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

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 Bell¹ 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[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."