ride away from the field. He proceeded, at no very quick pace, and, as he went, he hummed lightly to some old, long-forgotten air, "And this is the end of Robin Lythe And his knave Gandelyne." THE END.