1912

                      BOLD ROBIN HOOD AND HIS OUTLAW BAND

                                 by Louis Rhead








şiElectronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
DAK Upgraded Edition, Copyright 2000, DAK Industries 2000, Inc(R)şI

{AUTHORS_PREFACE
                         AUTHOR'S PREFACE
-
  IN this version of the Robin Hood tradition I have endeavored to
group the various incidents in logical progression, and to connect
them as intimately as possible with the customs and manners of the age
in which it is supposed he lived- the latter part of the twelfth
century. Moreover, I have made character-portraits of all the
principals in the legend (not included in the electronic version),
paying particular attention to historical accuracy in the matter of
dress, arms, and other accessories. It is a singular circumstance that
the name of an outlawed individual of the twelfth century should
remain as well known as that of Richard the Lion-hearted or the Black
Prince; that the echoes of his personality should be preserved in
household ballad and fireside tale; that his words and deeds continue
to be a familiar part of the Anglo-Saxon heritage- all this is pretty
conclusive proof that Robin Hood was an actual living personage. There
is nothing mythical about the achievements of the renowned outlaw; and
though medieval English historians never mentioned this notable man,
it was probably his avowed enmity to churchmen that caused the monks
to refrain from rendering homage to his virtues. History, in former
times, was written by none but monks.
  It is remarkable that one of the best stories of Robin Hood was
written and illustrated by an American artist who had never set foot
on English soil. In this latter respect I am more fortunate, having
been born in the same country as Robin Hood and having passed much
of my early life in roaming about what still remains of Sherwood and
Needwood forests. I have endeavored to retain the quaint, simple,
yet direct style of the ballads, which are surprisingly unaffected and
natural in their appeal to the youthful mind. These ballads supply the
material for all but three of the twenty-five chapters. The first
three chapters are original matter, because no ballad describes and
history is silent concerning the childhood and youth of Robin Hood.
Most of the earlier versions begin with Robin at his meeting with
Little John, when he was a full-fledged outlaw of middle age. Some of
the ballads are very ancient- one, in particular, was printed in black
letter by Wynken de Worde about 1489, and is now preserved in the
public library at Cambridge. Others are of later date, belonging to
the time of Henry the Eighth, and none are later than the period of
Charles the Second.
  The map of Royal hunting forests (not included) is intended to show
only those places which are connected with Robin Hood's life, omitting
the New Forest and other local stretches of woodland lying in the
south of England. It is stated that England at this period was so
covered with woods that a squirrel could hop from tree to tree across
the entire country. The great Watling Street and Ermine Street roads,
built by the Romans eight hundred years before, were still in fair
condition in the time of Robin Hood. This map will doubtless be of
greater service to American boys than to their English cousins, for no
English boy is ignorant of the whereabouts of Sherwood and Nottingham.
  Finally, I have derived Robin Hood's character and personality
from the testimony of the old balladists and strolling minstrels who
composed their rimes to be sung to their harps, and who pictured him
as the most humane and princely of outlaws. Robin Hood and his merry
men were not ordinary cutthroats, but a band of merry fellows
without guile, bold and fair in fight, courteous and kind to women and
children, bountiful to the poor and needy, and striking hard at
cruelty and tyranny in a period when there were few to take the part
of the poor and unlettered man. My Robin Hood will be found a brave,
virtuous, and tactful leader, who wisely tested in personal combat
each new recruit before he was allowed to join the band, and who was
loved and revered by all for his many excellent and amiable qualities.

{I
                                 I
                  ROBIN HOOD - HIS BIRTH AND BOYHOOD
-
            The Earl of Huntingdon, nobly born,
              That came of noble blood,
            To Marion went, with good intent,
              By the name of Robin Hood.
                                                            {I ^paragraph 5}
-
  IN the reign of King Henry II., there lived on an estate near
Locksley Village in England, about two miles from the famous old
town of Uttoxeter in the county of Stafford and almost on the
borders of the Royal Forest of Needwood, a nobleman named William
Fitzooth, Earl of Huntingdon. Earl William was a valliant warrior,
and, a man of honorable fame. Like so many of the knights and nobles
in that troubled age, he spent most of his time away from home,
fighting in the great wars and petty quarrels that were always afoot
in England or France, in Normandy, Ireland, or Wales. But during the
brief intervals of peace he would return to take his ease in his
strong castle, and at such times it was his chief delight to train and
teach his sturdy young son, Robert.
  When the boy was but five years old his father would lift him up
to ride before him upon the great black war-steed through the
winding fern-clad paths of Needwood Forest. Next to fighting, the Earl
loved hunting- whether with hawk or hound, with bow or boar-spear- and
he always took Robert with him when he rode forth into the forest with
his woodsmen and his dogs. Often the boy would shout with glee when he
saw his father pierce with his spear and pin to earth a savage wild
boar which the great dogs had driven right into their path. Again,
gazing down a leafy glade with his sharp blue eyes, he would see a
great hart come leaping, affrighted by the baying hounds. Then his
father, who had been waiting with tense muscles and steady nerves,
would raise his mighty bow of yew and draw the arrow clear to its
head, the feathers brushing his cheek. The next instant, with a low
hum, the cloth-yard shaft would be loosed, and the stag, smitten
through the shoulder, would rise on its haunches and fall to its knees
in death. Ever and anon Robert would shoot with his own little bow
at the squirrels chattering and playing among the leafy branches. He
was a good marksman even then, and it gladdened his father's heart
to see him bring down many a squirrel, martin, or sable.
  In those far-off days there was no attending school. The children of
the rich barons were trained from their earliest years in war-like
exercises and in the rules of chivalry. They were taught to be brave
and honorable and courteous, to ride and to fight. Robert grew apace
into a tall youth, well skilled in the use of arms. Yet he knew little
of the great world. He bore himself as befitted an earl's son, with
gentleness and yet with authority, but he had been reared almost in
the forest, among yeomen and peasants. Of them he learned many good
lessons- to give and take hard knocks, to be plain and downright in
speech, to value every man at his true worth, to despise a coward
and to love a brave, honest fellow, even if he were of low degree.
Despite his noble birth he was a yeoman at heart.
  Up to his twelfth year he enjoyed a merry, care-free life,
saddened only by his father's long absences. Boy as he was, he
practised with broadsword and quarter-staff, for in those days a man
who had not learned to defend himself in his youth would have been
in a sorry plight. But of all weapons he loved the long-bow best. He
fashioned his own bows and arrows and used them constantly, so that
ere long none had a steadier hand nor a truer eye. In knowledge of
woodcraft he became the equal of the old foresters. He had a nimble
wit, loved good company and manly sports. He was always present at the
fairs and merrymaking in Locksley and the near-by villages when the
sturdy yeomen wrestled or fought with quarter-staves for prizes- a
ram, a bull, a real gold ring, or a pipe of wine. But he was never
so happy as when treading the soft, loamy, flower-bedecked sward of
Needwood Forest that stretched for miles and miles, thickly covered
with beech, oak, and chestnut trees.
                                                           {I ^paragraph 10}
  When Robert was twelve years old news came of his father's death.
Earl William had joined the army with which King Henry was invading
Ireland. Landing at Waterford, the King marched toward Dublin to fight
a famous native prince named Strongbow, and at the storming of one
of the enemies' castles Earl William was struck down headlong from his
horse by a barbed and poisoned arrow which pierced his eye through a
crevice in his helmet. Thus Robert became an orphan, for his mother
had died the previous year.
  It was at about this time that Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of
Canterbury, was foully murdered. King Henry had reached the age of
forty, and had four sons living: Henry, in his eighteenth year;
Richard, in his fifteenth; Geoffrey, in his fourteenth; and John, in
his sixth. These were the sons of the good Queen Eleanor.
  Robert wept grievously when he heard that his father was dead, and
for many days he moped and felt bitterly toward the whole world. But
at length he took courage, telling himself that from now on he must
play the man. As time passed, his grief became less sharp; but there
was a budding fear in his heart lest his uncle, now his guardian,
might not prove true to his trust. This fear proved all too well
advised, for his uncle was a reckless spendthrift, insomuch that by
the time the boy was fifteen his castle and broad lands, his serfs and
cattle, were all forfeited. So Robert's guardian, to escape the
trouble in store for him, wended his way to the wars, leaving his poor
young nephew to follow in the same path- or perchance to seek an
asylum in the forests of his own and the neighboring counties of
Nottingham, Derby, and York.

{II
                                II
               WHY ROBERT FITZOOTH CHANGED HIS NAME
-
            There are twelve months in all the year,
              As I hear many say;
            But the merriest month in all the year
              Is the merry month of May.
                                                           {II ^paragraph 5}
-
  ON a bright May morn in the year of our Lord 1175 a youth strode
with a rapid gait along the woodland path on the very edge of Needwood
Forest. Though it was yet early in the day, the sun was high and warm;
the throstle and blackbird sang; the cuckoo from a high tree-top
called the double note to his mate, and all the woods seemed glad. The
bright yellow-green buds were just bursting forth, and the forest
sward as far as eye could reach was a huge carpet of bright azure
bluebells that gave a rich odor to the fresh morning air. The tall,
comely lad, straight as a young birch, was scarce fifteen winters old,
yet it needed but a glance to see that he was a proper youth, stout
and bold. He had the keen bright eyes of a falcon, full, rounded lips,
and a complexion deeply tanned. His auburn curls hung down from
beneath a jaunty cap of buckskin dyed old-gold, on the side of
which, pointing upward, was buckled the middle tail-feather of a
cock pheasant. He wore a deep olive-green jerkin, or coat, and the
hose on his well-formed limbs fitted like a glove. His tough yew
long-bow hung from his shoulder in such a manner as to be instantly
ready when needed. His beautifully embroidered quiver, chock-full of
cloth-yard arrows, was slung from his shoulder-belt on the left
side. From the red girdle drawn tightly round his waist hung a
sheathed dagger or hunting-knife, and below it, fastened by straps,
was a leathern pouch containing all his worldly possessions- his
mother's rosary and gold ring, as well as food for the day, some
sliced brawn and wheaten cakes. He had already gone many miles from
Locksley, for he had been up and on his way before the break of
dawn- and now he was nearing Tutbury town, where he would rest
awhile at the old Dog and Partridge Inn for a bite and a sup with
the host, one of his father's old retainers. Thus far he had not met a
living soul. Following the river Dove, which joins the Trent below
Tutbury, he would strike the Trent valley, due east for Nottingham
town.
  Presently he marched up High Street and stepped in through the
little tap-room door of the white-and-black oak-timbered inn.
  "Hulloa, whither goest thou, Master Robert, dressed all so gay and
fine?" cried mine host of the Dog and Partridge.
  "Knowest not, good Giles," quoth Robert, "of the shooting-match to
be held on the morrow at Nottingham town? I go to shoot, with other
stout yeomen, for the prize- a silver bugle."
                                                          {II ^paragraph 10}
  "Saist thou so?" quoth Giles. "Marry, and it may be thou shalt
win, for thou canst speed an arrow with the best; I know it well."
  Then the worthy Giles called to his good dame for a hearty meal of
the very best- nothing was too good for their master's gallant son. So
they brought a leveret pasty, some fried trout, fresh from the
river- a can of ale was too mean and coarse, it must be a flagon of
wine, and that of the finest quality. So young Robert set to and
made a hole in that pie that pleased the good dame mightily.
  "Now, my brave young master," quoth Giles, "if thou thinkest to
reach Nottingham town by nightfall thou must e'en away. The path is
easy enow to Repton, but poor and boggy at Sawley; from thence, see to
it thou leavest the Trent valley and dost follow the upper
woodlands. Then strike through the King's forest for the town."
  So Robert parted from the worthy host and hostess of the Dog and
Partridge with a full stomach and great store of good wishes. He
marched down High Street of Tutbury town, looking neither to the right
nor to the left while the townsfolk paused to stare at him and the
maids glanced at him coyly, for they thought they never yet had seen a
youth so fair. As for Robert, he recked nothing of their looks, for
his mind was all set on the shooting-match at Nottingham. His head
buzzed with pleasant thoughts of the morrow, and his blood coursed
briskly through his veins. Soon he was swinging along the forest
path at a five-mile gait. Yet as he jogged on he was alert, always
prepared at a moment's notice to defend himself should harm threaten.
  He knew full well his skill with the long-bow, for many a time in
friendly trials he had beaten the King's foresters and the men of
Locksley town. It was his fifteenth birthday on the morrow; he would
surely win a prize, and after that- he pondered, and said to
himself, "Mayhap I shall become one of the King's foresters, then an
archer of the King's guard, and so off to the wars like my father
before me."
                                                          {II ^paragraph 15}
  Just at that moment he espied through the leafy glade a small herd
of hinds and young fawns led by a broad-antlered hart passing slowly
by beneath the branches of a wide-spreading oak. Instantly his bow was
in place, with an arrow nocked to the string; but ere he loosed the
shaft, he paused, bethinking himself of what might follow should he
kill. He was sorely tempted, for he wished to make trial of his
skill before to-morrow's test; yet in a moment he sighed, lowered
his arm, and slacked his bow. He knew the penalty of killing the
King's royal hart; not a soul that could bend a bow in all merry
England but knew it well. Better by far to be shot and killed outright
than to have both eyes torn from their sockets, and the forefinger and
thumb cut from each hand, then to be led into the forest to bleed
and die. And so, as he strode along, right glad was he that he had
withheld his hand from slaying of the King's deer.
  The sun was now at high noon. Since breakfast at the Dog and
Partridge he had covered over twenty miles, and his stomach began to
crave food. He made up his mind to rest awhile at the first spring
or brook that lay in his path. At last he came to a little sparkling
rivulet tumbling down a bank-side, where sat a swineherd.
  "Ho, good fellow," cried Robert, "what news in these parts?"
  "None that I wot of, my master, save that there be a
shooting-match in the town on the morrow, and many, like thee, do wend
their way to it. May our Good Lady grant thee a prize!"
  "Grammercy, good man, so I trust she may."
                                                          {II ^paragraph 20}
  Thereupon Robert sat down beside him, and taking from his pouch
the brawn and bread, gave half to the swineherd, who swallowed it like
a hungry dog, in big gulps, long before the youth had finished his
share. Then, lying down at full length, Robert took deep draughts of
the cold, clear water, and again started on his journey.
  He had chosen to go afoot rather than on horseback because he
could thus more easily make his way through the tangled mass of
bracken and underbrush in the deep forest. This jaunt of over twoscore
miles taxed his strength not at all, for he was both strong of limb
and light of heart, and now, within half a dozen miles of Nottingham
town, he was almost as fresh as when he had started. He had just heard
the baying of a hound, when, as he came forth from a thick, tangled
path to the open, a loud, angry voice shouted: "Hold! Who goes there
that so boldly marches through the King's deer forest?"
  The lad turned aside and saw a band of foresters seated and standing
around the trunk of a giant oak. There were fifteen of them. All
except the speaker were ranged round an immense dish of venison pie.
Near by stood some barrels of ale. Leather wine-bottles and
drinking-cups of horn lay scattered about on the mossy soft ground.
All were dressed alike from top to toe in Lincoln green.
  "My name is Robert Fitzooth," quoth Robert, boldly, "and I go to the
shooting-match at Nottingham town, where I hope to win a prize, and
then, perchance, become a king's forester."
  At this answer there arose a loud, boisterous laugh from every
throat.
                                                          {II ^paragraph 25}
  "What!" cried the chief, "thou a king's forester! Alack! thou
couldst no more pull that man's bow hanging at thy back than could a
blind kitten! Why, thou young whippet, our company needs men who can
shoot a shaft from a goodly bow, not a babe just weaned."
  "Do but look at him, comrades," said one, holding up a can of ale.
"I trow a babe so young could never draw that string so much as the
shake of a lamb's tail."
  "I'll hold the best of you twenty marks," Robert made answer,
turning red with anger and shame, "that I'll hit a mark at a hundred
rods."
  "Wilt thou so?" jeered the chief forester. "Lay down thy money."
  "Alas! I have no money."
                                                          {II ^paragraph 30}
  "O-ho! This young braggart hath no money, yet he layeth a wager!
Come now, my fine bantam cock, what wilt thou wager?"
  At this, young Robert went clean beside himself with rage.
  "I lay my head against thy purse," he cried, in a choking voice,
"whatsoe'er it contain, much or little, for there down the glade,
fivescore rods away, I see a herd of deer, and by the leave of our
Lady I will cause a hart to die."
  "Done with you, and there is my purse," roared the angry forester;
and he threw his purse on the ground among a pile of bows and quivers.
  Now were the herd of deer in full view to all, led by a lordly
hart which, turning, seemed to sniff some danger in the air. Then
Robert took up his great bow, deftly tightened the string, nocked
his shaft, and drew it to his ear.
                                                          {II ^paragraph 35}
  "Remember, thou boaster, 'tis thy head is wagered," cried one; but
Robert's hand trembled not, nor did his eye waver.
  Twang! and the broad goose-feathered arrow flew through the air like
a skimming swallow. All the foresters bent forward eagerly, for they
saw at once that the lad was no boaster, but as good an archer as
themselves. The entire band were struck dumb when they beheld the
great stag leap in the air, drop to its knees, and roll over with
the arrow clean through its heart.
  "The wager is mine," cried Robert, "were it a thousand pounds." Then
he stepped forward to reach the purse.
  "Hold!" thundered he who had lost the wager, amid the angry shouts
of the foresters. "The wager thou hast won is the loss of thy two
eyes. Thou art an outlaw, for thy arrow smote the King's hart royal,
and all who do so must die." Thereupon they moved forward to
encircle the lad, who stood ready with another shaft nocked to his
bow-string.
  "Beware!" said he. "He that draws one step nigher shall die like the
hart."
                                                          {II ^paragraph 40}
  Thereupon, one of the foresters, who had stealthily crept behind
him, leaped upon his back and bore him to the ground with an arm about
his neck.
  "Now, by Saint Dunstan!" quoth the chief, "this naughty fellow
hath come in happy time. Our good Sheriff of Nottingham hath taken
it much amiss that we have brought no deer-stealers to court, though
many have been killed from the coverts. He hath twice hinted that
our time is spent in revels and feastings beneath the greenwood-trees.
This likely tale, forsooth, will now be mended."
  At this all laughed, and Robert's heart sank, but he lay still,
biding his time. One lazy fellow, whose head was humming with ale,
spake, and said:
  "Marry, let us hang him on yon tall tree, and so an end."
  "Nay, by'r Lady, we owe the Sheriff a prize," quoth the chief.
                                                          {II ^paragraph 45}
  "Ay, truly," said another. "We have need of the Sheriff's good-will.
If ye will do as I rede you, let us bind him up in the skin of the
royal hart he hath slain and sling him from our shoulders on a stout
oak limb."
  "Well said! That we will," cried they all.
  So Robert was tied fast, hand and foot, with bow-strings, and
carried to where the dead hart lay. When they had stripped away the
hot skin with their keen hunting-knives and laid it flat on the
greensward, they rudely threw him upon it and bound it with thongs
over his body, leaving naught uncovered but his head. Robert's blood
boiled, and he struggled with might and main to loosen the bonds which
cut and pained him ever the more as he tried to free himself. Anon two
strong fellows came, bearing a stout oak limb on their shoulders, to
which the shapeless bundle was tied with rawhide thongs. Then they set
off through the woodland, pushing their way amid thickets of young
trees and stumbling over rough ground.
  Robert was no great burden. Indeed, his body was but a plaything;
yet the chief bade his men carry in turns, so that every one might
have a chance to swing the living bundle from side to side against the
trees as they passed. Always, in changing, the burden-bearers
dropped their charge with a heavy thud to the ground, thinking to make
him curse or groan. Much they marveled that he made no outcry, and
some among the band whose hearts were softer than the rest felt pity
that a brave lad should be so abused. As for Robert, he set his
teeth and prayed inwardly. How different, thought he, was his
present state from what it had been on that smiling May morn! He,
who had thought to be an archer of the royal guard and to die at
need for country and King, was to be killed without mercy as a
felon. If the King could only know how his dastard foresters had lured
a faithful subject with their taunts to a shameful death, it would
fare ill with these same cruel knaves. He bethought him again and
again of the tottering, sightless old man of his beloved Locksley
town, whose tale of woe he had heard full oft. At last, what with
the cramped and painful position in which he was tied and the heat
of his body sweltering in the hide, his wits began to reel. His head
dropped limp to one side and he knew no more.
  "Hulloa!" cried a forester, "we've rocked our baby to sleep. Come,
wake up, my young hedgehog." Then with rude thumps they sought to
rouse him, but he awoke not.
                                                          {II ^paragraph 50}
  The band had now left the forest and were treading the soft green
turf of a meadow through which meandered a slow-running stream. Just
beyond the distant trees rose a church spire of a village where the
foresters would doubtless rest and refresh themselves at the White
Hart Inn. Drawing nigh the banks of the stream, the foremost of the
two who bore the captive cried, "By my faith, this is a jolly place
for a bath to revive our sleepy young blade."
  "Thou saist truly," quoth the other; and with the words they
dipped their burden into the stream. The cool water flowed over
Robert's face and eyes, and he struggled, gasping, with dire fear in
his heart; for he thought that now they would drown him, helpless,
bound hand and foot, like a cat in a bag. But anon they lifted him
out, and as he lay prone on the bank, scarce knowing whether he were
alive or dead, he heard the low voice of one who had before shown some
pity both by look and word.
  "Nay, man," said the voice, "there is no need for that. To wet the
burden will but make it the heavier. Let Steve and me take a turn."
  "Ay, truly, Phil, our shoulders need a rest, and thou art young
and lusty."
  So Phil called a companion, who stepped forward from the band; and
Robert's spirits rose to find some semblance of gentleness among these
men, though truly he feared that this might be but a trick to
torment him further. But his doubts soon fled. As they moved along
toward the village his sharp ear caught whispered words between his
carriers.
                                                          {II ^paragraph 55}
  "I' faith," said one, "I am aweary of this life- hard words and
little pay!"
  "What canst thou do, Phil?" the other made answer.
  "With thy good help, Steve, we can save and avenge this brave
young lad."
  "Ay, so we might, but to what end?"
  "Marry, to be free, to be our own masters and live a merry life
under the greenwood-trees- above all, to save the life of one who
may prove to be the best archer that ever bent bow."
                                                          {II ^paragraph 60}
  These low-spoken words were sweetest music to Robert, who kept
silent and waited till the time for action came. They had now
reached the village, and were within sight of the White Hart Inn.
The men were weary and athirst, and the chief forester, nothing loath,
gave them leave to rest, as they were still some distance from
Nottingham town. In those days the inns and taverns were built with
stables and outbuildings close to and facing the front entrance, the
whole being entirely surrounded by a high stone wall, except the big
oaken gates which led into the small courtyard. Into this yard the
troop of foresters filed, with the prisoner carried by Phil and
Steve in the rear.
  "Shall we unbind the lad to stretch his limbs?" asked Steve.
  "No, thou scurvy villain," roared the chief. "None but the Sheriff
shall do the stretching. Lay him in the stable and guard him well. But
hark'ee! We want no dead prisoner for our noble Sheriff, therefore put
in his craw some oaten cake and a swill of water the while we quench
our thirst with wine. Catching deer-stealers is dry work."
  With that he strode through the little front door along a short
passage into the big public chamber, and the rest followed him. In
this room sat two sturdy fellows drinking ale. Both were armed, but
their clothes showed them to be of the meaner sort of folk, though one
was much the better clad. After giving orders for the best wine and
food the chief turned to them, saying:
  "What news, good fellows?"
                                                          {II ^paragraph 65}
  "We know of none, your honor, save the shooting-match at
Nottingham town on the morrow. Belike thou, too, goest thither."
  "Oh, we have a saucy young rogue of a deer-stealer to be hung by our
pious Sheriff- ay, and the best hand to shoot a shaft we've seen
full many a day."
  Then the foresters sat down to feast and sing a jolly lay, but the
two others left the room. As they crossed the yard Phil accosted them,
crying, "Good friend, wilt thou go within and beg the chief forester
for a flagon of wine for the men on guard?"
  "Marry, that will I," one of the strangers made answer, and
straightway hastened to do as he was bid.
  "Who is thy charge?" asked the other. Then, looking round, he beheld
in a corner the young lad trussed up in the skin. At that moment his
companion returned with the wine, whereat Robert, catching sight of
them, cried out of a sudden, "It is Giles and the swineherd!"
                                                          {II ^paragraph 70}
  "Alack!" cried Giles. "Tell me what thou hast done, beloved son of
my master, that was so happy and free this morn!"
  Then Phil and Steve saw their chance and had hope of rescue. In
hurried whispers the four debated.
  "Let us haste, good comrades," said Giles, cutting the bonds with
his sharp dagger. Then Robert got up from the ground with limbs
stiff and sore, yet ready to do and dare any deed for his freedom. A
plan was soon made. Phil and Steve with young Robert were to run
outside the wall and through a little thatched cottage into a back
garden, at the end of which flowed the stream. This stream, being
too deep to ford, they must swim, pitching across their bows and
quivers to keep them dry. In the forest, but a hundred rods away, they
could make a stand behind the broad trunks of the friendly trees, to
cover the escape of Giles and the swineherd should they be pursued.
Meanwhile, Giles would quietly fasten the inn front door while his
companion locked the big oak gates of the yard. Then, taking a light
ladder used to climb the stable loft and placing it against the
wall, Giles would get over and take the ladder with him.
  Robert took up his bow and quiver, which the chief had meant to
put in as evidence, along with the hide, before the Sheriff, and crept
softly along the wall, Phil and Steve close behind him. He had stoutly
refused at first to lead the way because of the extra risk to his
friends. With his long-bow they knew he was no mean foe, but all
were in the same plight, and he bent to their desire. All three were
now safely outside the yard gate. The swineherd softly closed it,
turned the big key round in the lock, and, taking it along, nimbly
climbed the ladder. He dropped down lightly upon the other side and
ran to follow the leaders.
  In the mean time Giles was in great peril of his life, for he knew
that as soon as he closed the front door the men inside would stop
drinking and carousing. In his hand he held some of the rawhide thongs
that had bound Robert, with which he meant to tie fast the round
iron handle to the latch. This, he hoped, would give him time to scale
the wall. He now pulled the door- slowly at first, that the men within
might not perceive the fading light in the passage. It was now
half-way; every moment gave him comfort, for his companions were
getting farther and farther away. He thought of his dead master, whose
orphan son he wished to save, and said to himself:
                                                          {II ^paragraph 75}
  "I never yet did repent of doing good, nor shall not now."
  Silently and suddenly he closed the door and tied it fast.
Straightway there arose a terrible uproar inside. The door was
tried, kicked, and banged amid cries and oaths. But the stout
rawhide thongs held, and Giles's foot was on the first rung of the
ladder. He heard the angry chief shout, above the din, "To the
windows, my lads! Shoot the traitors dead!"
  Two foresters now crashed through the windows into the courtyard,
and nocked their shafts. The bow-strings twanged, the arrows flew; but
Giles was safe. He saw the top of the ladder pierced with arrows as it
lay outside the high wall, and as he ran like the wind down the garden
path he heard them thundering at the gate, shut in for the nonce, like
rats in a trap. He knew that danger threatened him still as he plunged
into the stream, swam across, and began to run along the meadows
toward the forest. He heard a shout, and, turning, saw the
swineherd, who could not swim, vainly searching a fording-place.
Whate'er the danger, Giles was not the man to leave a comrade in
distress. He went back again, crossed the stream, and then started
afresh, swimming with the swineherd on his back. Just as he
stretched forth his hand to the bank he heard the whizz of an arrow
close by his ear; another, shot by the foremost forester, struck
with deadly aim right at the back of the swineherd's neck, going
through at the throat with such force as to pierce Giles's shoulder.
With a scream the man tore the arrow from him, and Giles fell forward,
with his companion lying beside him writhing in his last agony.
  Recking naught of the danger, Robert sprang forth from the
sheltering trees, and with set teeth, his eyes fixed on the deadly
marksman, chose a shaft and nocked it to the string. A dozen arrows
came sailing over the meadows toward him, but they fell short by
full twenty rods. He hesitated, standing there alone, with the bow
half raised. He doubted not the trueness of his aim nor the strength
of his bow, though the distance was great. Never before in all his
happy boyhood had he wished for any man's death; yet the cruel
treatment he had lately undergone from the very man who was now his
target, hardened, for the moment, a naturally tender heart and
burned to tinder all vestiges of forgiveness. As he thought how
shamefully they had dealt with him, and how this very man had slain
one of his friends, his face flushed with anger. He lifted his bow,
drawing the shaft to its head. For a bare instant he hung at full
stretch. Then with a loud twang the arrow sped. The chief, raising
both arms, howled like a wolf, leaped forward, and fell flat on his
face to the earth, with the arrow right through his heart.
  The whole band of foresters were thunderstruck. Helpless to do aught
against the young archer who so easily overshot them, they turned
and fled, leaving their chief in his dying struggles on the ground.
Steve and Phil now came from the forest, where they had waited, well
assured that the lad would outshoot his pursuers. All three ran to the
river-bank to succor Giles and the swineherd. Giles, who had but a
glancing flesh-wound on his shoulder, had climbed up the bank and
lay quite still, deeming that the foresters would think him dead.
Robert then turned to the swineherd, whose lifeless body lay rigid
in a pool of blood that had run from his throat, his mild blue eyes
wide open. The sun had gone down in a blaze of glorious gold. The
sky began to redden and turned to a cold purple gray. The long evening
twilight had fallen. The moon and stars would soon be their only
lamps.
                                                          {II ^paragraph 80}
  Robert was sad at heart, and repented him sore of what he had
done. With all his shooting he had never bethought him that he might
as easily kill a man as a stag. He knew that men slew and were slain
in fair fight, but the thought that he had taken a life was very
bitter to him. As he watched his companions tenderly carry away the
limp, lifeless form that but an hour before had been so strong and
lusty he wept and repeated time and again, "I, too, have killed a
man." What the cruel chief had done, the crafty wager, the taunts at
his skill and his youth, the unfeeling wish to win the Sheriff's favor
through his torture, finally, the slaying of one of his generous
rescuers- all these seemed now but poor excuses for his deed. So,
though he had killed in hot blood and in defence of his life, it
seemed to him that he would never again be blithe and care-free.
  Sadly and silently they laid the body of the swineherd in the
crevice of a rock and covered it with branches of oak, intending to
return later and bury it. Each one muttered a prayer and turned
away. Then, taking a path that led right into the depths of the
forest, they were soon lost to view in the gathering darkness of the
night.

{III
                                III
                         ROBIN THE OUTLAW
-
            Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
              All you that love mirth for to hear;
            And I will tell you of a bold outlaw
              Who lived in Nottinghamshire.
                                                          {III ^paragraph 5}
-
  FIVE years flew by, and Robert dwelt as an outlaw in the forest; but
he no longer called himself Robert Fitzooth. Men knew him as Robin
Hood. He was now twenty years old, scarce taller than of yore, but,
from a slight, thin sapling of a youth, he had developed into a man
broad of shoulder and deep of chest, with arms and legs of solid brawn
and sinew. His hands and face were now deeply bronzed, and he had a
short curly beard and a mustache of auburn red. Truly, he was a
young man goodly to look upon, clad from head to foot in Lincoln
green.
  We last saw him and his companions cover the dead swineherd with
leaves, and march, sad-hearted, into the deep forest. They knew full
well that they must put many a mile betwixt them and the foresters,
for when the Sheriff learned of what had happened he would set men and
dogs upon their tracks. Then rewards would be offered to any who
should make them captive and bring them, alive or dead, to the court
of the King. So they hasted through the forest, going northward,
guided by the stars now faintly gleaming. Anon darkness came upon
them, but by good-fortune they espied before them a
charcoal-burner's hut, where they lay down and rested for the night.
Before sunset of the next day they had reached Barnesdale Forest in
Yorkshire, and here they dwelt awhile in peace, far away from the
Sheriff and his men.
  At this time King Henry had marched to the north with a great
array to quell the Scotch Rebellion, and all four men joined the ranks
as archers. Then, quitting the army, they journeyed north again to
Plompton Forest, in Cumberland, where they bided for a space. King
Henry was greatly troubled by the disobedience of his sons, Earl Henry
and Richard, and his mind was ill at ease after the murder of
Becket. That he might in some sort atone for it he made a pilgrimage
to Canterbury, and there allowed himself to be scourged with a knotted
cord by the priests. He spent a night in a dark crypt, and the next
day rode, fasting, to London, where he fell ill of a fever.
  At length Robin and his band became aweary of the cold northern
winters and longed for their old haunts and companions. So they agreed
to go back to the warmer lowlands. They had many adventures and narrow
escapes by the way, but, keeping together in fair weather and foul,
they made their way into Nottinghamshire and halted on the borders
of Sherwood Forest hard by Newstead Abbey. Choosing a trysting-place
surrounded by boggy land, with one narrow safe path leading from a
clump of hazel bushes, they sallied forth in search of food and
drink and other things of which they had need.
                                                         {III ^paragraph 10}
  The little band was moving slowly along down a hillside. Though it
was early in the day, yet was it hot and sultry.
  "We shall have a storm before sundown," said one.
  "Ay," quoth Giles, "and a heavy one, too, methinks."
  While they spoke thus Robin said of a sudden: "Listen, comrades,
there are strangers near by. I hear a lusty voice."
  Standing still, they waited, listening, for they could see naught
through the maze of leafy trees. Anon they heard a loud voice close at
hand. Robin led the way toward the sound, carefully treading the
soft sward and hiding behind the trees. Soon they espied a group of
foresters seated, with their backs to them, beneath a chestnut-tree,
to which were bound two captives. They had often wished to add some
stout followers to their company, and here, it seemed, was a chance.
But how were they to free the captives? They agreed to bide until
the two men were cut loose; so, lying down flat on the ground, each
kept his eye fixed upon the scene before them. At last they grew
weary.
                                                         {III ^paragraph 15}
  "Phil," quoth Robin, "do thou steal round to yon tall elm and
climb among its thick-branching leaves, then cry out, 'Help!
Murder!' Then moan softly, while I creep along the other way nigh unto
the captives."
  Anon the cry was heard loud and clear in the silent woodland, and
the foresters all started to their feet and ran forward, sore
astonished, not knowing whence the sound came. Robin saw his chance as
they rushed forth. Nimbly he sped toward the captives' tree and cut
the thongs with his sharp dagger, saying, "Come quickly to freedom."
  Giles and Steve, making a wide turn, joined them, and together
they were soon out of the foresters' sight and hearing, and back to
their chosen meeting-place. All were agreed that Phil was safe up in
his tree. Yet, as the day wore on, their hearts misgave them. Just
as they were planning to return in search of their comrade the storm
burst forth in torrents of rain, with thunder and lightning. When it
had passed they saw Phil come trudging along the little path over
the bogs.
  "Marry! Here am I," quoth Phil.
  "Right welcome thou art. Tell us, good comrade, what hath befallen
thee."
                                                         {III ^paragraph 20}
  So they sat down in merry humor to listen.
  "Well," began Phil, "when I had hid me in the tree, I shouted. Up
rose the band, taking up their quarter-staffs and nocking their shafts
as they rushed down. I was well covered, and they saw me not, but when
they had beaten the woods well, yet found no sign of a living soul,
I heard one say, 'Tis the foul fiend, and some one of us must surely
die.' 'Nay,' quoth another, 'it was the cry of a man in sore
distress.' Then a third cried out, 'The foul fiend is truly about
us. See! our prisoners have dropped into the bowels of the earth.'
Forthwith they scampered back to find the hole where the fiend had
taken the captives, yet they saw naught but the broken thongs. Then it
behooved me to cry again to draw them away from following in thy
tracks. So back they came to the tree, more bewildered than ever.
Oh! how sore I pined to send a shaft among their addled pates, but
that would end me, quoth I. With that the storm broke, and off they
trudged through the rain to Nottingham town in sorry plight. But I lay
still, snug and dry, till the rain stopped. Then down I came right
gladly from my bower, and straightway came hither. An my eyes be not
crooked and a-squint, ye have stout Tom Lee and Dick the Draper
among you."
  "Ay, here we are safe and sound, thanks to thee and thy friends.
Right glad are we to meet so stout a band," quoth Dick.
  Then said Robin, "It were well that these two lusty fellows, an it
please them, should join with us."
  Thereupon Tom Lee and Dick the Draper looked at each other and
smiled.
                                                         {III ^paragraph 25}
  "Nay, rather," quoth Dick, "come ye with me, for to say sooth we
belong to a band of merry outlaws, as stout as ever drew bow, who
dwell under the greenwood-trees in Sherwood Forest."
  "No better life do I crave," quoth Robin, "than to be an outlaw in
the green forest with brave and true men for comrades."
  So they all followed Dick, who guided them through the pathless
forest half a score of miles. Robin thought, as he strode along,
that an outlaw's life had not been his choice, but it had been
forced upon him, willy-nilly. A price was on his head, and he must
either lose it or follow the life his comrades offered. Such a life
need not be one of rapine and murder. He thereupon made a vow to do
good deeds, so far as lay in his power. And that vow he kept through
many a long year of forest life.
  Dick led them deeper and deeper into the forest, and at last they
reached a small clearing of softest greensward, in the midst of
which on a little hummock rose the trunk of a giant oak, hollowed
out in the center, so that there was room within for a dozen stout
yeomen to lie hid. In the hollow was a trap-door on the ground,
which led by steps along a passage to the outlaws' treasure-store.
At the back of the tree was a huge stone round tower with walls six
feet thick- the remains of a Roman temple. It lacked both doors and
windows, so that none might enter save by the trap. Another passage
led from the treasure-store back to an outlet, in the forest,
covered over by thick bushes.
  A group of outlaws sitting and lying in the shade raised a shout
of welcome to see their companions return safely with new friends.
Then Dick and Tom told how they had been rescued from the foresters
and who had done it. Robin Hood's skill as an archer was well known to
them, and there was none in that country who thought not the better of
him because he had put an end to the chief forester's brutal deeds.
Dick wound his horn to draw the whole band together under the tree,
and thus addressed them:
                                                         {III ^paragraph 30}
  "Brother outlaws, so far we have done well and worked together
without fear or favor in this our happy life. But I say we need and
must have a captain and leader- one that is bold and the best archer
in merry England. Therefore let us straightway set up a target, and he
that shall prove the best marksman with gray-goose shaft, let him be
our chief."
  "Well said!" cried they all; and straightway they set up a target
against a tree a hundred rods away.
  "Nay," quoth Robin Hood, "that target is no test of an archer's
skill. Let me place a target that is worthy of a stout bowman."
  "That is but fair," cried the yeomen.
  So Robin cut a six-foot hazel wand, set it upon the soft earth,
and hung from it a garland of wild roses.
                                                         {III ^paragraph 35}
  "The archer," cried Robin, "who sends his cloth-yard shaft through
yon fair garland and touches not flower nor leaf at two hundred rods
away I call him worthy to be captain of this merry band." At that
there fell a silence, and none stepped forward to make the test.
  "If none other will shoot at this mark," quoth Dick the Draper,
"do thou, good Robin, show our comrades what thou canst do."
  Then Robin stepped forth with his great long-bow, nocked a shaft,
and shot it clear through the garland so that neither leaf nor
flower quivered so much as a hair's breadth.
  "Do it again," cried Dick, "that it may seem to all no false shot."
  "Ay!" quoth Robin, "and thrice again shall my arrow speed."
                                                         {III ^paragraph 40}
  And thus it was that Robin Hood, amid jocund shouts, became the
captain of the merry band of outlaws in Sherwood Forest. The fivescore
outlaws seated themselves beneath the branches of the great oak, and
Robin spake unto them.
  "My merry men, all," quoth he, "as your captain and sworn leader I
pray you to join me in a vow to spoil only our oppressors- sheriff
or Norman baron, prior or abbot, knight or squire, any and all who
grind and rob the poor. From such only will we take to help those
who are needy, but to helpless women or children we will do no
scathe."
  Up rose the band with one accord and swore to obey and keep the vow.
Then they fell to work to make ready a great feast, and the next
fourteen days were set apart for feasting and merry sports. With
wrestling-matches, bouts at quarter-staff, archery contests, bowling
on the green turf, high jumping, and pole-leaping, the time passed
blithely.

{IV
                                IV
                   ROBIN HOOD FIGHTS LITTLE JOHN
-
            When Robin Hood was about twenty years old,
              With a hey down, down, and a down;
            He happened to meet Little John,
            A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade;
                                                           {IV ^paragraph 5}
              For he was a lusty young man.
-
  AT last the great feast and merry sports were done. Then Robin
said to his jolly bowmen: "This day I mean to fare forth to seek
adventures. Mayhap I shall find some tall knight or fat abbot with
an overfull purse." Picking out a few followers, he said to the
rest: "Pray tarry, my merry men, in this our grove, and see that ye
heed well my call, for should I be hard bestead I will sound three
blasts on my horn, and then ye shall know that I am in dire need. So
come to help me with all speed."
  So saying, he wended his way with those he had chosen, to the
outskirts of Sherwood Forest. At last they came to a meadow hard by
a village, through which flowed a stream, little but deep.
  "Bide here, my lads," quoth Robin, "behind these trees, while I go
forth to meet yon tall fellow whom I see stalking forth this way."
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 10}
  So Robin started toward a long, narrow bridge made of a huge,
flattened tree-trunk that spanned the brook. Now it chanced that
both he and the stranger set foot upon the bridge at the same instant.
They eyed each other up and down, and Robin said to himself, "This
tall, lusty blade would be a proper man for our band, for he stands
nigh seven foot high, and hath a mighty frame." Then, to test if the
fellow's valor were equal to his height, bold Robin sturdily stood and
said: "Get off the bridge and give way. Dost thou not see there's no
room for both to cross?"
  "Get off thyself, thou saucy knave, or I'll baste thy hide with my
staff," the stranger replied.
  Then Robin drew from his quiver a long, straight shaft and fitted it
to his bow-string.
  "Thou pratest like an ass," quoth he. "Ere thou couldst strike me
one blow I could send this goose-winged shaft through thy heart."
  "None but a base coward would shoot at my breast while I have naught
but a staff in my hand to reach thee."
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 15}
  At this Robin lowered his bow and thrust the shaft back into the
quiver. "I scorn thee," he said, "as I do the name of a coward, and to
prove that I fear thee not let me lay by my long-bow and choose a
tough staff of ground-oak from yonder thicket. Then here upon this
narrow bridge we will fight, and whosoever shall be doused in the
brook shall own himself beaten."
  The tall stranger replied, "That suits me full well to a dot, and
here will I abide till thou comest."
  Then bold Robin strode off to the thicket, where he cut and
trimmed a trusty, knotted six-foot staff. Sooth to say, the more he
looked upon the stranger the less he relished coming to blows with
him, for he thought he had never seen a sturdier knave. None the
less he stepped upon the bridge and began to flourish his staff
above his head right bravely. With watchful eyes and careful tread
both stepped forward till they met in the middle. In a trice Robin
gave the stranger a crack on his broad neck that made his bones ring
like stones in a tin can; but he was as tough as he was big, and he
said naught but, "One good turn deserves another." With that he
whirled his great staff faster and faster, bringing it down on Robin's
guard with such a rain of blows that one would think twenty men were
at it. Both played so rapidly and the blows were so deftly struck that
neither one after half an hour's battle seemed to gain a whit. Robin
tried all his skill in parrying and feinting, but he could do no
more than give the stranger a whack on his ribs and shoulder which
only made him grunt. As he began to grow weary the other laid on the
faster, so that Robin's jacket smoked with many a thwack and he felt
as if he were on fire.
  At last he got a crack on the crown that caused the blood to flow
down his cheek, but he only fought the more fiercely and pressed on so
hard that the stranger slipped and nigh fell over. But he regained his
footing, and with a furious onslaught he brought his staff down with
such tremendous force that he smashed Robin's staff into smithers
and toppled him with a great splash full on his back into the brook.
  "Prithee, good fellow, where art thou now?" quoth the stranger.
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 20}
  "Good faith, in the flood," quoth Robin, "and floating along with
the tide."
  Thereupon he waded the stream and pulled himself up on the bank by
an overhanging branch. He sat him down, wet to the skin, and
laughingly cried, "My brave soul, thou hast won the bout, and I'll
no longer fight with thee." So saying, he set his horn to his lips and
blew a loud blast, whereat the stout yeomen came running forth from
behind the trees.
  "Oh, what is the matter, good master?" they cried. "Thou art as
wet as a drown'd rat."
  "Matter or no matter," quoth Robin, "yon tall fellow hath in
fighting tumbled me into the brook."
  "Seize him, comrades, for in the brook he shall likewise go to
cool his hot spirit," said one.
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 25}
  "Nay, nay, forbear," cried Robin, "he is a stout fellow. They
shall do thee no harm, my tall friend. These bowmen are my
followers, with three score and nine others, and if thou wilt, my
jolly blade, thou shalt join us and be my good right-hand man. Three
good suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have each year and a full share
in all we take. We'll teach thee to shoot the fat fallow deer, and
thou shalt eat sweet venison steak whene'er thou wilt, washed down
with foaming ale. What saist thou, sweet chuck?"
  The stranger replied, "Here is my hand on't, and with my whole heart
will I serve so bold a leader, for no man living doubteth that I, John
Little, can play my part with the best. But on one condition will I
join your band."
  "And what may that be?" quoth Robin.
  "It is that ye show me an archer who can mend a shot I shall shoot
with stout long-bow and arrow."
  "Well, thou shalt shoot," quoth Robin, "and we will mend thy shot if
we may." So saying, he went and cut a willow wand about the
thickness of a man's thumb and, peeling off the skin, set it up before
a tree fivescore paces away. "Now," quoth he, "do thou choose a bow to
thy liking from among all my men, and let us see thy skill."
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 30}
  "That will I, blithely," quoth John. Choosing the stoutest bow and
straightest arrow he could find among a group lying on the sward, he
took most careful aim, pulling the arching bow to its utmost
stretch. The arrow flew, and lodged with its point right through the
wand. "A brave shot!" cried the archers all.
  "Canst thou mend that, bold outlaw?" asked John.
  "I cannot mend the shot, but I'll notch thy shaft in twain." So
saying, Robin took his bow, put on a new string, and chose a
perfect, straight arrow with gray goose feathers truly tied. Then,
bending the great bow, he let fly the shaft. For a moment the
archers watched, breathless; then, with shouts of glee, they saw the
stranger's arrow split fairly in twain.
  "Enough," quoth John. "Never before have I seen so true an eye guide
a shaft. Now I know an archer fit to serve."
  All cried out that he had said well, and then in right merry mood
they started back to their forest home, there to feast and christen
their new comrade. The rest of the outlaw band gave them a joyful
welcome, and soon brought in a brace of fat does roasted to a
nut-brown color, with casks of humming strong ale. When all were
seated 'neath the friendly shade of the great oak, Robin placed John
beside him, and they all feasted to their hearts' content, with song
and merry jest, and oft Robin told the tale of the great fight on
the bridge.
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 35}
  "And now, my jolly companions, let us have the christening," quoth
he, at last.
  So they made big John sit down, and seven archers formed in a circle
round him. Then a bald-headed yeoman offered to act the part of
priest. He came forth holding up a tankard of ale, and asked:
  "What name shall we call this pretty sweet babe?"
  As no one spake, he answered himself.
  "This infant," quoth he, "was called John Little, but that name we
shall change anon. Henceforth, wherever he goes, not John Little,
but Little John shall he be called."
                                                          {IV ^paragraph 40}
  The liquor was then poured over John's head, trickling down his
face; and so they baptized him. With shouts of laughter that made
the forest ring, in which Little John merrily joined, the
christening came to an end with sweet song and jocund jest.
  Then Robin took Little John to the treasure chamber and gave him a
suit of Lincoln green and a great bow of yew.

{V
                                 V
                 WILL GAMWELL BECOMES WILL SCARLET
-
  RIGHT glad was Robin Hood that he had gotten so bold and trusty a
blade for his comrade. He wanted no braver friend to stand beside
him in fight, nor merrier heart to play and feast withal. As for the
rest of the merry men, they loved Little John well, and all stood in
awe of his great strength. For in the one whole band was none that
might withstand him in a bout with the quarter-staff, nor, saving only
Robin, was there such another archer in all the land. So Little John
became Robin's right-hand man, and they loved each other like
brothers. Such a pair of bold spirits were equal to a troop, and in
sooth the King's men, knowing full well the outlaws' strength and
the deadly aim of their shafts, wisely kept many miles away from their
trysting-place.
  Of hiding-places Robin had full many, scattered far and wide,
which his men found as they went back and forth through the forest.
Whenever they chanced upon a fit place, were it cave or bower, Robin
called the band together, and all fell to work with a will, clearing
and building, to make a forest home good for winter or summer. None
molested them, for their name and fame were known throughout the land,
and most people thought it best to keep to the great highway or little
lanes between the towns and villages rather than to journey through
the forest with a chance of being robbed for their pains. Moreover,
the country-folk held Robin in high esteem, for they knew him to be
the friend of the poor.
  It happened one day at noontide that Robin called to Little John and
said: "Our larder is low. We will together seek to replenish it. To
Ermine Street we will go, for, peradventure, we may meet with some fat
abbot or mayhap a stout foe. Do thou get thy trusty staff, and I
will don my sword and buckler in case of need." So with their good
long-bows hanging at their sides they started off through the
forest. Anon they came to a path which led to a lane that went curving
up to a hill, at the top of which stood the castle walls of a
neighboring knight.
  Quoth Little John, "Look who cometh down the lane."
                                                            {V ^paragraph 5}
  "Marry," quoth Robin, "a gay spark, indeed! Truly his raiment is
of so hot a color, methinks there is danger he may set the woods
afire."
  The stranger wore a doublet of silk, and hose of bright scarlet;
he carried a long-bow, with a sword and buckler at his side.
Glancing from side to side as he came, he perceived down a narrow
woodland path a herd of deer leisurely pass by. Robin and Little
John watched him as he quickly bent his long-bow and slew the best
of all the herd at forty rods away.
  "He shooteth fair enough," quoth Robin. "Yet by'r Lady, I like not
these gaudy popinjays. Do thou, good comrade, hide behind yon
thicket while I step forth and speak him fair."
  With that Little John strode away to hide; and Robin marched up to
the stranger, who now stood bending over the great hart lying dead
at his feet.
  "Marry," quoth Robin, "who gave thee leave to kill the deer in
this forest?"
                                                           {V ^paragraph 10}
  The scarlet stranger turned not aside and answered never a word.
Again Robin spake.
  "How now, gay spark, art thou dumb?"
  "And what is that to thee, good fellow? Pass on. I have no need of
thee, and I like not thy clattering tongue. Go thy ways whence thou
camest."
  This answer nettled Robin and stirred his blood, for the fellow
spoke insolently as to one beneath him. "Marry, come up," quoth Robin.
"It is my wont to take toll of all who come this way. Therefore thou
shalt either give me thy purse or else thou shalt not pass."
  "And who art thou that dost threat me so boldly?" sneeringly asked
the stranger.
                                                           {V ^paragraph 15}
  "I am the King of Sherwood Forest, and all in these parts do obey
me."
  "Nay, good friend, king or no king, I care not for thee or for aught
that thou canst do. Therefore, pass on, unless perchance thou
cravest a buffet of my fists."
  At these words Robin cried, "Were I to blow my horn I have those who
would help me to make thee do whatever I wish."
  "Ah! then," replied the stranger, "with my good broadsword would I
put to flight a-many such as thee." With that the gaily dressed fellow
disdainfully turned his back and bent down, feeling the antler's
prongs. He seemed to think that Robin had gone.
  Then, to make a test of this outwardly brave show, Robin drew his
bow, pointing the shaft straight on the stranger's heart.
                                                           {V ^paragraph 20}
  "How now, thou villain," cried the other, "what woulds't thou?"
  "By Saint Dunstan," quoth Robin, angrily, "I would take thy purse,
and make thee pay toll for that saucy tongue of thine."
  "Ah, well, as to that, take it and welcome." Then, making believe to
unlace his pouch, he quickly got his long-bow before him and stood
boldly facing Robin with his shaft pointed to kill.
  "Hold! Hold thy hand!" exclaimed Robin. "It were vain for both to
shoot and each to slay the other. I have a mind that one should be the
victor. Let us take our broadsword and bucklers and under yon tree try
which of us be the better man."
  "As I hope to be saved." quoth the stranger, "I will not flee one
foot."
                                                           {V ^paragraph 25}
  No sooner were the words spoken than they strode off to a level
sward under the branches of a beech-tree. Both calmly made ready for
battle, each fastening his buckler upon his left arm. Soon they were
wielding their broad blades with a right good will, and the woods rang
with the sound as sword clashed on shield. As the fight grew hot
each perceived in the other a tough and skilful foe. With a keen eye
Robin watched the stranger, who guarded himself well, warding off many
a stout blow that otherwise would have drawn blood, making his skin
the color of his scarlet doublet. At last Robin gave him a clout which
glanced from his buckler, just missing his ear, and nipping off a long
red plume from his cap. The scarlet stranger grew more wary. He
waited, parried and feinted, then drew back, and of a sudden leaped
forward again. As he leaped he struck, beating down the buckler, which
but partly turned the blow. The sword cut a long gash across Robin's
skull, making the blood trickle down from every hair of his head and
blinding his eyes so that he could no longer see to fight.
  "God-a-mercy, good fellow," quoth Robin, "tell me truly who and what
thou art. Fain would I know thy name."
  "My name is Will Gamwell," answered the stranger, "and I was born
and bred in Maxwell town. I seek mine uncle, who dwelleth in these
parts. Some do call him Robin Hood."
  At this, bold Robin jumped from the ground on which he lay and
cried, "Art thou, indeed, young Will Gamwell, mine own dear cousin,
with whom I played as a boy?"
  "What, art thou Robin Hood? Then I am indeed thine own sister's son,
and sore I do repent me of the wound I gave thee, for I knew thee not.
But now right glad am I that I have found thee. And art thou in good
sooth the famous Robin Hood? Good faith, little did I think to hold
mine own against so stout a man. Truly had not fortune favored me, I
know right well I should now be lying stretched upon earth, and not
thou."
                                                           {V ^paragraph 30}
  "Nay," quoth Robin, "the blow was fairly struck, and thou art the
stoutest fellow of thy hands that ere I coped withal. As for the
wound, it is but a scratch."
  Thereupon they embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks.
  Meanwhile Little John had seen his master fall and the stranger bend
over him, but had never dreamed that he was wounded until he failed to
rise. Then, dashing forward, he shouted, "Give me thy sword, my
master. We will see if he can beat me."
  "Nay, nay," cried Robin, "hold thy hand, Little John, for this
same tall youth is none other than my sister's son, Will Gamwell,
and he shall be one of our merry band."
  Little John thereupon changed his tone, and turned to greet the
new-found cousin with a hearty handshake and a right good hug of
welcome to his broad chest. For Little John's heart, like his body,
was big, and the three were soon on the best of terms. Then and
there a love grew up between them which lasted many a long year. Arm
in arm, with the mighty Little John in the middle, they started off to
find a cool spring or rivulet to bathe Robin's still bleeding wound.
This done and Robin's pate bound up with a piece of linen, they strode
along a fern-lined path, with the great dead hart slung from the
brawny back of Little John.
                                                           {V ^paragraph 35}
  "Come now," quoth jolly Robin, "tell me, good nephew, how it
befell that thou didst leave thy home and come to seek me, an outlawed
man, in the forest; for methought thou hadst house and lands enough."
  "That will I, blithely," quoth young Gamwell. Then he told how, when
his father died and he fell heir to the estate, a dastard Norman baron
whose lands lay anigh his had plotted with his father's old steward to
slay him that the lands might be his. So the steward, being bribed
with a great sum, gave his word. On a day young Will was hunting in
the forest when he spied the old rascal with bow bent and shaft
pointed at his breast.
  "And so without more ado," quoth Will, "I got me behind a tree and
shot him where he stood. Then was I made an outlaw for killing a
man, and straightway betook myself to the forest to seek out my good
uncle. For, in faith, they are fain to walk in wood who may not walk
in town. And now thou knowest all."
  Then said Robin: "In happy time thou comest, fair coz, and I thank
the saints that this day I have escaped with my life from the stoutest
swordsman in England, found a dear nephew, and gained a brave
comrade for my merry men."
  Soon they reached their trysting-place, and much the outlaws
wondered to see bold Robin with a cloth about his head and a tall
stranger in scarlet beside him. But when they knew who Will Gamwell
was and how stoutly he had fought with Robin, they welcomed him
gladly.
                                                           {V ^paragraph 40}
  "Go now," said Robin to Will, "I long to see thee dressed as one
of our band; so get thee a change of good Lincoln green in place of
that most fiery raiment, which shall not be forgotten. Since the law
is on thy head and name, that name shall hereafter be Will Scarlet.
And next to Little John here, thou shalt be my right-hand man."
  Anon Will Scarlet returned dressed all in Lincoln green. All were
hungry, and straightway they spread a great feast on the soft
greensward. Robin sat at the head, with Little John on his right and
his nephew, now Will Scarlet, on his left. The great haunch of
smoking-hot venison was always placed before Little John to do the
carving. Other dishes there were- roast geese, ducks and swans,
grouse, partridges, pastry pies of rabbits, hares, and squirrels. Then
came salmon and trout from the rivers, and great pikes from the
ponds and lakes- some boiled, others roasted and stuffed. In good
sooth, the outlaws had no lack of meat and drink. The broad forest was
their domain, and all its creatures were theirs for the taking. From
time to time great tubs of wine and barrels of nut-brown ale were
brought by pack-horses to a certain spot, to be carried thence by
the outlaws to their trysting-place. All fared alike, and all were
well fed, summer and winter.
  As for Will Scarlet, he was at first amazed, then wondrous glad to
have found a life so goodly and free from care. While the merry
jests went round he, at Robin's request, told how his life had been
spent and what troubles he had passed through since both were boys
together. Robin's thoughts went back to his old home by Needwood
Forest; but he had no real desire to leave the greenwood, and he
knew full well that such a thing might not be. An outlaw he had been
since his fifteenth year, and an outlaw he must remain till the breath
left his body.

{VI
                                VI
                 ROBIN HOOD WINS THE GOLDEN ARROW
-
  ON a fine morning a sennight after the merry feast in honor of
Will Scarlet you might have seen a tall fellow dressed in ragged
clothes striding through the forest toward the outlaws' bower. As he
came nigh the great oak he gave a call like the hoot of an owl. Some
of the band heard him, and hooted in turn.
  "'Tis the call," quoth one, "of our worthy spy- the honest servant
of the Sheriff's house, that hath news to tell of what goes on in
Nottingham town."
  Striding forth from the trees into the open glade came the ragged
spy.
  "What news hast thou, Tom o' Clayton?" asked Robin.
                                                           {VI ^paragraph 5}
  "Brave news, good outlaw," quoth he, "for his worship the Sheriff
hath hied him to London town with a troop of his retainers all dressed
in gay attire and made complaint to King Henry and Queen Eleanor of
the great scathe done his good name and chattels by one Robin Hood and
his outlaw band."
  "And what said the King?" asked Robin.
  "The King was sore wroth, as I have heard tell. 'Why,' quoth he,
'what wouldst thou that I should do? Art thou not sheriff for me?
The law is in force, therefore do thou execute it as is thy bounden
duty. Get thee gone and sweep the forest clear of all these thieving
rogues, or, by my golden crown, thou art no sheriff for me.' Then
was the Sheriff sorely troubled and crestfallen, and he left the court
with a fiery-red face amid the laughter of all the King's
attendants. And now he hath proclaimed a great shooting-match to be
held in fair Nottingham town three days hence, with a prize of a
cunningly wrought arrow with a golden head and shaft of white silver."
  With that stepped forth a brave yeoman, young David of Doncaster.
"Master," he said, "be ruled by me, and let us not stir from the
greenwood. This same match is but a wile of the Sheriff's to entrap
thee. The shrewd old rogue thinks to get us all together in the town
and so to take us unawares.
  Quoth Robin: "Thy words do not please me, for they savor of
cowardice. With bow and staff and good broadsword we may match the
Sheriff and all his base churls. Natheless, good David, thou saist
truly, 'tis a crafty plan- but we will meet guile with guile. Let us
all disguise ourselves and be clad as common yeomen, tinkers and
tanners, beggars and friars. If we scatter and mix in the crowd none
shall know that outlaws be among them. But let each take care to
have a stout coat of chain mail beneath his jerkin."
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 10}
  Then up spake brave Little John. "The plan I like full well. What
say ye, my comrades?"
  "With right good will," cried every one, right lustily.
  "Then make ye ready, my merry men all," quoth Robin Hood. "I, with
tattered scarlet coat and black patch over one eye, will shoot my best
for this same golden arrow, and if I win we shall keep it in our bower
as a trophy."
  So on that bright sunshiny morning early, they made ready with
shouts of laughter, for in such strange guise were they tricked out
that scarce any man could name his neighbor. Some had dyed their
beards, and all doffing their garb of Lincoln green had donned raiment
that suited them full ill. Truly such a gathering of tall, lusty
beggars, tinkers, friars, and men of all trades was ne'er before
seen in Sherwood Forest.
  The little birds caroled; the titlark and goldfinch, the green
linnet and spotted thrush, sang from every bush and tree as the
merry company started forth from their leafy bower with hearts all
firm and stout, each resolving that, should he fall foul of the
Sheriff's men, he would clout their pates with right good will. Anon
they left the forest in different places by threes and fours, that
none might get an inkling of their purpose to be present at the butts.
Every street and every little lane was dotted with a mixed crowd-
mostly afoot, though here and there a knight rode by with his proud
dame by his side or a haughty abbot astride his sleek cob,
disdainful of the poorer folk that louted low as he passed. Many
strangers could be seen with their bows slung at their sides,
dust-covered and tired, who were on their way to this famed trial of
skill. So Robin and his band mingled with the people that journeyed
toward Nottingham.
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 15}
  The shooting range- or butts- lay outside the town on a level
field of green turf, flanked on one side by sloping banks, where the
poorer people sat on the grass. On the other side, shaded from the
sun's rays, were benches and a gallery set apart for the Sheriff,
his wife, and other officers of the town. Here, too, sat barons and
knights with ladies fair, dressed in state and decked in colors gay.
The stands were trimmed in bright draperies, buntings, ribbons, and
flags, and were guarded by men-at-arms with hauberks and spears.
Heralds with trumpets stood ready to announce the beginning of the
sports.
  The field was crowded early, long before the great folk arrived, for
you must know it had been noised abroad that the Sheriff had
gathered together a large troop of the King's foresters, besides his
own men, that he might the better take Robin Hood and his
fellow-outlaws. The beautiful and costly prize had brought many famous
archers from neighboring counties. From Tutbury, Stoke, and Stafford
came the well-known Ned o' Tinkersclough, Simon of Hartshill, and
Roger o' Thistlebery- the latter a brawny blacksmith from Newcastle
who had ne'er been vanquished. From Derbyshire came two stout
archers named Ralph of Rowsley and Hugh o' the Moors- both confident
to bear away the prize. So everybody was on tiptoe awaiting what might
betide. Some feared a battle, but many there were among the poor and
lowly who hoped to see the Sheriff's men soundly drubbed.
  All the outlaws save Robin Hood scattered through the crowd and none
knew them. The Sheriff, when he had taken his seat, signaled the
herald to sound three blasts as a warning to the archers to be
prepared, and then the rules were proclaimed, that every one might
understand them. All was now ready, the silver horn again sounded
three blasts, and the archers began to shoot. The Sheriff looked
anxiously round about, peering from side to side, first at the archers
and then at the crowd.
  "Ah," quoth he, scratching his head, "I see none in Lincoln green,
such as the outlaws are wont to wear. I weened he would have come, for
it is little like Robin Hood to bide at home when there is fair
sport toward. Nay, rather would he risk his head. Yet perchance he
feareth."
  Calling a trumpeter to him, he said, "Dost thou see Robin Hood among
these archers?"
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 20}
  "Nay, truly I see him not, your worship. Those that foot the line
are all well known to me. Moreover, the bold outlaw's beard is
golden as the setting sun, yet none here hath a beard save the
ragged stranger in scarlet with but one eye- and his beard is dark
brown."
  "He durst not come, and is a cowardly knave," murmured the Sheriff.
  Meanwhile, the ragged man in red stood up beside the crowd of
archers without a fear and waited till most of the men had shot. The
four targets surrounding the small one in the center were well covered
and spotted with shafts, yet none had hit the inner circle. The
great throng applauded, for such shooting was seldom seen. Already a
goodly number had dropped out, leaving but five archers, Roger o'
Thistlebery, Hugh o' the Moors, two strangers, and the ragged red
one with the black eye. At the third round Roger planted his shaft but
the breadth of a groat from the center.
  "That shot can ne'er be mended," roared the Sheriff, rising from his
seat. "The man from Stafford wins the prize unless yon ragged robin
redbreast shall outdo him, which is scarce likely sithen he hath but
one eye."
  He of the black eye and red coat never looked toward the Sheriff.
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 25}
  "A fair shot, Roger," quoth he. "Hadst thou but allowed for the
slight breeze thy shaft would have pinked the clout."
  Hugh o' the Moors came next, and he saw the wisdom of what the
stranger had said. So, taking good heed of the wind, he let go the
string with a twang, and his arrow pierced the very center. Thereat
the people shouted and then fell silent of a sudden as the one-eyed
archer took up his great bow and with seeming carelessness let fly his
shaft. Then, gaping with open mouths and eyes, they saw Hugh's arrow
fall to the ground split to pieces, and the stranger's shaft lodged
right in its place.
  "Red-coat wins; Red-coat hath the prize," they cried. Then,
surging forward, they half dragged, half carried the winner in front
of the Sheriff's stand, where the fair ladies cheered and waved
their ribbons.
  "And now, brave archer," quoth the Sheriff, "here is the prize
thou hast fairly won. Thine eye is true, and bearing bold. Where
dost thou hail from, and what name dost thou go by?"
  "From Locksley town I come, and Nat the Blinker am I called."
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 30}
  "Well, Nat, though thou canst only blink with one eye, thou art
the best archer my two eyes have ever seen. Surely thou needest a
better coat. If thou wilt serve me and enter my company, I will make
thee captain, with good pay, enough to eat and drink, and a chance
to capture that knavish thief, Robin Hood, who loved his hide too well
to venture here this day. Come now, by Saint Hubert, is it a bargain?"
  "Nay," quoth the man in scarlet. "No master will I serve."
  "Then out upon thee, thou saucy fellow! Get thee gone ere my men
whip thee from out the town. Thou art a fool or else thou art a knave.
I have a mind to put thee in a dungeon cell to cool thy hot blood, and
so would I do but that thou hast pleased me with thy shooting."
  So the tattered stranger turned away and, mingling with the crowd,
was seen no more.
-
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 35}
  The sun was setting behind the great oak in the forest glen, and the
balmy evening air was tinged with the savory smell of roast venison
and great steaming game pies that lay on the ground amid barrels and
tankards of foaming nut-brown ale. Surrounding this great feast sat
the merry band of outlaws, ready to begin carving with their sharp
daggers, when a tattered stranger in scarlet appeared, bearing in
his hand an object that all might see. Then a mighty shout was heard
that echoed through the forest:
  "Welcome and long life to our dear captain, brave Robin Hood that
won the prize."
  So Robin Hood brought the arrow of silver and gold to Sherwood
Forest.
  The feast was a jolly one. All had merry jests to tell of what
they had done in the strange garb they wore, for they knew many that
knew them not, and in sooth their own fathers would have passed them
by. So with songs and jollity the joyous feast went on till the
stars began to peep; and the outlaws, like the birds, went to roost
before night's mantle wrapped the leafy trees in darkness. But
before they dispersed Robin said to Little John:
  "I like not the Sheriff's words, and fain would I have him know that
it was Robin Hood to whom he gave the prize."
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 40}
  "Ah!" quoth Little John, "that would be sour mash to his crop, but
how to do it passeth my wits. Yet hold, I have it." And for a time
he spake earnestly with Robin Hood, who laughed aloud and clapped
him upon the back.
  On the morrow, as the Sheriff sat at his meal at the head of a
long table of guests, he spake loud in praise of the shooting. "But
sore grieved am I," quoth he, "that Robin Hood was not-" As that
last word came from his lips an arrow came whizzing through the open
window, landing right in the breast of a fat capon that lay on the
table. The Sheriff and his guests started up in dismay at so strange a
sight.
  "What means this- a plot or treason?" roared the Sheriff.
  Then in a calmer tone he bade an attendant get the shaft and bring
it to him. As he took it up he saw a strip of bark wrapped around
it, which he straightway tore off and unwound. Within was writing,
and, with staring eyes, he read:
  "It was Robin Hood that bore away the golden arrow."
                                                          {VI ^paragraph 45}
  Then the Sheriff dropped to his chair in a limp mass, crying:
  "The crafty villain hath again covered me with shame and sorrow!
What am I to do? What can I do? It was that black patch on his evil
eye that deceived me. I felt in my bones none but that saucy knave
would beard me so." Then, bringing down his fist with a bang upon
the table and breaking the arrow to splinters, he cried, "By the bones
of Saint Swithin, I will patch his other eye- yea, both eyes, that are
much too keen for my peace. When I do catch him I will stretch his
neck the length of a goose."

{VII
                                VII
                   HOW ROBIN HOOD MET FRIAR TUCK
-
  FOR a time after the winning of the golden arrow the merry outlaws
kept them close in Sherwood Forest. When the larder was well
supplied with game the great oak glade was given up to sport. Some
would play at bowls, or at dice; others would have
wrestling-matches, bouts at quarter-staff, or mock duels with sword
and buckler. But their favorite and never-ending delight was
shooting with the long-bow- that trusty weapon which made them so
justly famed and feared.
  Will Scarlet, being the last to join the band, had many friendly
challenges to stand up against. He knew his own skill, as likewise did
Robin Hood and Little John, but many others wished to put him to the
test. In all these contests Will acquitted himself honorably. One
day Little John took a bow-string and hung up a dead squirrel from a
bough at five hundred feet away, and after taking careful aim, because
the wind swayed the mark, he sped his shaft clean through the
squirrel's body amid resounding cheers.
  "God's blessing on thy head," quoth Robin. "Gladly would I walk a
hundred miles to see one that could match thee."
  At that Will Scarlet laughed full heartily.
                                                          {VII ^paragraph 5}
  "That is no such hard matter," quoth he, "for at Fountains Abbey
there dwells a curtal friar that can beat both him and thee."
  Then Robin leaped up lightly from the greensward, where he had
been lying stretched at length.
  "Now, by'r Lady," quoth he, "neither food nor drink will I touch
until I have seen this friar of thine, were he in very truth a hundred
miles away. Therefore make ready to lead us, while I don my cap of
steel, broadsword, and buckler, to meet this holy archer."
  "It be no hundred miles, good uncle," quoth Will. "We shall gain
Fountains Abbey ere noon."
  So Little John, Will Scarlet, and Robin strode through the forest at
a quick gait, mile after mile without a stop, till they came to
Needwood Forest, hard by Tutbury, where Friar Tuck had in days past
received Will Scarlet to his broad bosom, learned to love him, and
taught him all his skill with sword and long-bow and quarter-staff.
Fountains Abbey was so called from a sparkling silver rivulet that
danced down the moss-grown, fern-lined rocks, at the side of which the
Friar had built a hermitage of rocks and boulders carried from a brook
close by. Here he dwelt alone- cool and sheltered in summer, warm
and snug in winter. In such a place a man might fast and pray
undisturbed, or perchance drink good wine and feast upon the dun deer,
if he liked better; for there was none to say him nay. From time to
time a wandering knight on his war-horse, or pious abbot on an ambling
pad, caught a glimpse in passing of the little forest abode, and would
there alight for a drink at the sparkling fountain and a blessing from
the Friar. But Friar Tuck held aloof from all save the few he chose as
friends, and among them was the young curly-headed lad Will Gamwell,
whose estates ran hard by the forest.
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 10}
  When the three outlaws were still some way off they caught sight
of Fountains Abbey, below them, through a slight opening of the trees.
  "There," quoth Will Scarlet, "thou wilt find the holy man thou
seekest."
  "Well," said Robin, "do ye two remain here. I fain would parley with
this man alone."
  "Nay, that we will not," Little John replied. "Thou art always
over-ready to put thy head in danger without a cause."
  "Truly, as to danger from a holy man I have no fear," said Robin,
"but I would have my way in this."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 15}
  So saying, he strode forward alone, leaving Little John and Will
behind, till a blast from his bugle should call them. He trudged along
till he came to a brook, by the side of which, seated upon the
ground among a bunch of tall ferns, he espied a man with a missal book
on his lap and a leather bottle at his lips in the act of drinking. So
long the bottle remained tilted in air that Robin stole anigh ere
the other saw him. Robin stood still, and the bottle was slowly
lowered, displaying a perfectly round, fat face as red as a cherry,
with small, laughing blue eyes fringed with heavy black eyebrows.
The friar's shaven crown shone like glass, and it too was fringed with
a circlet of curly black hair. His broad, fat neck was quite bare, and
back of it was a cowl of rough, brown cloth attached to a loose,
flowing robe of the same stuff, covering a powerful and
strong-limbed body. Round his middle was buckled a leathern belt
that held some keys, a string of beads, and a dagger. Beside him on
the ground lay a sword, a buckler, and a steel cap.
  As he slowly took the bottle from his lips he beheld the stout
yeoman standing there, and straightway such a look of amazement came
over his funny red face that Robin burst forth into a loud, hearty
laugh. "Holy man," quoth he, "methought that bottle was glued to thy
face, so long and lovingly did it cling to thy cherry lips. If there
be aught left within it, the draught must be right pleasant. I would
fain drink thereof, to sweeten my dry throat withal."
  "Ah! wouldst thou?" was the answer. "Then why not test yon cool,
sparkling brook from whence the bottle was filled?"
  "Nay, nay, good Friar, thou wouldst make no such pretty gurgling
music with water as I heard from thee but now. What is more, gin thy
rosy cheeks belie thee not, precious little water hath passed thy lips
this many a day."
  "Well," said the Friar, "a pious man ought not to deny a stranger
who asks a drop to quench his thirst." So saying, he passed the bottle
to Robin.
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 20}
  Robin took a long pull and found the liquor so good that he tipped
the bottle higher and higher, keeping it so long tilted upright that
at last the Friar jumped to his feet with a roar like a bull, saying:
  "Thou greedy guts, thou tap without end, by Saint Wilfrid I will
part thy mouth and my bottle with a cuff over thy ribs that will
land thee on the other side of the brook!"
  "Ay," quoth jolly Robin, smacking his lips, "right good Rhenish
water, I trow! Grammercy for the loan of thy bottle, which I will
straight refill from the brook for thy future use."
  "Nay, mock me not," cried the Friar, peering anxiously down the neck
of the bottle, "but go thy ways while there yet is peace betwixt us,
and trifle no more."
  "Dost thou not know," asked Robin, "of a certain curtal friar in
these parts named Tuck?"
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 25}
  "Mayhap I do, and mayhap I do not. If thou meanest him of
Fountains Abbey, the place is but a few rods down the glade when
thou hast crossed the brook."
  "Ay, truly," said Robin, "but I see no place to cross without
wetting my new hosen. I pray thee, therefore, kind and good Friar,
carry me across on thy broad shoulders. Come, tuck up thy robe and
bend thy back that I may meet this same curtal friar in seemly
fashion."
  Then the Friar closed one eye, screwed up his mouth, and placed
his finger upon his brow as in deep thought. At last he said: "What-
if the good Saint Christopher were so willing, my unworthy self should
not refuse." So saying, he laid down his missal and, tucking up his
skirts, took Robin Hood on his back. He plunged into the flowing water
up to his waist, carefully feeling his way over the pebbles on the
bottom, and spake no word, good or bad, until he reached the further
bank.
  Then Robin leaped lightly from his back and set off briskly for
Fountains Abbey.
  "Hold! Not so fast, my fine fellow!" cried the Friar. "For now I
bethink me I have left my missal and my steel cap upon the other
side."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 30}
  "Well," quoth Robin, "naught hinders thee to go back and get them."
  "Nay, but," quoth the Friar, smiling, "one good turn deserves
another, and therefore thou must e'en carry me back on thy
shoulders, for peradventure, with another ducking I may take a chill
or fall sick of divers pains and rheums."
  "What if I should not?" quoth Robin.
  "Then I will baste thy hide with thine own sword which I carried
safely over and now hold."
  Now Robin liked not the thought of playing pack-horse to this
burly Friar. But he bethought him that the fellow spake truly enough
concerning the sword, so he bent his back, with no very good grace.
Straightway the Friar began to prod his heels into Robin's sides to
make him go the faster, though in sooth he had to go slowly and
carefully over the rough bottom with so weighty a burden. But he spake
no word, and after much floundering and splashing they reached the
bank in safety, where the Friar got his steel cap and his buckler.
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 35}
  "Now," quoth Robin, panting and sweating with his hard work, "it's
my turn, and thou shalt carry me back, or I will put a shaft through
thy fat body as easily as a maid skewers a capon."
  "Why, so I will," quoth the Friar. "So put up thy bow, and come
along, for it is ill to shoot upon a holy man that hath done thee a
service."
  So Robin once more mounted the broad back of the lusty Friar, and,
becoming jubilant, shouted, "Come up, gee, woa!" rapping with his
heels the stout Friar's shins, who quietly plodded along, without a
word, toward the middle of the brook. But of a sudden he gave a mighty
heave of his shoulders, and Robin flew right over his head into the
brook with a loud splash, while the Friar stood holding his broad ribs
from bursting with laughter.
  "Now, my fine fellow," he cried, "choose thou whether thou wilt sink
or swim!"
  Robin Hood spake no word, for his nose and mouth were full of water,
and he had no breath to spare. He swam to a bush of broom that
overhung the bank and dragged himself ashore. Meanwhile the Friar
leisurely waded out, shaking with mirth.
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 40}
  Robin, full wroth, met him with bow bent and arrow nocked to the
string.
  "Now, thou false Friar, thou shalt die," he cried, grimly.
  But the other never blenched. Raising up his buckler he said:
  "Shoot on, thou fine fellow. I tell thee if thou shootest here a
summer's day, I will never flee thee."
  Thereat Robin lowered his bow. "Nay," quoth he, "on second
thought, I will not shoot thee dead where thou standest, rascally
hedge priest though thou be'st. But with my good broadsword I will let
thy blood. Therefore, arm thyself and make ready, for if I do not
carve the brawn from off thy fat jowl, by Saint Dunstan, I'll
supperless to bed for two moons."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 45}
  "Be not so hasty," quoth the Friar, calmly. "I'm ready and willing
as a maid is to wed." He slowly set his steel cap upon his head, and
then, grasping his broadsword firmly in his great fist, he faced Robin
with a bold front, bawling out: "Now, my crowing cockerel, I'll clip
thy comb and spurs anon- yea, shake thy wet feathers!"
  Thereupon they rushed together with a loud clash of steel and flying
sparks, but ere long Robin saw that he must curb his hot blood or soon
have it spilled; for the Friar, though angry, was calm and determined,
bearing down Robin's guard with his heavy arm. So they fought from
right to left, up and down, back and forth in the glade, with a savage
fury and noise as if 'twere a whole company at fray.
  Hour after hour the battle went on, with short pauses for rest, both
panting and sweating, eying each other in silence, for neither had
breath to waste in speech. From ten o'clock that morn had they
struggled, and now past noon they were still tearing, slashing, and
cutting with aching arms and tired backs; yet neither had a scratch.
  "Hold!" bellowed the Friar. "Let us give o'er for a space to take
a midday bite and quench our thirst. Then, to it again."
  "Not so, thou tough mountain of flesh," shouted bold Robin Hood.
"Not till my sword hath taken toll on some part of thy body will I
give o'er."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 50}
  "Nay, hold thy hand but a moment, thou doughty fellow," quoth the
Friar. "Wilt thou not suffer me to take off this hot steel cap to cool
my brow? For the sweat poureth down in mine eyes to blind me."
  "Yea, do so, but quickly," said Robin, the better pleased that now
the broad shining poll would be a fair mark for his sword. Then the
battle began afresh. Do all he could, Robin failed to strike the
Friar's crown; and he in turn missed Robin a hundred times- and so the
grim fight raged till four in the afternoon.
  The ferns and woodland flowers were trodden into a shapeless mass
among the soft, black loam. The song-birds had long flown away
affrighted at the clashing din. At last bold Robin cried:
  "A boon, a boon, thou curtal Friar! Give me leave to set my horn
to my mouth, and to blow three blasts upon it."
  "That will I," quoth the curtal Friar, lowering the point of his
sword. "I care not for thy blast, though thou blow so passing well
that both thine eyes fall out."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 55}
  So Robin set his horn to his lips and blew three loud blasts. Scarce
had the Friar heard the echo when he saw two tall archers with
shafts ready nocked come running over the lea.
  "Whose men are these," cried he, "that come so hastily at thy call?"
  "These men are mine," said Robin Hood. "And what is that to thee?"
  Then the curtal Friar saw that he had been tricked, but he abated no
whit of his boldness.
  "A boon, a boon," he cried, mimicking Robin, with a shrewd glint
in his eye, "like to that I granted thee! Give me but leave to set
my fist to my mouth and whistle thrice."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 60}
  "That will I," quoth Robin, "for it is but just and fair. Three
whistles from a Friar's fist will be a glad and blithesome sound, I
trow."
  So the Friar put his fist to his mouth and gave three loud whistles.
The next moment there came half a dozen great mongrel dogs tearing
along, barking loud as they drew nigh.
  "Here, thou cowardly villain," said the Friar, "are a couple of
shaggy hounds for each of thy men, and I myself will be enough for
thee. At 'em, my pets, tear their green jerkins to shreds, my
hearties."
  Thereupon, two great, ugly mastiffs climbed in front and back of
Robin in a trice before he had time to defend himself or flee. At
last, torn and ragged, he got him to a tree and sat, with legs astride
a stout limb, watching Little John shoot at the fierce brutes. Then he
saw what made him doubt his eyes, for the dogs leaped aside from the
flying arrows, caught them in their mouths, and broke them in twain.
  "This is witchcraft," thought Robin, "and the Friar is a wizard, for
never might dogs do so of their own nature." His wonder grew when he
saw Will Scarlet step forth boldly toward the hounds with no weapon in
his hand.
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 65}
  "Down, Beauty; down, Bess," cried Will, cuffing them right and left.
Straightway the dogs began to cower down and fawn upon him, and
gamboled about him as he stepped toward their master.
  "What meaneth this?" quoth the Friar. "Have my dogs gone daft to
love the company of thieves and cutthroats? Have I not, with their
aid, kept Fountains Abbey seven long year and more from baron, knight,
and squire, and must I now yield myself to three beggarly yeomen
that dare to beard me in mine own dale? Tear them, tear their limbs
asunder, good dogs!"
  Will Scarlet now came forward, petting a great, ugly hound.
  "Marry, stout Friar," quoth he, "cease thy brawling and curb thy
wagging tongue."
  "What!" said the Friar. "Do mine eyes behold young Will Gamwell in
company with such a brace of deer-stealers? Now, I swear by holy Saint
Boniface I will-"
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 70}
  "Peace, Friar, and hear!" cried Will.
  Then, pointing to Robin, he said: "This stout yeoman who seemeth ill
at ease perched in yonder tree is none other than my good uncle, Robin
Hood. The other tall fellow is Little John, his good right-hand man;
and hither they have come to bid thee join our merry band of outlaws
in Sherwood Forest. Call off thy mongrel dogs and let us speak
together and set matters right."
  "Right well," quoth the Friar, "do I know Robin Hood by report,
but doth he think to get me by cracking my bones? In troth, I ache and
am full sore."
  At length, somewhat appeased and soothed by Will's manner and words,
he whistled off his hounds. Then Robin climbed down the tree and
Little John with him drew nigh unto the Friar.
  "For a holy man," quoth Robin, "truly thou art the stoutest
fighter that e'er I clapped eyes upon."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 75}
  "Nay, good Robin, thou art the better man, I trow, for never was I
so weary of any man in fight." With that he pushed forth his brawny
palm, saying, "Right glad am I to meet the bold outlaws of Sherwood
Forest."
  "And now," quoth Robin, "all being well, we will together go in
search of Friar Tuck, whom we came seeking; and thou, holy Friar, must
guide us."
  "By my troth," laughed Will, "thou hast not far to seek, for that
same holy friar now stands before thee."
  "What?" exclaimed Robin. "Surely thou art not Friar Tuck!"
  "The same," quoth the Friar, with a twinkle in his naughty, laughing
eyes, "that gave thee a duck in yon stream."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 80}
  "And the same," laughed merry Robin, "that drained the bottle of
good Rhenish wine. Truly my mouth waters to think upon it. Hast thou
no more of the like by the fountain? for after such sound buffets,
given and ta'en, we would both, I trow, be the better for good meat
and drink."
  "Right gladly," quoth the Friar, "will I welcome you to my humble
hermitage, though I fear me the fare is but a sorry crust. But come
away all to my abbey, and mayhap with endeavor we may find enough."
  Then all strode down the glade, and the Friar unlocked the stout
door with a large key hanging from his belt.
  "Welcome," quoth he, "to my poor lodging and its scanty fare."
  They were ushered into a little room, entirely bare, except for a
small, plain table and stool. "Tarry here while I make search for food
and drink." So saying, the Friar disappeared for a time, and
returned anon with a broad smile on his fat face. Silently he beckoned
them to follow down a dark passage to another room. It was much larger
and wider than the other, with a low ceiling, into which was let a
large stained-glass window, which gave the only light. This window the
Friar had carried away in pieces, earlier in life, when he had
helped to build the beautiful priory at Coventry.
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 85}
  For you must know that in those early days only the churchmen were
architects, artists, and writers. Many of the beautiful cathedrals,
like Lichfield, were then a-building, and up to the present time
nothing to equal them in church-building has been done.
  Thus it was that the room had plenty of light; but nothing could
be seen in it from the outside. In the corners were low couches
covered with rich fabrics, and from the walls hung a number of
images of the saints and a large, beautiful crucifix. But Robin and
his men had eyes only for the table in the middle of the room, with
four chairs ready set; for upon it were a big, uncut venison pie,
large pots of honey, plenty of cakes, and many tankards and beakers of
good ale and wine.
  "This room," quoth Friar Tuck, with a merry twinkle, "is only used
by mine own dear friends- the outer room serves for strangers. And now
fall to, merry brothers, after a blessing, and let us see what we
shall do."
  They did as they were bid, doing full justice to the jolly Friar's
bounteous fare. Amid the laughter and merriment Will told how he had
joined the band; and, together with Robin and Little John, he begged
Friar Tuck to become one of them.
  "We are," quoth Little John, "much in need of a holy man, to
christen and to marry, and oft to chasten us when we quarrel."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 90}
  "Well," quoth Friar Tuck, "in truth, I like not well to change my
quiet life to live among a band of outlaws. But it may be that it is
my duty sithen ye say ye have no holy man among you. Nay, go to,"
quoth he, wagging his head, "methinks as a holy man I have no
choice. What saith the good Saint Christopher touching the saving of
sinners?"
  At this Will Scarlet laughed loudly. "Nay, if thou comest, 'twill be
because of thy most unholy love of hunting, quaffing, and good
company. But make an end, sweet chuck, and say thou wilt come."
  Then they all urged him right heartily, until at last he gave his
word.
  "Let us away," quoth Robin, "without more ado, for the hour
groweth late."
  "By the mass, not so fast!" said the Friar. "Tarry ye here and
rest for the night with me. Then on the morrow early we will gather up
all needful things for my comfort, and ye shall help convey them to
Sherwood. Also my dogs must not be left behind, and I must lock up the
Abbey snug and tight against the time we may need it."
                                                         {VII ^paragraph 95}
  To this Robin agreed, and after big draughts of nut-brown ale each
lay down on a couch, tired but happy, for a good night's slumber. In
five minutes all were fast asleep save Robin, who could scarce rest
for his aching bones. Anon he heard a strange, rasping sound in the
neighborhood of the Friar's couch, which grew louder and louder till
it became such a deep roar as to make the room tremble.
  "Holy Saint Withold!" thought Robin. "What is that horrid sound like
unto a wild bull's roar? In truth, I cannot rest with such a din.
Let me search, and mayhap I shall find the cause." So saying, he got
up, moving toward the couch on which the Friar lay, to find the deep
tones proceeding from Tuck's wide-open mouth. "So, it is thou!"
quoth he, and gave the Friar a dig in the ribs, whereat the other
did but give a loud grunt. But after more digs he at last raised
himself sleepily, saying, "How now, good Robin? 'Tis not the morn as
yet."
  "Nay," quoth Robin. "Good faith, I wish it were. Thy snores
grievously disturb my slumber, so thunderous and so awful that in
sooth my spirit quakes. Canst thou not sleep where the din cannot
reach me?"
  "Lie down," said the Friar, "and I will keep awake till thou
sleepest."
  So Robin got to rest and waked no more till he heard loud shouts
from the Friar, which told him that the morning meal was ready.
Straightway they all arose and went to the fountain for a cold dash of
water on their faces and a deep draught to drink.
                                                        {VII ^paragraph 100}
  The day was yet very early; 'twas scarce three o'clock. The purple
haze and a yellow streak in the sky proclaimed the sun was up. The
skylark soared aloft, its song fading in the distant clouds, and the
woods resounded with joyous bird-notes. Full merrily they set to work,
when their meal was ended, to help the Friar gather his belongings,
while the dogs ran hither and thither, happy to be free. Slowly the
Friar turned the key in the great lock. Then, with a wistful, last
look at Fountains Abbey, he turned his face toward the forest, and
with his companions silently strode forward on the road to Sherwood.

{VIII
                               VIII
               ROBIN MEETS TWO PRIESTS UPON THE WAY
-
  JUST as the sun reached high noon the four travelers came forth from
the forest trees into the glade of the great oak. A rousing cheer
greeted Robin and his companions. They were well weighted down with
things owned by the Friar, who was fain to bring all his gear and
his weapons- his many bows, shields, and mail-coats, and great store
of arrows. "For they are my dear friends," quoth he. The six mongrel
dogs felt strange among so great a press of men, and were, as yet,
in no humor to be petted or to make friends.
  "I warrant them to be kind in a few days," quoth the Friar, as
they snapped and snarled.
  Quoth Robin to his men: "Have any of you heard aught of what goes on
in the great world?"
  "Yea," answered one. "Our spies in Nottingham town hear that King
Henry hath died in his palace of Chinon in France of a broken heart,
because of his sons, John and Richard, who, with the barons, joined
the French King against their own father. Now Richard is soon to be
crowned King of England, and after that, say they, he goeth upon a
crusade to the Holy Land. All the highways are thick with people on
their way to London from York, Chester, and other big towns. The whole
kingdom is sore distraught."
                                                         {VIII ^paragraph 5}
  So Robin Hood bethought him that now would be a good time to enlarge
their treasures- to give back to the poor what the rich and powerful
had stolen. Straightway he and Little John laid their heads
together. Small companies of the band, each under a leader chosen by
Robin, were set to guard and watch certain roads and lanes nigh unto
the forest. For the most part, the outlaws were disguised. As beggars,
palmers, minstrels, or monks went they forth.
  On a fair morn, as the warm, yellow sunlight trickled through the
branching leaves, Robin boldly strode alone through the forest,
bound for a certain bend of the great highway that a forest path
joined. For while he dearly loved his companions- Little John most
of all- it was his great delight to seek adventure alone. Many a
hard knock had he gotten because of his hardihood, yet so sure was
he of his own strength and skill that he hated the thought of help
even from friends.
  So, garbed as a friar with hood, gown, beads, and crucifix, and with
his trusty sword hidden beneath his gown, he struck through the forest
and came to the highroad. For once he had left his quarter-staff and
long-bow behind. Anon he stopped to rest, and sat him down by the
roadside upon a large fallen tree-trunk, mossy-green with age. Three
happy, smiling maidens passed by with a "Good day, dear father,"
that brought forth in deep tones a solemn reply, "Benedicite!" At last
he spied some distance down the road two lusty priests, clad all in
black, riding comfortably upon the broad back of a strong,
heavy-limbed horse. Going forth to meet them, Robin, with his hand
on the horse's bridle, addressed them:
  "Benedicite! Take pity on me, for our Dear Lady's sake. Nay, but one
silver groat shall content me. For truly I have been a-wandering all
this day and have gotten naught- not so much as one poor cup of
drink nor bit of bread."
  "I prithee, Friar, let go the bridle," quoth one of the priests,
"for by our Holy Dame, we have not a penny. Early this morning, hard
by the forest, we were robbed of all we had by two bold varlets
dressed like thee."
                                                        {VIII ^paragraph 10}
  "Nay, by the mass," quoth Robin, "I fear me thou speakest false, for
I am well acquainted with all the honest outlaws of Sherwood, and know
full well that none but myself weareth hood and gown." At these words,
catching a glimpse of a broadsword handle peeping through his robe,
the priests began thumping the horse with their heels. But Robin
picked up his gown round his waist, and with running soon overtook
them.
  "Now, by my faith, ye shall both come down in a trice," quoth he.
Then, reaching up, he caught both their cowls and pulled them from
their horse.
  "O, spare us, Friar," cried the priests. "Thou wouldst not rob
from the Church. Think of thy cloth, take pity, and have some remorse.
No good can come of such a foul deed."
  "Now, look ye," quoth jolly Robin, "if indeed ye have no silver,
no harm shall befall you. For as much as ye said but now that ye had
none, I am resolved that without more ado we all three shall fall down
upon our knees and try whether we may get it by praying. So, down upon
your knees and pray with all your hearts."
  The priests looked up and down and all about them, but they saw
naught save the blue sky, the green trees, and the white road. At
last, perceiving that there was no help for it, they got them to their
knees, and in right mournful tones besought the saints to aid them.
"Send us, O send us silver to serve our need," they cried- then in a
whisper, "that this bold, wicked villain may go his way and leave us
in peace."
                                                        {VIII ^paragraph 15}
  "Pray more earnestly," quoth Robin. "I fear me we shall get no great
sum at this rate."
  Then they began to wring their hands, calling upon the saints
right lustily. Sometimes they wept, while Robin did merrily sing to
cheer them on. But after a space he wearied of this sport.
  "Now, by the mass," said he, "we will see what the good saints
have sent us, and will be sharers all alike of their bounty without
deceit or guile."
  Then the priests with doleful countenances put their hands into
their pockets, but drew them out empty.
  "Marry," quoth Robin, "ye have both prayed mightily, and it cannot
be that ye have not been heard. Therefore, let us, one by one,
search one another."
                                                        {VIII ^paragraph 20}
  So first of all Robin searched the priests, and anon he poured out
upon the grass a great store of gold- full five hundred pieces.
  The two priests watched him with very sour faces and sorrowful
hearts. "Alas," quoth one, "had we given him the groat he asked for,
this grievous thing would not have befallen." Trembling, they waited
on their knees to see what would be done with the money. At last quoth
Robin:
  "Here truly is a brave show- such a store of gold as does mine
eyes good to look upon and maketh our hearts glad. I warrant neither
of you looked for such a windfall. Sithen ye have prayed so
heartily, ye shall each have a part. I shall give to each fifty
pounds, and the rest I will keep for myself."
  Both priests sighed wondrous deep, but never a word they spake.
Rising from their knees, they moved away to mount their horse lest
Robin should happen to change his mind and make them divide again,
or perchance take away from them that which he had freely given.
When they had taken but a few steps Robin said:
  "Nay, tarry awhile. One thing more I have to say ere ye leave this
place."
                                                        {VIII ^paragraph 25}
  "What wouldst thou more?" they asked.
  "Marry, this: ye shall make three vows that I shall tell you. The
first is, that ye shall never again tell lies wheresoever ye go. And
the second oath, that ye will be charitable to the poor and needy; and
the third oath ye shall swear is to tell it abroad that ye met with
a holy friar who taketh only from him that hath and giveth to him that
hath not." With much groaning and murmuring and shaking of heads, they
took the three vows. Then Robin set them on their horse; and away they
went down the road at a sharp trot, glad indeed to have escaped
without further harm. Robin watched them, chuckling.
  "Faith, Robin, thou hast done very well," he said to himself, as
he took a by-path toward the forest. "I would fain have had thy
service in this matter"- patting the hilt of his broadsword- "but
patience, good friend, we must bide our time." As he moved leisurely
along, thus communing with himself, he heard snatches of a merry
lay, accompanied by the notes of a harp, blending together in sweet
harmony.
  "Truly," quoth he, "one who can trill such silvery notes must surely
carry a purse, wherein some golden coins may perchance jingle
another tune with my good aid."
  So he stood behind a tree and listened as the singer came toward
him. The stranger was a tall young stripling with long, golden,
curly locks, and dressed in bright scarlet. He carried the harp before
him as he played, and seemed a happy and free minstrel. "I will be
sworn," thought Robin, "that yon tuneful bird hath nothing to pluck
save his scarlet hosen, and them, forsooth, I want not; so let the
light-hearted youth go by. 'Twere foul shame to break the tune."
                                                        {VIII ^paragraph 30}
  As the singer passed on the music grew softer in the distance and at
last died away. Then, since the sun was near setting, Robin set out
for his woodland home, well content with the money he had taken from
the two priests.

{IX
                                IX
                    ALLAN-A-DALE GETS HIS BRIDE
-
  WHEN Friar Tuck heard Robin tell the tale of the two priests he
laughed so heartily that he split asunder his leathern waistband, and,
with tears trickling down his fat cheeks, quoth he: "Truly, Robin,
thou art too kind and forgiving. Had I been there, the fifty pounds
would never have rested again in their pouch."
  "Nay, Friar," quoth Robin, "in that thou art wrong, for be it
remembered we make it a rule to strip none bare, but to leave a
crust even to a lying priest. What is more, they withstood me not, but
obeyed like lambs led to the slaughter."
  "Ay," said the Friar, "they well knew that to fight with such a
one as thou would surely gain them naught but cracked crowns. Howbeit,
I have it in my mind to join thee in the next adventure and take my
part as may befit an outlaw friar." Then he sucked in his lips as if
such a deed would taste as sweet as roast pig.
  "Well," quoth Robin, "we will at once make ready- Little John,
Will Scarlet, thou, and I."
                                                           {IX ^paragraph 5}
  Then Robin went to attire himself as a merry harper, with
many-colored ribbons tied about him and with a gay plume of feathers
in his cap, his trusty broadsword and bow for weapons. Soon all four
were striding through the forest.
  They had gone scarce a mile when they espied a young man with head
drooping who at every step fetched forth a sigh and oft wrung his
hands, crying, "Alack, and well-a-day!"
  "By my faith," quoth Robin, "I warrant this youth is none other than
the same gaily dressed scarlet bird whom I heard but yester eve
singing a roundelay in the forest. How comes it that he is changed
so soon to a sniveling, ragged, ill-clothed varlet such as we now
behold. Go thou, good nephew Will, and bring him to us, for verily I
would know the reason of so strange a turn of fortune."
  So Will Scarlet stepped forth toward the weeping, unhappy youth,
who, upon seeing a man approach, nocked a shaft and bent his long-bow,
crying, "Stand off, stand off! What is your will with me?"
  "Naught that is harmful," quoth Will. "Our master, Robin Hood,
whom thou seest standing beneath yon greenwood-tree, bids thee
straightway go before him to answer certain questions he shall ask
of thee."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 10}
  At last the doleful youth laid by his long-bow and, going quietly,
without demur, stood before bold Robin Hood, who spake him fair and
courteously.
  "How is this? Last eve I saw thee gaily dressed, blithesome, and
jolly, singing like a happy cock robin to his mate, and now, behold,
we find thee bedraggled and downcast. How may this be?"
  Thereupon the youth drew himself up and looked upon Robin with a
show of boldness.
  "Nay, why should I tell thee this?" quoth he. "If thou meanest aught
of ill to me, let me tell thee thou hast naught to do to harm so
poor and wretched a man. Truly I have naught in the world save five
shillings and a ring that I have kept these seven long years against
the time of my marriage."
  "Do but tell us thy woe," quoth Robin, "and mayhap it shall be
well with thee."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 15}
  Then the youth, seeing kindness in Robin's face, took courage and
said:
  "In sooth, I know not why thou askest, yet I will tell thee the
whole matter, for it is all one to me whether thou meanest well or
ill. Yesterday I was to wed a lovely maid, but she was torn away
from me by her cruel father, who chose to make her marry a rich old
knight. Wherefore my heart is slain, because I have neither money
nor lands."
  "Does the maid love thee, or hath she changed her mind of a
sudden, as maids will?"
  "In truth, she loveth me dearly, but they have torn us asunder,
and will force her to be married this very day, and that is the
cause of my unhappy state."
  "Truly," quoth Tuck, "if she love thee, and be willing, why dost
thou not take her away by main force? Thou wert ready enough but now
to use thy bow upon us. Try the same trick upon the old knight. I'll
warrant he will soon repent of his bargain."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 20}
  "It is her father I fear," replied the youth, "and to him I would do
no harm."
  "Come, tell me," quoth Robin, "what is thy name?"
  "By the faith of my body," said the sad fellow, "my name is
Allan-a-Dale."
  "Now what wouldst thou give," quoth Robin, "to one that would help
thee to thy true love again and deliver her unto thee?"
  "I have no money," quoth the tearful youth, "nor ready gold, nor
fee, therefore mock me not."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 25}
  "I mock thee not," said Robin, "but I have a mind to help thee."
  "If thou dost the thing thou sayest," cried Allan, "right gladly
will I swear upon a Book forevermore to be thy true servant and to
do any deed for thee that is laid upon me."
  "Well," said Robin, "tell me without guile, how many miles from here
is the church where the wedding is to be?"
  "In sooth, it is but five short miles, and by an easy path could I
guide thee thither."
  "What say ye, my comrades, shall we help the poor lad to his true
love?"
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 30}
  "Ay, that we will," chimed in the others, with one accord.
  "But," quoth Little John, "we shall need help from our comrades.
Do thou, Will Scarlet, go back to our trysting-place and choose twenty
stout fellows to meet us at the church."
  "Yea," quoth Robin, "and tarry not by the way. As for us, we will go
with this youth to see how they make ready for the wedding."
  So Will Scarlet strode off at a good gait, while Robin, Little John,
and Friar Tuck started down a path toward the church, which they
reached within an hour. They found no signs of a wedding, so they
waited under a great yew-tree in the churchyard. Anon came Will
Scarlet with his men, and Robin bade them keep hidden under the forest
trees, but within sound of bugle-call.
  Meanwhile, Friar Tuck had observed a priest trying to open the great
church doors, and, stepping forth, he addressed him.
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 35}
  "Let me, aged brother, give aid to unlock the door."
  "Grammercy, holy Friar, that will I gladly. Thy brawny hand is
more fit to wield so large a key, and, I doubt not, hath handled a
more dangerous weapon ere now."
  "Nay, not so, pious priest. Thou seest before thee a most peaceful
man, Friar Tuck of Fountains Abbey, most happy and content when at his
beads and fasting. They tell me," he went on, "there is to be a
wedding here this day."
  "Ay, worthy Friar, and in brotherly love I will tell thee, from such
an unfitting bond can come no good."
  "Saist thou so? And why?" asked Tuck.
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 40}
  "The noble knight, good man though he be, is old enough to be the
maiden's grandfather- a gaunt, rickety bag-o'-bones with one leg in
the grave- and the poor, pretty maid stark crazy in love with a more
fitting mate. But her father, misguided man, for money will force
her to it, and vows she shall marry the knight willy-nilly."
  "Here they come," quoth Tuck. "The cavalcade now rides up the
road. Canst thou not, good priest, hide me that I may witness the
wedding in the church?"
  "In truth, I can. Go behind yon stone column in the little chapel,
where thou wilt hear and see all."
  The wedding procession was slowly coming up the road toward the
church. In front rode the knight, Sir Hugo de Ferrico, with the Bishop
of Hereford on one side and on the other the Prior of Emmet. The
knight, on a gray charger, with his sallow, gaunt face between the
jolly, fat, red faces of his companions, looked like a honeysuckle
between two peonies. Then came the maid's father, a sour-looking Saxon
franklin; and behind him rode the daughter, a beautiful maid on a
white palfrey. Behind her, again, rode the wedding guests, four of the
knight's men-at-arms, and the attendants of the churchmen.
  When Robin saw the haughty churchmen dismount from their horses,
he borrowed Allan-a-Dale's harp, then strode boldly up to the church
door and began to thrum and sing.
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 45}
  "What," quoth the fat Bishop, "do we have sweet music to welcome the
wedding guests?" Then, eying Robin closely, he said, "What art thou,
and what doest thou here dressed so gaily in bright ribbons and
feathers?"
  "I am a bold harper, the best in the north country," said Robin.
"Men say the strains of my music do make the heart glad, and the newly
wedded to love each other forevermore. Many a happy bridegroom hath
crossed my palm with golden coins, from the river Dee to Trent, from
Derwent to Avon."
  "Ah, truly," said the Bishop, "then do thou at once show us thy
skill while the fair bride dismounts to enter the holy church."
  "Nay, by the mass," quoth Robin, "that is against my rule." For,
to say sooth, he could not play a tune to save his life. "I always
play a march while the wedding guests walk up the aisle, and softly
soothe the harp to silence as the ceremony begins."
  "I vow," quoth the Prior, "the harper is right, and a very pretty
thing 'twill be."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 50}
  Thus it was that Robin waited till all had entered. He closely
watched the rickety old knight hobble up in an effort to hand the fair
maid from her palfrey, and he thought he never before had seen a
face so sweet and gentle as hers. Pale and sad, she looked about
like a frightened fawn, seeming to hope that even at that late hour
some good saint would intervene and save her from the vow that would
bind her to this old dotard of trembling limbs.
  When all had entered, and the Bishop was ready to march with stately
strides up to the chancel, he turned sharply round upon Robin, saying,
"Now tune thy harp and make music, thou lazy rogue, for see, the bride
moves toward the altar."
  "Marry, that I will not, till I see thee with the Book."
  "Thou saucy, beribboned varlet, I will have thee flogged when all is
done." So saying, the Bishop took his place and opened the Book to
marry. Robin then boldly marched up and placed himself between the
bride and the groom.
  "By holy Saint Dunstan," he loudly cried, "this is no fit match.
Thou art too old and shaky, Sir Knight, to wed a maid so young and
tender. The bride shall choose and wed her own dear love that is of
her own age and sound of heart and limb."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 55}
  Then all the company stared in silent surprise at Robin, who put his
horn to his mouth and blew three loud blasts that made the rafters
ring. Straightway the knight reached for his sword- but he had
forgotten it when putting on his wedding clothes. He shouted to his
men-at-arms: "Slay this bold varlet that dares disturb the rites of
Holy Church."
  But as they were about to lay hands on Robin, who had no weapon, but
stood ready with the harp to defend himself, running up the church
came twenty archers clad in Lincoln green, led by Little John,
Allan-a-Dale, and Friar Tuck.
  Allan thrust Robin's trusty long-bow into his hands, and as he
took it the maid's father said to him, in angry tones:
  "Thou art a knavish hind to bring this trouble on us now."
  "Nay, say not so! I, Robin Hood, and my stout archers, have come
hither to right a woeful wrong and see two fond lovers united."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 60}
  "It shall not be," quoth the father, "unless thou first slay me."
  At the name of Robin Hood all the people stood aghast, the
men-at-arms shrank back, and the knight turned in stately silence
away. Robin boldly stood his ground, holding his trusty bow, with
Little John and the others at his side. A solemn stillness reigned
in the church; the Bishop and the Prior held each other up in
trembling fear, saying to themselves, "May the saints protect us
from this naughty villain and his wicked green-clad hinds." Then
they tottered toward the door, but Robin shouted:
  "Stop, holy churchmen, I have use for you ere you depart, and mean
you no harm."
  Then Sir Hugo, the knight, spake in pride to the maiden's father.
  "Had I known thy fair daughter loved and was beloved of another,
by the mass, I would not have wished her to share my castle, my lands,
and my proud title. Take thy daughter and give her to the poor
minstrel if so be she loveth poverty better than riches." Then with
his men-at-arms he hobbled down to the church door, mounted his horse,
and rode away.
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 65}
  "Be this as it may," the father cried out, "she shall never marry
a poor starveling, who, I'll warrant, hath not a groat to patch a torn
doublet."
  "In that I vow thou art wrong," quoth Robin. "Give him the bag of
gold, Little John, that I took the other day from the lying priests."
  Then the bag of three hundred golden coins was emptied out to
appease the angry father. At sight of them his face changed.
  "Is all this money thine, Allan-a-Dale?" quoth he.
  "Nay," quoth Robin, "it is thine, an ye give us thy blessing on
the wedding now to be, though she shall be wedded, blessing or no, for
we doubt, coming from so sour a father, if it be of any avail."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 70}
  The heap of gold was tempting, and the old franklin bethought him
that since Sir Hugo had taken himself off he would not easily find
another rich suitor. So at last he said, sighing deeply, "If my
daughter must e'en marry Allan-a-Dale, why, good faith, marry him
she shall." Then all the wedding party cheered and were glad at heart.
  "Now," quoth Robin, "my Lord Bishop, we do but wait upon thee to
join this loving couple without more ado. So get thee to thy place and
open thy Book."
  "Nay, thou saucy varlet," said the Bishop, with flashing eye,
"this may not be. The banns have not been read in church three times
o'er, as thou shouldst know is the law of the land and of Holy
Church."
  "Then cry the banns thyself, Lord Bishop, to marry these two
lovers whose plighted troth needs but thy good help."
  "Nay, by the mass, that will I not," shouted the Bishop.
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 75}
  "Then, an thou wilt not," quoth Robin, laughing, "I will make mine
own bishop. Stand forth, Friar Tuck, and put on the bishop's robes."
  With that Robin pulled off the Bishop's coat, then took off the
Prior's gown for Little John. All the people howled with laughter to
see Friar Tuck tricked out in such fine array. The faces of the Bishop
and the Prior were purple with anger and shame, but they dared not
stir a finger.
  "If thou art ready, Little John, step up and take thy place to cry
in church this loving couple three times aloud, that Friar Tuck may
wed them."
  Then Little John went up into the choir, whereat the people began to
titter. But he was no whit put out of countenance, and he cried the
banns seven times o'er lest three times should not be enough.
  When he had finished, Robin called him down, and to see him walk
with head up and chest pushed out, so like the Bishop, sent a merry
peal of laughter through the church. But the laughter swelled into a
very roar, as Friar Tuck, with a wink of his mischievous eye, took the
Book. With a show of spirit the Bishop cried in fiery tones,
pointing to the gorgeously attired Friar: "This man is no true priest.
'Tis but a rascally hedge priest."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 80}
  "What saist thou, proud Bishop?" bellowed forth Tuck, his body
shaking with rage; and, dropping the Book, he rushed toward the Bishop
like an angry bull at a red coat. "No priest, quoth-a! I stand here
before thee as much a priest as thou art, a holy clerk in orders,
the Vicar of Fountains Abbey, a pious, holy man that loveth his
neighbors, that doth not rob the poor to cover his back with fine
clothes, nor line his belly with good food. Go to, proud churchman,
and be thankful that I am a man of peace and that my quarter-staff
is at mine abbey, or it would soon play a tune upon thy gross body."
  His choler somewhat abated by so long a speech, he turned, puffing
and blowing, again to take up the Book, which he calmly, half
smilingly, opened, and in a loud, husky voice began to read. At last
came the question, "Who gives this maid to wed?"
  Quoth Robin Hood: "That do I, and he that takes her from
Allan-a-Dale shall buy her full dearly."
  Then the ring was placed on the finger of the blushing, happy bride,
whose face, heretofore so pale and wan, was now like a blooming,
rosy peach. The wedding was over and the noisy, happy crowd pushed
forward to speak fair words to the wedded lovers. Then Robin said:
  "Take off the churchmen's robes, and give them back, for, in
truth, we have no further need of them. Here, Prior, is thy robe,
and we thank thee for thy holy presence; and, Bishop, here is thy
coat. But, stop, that gold chain round thy neck is unbecoming to a
holy man, and more seemly for the pretty throat of our queenly bride."
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 85}
  The Bishop made a wry face and turned to go.
  "Give it up," roared Robin, "or I will tear it from thy fat neck
in a trice."
  Meekly the Bishop obeyed, and Robin gracefully wound the massive
golden chain round the neck of Allan's bride. So then the Bishop and
the Prior trotted down the church at a merry pace, glad indeed to
get away with their skins whole.
  "Thus," said Robin, "having ended this merry wedding, we will now go
hence to our happy glade among the leaves so green."
  So they hied them back to Sherwood Forest, where they feasted and
pledged the bride in flagons of foaming ale. Allan sang for them until
his voice grew hoarse.
                                                          {IX ^paragraph 90}
  If you remember, Allan had promised Robin that he would be his
servant forevermore. So the outlaws built a bower for him and his
bride, who dwelt thereafter in the forest with Robin and his men.
And for many a long year Allan-a-Dale's tuneful songs shortened the
weary hours in foul weather and made the sunshine seem brighter. At
their feasts or their sports he never once refused a song, and
sometimes of a moonlight summer night he would leave his happy bower
for a while, then softly go to where the outlaws lay sleeping on their
leafy, open-air beds to sing a love song or lullaby of ancient days.
Or perchance he would rise very early before the dawn and awaken
them with a morning hymn. Thus he entwined himself in the hearts of
them all.

{X
                                 X
                HOW ROBIN HOOD DID CHEAT THE TINKER
-
  YOU must know that the Bishop of Hereford and Prior Emmet as they
rode away from the little church were in a towering passion and
spake many harsh words of the merry outlaws, but more especially of
Robin Hood.
  "The shameless, thieving rogue!" said the Bishop, dolefully. "The
bold, naughty villain, to tear off my chain, every link of which is
solid gold, that would exchange for six tuns of good wine! But I'll
have it back," quoth he. "I'll have it back, for I'll set the
Sheriff's men to scour the woods and make these same outlaws skip away
like rats, that we may be rid of such vermin."
  "We ought to thank the saints," quoth the Prior, "that the saucy
varlet took no more."
  "Good faith, holy father, what more could he have ta'en from us save
the coats from our backs or the skin from our bodies?"
                                                            {X ^paragraph 5}
  "Thou wottest not," answered the Prior, "that my pouch contained
fivescore golden coins, and I do wonder his sharp eye noted it not
when first we met. But so soon as I saw what was toward I hid the
pouch in the folds of my robe, that he might not be tempted to give
the maid a dower. So shouldst thou have done with thy golden chain, my
Lord Bishop."
  "The chain is too costly for the child of a Saxon hind to keep,"
grumbled the Bishop. "Natheless, the villain spake with a semblance of
truth when he said such gauds do ill become a holy churchman."
  Thus they talked, sadly enough, as they rode toward Nottingham town.
The Sheriff received them with such courtesy as their high state in
the Church demanded; but as the tale of the wedding was unfolded he
grew paler, and his body shrank together, till at last, when he
heard of the golden chain, he threw up his hands in despair, crying:
  "Alack, alack-a-day! will my whole life be ruined? Is there no
end? Will troubles never come singly? The barons rob the Jews, the
outlaws rob the Church- what is to become of our unhappy land? For I
need an army to cope with such fell deeds. The King's foresters will
not go near this hornets' nest, for fear of being stung with their
arrows. My men-at-arms start and grow pale at the very name of Robin
Hood. Indeed, I myself dare speak his name but in a whisper for fear
the wretch may at any moment rise from the very floor of my house like
an evil spirit. Day or night, sleeping or waking, the name haunts me
so that I am like to go daft. Do thou, good Bishop, cudgel thy brain
to find some remedy, for mine own groweth soft and watery."
  "All I can advise," said the Bishop, "is to draw up a warrant in the
King's name, and to publish broadcast that a great reward is offered
for the outlaw's capture. Surely there are many strolling, hardy
villains outside Nottingham who, for a round sum, will attempt to
rid our land of this pest. I myself will give a hundred pounds to
get my chain again, and do thou, Sheriff, offer another hundred.
Such a noble sum will doubtless draw many brave hearts to the
adventure."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 10}
  So it was soon noised about in Nottingham town that a great reward
had been offered to any who should capture the bold outlaw, Robin
Hood. Messengers on horseback carried the news north and south. A
notice was posted upon the door of the Town Hall, but the townsfolk
only laughed. They knew it was no hard matter to offer a reward, but
not so easy to earn it. Indeed, they were sure no single man would
be found foolish enough to try.
  It so happened one day that a number of men were seated on a
bench, drinking ale at the door of the Blue Boar Inn, round the corner
from the Town Hall, in a narrow street hard by the Convent of St.
Andrews. The talk ran upon the warrant, and the most interested
listener was a burly, ragged tinker, with turned-up nose, rough,
shaggy face and hair, and dirty leathern apron. Traveling from town to
town all over the country, he earned but little with mending of pots
and pans, and what little he earned was soon exchanged for ale and
beer.
  "What do I hear," quoth he, "two hundred pounds to catch a thief?
Dick o' Banbury, thou hast been tinker long enough; a thief-catcher is
a better trade. No more kettles to mend for me! If my crab-tree
staff doth not crack a hole in this rogue of an outlaw's pate, then
I am no man of metal. For now my motto is to crack instead of to
mend."
  So he hied him to the Town Hall door, where he found the
proclamation posted.
  "Truly," quoth he, "I am no scholar, and must e'en search for one
that can read and expound the substance."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 15}
  As he stood there scratching his head a cowled monk stepped up to
him.
  "What wouldst thou here, my son?" asked he.
  "Fain would I read what is here written, but I cannot."
  "That is easily mended," quoth the monk, "for I will read it to
thee."
  After carefully listening and nodding his approval at each item,
Dick the tinker started off at full speed to the Sheriff's house.
The steward came forth angrily at the loud crack of Dick's staff on
the door. Before the tinker could find his tongue the steward said,
gruffly:
                                                           {X ^paragraph 20}
  "Go thy way. We have no pots and kettles that want mending in this
place."
  "Look you, fellow, I mend no pots, but I would ask the Sheriff to
give me the King's warrant to catch that vile outlaw, Robin Hood."
  "Truly, good tinker, that's a cat of another color. Step in, brave
tinker, bold tinker"- then, to himself- "fool tinker, thou art in
the way of trouble."
  Dick o' Banbury was the first to come seeking the warrant, and you
may well believe the Sheriff was right glad to receive him. "Ay,"
thought he, looking Dick up and down, "he's lusty, and looketh bold,
but is he sly?"
  "Well, my brave lad," he said, aloud, "so thou seekest to win our
reward?"
                                                           {X ^paragraph 25}
  "Ay, marry, that I do, my Lord Sheriff. If the saucy deer-thief be
still alive I shall nab him with the help of this, my good crab-tree
staff."
  "I warrant he's alive," quoth the Sheriff. "Thou lookest bold and
strong withal, but art thou sly?"
  "Ay, that I be," said Dick, "slyer than a fox. Was ever a weasel
caught asleep, was ever a dog seen to run from a meaty bone, or a
cat from a sparrow, or a mouse to leave a bit of cheese? So surely
am I sly!"
  "Well, tinker, here is the warrant," said the Sheriff. "And now thou
hast it, see that thou dost act as boldly as thou speakest. Catch this
fellow, snare him, trap him, beat him, or kill him, I care not. If
thou dost bring him to me dead or alive, thou shalt surely have the
reward and we will attach thee to our service at good wage, to boot."
  Then, calling the steward to give Dick a foaming tankard of good
ale, he hurried him off on his quest. The ale put the bold tinker in
fine fettle, so that as he strode along he twirled his staff round his
head so fast that the passers-by blinked and stood aloof.
                                                           {X ^paragraph 30}
  But, being full of vainglory and pride because he held the King's
warrant, he could not refrain from stopping once again at the Blue
Boar Inn. He had no money to wet his whistle; yet, though talking
was dry work, he wished to make it known to all that he, the man of
metal from Banbury, would show these north-country folk how to crack
pates.
  Just as he had sat him down a fine fellow, dressed all in red with a
long sword at his side, came up and stood anigh him. Straightway
Dick's tongue began to wag.
  "Good sir," quoth he, "if thou dwellest in these parts, mayhap
thou hast heard of a varlet named Robin Hood."
  "Surely," quoth the man in red, "thou art a stranger that asketh
this. All men hereabout do know Robin Hood, by report, for a rascally,
bold outlaw. But what is thy name and whence comest thou?"
  "I am from the south, and Dick the Tinker o' Banbury am I called.
Having cracked all the noddles in those parts, I have come hither,
by the mass, to crack more."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 35}
  "I thought thy trade was to mend, not to crack," quoth the stranger.
"I have doleful news for thee."
  "Marry, I warrant thou canst say naught that would grieve me."
  "'Tis that two of thy tinker brethren were set in stocks for getting
drunk on ale."
  "I care naught for thy gibes," snarled Dick. "There be no true
tinkers but could drink all day, and still be sober. I'll warrant thou
durst not try me."
  "Well," said the stranger, laughing, "now that my news is stale,
what is thy news? For in thy gadabout life thou hast surely gathered
some moss of that kind. Perchance a tankard of ale will grease thy
throat and make the news run more smoothly."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 40}
  "Ay, that it will. Well," said Dick, after a deep draught, wiping
his grizzly beard on the dirty sleeve of his doublet, "I will tell
thee a thing to make thee marvel. Thou seest me, a poor man- a
mender of pots and pans, forsooth- yet I tell thee I am about to
pick up two hundred pounds without even stooping- in faith, as
easily as a rabbit slips down his warren."
  "By St. Withold, saist thou so? Come, out with it; let's hear of
so marvelous a trick."
  "Why," quoth Dick, "'tis no great matter, if a man be bold and
strong and cunning withal. Marry, 'tis this: I hold the King's warrant
to seize that naughty thief and outlaw rogue, Robin Hood. An I clap
eyes upon him, I'll Robin him. I'll singe his red breast, and make him
whistle another tune. Somewhere near by in this forest he lies. Can'st
thou not guide me to where this fox hath a hole? Do so, and I'll
give thee some part of the reward- a vast sum, truly- two hundred
pounds, and the Sheriff's dear love, to boot. Nay, by the mass, I
can feel the gold coins clink in my pouch already. Hast ever seen
the villain?"
  "Ay, marry, that I have," replied the stranger.
  "And what is he like?" asked Dick.
                                                           {X ^paragraph 45}
  "In truth, he is of about my size; folk say we are as like as two
peas from a pod."
  "Bah!" quoth the tinker. "I thought he was a very bearded giant.
An he be like thee, I vow to bind up one arm, and cudgel him with
t'other."
  "Yet they tell me," was the reply, "that he swings a quarter-staff
right smartly, and hath some skill with the sword. In good sooth,
tinker, he carries a long-bow full seven feet long- but let me see thy
warrant to know if it be right."
  "That I will not," the tinker said, "for none will I trust with it."
  "But drink, brave tinker, thou art not afraid of the stocks."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 50}
  "How can I drink from an empty mug?"
  "Thou saist truly," quoth the stranger. "Bide here awhile, and I
will ask mine host to tap a certain brew of foaming Uttoxeter ale,
that I wot of." With that he slipped inside the tap-room and told
the host to mix some strong liquor in the ale, which he then took
out to the tinker.
  "Marry," quoth Dick, "that is the right ale for stout hearts."
  "Drink up, spare it not, there is more on tap," cried the
stranger, just sipping a little to keep company. "Ay, empty again!
Good mine host, fill up the tankard with that right good liquor. The
tinker likes it well."
  By the time the next cup was finished, the tinker waxed so jolly
that he began to sing snatches of a merry ditty of the southland.
Then, gradually becoming quieter, his eyes closed, his head nodded
to one side, and in a twinkling he was fast asleep, snoring loudly.
Thereupon the stranger rose silently from his seat. With a smile on
his face he reached over, unbuttoned the tinker's pouch, and drew
forth the warrant. Then on tiptoe he stole into the Blue Boar Inn
and paid the host his score.
                                                           {X ^paragraph 55}
  "But wake not the tinker," quoth he, "till I be out of call."
  In a little while mine host bethought him that it ill became his
well-kept house to have a dirty-looking tinker fast asleep at his
front door, so he stepped outside and shook him roughly.
  "No more," yawned Dick, "my jolly blade. We had enow; I am
content, good comrade."
  With another hearty shake, mine host angrily replied:
  "Nay, do not comrade me, thou drunken rogue. Get thee gone."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 60}
  The tinker, now half awake, opened his eyes and saw the fat landlord
of the Blue Boar Inn. "Where, what, how, why am I here?" he
muttered. "And where is that scarlet fellow that was here but now?
Methought he would lead me to that bold thief, Robin Hood."
  "That jolly blade with whom thou didst drink," said mine host,
"was none other than Robin Hood himself."
  "What saist thou- Robin Hood- for whom I hold in this very wallet
a warrant!"
  Then looking down, he saw that the pouch was open and the warrant
gone. Straightway he leaped up and stared about him wildly. He
thrust his hand into his pouch and drew it forth empty. He looked in
his bag of tools, under the table, under the chair. Then, taking up
his staff and swinging it above his head, he roared:
  "My warrant hath been stolen from me while I slept, and thou,
pig-faced villain, doubtless watched that sly red fox take the
King's warrant from my very body. Thou scurvy hog, I will beat thy
back till it be as blue as the boar on thy swinging sign."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 65}
  "Pay thy score or I will have thee put in the stocks as a drunken
knave."
  This answer brought the tinker to a quieter mood. "Did not the
naughty thief pay for me?" he asked.
  "No, not a farthing, he!" said mine host.
  "Alack-a-day!" quoth Dick, with a rueful face. "Not a farthing
have I. Oh, could I but meet him now, I would square the score with
both him and thee!"
  "Thou wilt best do that by leaving here thy bag o' tools and thy
quarter-staff."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 70}
  "Nay, good landlord, without tools and staff I can neither work
nor fight. Let be the staff, that I may have wherewith to beat the
thief to jelly, if by good hap I meet him, and so get the reward to
pay thy score."
  "Very good," said mine host, somewhat softened. "Bring me back ten
shillings, and thou shalt have thy bag of tools again."
  "But," quoth Dick, "in sooth I know not which way to turn to catch
this wily thief."
  "The only way," said mine host, "is to seek him among the parks,
where thou mayest find him killing the King's deer."
  So the tinker departed from the Blue Boar Inn with a sore heart
and downcast mien. But soon he grew more cheerful. "I care not for the
warrant," he muttered, "could I but see him once again," and he strode
on at a quicker pace, ever and anon playing his crab-tree staff
right merrily as though Robin even then stood before him. After an
hour or more he had wandered aimlessly some distance along a forest
path and had made up his mind to a leafy bed in the forest that night.
                                                           {X ^paragraph 75}
  "Patience, good Dick!" he said to himself, "and on the morrow thou
shalt belabor this knave!"
  Scarce had he spoken when he saw a red-coated fellow approaching
through the leafy glade. "Holy Saint Swithin!" he whispered. "I vow
'tis the pretty Robin redbreast, as sure as a cuckoo steals eggs.
May that good saint clip his wings that he fly not nor escape me. An
he be nimble, so am I. He comes nearer. Shall I hide? Nay, I'll go
forward and meet him; if the villain run, I'll run faster."
  They were now but a few paces apart. So far, Robin had not noticed
the tinker, but looking up he caught his angry glare full upon him. So
furious, indeed, was Dick that he stood speechless in front of
Robin, who calmly said:
  "What knave is this that doth come so near my path in the forest?"
  "Knave or no knave, thou scurvy red villain, my crab-tree staff
shall show which of us hath wronged the other."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 80}
  Then like lightning did the tinker whirl his quarter-staff so near
that Robin barely had time to draw his sword and save his head. Dick
the tinker was in a tearing rage, for he had more than one count to
settle- first, to gain the reward; second, to get revenge for the
stealing of his warrant; third, to punish Robin for the loss of his
tools of trade and forced payment of the score at the Blue Boar Inn.
  In truth, he was an ill fellow to meet in fight, for he was taller
and bigger of bone than Robin. He had a bullet-head set upon a bull
neck, from which big blue veins bulged out with exercise and fiery
passion. Moreover, what with long practice in every town he visited
and brawls with every sort of men, his quarter-staff play was of the
best. As for Robin, he had but his broadsword- a weapon unsuited to
parry the heavy two-handed strokes of the mighty tinker.
  Never in his life did Robin flinch or give way to any man he met,
but now he found that he had thought too lightly of the tinker's
strength and skill. Thus it was that from the beginning he was
forced to defend himself very shrewdly. Dick's powerful staff, seven
feet long, with great ugly knots at each end, was played with
wonderful nimbleness, and soon he gave Robin a fearful crack that half
stunned him and made him reel forward.
  Then Robin put forth his utmost strength, clashing his broadsword
against the staff so that the splinters flew, guarding many a blow and
rapidly flashing his sword so close to the tinker's head that he
seemed every moment to miss it only by a hair. The blade was of finely
tempered steel, and it neither snapped nor showed a dent. Oft the edge
would have carved a sore wound but that the tinker's staff was handled
with wondrous deftness. The furious encounter went on for some time in
silence, save for the sound of wood beating upon steel and the heavy
panting and grunts of the foemen. The outlaw seemed to gain
slightly, pushing his more burly antagonist backward, though the
crab-tree staff whirled around as before. The tinker was very hard
pressed, and almost fit to flee, yet he fought right manfully, and
at last with a sudden turn he brought the heavy cudgel down in a swift
and cruel blow that fell upon Robin's arm and numbed it so that his
fingers lacked strength to grasp the hilt. Then the sword dropped to
the ground.
  "A boon, a boon," Robin cried. "Do but grant me a boon!"
                                                           {X ^paragraph 85}
  "Not I," quoth the tinker. "Before I do I'll hang thee on this
tree." Then, tired as he was, he began to dance about in high glee,
shouting in a merry voice, "The reward is now mine own, for the outlaw
rogue is under my thumb."
  As for Robin, he spake no word, but he set his bugle to his lips and
blew three loud blasts.
  "How now!" growled the tinker. "I like not thy music, so come with
me straightway, or I'll sauce thy goose with my cudgel again." So
saying, he pointed his staff unpleasantly close to Robin's head.
  At that moment three men came running at full speed toward the spot.
  "What is the matter, Robin," quoth Little John, "that thou sittest
so sore astonied and sad-looking on the highway side?"
                                                           {X ^paragraph 90}
  "Matter enow," said Robin. "There stands a tough rogue with his
quarter-staff that hath belabored my hide and made it full sore. I
warrant he hath broken my arm, so much it paineth me."
  "Good faith," quoth Little John, "I fain would try if he'll do so
much for me." Gripping his quarter-staff by the middle, he
wrathfully approached the tinker, who backed against a tree and
roared:
  "Come on, thou daddy-long-legs. I'll tie thy spindle-shanks in a
Staffordshire knot and serve thee as I served thy master."
  Their quarter-staffs had scarcely crossed when Robin cried out:
"Hold, good comrade! The man had good cause to beat me so. I took from
him the warrant for my arrest with which he hoped to mend his poor
estate. Come forth, tinker, I am too sore as yet to move. I love to
have brave and handy men in my band, and thou art both, meseems.
But, tinker, remember the odds are now against thee. Our holy Friar,
my cousin Will Scarlet, and my right-hand man, Little John, all
three hunger to beat thee to jelly. Yet I would now have peace.
Without the reward, what is thy lot?"
  "In sooth," quoth Dick, "a sad one. Without tools I cannot work to
redeem them."
                                                           {X ^paragraph 95}
  "Look you, then," said Robin. "I would have thee join our band in
merry Sherwood. A fair share in all we take shalt thou have- plenty of
venison to eat, good ale to drink, a suit of Lincoln green, and a
hundred pounds to boot. What saist thou- wilt thou join us?"
  "Marry, that I will, right gladly," quoth the tinker, joyfully. "A
bold outlaw's life will suit me well, and I will ever be thy true
servant."
  So Dick the Tinker o' Banbury joined the band, and you will
hereafter see how well he played his part among the merry, brave
outlaws in Sherwood Forest.

{XI
                                XI
                LITTLE JOHN AND THE SHERIFF'S COOK
-
  ROBIN'S arm was broken, indeed, so that for weeks he had to have
it bandaged and keep it in a sling. But the tinker, who grieved sorely
that he had caused this hurt, bound it up and dressed it right
skilfully. For you must know he had himself been wounded so oft that
there were few men who knew more of broken bones or bruises. So from
that time forth he was often called upon to act as bone-setter or
leech. It was Dick's peculiar pride to show the wondrous number of
dents and holes in his pate. Indeed, he always spoke of his head as
"my pepper caster." In less than a week every outlaw in the band had
felt for these same holes and dents through Dick's shaggy hair, and
much they marveled at his pluck and the thickness of his skull.
  Nearly always, when Robin Hood gained a stout fellow for his band,
he got a sound beating at the same time, but he never changed his
brave demeanor nor ceased to try each man in hand-to-hand fight to
prove his worthiness to join the company of gallant outlaws. All
must be bold and brave like himself, so that when a final test
should come each should be found true as steel. But in shooting with
the long-bow Robin excelled them all, and was never beaten either in
accuracy or distance. Thus till the day of his death all his men loved
him for himself and nigh worshiped him for his skill with the bow.
  At this period of England's greatness, the bowmen were most feared
on the field of battle. Many famous warriors were shot to death by
arrows. At the battle of Hastings, King Harold was shot through the
eye, and many others fell pierced by shafts from the long-bow. The
second Norman King, William Rufus, was shot through the heart with
an arrow while hunting in the New Forest. Even the lion-hearted King
Richard himself, after so many hand-to-hand fights, was slain at
last by an arrow shot by a young French archer.
  And as the bow was the greatest of weapons, so Robin was known far
and wide as the greatest of archers. Never was there another like
him either before or after his time. He was not only a brave
captain, but a wise one; and he looked well to the comfort of his men,
that they might have good store of food and clothing. Each and every
one was called upon to do his share in providing for their daily
needs. Those who were deft in making arrows and bows had their duties.
In forging or mending steel weapons each took a part. Others had to
bake, roast, and boil the victuals for so large a company. Their
food was mostly venison, game, and wild fowl, fish in plenty from
the rivers, and oaten, rye, or wheaten cakes. Wild berries, fruit, and
nuts, and wild honey eked out their supply. On such wholesome fare did
the outlaws thrive, and as each season advanced a goodly supply was
stored.
                                                           {XI ^paragraph 5}
  During the cold, dark, stormy days of winter they kept them to their
caves and snug retreats, sitting round the blazing logs for warmth and
light as darkness fell. They wiled away the long evenings with
never-ending tales of love and war; of ancient sagas and legends,
interspersed with the ever-welcome harp notes and songs of
Allan-a-Dale, their minstrel. In such fashion the days passed
quickly and merrily by. It was now nutting-time, and the yellow leaves
had begun to fall; but Robin still kept him to his bower nursing his
wounded arm. Outside Sherwood Forest, Nottingham town was busily astir
with its great annual feast and October fair. The great King Richard
had taken a mighty army of nearly all the young men in the country
on his crusade to fight the Turks in the Holy Land. But Robin cared
little enough in his pleasant forest retreat for wars or the doings of
kings and armies.
  On a day, when the merry men had returned from gathering great
skin bags full of hazel, beech, and chestnuts for roasting at the
winter's fire, Little John came to the bower to beg his master's leave
to see the fair. Thereat Robin considered for a space and seemed right
loath. At last he said:
  "Yea, go, if thou hast such a stomach for the adventure; but see
that thy disguise be good, for the loss of my right-hand man would
be a sore hurt to me and all our band."
  "Marry, I will go clad as a sturdy, tattered beggar with a crooked
shoulder and a limp of one leg."
  So Little John cast off his well-fitting suit of Lincoln green and
donned such a rag-tag jumble of clothes that the merry men roared with
laughter when they beheld him. Then, with sword at his side and bow
slung across his shoulders, he strode off through the forest in high
spirits toward Nottingham Fair.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 10}
  The fair brought always a vast throng of idlers and merrymakers to
the town. Since it lasted a week, or rather from Monday to Saturday
night, there was need of many shows, games, trials of skill, and
wonders of all sorts to entertain the great throng that poured in from
all over the country, even from the far-away towns of Derby,
Lincoln, and York.
  Little John passed down the long line of booths, gaily decked with
buntings, where ribbons, gewgaws, and such things as women and
children love were sold. Then he sauntered to a part of the fair where
only men and boys seemed to gather. Here a raised stand had been set
up with a wooden railing about twenty feet square. Its rough, wooden
floor had been sprinkled over with a good supply of fine white sand.
Here were held public contests in boxing, wrestling, and quarter-staff
play; and here among the laughing, noisy crowd stood bold Little
John in his beggar disguise, watching intently a famous wielder of the
quarter-staff, Eric o' Lincoln, who was cracking the pates of any
and all the Nottingham lads who dared try their hands and risk their
heads against this champion from Lincoln town.
  Eric was one of those who visited fairs and such like gatherings
in different towns to fight with quarter-staff for prizes and
wagers. He was a tall, well-made fellow with broad shoulders and
sinewy arms. His knotted muscles, through constant exercise with a
heavy staff, were of unusual size, and he was right vain of them. He
had just toppled over on the boards, with little effort, two brawny
Staffordshire fellows from Stoke and Trentham, and now stood bolt
upright holding his staff in front of him, shouting in a defiant
voice: "Marry, come up, my lads! The day is not far spent, yet I tarry
too long for a bout. Are all the brave lads dead, or are one and all
afeard to meet Eric o' Lincoln?"
  The bustling crowd fell silent for a space, staring at one
another, but none ventured to mount the stand. Still Eric urged them
to come on, even with promises of a prize could they withstand him for
but a brief space. At last Little John could contain himself no
longer. He turned to the crowd, saying, "Will any lad lend me a
stout staff to try a bout with this crowing braggart?"
  Such a speech from a ragged, crooked beggar raised a laugh.
Nevertheless, many held out their weapons. Little John quietly
looked them over, and chose the one used by the man from Stoke, a
wicked-looking staff of hickory, heavy and long, neatly crossed with
hide thongs to make the hand-grasp less slippery. Still pretending a
bent and crooked form, he climbed up the steps and placed himself in a
fighting attitude on the stand facing stout Eric, who said, loud
enough for all to hear:
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 15}
  "To think I be forced to cross my staff with a saucy beggar! I vow
to befriend him with a few pennies when he is carried off the stand
with a cracked noddle."
  "Peace, thou chattering cockatoo, and defend thyself!" quoth
Little John sternly; and, falling to right merrily, he deftly rapped
Eric a stiff blow upon the shoulder, which made the crowd stare and
then laugh.
  Eric eyed the beggar more closely and noticed that his broad
shoulders began to straighten up to a height even greater than his
own. Then began the battle in good earnest, each man feeling that he
had met a worthy foe. The blows fell thick and fast, so that time
and again the men in the crowd caught their breath, thinking that
one or the other of the combatants must surely fall. But every
stroke was stoutly met and parried. Quoth one, "Never was such play
seen before in this town." Another asked, "Who can this tall lad be?"
  Meanwhile, the fight continued with no advantage on either side. The
beggar now seemed a very giant that with crashing blows time after
time made Eric's staff tremble. The temper of the crowd had changed.
It was all for the beggar now, and encouraged him with ringing
cheers and promises of plenty of money and good things should he win
this famous bout.
  At last, amid a din of yelling jeers and groans, Eric crashed a
heavy blow on John's broad chest, but as the blow fell so did John
bring his staff down on Eric's skull with a resounding whack that
was heard by all the throng. Another shout went up, then all fell
silent.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 20}
  Before John could strike another blow Eric had gotten over the
stupor caused by the stroke. He ducked, then ran back while John's
staff crashed on the floor with a terrific bang. The staff was a
good one, and held sound, else Little John would then have bit the
sandy floor, so savagely did Eric now run upon him. Careless of his
guard, in a fury of madness, Eric put forth all his strength and
skill, and for a few minutes the air was filled with cracking blows
that none but a tower of strength like John could have withstood for a
moment. But he stood there on guard, calm and crafty, waiting an
opening for a final blow, which he well knew from such careless, angry
fighting would sooner or later come.
  In quarter-staff battles a loss of temper was fatal. Both fighters
knew that a cool, watchful guard was the only way to victory. But Eric
understood by now that, in truth, it was no beggar who opposed him,
and his anger swept away his prudence. That Little John bided his time
so coolly but enraged him the more. For some minutes his fearful,
crashing blows fell without a break or pause. Many and many a time did
John just escape an ugly stroke that would have laid him low. But he
steadily parried and feinted until at last his time came. Then with
a quick, downward, heavy swing of both ponderous arms he smote Eric
full and square on his skull, so that his body dropped, limp, with a
thud upon the sandy floor.
  Instantly from the quiet, hard-breathing crowd came a volley of
deafening cheers. The battle had lasted fully two hours and had
drawn nearly every man from all parts of the fair. Many now crowded
round Little John with offers of money and other good things as he
gave back the staff to the man who had loaned it and had held his
long-bow while he fought. Then, tired and thirsty, John and the man
from Stoke together strode away, and were soon lost in the press of
people. They made their way to the Blue Boar Inn to refresh
themselves, it being now somewhat past the hour of noon.
  "Thou art no beggar," quoth the sharp-eyed man from Stoke, "and dost
go in such guise for some purpose of thine own. Tell me, brave
comrade, thy name, for if thou canst use thy long-bow with half the
skill wherewith thou didst wield my staff, the archery prize is
thine to take this afternoon."
  "What saist thou?" quoth John. "Is there a shooting-match this
afternoon?"
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 25}
  "Ay, that there be," said his companion. "The Sheriff offers a
prize, and we will together go and try for it."
  "Marry, that we will," quoth Little John.
  So now together they strode toward the shooting-butts, where they
found the archers ready to begin. Then, entering their names as
competitors, they made ready for the shooting. The place was crowded
with a great mass of men and women, all eager to catch a glimpse of
those who were about to shoot, for in those days every skilled
archer was known far and wide, so that as each man took his place folk
told each other what prizes he had won and what feats he had
performed. Foremost in the crowd were those who had witnessed the
quarter-staff bouts earlier in the day, and a shout went up as they
recognized the man who had overcome stout Eric o' Lincoln.
  "Ho for the mighty beggar!" they cried. "Now for some good sport.
Now, Sir Tatters, thou dost surely deserve a prize." Such words were
sweet music to the ear of Little John, though he showed it not, but
waited patiently his turn.
  Marvelous shots were made- so keen indeed was the rivalry that the
beggar's admirers cooled somewhat toward him. Were not the cream of
the best archers competing, drawn forth from three surrounding
counties- men whose equals could scarce be found in merry England!
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 30}
  "Now, rag-bag, 'tis thy turn," quoth Adam Caverswall, who up to
now had beaten all the rest. "Canst thou mend that shot?"
  "Maybe, and maybe not," quietly replied Little John.
  Two targets had been set up, and between them a wand stood upright
holding a small wreath of flowers. Adam had planted a shaft in the
center of each target, and thought that he would surely win. So
thought the crowd who, fickle as the wind, now cheered him instead
of the beggar. Chuckling slyly to himself, but saying not a word,
Little John nocked his shaft so slowly and deliberately that both
the other archers and the people waxed impatient, for they longed to
see what he would do.
  "Wake up, beggar," quoth one. "Bestir thyself, and let us see if
thou canst hit the mark."
  But no reply came from Little John's smiling lips while his bow bent
farther out, till the point of the cloth-yard shaft nigh touched his
thumb. Then he loosed the string with a twang. Hastily fitting another
arrow, he shot again, and still once more- three shots, one after
another, without a pause. Then the expectant crowd gave vent to a
mighty roar. "A champion, a champion!" they cried. "The ragged
beggar shoots more true than Robin Hood." For the first arrow had sped
through the middle of the floral wreath, and each of the others had
cut one of Adam's shafts from the target.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 35}
  As for the Sheriff, he swore a deep oath. "This man," quoth he,
"is the best archer that ever I saw. Not even that bold knave Robin
Hood could best him, and right well hath he upheld the honor of the
town in quarter-staff play."
  Then Little John stood in the presence of the proud Sheriff, who
thus addressed him:
  "Tell me now, strong young man, what is thy name, and in what town
wert thou born?"
  Little John replied, "In Holderness was I born, and when I am at
home men call me Reynard Greenleaf."
  "Look you, Reynard, 'tis foul shame to see so young and brave a
man in rags a-begging alms. I need full sore stout hearts about me.
Wilt thou enter my service? Besides proper attire and a full
stomach, every year I will give twenty marks to thy fee."
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 40}
  Then Little John thought awhile, and at last he smiled. "Your
worship," quoth he, "I have a master, a courteous knight. Before I may
enter thy service, noble Sheriff, I must e'en get leave of him."
  To this the Sheriff agreed, and he promised that should Little
John get leave to serve him for a twelvemonth he would make a
present to the knight of a good strong horse.
  So Little John went away and bided for a day, after which he came
back and told the Sheriff that all was arranged. He took the horse and
rode away to a little cottage in which dwelt a spy who knew the
outlaws' trysting-place. Setting him upon the horse, he bade him
ride away to Robin Hood, to give him this message: that Little John
had entered the service of the Sheriff, and that for the short time he
was there he would make the worst servant the Sheriff ever had. As for
the horse, Robin was to keep it for himself. Little John returned to
the Sheriff's house, where he was given a fine new suit of clothes and
was made acquainted with the butler, the cook, and other members of
the household.
  On the following day the Sheriff started out early to go hunting;
and Little John, being very tired, overslept himself, lying in his bed
till long past the noon-hour. At last he got up and dressed, then
marched down to the pantry, crying out:
  "Good Sir Steward, I pray thee give me to dine. Too long hath
Greenleaf fasted, therefore prithee bestir thyself."
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 45}
  The surly steward was in a sour mood and liked not to serve
dinners at odd hours.
  "Thou shalt never eat till my lord be come to town," he said,
gruffly.
  "I make it my vow, thou saucy rogue, to crack thy crown unless
both meat and drink be set before me straightway."
  The fat steward strode back and forth in anger, then rushed for
the buttery and shut fast the door; but with a running kick Little
John smashed it open. It flew back with a thunderous bang, and the
steward was sent flying over a barrel of ale. Then Little John
forced him to drink so much that if he lived a hundred winters he
would never forget having refused a meal to Reynard Greenleaf.
Straightway the outlaw sat him down and made a hearty meal of all
the good things in the buttery, not forgetting a full share of ale and
wine.
  While he sat feasting at his ease, the steward stole out through the
door and hurried to the cook in the kitchen to tell him what had
befallen. This cook was both stout and bold, and, though he had little
love for the steward, yet he liked not that a saucy rogue should
lord it where he was wont to rule. So he strode off to the buttery
in a fiery rage, meaning to teach the new servant a lesson in manners.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 50}
  "I make my vow," quoth the cook, when he found Little John still
eating, "thou art a shrewd knave. What! Thinkest thou to eat when thou
listest, and beat whom thou wilt? I will show thee who is master
here." So saying, he let fly three good buffets which made Little
John's ears ring and sent flying across the buttery a jellied
chicken's wing, which he had just raised to his lips.
  Little John slowly rose from his feast, saying, "In sooth, thou
art bold, thou art hardy; but before I make another stride from this
spot I hope to settle two debts I owe thee. Thy cooking I like
pretty well, and thy cuffs a little more. Now draw thy sword, for I
mean to baste thy body with hot gravy."
  The cook was not slow to obey, for he was no man to flee, and in
truth he loved fighting better than feasting. Together they parried,
slashed, and cut for over an hour, yet neither harmed the other.
  "By my faith," quoth bold John, "thou art one of the best
swordsmen that ever yet I saw. If thou canst shoot as well with a bow,
to the greenwood I fain would have thee go, to join Robin Hood and his
merry outlaws. I could get thee twenty golden marks every year for thy
fee, two changes of clothing, and all the venison and foaming ale a
reasonable body could wish."
  At that the cook lowered his sword, and his eyes grew round as
saucers.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 55}
  "Who art thou that dost say this?" he cried. "Art thou, Reynard
Greenleaf, one of Robin Hood's merry men?"
  "Ay, that I am. Little John am I, and none other."
  "Put up thy sword," cried the cook, "for I will no longer fight with
thee. Bless the good-fortune that brought us twain together, for there
is naught in all the world for which my heart so longeth as to be
one of Robin Hood's merry men. And art thou in good sooth the famous
Little John?"
  "Yea, and right glad would I be to resume the meal thou didst so
lovingly interrupt."
  So they began to eat and drink together in the friendliest
fashion. When they had stuffed themselves as full as they could
hold, they strode off to the Sheriff's treasure-house, but found it
locked and barred. Then the cook said:
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 60}
  "Tarry awhile, and I will go and get a heavy hammer from the
kitchen." He soon returned and smashed in the door. After helping
themselves to a number of silver vessels, cups, and other table
silver, they opened a drawer and emptied therefrom three hundred
pounds in money. Placing all together in two bags, they left the
house, making straight for the forest.
  They soon arrived at the glade, and both were made welcome by
Robin Hood.
  "Tell me, good John," quoth he, "what tidings dost thou bring from
Nottingham town?"
  "God save thee, my dear master," quoth Little John. "The proud
Sheriff greeteth thee full lovingly and sendeth thee his cook and
a-many of his silver vessels, with three hundred pounds in good
money."
  "Nay, by the mass," said Robin Hood, "I warrant it was never by
his good-will so much kindness is done to me." Then the cook told what
had befallen, and they all roared with laughter.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 65}
  Little John then bethought him of a merry conceit. So off he started
through the forest to a certain place where he thought he would find
the proud Sheriff hunting with hounds and horn.
  When he saw the Sheriff he knelt down before him and said:
  "God save thee, my master dear."
  "Reynard Greenleaf!" cried the Sheriff, in great surprise. "What
hast thou now for me?"
  "I have been in the forest," said John, "and I saw the fairest sight
that mine eyes ever beheld. In yonder glade I saw a right fair hart,
his color being of green, and by his side were sevenscore deer, all
ranged in a circle. The antlers of this hart had over sixty points, so
sharp that I durst not shoot for fear it would slay me."
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 70}
  "I make my vow," said the Sheriff, "that marvelous sight I fain
would see."
  "Come with me, dear master, and I will show it thee."
  The Sheriff gladly rode after the nimble, fleet-footed outlaw, and
after a long trot they came to the glade and stood before Robin
Hood. Then said Little John:
  "Behold, there stands the master hart in the green coat."
  The proud Sheriff stood still, and with a sorry face and sad voice
replied: "Reynard Greenleaf, thou hast betrayed me. Thou art well
named, for the fox is sly in the woods."
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 75}
  "In truth, master," said Little John, "thou art to blame, for I
was refused a good dinner when I was a servant at thy house. So now
I will return good for evil and send you home with a good dinner."
  In a very short time the feast was spread, and all the food was
served upon silver vessels. When the Sheriff took up the cup of wine
he looked very closely at it, then at the silver plate, and then at
Little John. He could not eat for very sorrow when he found that the
meal was spread upon his own silver.
  "Make good cheer, for charity's sake," said Robin. "I warrant, Sir
Sheriff, the fare is good. So eat and be merry. For the love I bear
thy servant, Reynard Greenleaf, we will spare thy life and do no
harm to thee, so fall to and prove thyself a good trencherman."
  But the Sheriff was too sad; all he could do was to watch in silence
while the others ate heartily.
  When the evening began to close and the time came when all should go
to rest Robin commanded John to draw off the Sheriff's hose and shoes,
his cape of fine furs, and cap with plumes. John gave him a green
mantle to wrap his body in, that the cold night dew might not give him
a chill, and told off a number of young men to lie beside him on the
greensward under the great oak.
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 80}
  But the Sheriff, used to soft living, lay awake all night long,
shivering with cold, till his ribs began to smart and grow stiff. At
last the long night was over and the dawn appeared. One by one the
outlaws awakened and arose. Robin then asked the Sheriff:
  "How didst thou fare in our way of sleeping?"
  "A hard and miserable bed," replied the Sheriff, "and for all the
gold in merry England I would not dwell in such a state."
  "Nay," quoth Robin, "thou shalt dwell with me, I vow, a full
twelvemonth, for I fain would teach thee to be a merry outlaw."
  Quoth the Sheriff: "Were I to spend such another night I would
rather that thou shouldst smite off my head, and would forgive thee
for it. Let me go for sweet charity, and I will afterward be thy
best friend."
                                                          {XI ^paragraph 85}
  "Then we will let thee go," said Robin, "but before thou art gone
thou shalt swear to me a great oath on my bright sword- that thou wilt
never more strive to harm me, and that if thou findest any one of my
men by night or by day thou wilt help him as well as thou mayest."
  The Sheriff was so wretched that he promised everything and took the
oath. Then Little John put him on his horse and, leading him through
the greenwood a little way, parted from him with hearty good wishes
for a safe return home.

{XII
                                XII
                ROBIN TRIES HIS HAND SELLING MEATS
-
  ROBIN HOOD was a little piqued at the crafty means by which Little
John had gotten the better of the Sheriff. By the name he chose-
Reynard Greenleaf, which means "fox from the woods"- he seemed to
boast of his own slyness; and while Robin owned that his right-hand
man was craftier than he had thought, he resolved that he would not be
outdone, but would himself show the Sheriff a thing or two. He and his
band had no hatred against the Sheriff, nor, for that matter,
against any one else, much cause as they had to be bitter against
the world, for they were all outlawed men. What they did was done in a
spirit of jovial frolic and fun. It is certain that they never did any
foul misdeed. They robbed the rich, who robbed others, that they might
live and have means to help the poor and needy. In those cruel old
days, when might seemed to make right, few were so kind and honest
as Robin Hood and his merry men. Robin himself often went to mass at
the little church on the outskirts of the forest, where he was
welcomed because of his many lavish gifts. For he loved the humble and
sincere churchmen even as he hated the purse-proud and selfish.
  It fell upon a day that Robin started off alone through the forest
singing a blithesome song. He had not gone far when he chanced to meet
a jolly butcher, who likewise was singing merrily as he rode through
the wood among the leaves so green. The butcher bestrode a fine
mare, and swinging from behind on each side hung two great silk bags
full of the meat he was taking to Nottingham market to sell.
  "Good morrow, my fine fellow," quoth jolly Robin. "Tell me what
goods thou hast in thy panniers, for I have a mind for thy company and
would fain know thy trade and where thou dost dwell."
  "Truly, a butcher am I, and to Nottingham do I go to sell my
meats. But what is it to thee where I do dwell? Tell me thy name."
                                                          {XII ^paragraph 5}
  "My name is Robin Hood, and in Sherwood do I dwell."
  Then in a trembling voice the butcher said: "I cry your mercy,
good Robin, for I fear that name. Have mercy on me and mine; let me go
my way."
  "Nay, jolly butcher," quoth Robin, "fear nothing, for I will do thee
no harm. Come, tell me, what is the price of thy meat and of thy mare,
for, by the mass, be it never so dear, I fain would be a butcher."
  "I will soon tell thee," quoth the butcher. Then he looked
straight before him and for a space seemed lost in thought. At last he
said: "Good Robin, I like thee well and would not offend thee.
Therefore thou shalt have my meats, and eke my bonny mare, for four
marks, though the price be beggarly."
  "Get down from thy horse," quoth Robin, "and come, count out the
money from my bag. Right gladly do I pay thy price, for I long to be a
butcher for a day, and I warrant I shall sell my wares first of them
all at the market."
                                                         {XII ^paragraph 10}
  When the butcher had seen the money counted aright he snugly
packed it away in a little bag in his pouch, well content with his
bargain; and Robin, mounting the horse, jogged off to Nottingham
market. First of all, he got from the officers of the guild a
market-stand, for which he paid a small fee. Then he put on the
butcher's apron, cap, and jacket, cleaned off the stand, got out all
the legs and shoulders of mutton and veal, sharpened his knives, and
was soon busy with cleaver and saw, cutting up pieces to make the best
display in the market. All the other butchers looked askance at
Robin because he was a stranger and seemed ignorant of the ways and
sly tricks of the trade. However, when all was set out to the best
advantage, he began to cry out in a loud voice:
  "Come hither, good people, come and buy, buy, buy. I sell good
meat cheap, and cheap meat good. Pay no heed to the other butchers,
for they sell naught but bone and skin. Be not backward, good wives,
good maids, good widows, and good spinsters; come up, come up and buy.
I sell as much meat for one penny as you will get from the other
butchers for three pennies. I will cut away all the fat and sell you
the lean. An it please you, good dames, I will strip away all the
bones and sell naught but flesh. As for the bones, ye shall take
them home to your dogs. Six pounds of good fresh meat, with never a
bone, for one penny!"
  So lustily did Robin cry his wares that soon a throng of dames and
lasses pressed about his stand, while scarce a soul came near the
booths of the other butchers. Ere long his trade was so brisk that
he had no need to shout. Then, when a pretty lass asked the price of a
piece of meat, he would answer: "Naught, but one kiss from thy
pretty lips." Thus the handsome young butcher got many a kiss, which
gladdened him more than silver coins. Long before the market closed
Robin was clean sold out, and the others were full wroth because
they had not thriven that day. They talked with one another, saying,
"Surely he is some prodigal, that hath sold his father's land and
now wastes the money in selling meat at so low a price." Said one:
"Perhaps he is a man of much store and cattle. We had best be friendly
with him." So several of them stepped up to Robin, saying, "Come,
brother, we be all of one trade, and the Butchers' Guild is to dine
with the Sheriff. Wilt thou join us in the feast?"
  "Ay, marry, that will I," quoth merry Robin. "I will go with my true
brethren, as fast as I can hie."
  So they all marched off together to the Sheriff's house. The Sheriff
had been told of this wonderful butcher who could afford to sell as
much meat for a penny as the others did for three pennies, so he
made up his mind to place Robin beside him as the honored guest,
thinking to lure the young spendthrift into some bad bargain. When
they had all sat down to eat, he asked Robin to say grace. Then
Robin stood up, but he could think of naught to say. At last he
muttered:
                                                         {XII ^paragraph 15}
  "Pray God bless us all within this place and eke our meat. A cup
of good sack will nourish our blood- and so I do end my grace."
  Then they all fell to and enjoyed the feast full well.
  "Come, brother butchers," quoth jolly Robin, "while we do stay,
let us be merry. Come, pour us more wine. I vow to pay the reckoning
if it cost me five pounds ere I go. The cost is mine, so be merry,
good friends, be merry."
  While the butchers were drinking at Robin's expense they smiled
and nudged one another and talked in whispers. "This is a mad
blade," said one of them; "a wise one saves, and a fool spends." The
Sheriff whispered to his left-hand neighbor, "His father hath left him
lands which he hath sold for silver and gold, and now means to be
rid of its cares." Then he said to himself, "'Twere a good deed to
help him in so worthy a purpose."
  "Good fellow," quoth he to Robin, "hast thou any horned beasts to
sell unto me?"
                                                         {XII ^paragraph 20}
  "Yea, good master Sheriff, that I have- some two hundred, as well as
a hundred acres of good land, an it please you to see it. And I will
make as good a bargain of it to you as my father did make to me."
  "What is the price thou askest, my good fellow, for the two
hundred horned beasts? For if the price be within reason, I warrant
I shall find one who will buy."
  "The price to thee, noble Sheriff, shall be small enough. 'Tis but
two hundred pounds."
  "Ay," thought the Sheriff, "but one quarter of their true worth. I
must go to see these same horned beasts before it chance he change his
price. By my faith, good fellow," he said aloud, "I fain would look
upon thy two hundred horned beasts."
  "That is easily done," quoth Robin, "for they are not far to seek."
                                                         {XII ^paragraph 25}
  So when the feast was ended the Sheriff had his palfrey saddled, put
two hundred pounds in gold in his pouch, and made ready to go with the
spendthrift butcher. Robin saddled his mare, and away they rode to the
forest of merry Sherwood.
  As they were passing through the leafy woods the Sheriff crossed
himself, saying, "God save us this day from that naughty varlet, Robin
Hood!"
  "Amen, so be it," said jolly Robin, who was leading deeper and
deeper into the forest.
  When they had gone a little farther, bold Robin chanced to spy a
hundred head of good red deer that came tripping along full nigh their
path. "Look you," quoth he, "how like you my horned beasts, good
master Sheriff? Are they not fat and fair to see?"
  Then the Sheriff was wroth and fearful. He trembled in his boots,
for a sad thought of a sudden flashed through his brain. Quoth he,
"I tell you, good fellow, I would I were gone from this forest, for
I like not thy company nor thy fat beasts."
                                                         {XII ^paragraph 30}
  "Tarry but a moment, Sir Sheriff," quoth Robin, and, putting his
horn to his mouth, he blew three blasts, whereat Little John and all
his company came running.
  "What is thy will, my good master?" cried Little John.
  "I have brought hither," laughed jolly Robin, "the Sheriff of
Nottingham this day to dine with thee."
  "Then, by Saint Swithin, he is right welcome to me, and I hope he
will honestly pay for the feast, for I know he has gold. I can smell
it in his pouch, and I warrant if it be well counted there will be
enough to serve us with wine to drink a whole year."
  Then Little John lovingly grasped the Sheriff round the waist and
drew him down from his palfrey. Taking his mantle gently from his
back, he laid it on the ground. The proud Sheriff stood still and
doleful while Robin opened his pouch and jingled out the two hundred
pounds in golden coins into the mantle. Little John carefully picked
up the golden pieces and deftly cast the cloak again upon the
Sheriff's back, then set him upon his dapple-gray palfrey, saying,
"Adieu, good Sheriff, I wish thee a safe journey home."
                                                         {XII ^paragraph 35}
  Robin took the bridle-rein and led the palfrey to the edge of the
forest, where he bade the Sheriff God-speed.
  "Commend me to your lady wife at home," quoth he, "and tell her that
Robin Hood found much profit in the butcher's trade in fair Nottingham
town this day." So Robin went away laughing to his bower.

{XIII
                               XIII
                 ROBIN HOOD AND ARTHUR THE TANNER
-
  YOU will perhaps remember how Little John gave Eric o' Lincoln a
mighty crack at Nottingham Fair, and how Eric went back home with a
very sad heart and a sore head. He had purposely made the journey to
meet and fight another famous wielder of the quarter-staff-
Arthur-a-Bland, the jolly tanner of Nottingham. At that time Arthur
was away at the wars in the Holy Land fighting against the Turks
with King Richard. He had now returned with a large body of archers,
while his King had been treacherously captured and imprisoned in a
castle.
  Now when Arthur came home he found the tanning trade- along with
others- in very evil state; and, though for a time he was treated
and toasted at every tavern in the town as a brave English archer
who had seen the Holy Sepulcher, all this naturally came to an end,
and his wonderful tales grew a trifle stale. Thus it was that Arthur
became lonesome and pined for something to do.
  During the hot midsummer days he was sorely tempted to enter into
the cooling shade of Sherwood Forest and try his hand with the
long-bow on some fat hart. The great autumn fair was months away, so
he could make no use of his quarter-staff, for it would do him no good
to crack the pate of some passing stranger while he dwelt in the town.
One fine morning very early he made up his mind to take the risk of
killing a fine buck, so he girded on his sword, and, with his long-bow
swinging at his back and stout cudgel in hand, he started off,
twirling his staff round his head to the tune of a jolly roundelay. It
was his first venture into the woodland glade since he had come home
from the wars, and the quiet, cool peacefulness of the forest made him
glad that he was no longer in the hot, sandy deserts of the East.
The birds sang a blithesome tune, as he thought, in response to his
merry song, so that soon he forgot all about sheriff's men, or
King's foresters, and gave himself up wholly to his joy in the
pleasant day.
  Arthur was a shrewd, bold fellow, who would hold his own in any
fight so long as he did not meet more than one foe at a time. His
great cudgel was a thing to beware of. Nevertheless, as he strode
deeper and deeper into the forest he became silent and glanced about
him watchfully, not only in case of meeting a stranger, but to keep
from frighting the deer.
                                                         {XIII ^paragraph 5}
  Anon his sharp eye made out the antlers of a fine young buck
coming toward him with a herd of deer. Crouching down among the ferns,
he crept along till within fair shooting distance and nocked a
shaft. He had not observed behind a tree a stranger dressed in Lincoln
green who, like himself, carried a quarter-staff and bow. Just as
Arthur tightened the string to let the arrow fly, the stranger in a
loud voice cried out:
  "Hold, thou thieving rogue and villain! Who art thou that rangest so
boldly here? In sooth, thou lookest like a thief that comes to steal
our King's deer."
  In blank surprise Arthur turned round to view the bold stranger
who dared accost him thus, and on seeing a single man no taller or
stouter than himself, he replied:
  "Nay, by the mass, what lying rogue art thou to call me a thief
and a villain when I am neither any more than art thou? Marry, what is
it to thee what I do?"
  Then the stranger said: "I am the keeper of this forest, and the
King hath put me in charge of his deer; therefore I do hinder thee
from shooting at them."
                                                        {XIII ^paragraph 10}
  "If thou art a keeper in this forest," quoth Arthur, boldly, "and
hast such a great charge, thou must needs have some help of others
before thou canst hinder me, for thou art not of thyself able to do
it."
  "Truly," replied the stranger, "I have none here to help me to
make thee stand, nor have I need of any, but I have here a good
oaken staff that I know full well will do the deed."
  "Thou green grasshopper," yelled the angry tanner, "I care not a
straw for thy staff, thy sword, nor thy bow. If I but once rap thy
bare noddle, thou wilt be put in bed well covered with
sticking-plaster."
  "Speak less boastingly," said jolly Robin, "and use better terms
to me, or I will e'en mend thy manners without more words."
  So saying, he unbuckled his belt, laid down his long-bow, and
then, being aware that the tanner was making ready with his staff,
he said:
                                                        {XIII ^paragraph 15}
  "If thou dost choose to fight with staff rather than sword, so let
it be. But before we begin our fray let us measure staffs, for if mine
should prove the longer thou wilt count it foul play."
  "I pass not for length," bold Arthur replied. "My staff is of oak-
eight feet and a half. It will knock down a calf, and I hope it will
knock down thee."
  Then Robin rushed upon him and gave him such a wicked knock that the
blood gushed forth from the side of his head. For the first
half-hour the fight was a fierce staff-cracking tattoo. From the way
in which Arthur ran around nimbly and laid on and parried, Robin saw
from the first that he would have enough to do to defend himself. They
were both running like wild boars, and both were bleeding from head
wounds. The woods resounded with their lusty knocks, as each strove
full sore to reach the other's leg, arm, or any part of his body.
For two hours they plied their staffs with heavy strokes as if they
were cleaving wood. Both were grimly silent, watching each other
carefully for an opening that would end the strife. Arthur had met his
match- much greater obstinacy and skill than he ever had met before or
now looked for in his foe. He had not the least idea whom he was
fighting, but he swore to master this bold fellow, whoever he might
be, who dared to question his freedom in the forest. As for Robin,
he remembered all too well the beating the tinker had bestowed upon
him, and fain would he show Little John and his men that he could gain
the mastery with some other weapon than the long-bow.
  Another half-hour of the ceaseless din and clatter, and both
combatants were a sorry sight, their faces covered with blood and
sweat, both utterly tired out and aching with their wounds. "Hold
thy hand, fellow," quoth Robin, "and let thy quarrel fall. Though we
crack our bones all to pieces, we gain no prize, nor any other good
thing, thereby. Hereafter in this forest of merry Sherwood thou
shalt be free to do thy will."
  This speech somewhat nettled the fiery tanner, who replied:
"God-a-mercy for naught. My freedom have I won through my staff, and
not by grace of thee."
                                                        {XIII ^paragraph 20}
  "Prithee tell me, good fellow," quoth Robin, "what trade thou art of
and in what place thou dost dwell, for I would fain know both these
things."
  Bold Arthur replied: "A tanner am I, and in Nottingham town have I
long plied my trade. Shouldst thou ever go there, I make a vow, I will
tan thy hide for naught."
  "God-a-mercy, good fellow," said jolly Robin; "since thou art so
kind, I will do as much for thee. My name is Robin Hood, and in
sooth if thou'lt forsake thy tanner's trade to live in the greenwood
with me, thou mayest shoot the deer and eat venison to thy fill-
besides gold and fee, a fair share of all we take."
  "I vow," quoth Arthur, "if thou be'st indeed the outlaw Robin
Hood- and by the bruises of my body I doubt it not at all- then here
is my hand in loving kindness. My name is Arthur-a-Bland, and we two
will never be parted."
  Robin gladly grasped the strong palm, happy in having stood up so
long against a champion known far and wide as the boldest and
deftest hand that ever plied a quarter-staff.
                                                        {XIII ^paragraph 25}
  "But tell me," said Arthur, "oh, tell me, where is my dear
kinsman, brave Little John, whom I've not seen for many a year? On
my mother's side we are related, and I fain would set eyes upon him
once more."
  "He is ever," said Robin, "within sound of my bugle-call." Then he
blew full loud and shrill, and scarcely had the echo died away in
the distance when Little John appeared, running as fast as his long
legs could carry him through the forest glade.
  "Oh, what is the matter?" cried Little John. "And why dost thou,
my master, sit there so sad and befouled? I fear me that all is not
well with thee."
  "Oh, my comrade," quoth Robin, "this tanner did make me stand, but
he tanned my hide so soundly that now perforce I must sit. He is a
brave blade and a master tanner, too. That I should know, having
tasted of his trade."
  "He is to be commended," quoth Little John, "for so great a feat,
but if he be so smart at his trade, let him try to tan my hide, too."
                                                        {XIII ^paragraph 30}
  "Nay, nay, stay thy hand," said Robin, "for he tells me that he is
of thine own blood, and his name is Arthur-a-Bland."
  Then Little John threw away his staff as far as he could fling it.
Running up to Arthur, he put his great arms around his neck, and
both did weep for very joy. When they had drawn apart, Arthur swore
a great oath that hereafter, as long as he lived, the three should
be as one; and, all joining hands, they danced round the oak-tree,
singing:
-
             "For three merry men, and three merry men,
              And three merry men we be."

{XIV
                                XIV
                 ROBIN AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD
-
  IT is not likely that even such hard-headed fighters as Friar
Tuck, the Tinker, and the Tanner had more dents and holes in their
pates than had Robin. But he, brave and big-hearted, looked upon
such matters as part and parcel of an outlaw's life. Of like
dispositions were all his merry men, and they obeyed and followed
him willingly. The life they had chosen, from either choice or
necessity, was more enjoyable than any other they could find- yet they
were not held against their wills. They could leave at any time if
another and better path could be found. So they loved and trusted
one another, and there was never the least chance that any would
take aught from the secret store of treasures without the captain's
leave, for all had enough.
  The treasure was kept in a place so strong that the band could
defend it against an army without being dislodged except by famine.
After going through the trap-door of the great oak you emerged from
a tunnel inside the massive walls into a courtyard, at each end of
which was a square tower, built directly in front on either side of
the cave-opening. This cave, being used only for winter sleeping,
was lighted and warmed by great log-fires. The side towers, built of
solid blocks of stone, had each three large chambers, one above the
other, reached by a winding staircase. The north tower was the armory,
in the lower chamber of which suits of chain armor, knives, daggers,
swords, bucklers, bows and arrows, and other weapons were
plentifully stored. Above it was the clothiery, where great piles of
cloth of every color and material were kept on shelves, together
with many suits of clothes, both for disguise and general use. At
the very top was the treasury, of which Little John and Will Scarlet
had charge. In this chamber were heavy, iron-bound boxes holding
bags full of coins, both silver and gold. In other boxes were
jewels, ornaments, embroidered silks and velvets, and rare furs.
  The southern square tower was the kitchen for cooking and roasting
in winter-time only. The second chamber was the pantry, where all
the venison pies, pastry, and bread were kept for emergency stores.
The top floor was the buttery, or storehouse, where were kept meal,
flour, honey, spices, and other things used for cooking and eating.
This last room was entered from the outside by winding stairs. Beneath
the towers were the cellars for wines and ales. Except in winter
this inner court was deserted most of the time, for in spring, summer,
and autumn outlaw life was out-of-doors.
  Cooking was done in great clay ovens built over holes in the ground,
where the wood-fires were lighted. General work and cleaning was
done on long tables roofed over with thatched straw and reeds as a
protection from rain. On rainy days the band ate under shelter, but in
fair weather the food was best enjoyed served on the grassy turf.
                                                          {XIV ^paragraph 5}
  When Robin was fully restored, after his bout with Arthur-a-Bland,
and as vigorous as ever, he was in such a jolly mood that he made a
vow to have a feast and invite some noble guest to share it. Early
that morning some spies had brought news- the Bishop of Hereford
with a numerous retinue would pass by the forest that day on his way
to Nottingham town. Thereat Robin was full glad, for, since the fat
Bishop had lost his golden chain at Allan-a-Dale's wedding, he had
threatened many a time to have Robin hanged, should he chance to catch
him, to the nearest tree. And so it was that the Bishop, who
traveled much, never went abroad without a troop of men-at-arms. Robin
knew of the threat against him but cared not a whit. Only he took good
care to find out what road the Bishop would follow in passing by the
forest. On this bright, sunshiny morning he called together half a
dozen stout companions and said to them:
  "Come, kill me a good fat deer. I mean this day to have company to
dine with me, and the Bishop of Hereford will be among them. I'll
warrant he shall pay well for his cheer."
  Then Robin and six of his men, all dressed as shepherds, started off
in quest of a fat buck, which they shot and carried to the highway
side. Straightway they skinned it, dressed it, and made a fire ready
for cooking; but they let the carcass lie by the roadside, waiting
till the Bishop should come riding by. At last the Bishop came
along, decked out in all his fine attire (for he was a very vain man),
with his men-at-arms in the rear. When he saw the shepherds, and
what they had done, he called out in no friendly tone:
  "What is the matter, ye thieving knaves, and for whom do ye make
such a feast? Can it be that a few base hinds have the hardihood to
kill the King's deer and carouse by the wayside? Who are ye, and how
dare ye place your lives in such jeopardy?"
  "We are poor shepherds, your lordship," quoth Robin, "who work
hard at keeping sheep all the year round without any flesh food, and
now have a mind to be merry for once by killing one of the King's
fat deer."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 10}
  "Ye are bold villains," roared the Bishop, "and I will make it my
business to acquaint the King with these high doings. Therefore come
with me forthwith, and pick up the deer, for before the King ye
shall surely go."
  "Oh, pardon!" said bold Robin Hood. "For it becomes not your
lordship's coat to take so many lives away."
  "Pardon, forsooth, ye wretched varlets!" quoth the Bishop. "No
pardon do I owe thee. Wherefore should I pardon such wanton
mischief? The land has come to a pretty pass when even shepherds crave
to live like barons!"
  Just at that moment one of his retainers whispered to him, "That
same base churl is Robin Hood in disguise."
  Thereat the Bishop's red face turned white, and he trembled as if
about to fall from his palfrey. None the less, he soon plucked up
courage and boldly shouted to his men-at-arms to surround Robin and
his comrades that they might catch him alive and bring him to the
dungeon in Nottingham Castle. But Robin was too quick for them.
Setting his back against a tree, he drew from beneath his shepherd's
smock his silver bugle; and, putting it to his mouth, he blew a loud
blast that reached far and wide. This loud call affrighted the
men-at-arms, for they knew its meaning and feared that just as they
were about to carry off Robin his outlaw band would attack them and
slay them without mercy. So they stood stock still and heeded not
the Bishop's orders.
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 15}
  "How now, my men-at-arms!" he cried, angrily. "Seize the villains at
once!"
  Just at that moment the soldiers saw threescore and ten of bold
Robin's men come tripping o'er the lea, and without more ado they
set their horses at a gallop and scampered off like rats before the
housewife's broom, leaving the Bishop to wonder how he should get
himself out of this sorry pickle. All the outlaws filed in a row
before Robin and made obeisance to him, making as pretty a sight as
the Bishop had e'er seen. Then Little John said:
  "What is the matter, my brave master, that thou blowest so loud
and hastily?"
  "Oh, matter enow," cried Robin Hood. "Here is the Bishop of
Hereford, and no pardon shall we have from him."
  "Cut off his head, master," quoth Little John, "and throw him into
his grave."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 20}
  "Oh, pardon," said the Bishop. "For if I had known it had been
you, I would have gone some other way."
  "No pardon do I owe thee," quoth bold Robin Hood. "Did I not,
proud Bishop, ask pardon of thee but a little while agone, and didst
thou not bid thy brave followers to take me and bring me to the
King? Why should I now pardon thee? Therefore make haste and come with
me, for to merry Sherwood thou shalt surely go as mine honored guest."
  So the Bishop made the best of a bad matter, and they all set out
for the trysting-place, the outlaws carrying the carcass of the deer
on their shoulders. Robin took the Bishop's horse by the bridle and
led him along the woodland path till they arrived at the great oak.
Quoth the Bishop:
  "I have much business in Nottingham this night that will not stay my
waiting. Moreover, I am in no need of victuals or drink."
  "No matter," said Robin. "Thou shalt sup with me tonight, whether
thou likest or not, but I'll warrant thou art hungry and athirst."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 25}
  Now the Bishop was really very tired, hungry, and thirsty, yet
withal he would gladly have escaped, for he knew that something more
than a merry feast was toward. After a little delay the feast was
spread, the Bishop being placed between Robin and Little John. The
hot, smoking venison was set before them, and the Bishop forgot
himself and his troubles so much as to say, "By the mass, it hath a
savory smell."
  "Yea," laughed Little John, "and the wine will please thy palate
as well."
  When the Bishop had stuffed himself with meat and drink, he
shouted out: "Come, my merry masters, bring the reckoning, that I
may pay for this most excellent feast. Methinks, if it goes on much
longer, the score will grow wondrous high."
  "Lend me your purse, good Bishop," quoth Little John, "and I'll tell
you the price of the feast by and by." Then Little John took the
Bishop's cloak and spread it upon the greensward, and, turning the
purse upside down, poured forth a clinking stream of golden coins.
  "Here's money enough, master," quoth he, "to pay the reckoning,
and 'tis a comely sight to see. Let us count the coins; such a full
purse makes me feel charitable toward the Bishop, though I warrant
he loveth me not so heartily." When the money was counted they found
it to be just three hundred pounds.
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 30}
  "Pick it up carefully," said Robin, "and go place it in my treasury.
To the Bishop we will return the empty purse. In sooth, when he
getteth more money he will have a pouch to keep it, ready for our next
merry meeting."
  Then they took the Bishop by the hand, and bade Allan-a-Dale to play
lively music upon his harp. Hand in hand, they made the fat old Bishop
dance in his boots round and round the oak-tree. At last, both tired
and weary, he was set upon his horse. Robin told off two men for
guides; and the Bishop, glad indeed to get away, was soon jogging
through the forest on his way to Nottingham town.
  Later the outlaws learned from a spy that the Bishop's urgent
business in Nottingham was to receive church tithes and doles gathered
from certain lands and property held by him roundabout Nottingham
town. Angry and ill-tempered toward every one of his men, whom he
found awaiting him, he conceived it his first duty to keep dinning
loud complaints into the ears of the poor, half-distracted Sheriff.
After patiently listening to the tale the Sheriff made answer:
  "I tell thee, pious Bishop, if thou lovest thy skin and dost wish to
keep it whole, the next time thou goest upon the highway nigh
Sherwood, turn neither to the right nor the left. Bid thy men march
straight on, and tarry not."
  "But," interrupted the Bishop, "if we see a pack of rascals
feeding and feasting on the King's deer by the wayside, we must in the
King's name protect his own."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 35}
  "Nay, nay, by our Good Lady, thou art wrong. This sly fox knows
our doings, our goings and comings. He doth devise all manner of
disguises, wicked plots, and audacious schemes to encompass thee and
thy money. No matter if thou shouldst espy the King bound to a tree,
thy best course would be e'en to let the King care for his own; for
I'll warrant it to be a stuffed image of his majesty. When thou dost
journey through the country hereabout, go with empty purse and in
plain attire. Let thy servants carry thy gold."
  "Nay, by the mass!" quoth the Bishop. "They are greater thieves than
Robin Hood."
  "Hast thou, good Bishop, no trusty followers to carry thy wealth?"
  "None so trusty as myself," said the Bishop.
  "Then in good sooth," said the Sheriff, "I am at a loss to advise
thee, unless thou likest to return home by another road, which
perchance may baffle the villain and his band."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 40}
  That night the Bishop rested with Friar Bertrand- a sly, unsavory
man, with wide jaws and wicked little black eyes, who lived by his
wits. This Bertrand was by far too timid to attempt aught against
the Bishop, but he was glib of tongue and ready with advice.
  "If your Grace goes the other way, that will be just what the outlaw
will expect you to do. Therefore go back the same way as you came.
Such a bold act will deceive the villain."
  "Thou saist truly," quoth the Bishop; and the next morning, sure
enough, he started back on the road by which he had come. Now it
chanced that this Bertrand had a servant just as false as his
master, who acted as a spy; and he gave the outlaws warning of the
Bishop's new plans. The next morning was bright and sunshiny, and
Robin was taking a stroll through the forest by himself. He had bidden
a number of his comrades to go by another path and meet him on the
highway. Presently he was aware of strangers approaching, but could
not see them through the thick maze of woodland trees. Then he
bethought him, "If I stay any longer, alone as I am, I shall be
taken prisoner." So off he ran down a path.
  The strangers proved to be the Bishop and his company of soldiers,
who at once recognized Robin by his green mantle. Seeing that he was
alone, they gave chase and pressed closely behind him. Robin turned
about and chanced to spy a little cottage, into which he ran crying
out to the old wife:
  "Haste thee, good dame, and give me means to save my life."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 45}
  "Why, who art thou?" said the old woman. "Come, tell me, for thine
own good."
  "I am an outlaw; many do call me by the name of Robin Hood. Out
yonder is the Bishop of Hereford, with his men-at-arms, who would fain
take me. If they do, the Bishop hath sworn to hang me on the limb of a
tree."
  "If thou art Robin Hood," said the good old wife, "as I am full sure
thou art, I will make some means to foil the Bishop and all his
company. For I remember one Saturday night thou didst bring me both
shoon and hosen. Therefore, I will hide thee and keep thee from
thine enemies."
  "Then give me thy old coat of gray," said Robin, "and take thou my
mantle of green, and I will take up thy spindle and twine in
exchange for my bow and arrow." Thus arrayed, bold Robin issued forth,
passing by the Bishop's soldiers, to join his comrades by the wayside;
and as he drew nigh them Little John spied him coming along the glade.
  "See, my merry men," cried he, "that old witch stalking along the
path. I will let fly an arrow that she may do no more harm to little
children."
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 50}
  "Hold thy hand," shouted Robin. "I am thy good master, Robin Hood,
arrayed thus to escape the Bishop's men."
  Meanwhile the Bishop in a furious voice called out to the old woman:
"We saw that traitor thief, Robin Hood, enter thy cottage. Let us
search, or bring him unto us."
  The frightened old woman then opened the cottage door; and the
Bishop, upon seeing a figure dressed in a mantle of green, holding a
bow, dragged her out and placed her on a milk-white steed and rode
beside her on a dapple-gray mare. Chuckling and laughing with great
glee at so easy a capture of the bold outlaw, the Bishop said:
  "By my faith, this will be joyful news for the Sheriff. We will ride
back to Nottingham and place this precious rogue in a dungeon where he
hath belonged this many a year- and nobody brave enough but a
churchman to catch him!"
  Thus talking and laughing, they rode along, till at length the
Bishop spied a hundred brave bowmen standing in a line fronting on
their path. Then quoth he:
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 55}
  "Oh, who are those men yonder that range within the woodland shade?"
  "Marry," said the old woman, "I think it be Robin Hood and his merry
men."
  "God-a-mercy then," the Bishop cried, "who art thou which I have
here by my side?"
  "Why, I am an old woman; look on my long gray hair," cried she.
  "Woe is me," said the Bishop, "that ever I saw this day!"
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 60}
  When the Bishop's company saw the bold array of the outlaw band come
marching forth, with Little John at their head, they straightway
scurried off to hide, as they had done before, leaving the Bishop once
more alone. Even the old woman rode off on the Bishop's white steed
without being noticed, so frightened he was at this sudden turn of
fortune.
  "Take courage, good Bishop," said Robin, "and get off thy horse
while I tie it to a tree; for I see thy purse is wondrous fat, and
would fain know what is in it." Then he took off his mantle and spread
it on the ground.
  "Now," quoth Little John, laughing, "let us see the purse."
  So they turned it over and found five hundred pounds of good money.
  "Now he can go," said Robin.
                                                         {XIV ^paragraph 65}
  "Nay," quoth Little John, "that may not be, for I vow before he
leaves us he shall sing a mass to us and our good outlaw band."
  The Bishop obeyed their order in a most doleful tone of voice.
Then they set him upon his horse backward and gave him the tail for
a bridle, sending six stout fellows to guide him to the road, where he
could again meet his men and go upon his way.

{XV
                                XV
                     ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR
-
  ROBIN HOOD had been outlawed when he was only fifteen years old-
in other words, officers and soldiers of the Crown could kill him at
sight without a trial. Of his own free will he chose to lead such a
life in defiance of the law. At the age of thirty-five he had gathered
about him a large band of brave followers who would, one and all, shed
their last drop of blood for him if need were. Wise and just he was in
his dealings, oft-times charitable to the poor and needy, brave and
dangerous in fight. The rich barons and churchmen who ground the faces
of the poor trembled at his very name. What he took from those that
fell in his way he did not waste, but found good means- as you will
see later- to help many who were sadly in need of succor. His love
of adventure did not wane with the passing years; and, though he
needed no more men for his band, he was just as ready as ever to
test the bravery in fair fight of all who crossed his path.
  Now it fell upon a fair afternoon that Robin went alone through a
fern-clad forest path. After a while he got upon the highroad, where
he met a beggar going sturdily along at a good pace, looking neither
to the right nor to the left, noticing no one as he strode on his way.
In his hand he held a pike-staff that was both stout and strong, while
wound about his body was a clouted cloth folded many times, making
an excellent covering from wind and rain. Tied to a leathern strap
there hung from his neck a large meal-bag, firmly fastened to a stout,
broad buckle, and upon his head were three hats stuck fast together,
one above the other, so that wherever he went little did he care
either for sun or for rain.
  When good Robin spied this oddly attired stranger he stepped
boldly right in front of him, for he had a shrewd thought that the
beggar was not so poor as he seemed.
  "Tarry," quoth Robin. "Tarry awhile and speak with me."
                                                           {XV ^paragraph 5}
  But the beggar, making as if he had not heard him, went but the
faster on his way, without so much as a turn of his head.
  "Marry," said Robin, "thou showest me scant courtesy. Thou must
tarry, for I have somewhat to say to thee."
  "By my three hats," cried the beggar, in a harsh voice, "to tarry
I have no will, for it groweth late, and it is yet far to my
lodging-house. Should they have supper before I get there, perchance
my stomach shall go bare of food."
  "Now, by my troth," said good Robin, "I see well that in thinking
only of thine own supper, thou hast no care of mine. All this day have
I eaten no food, and wot not where to lie this night. To the tavern
would I go, but in sooth I have no money. Sir stranger, you must
lend me some till we meet again."
  The beggar answered peevishly: "I have no money to lend; methinks
thou art as young as I and as strong, I warrant. If thou dost fast
till I lend thee money, thou shalt eat naught this year."
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 10}
  "Then," said bold Robin, "by my troth, since we are together here,
if thou hast but a clipt farthing I'll take it from thee ere thou
go. Come, beggar, lay down thy clouted cloth and cease to stand
there staring me in the face; for I will open up all thy bags, thy
tag-rags and bobtails, and rip them to pieces with my hands.
Shouldst thou make an outcry, I vow by the saints to try how far a
broad arrow can pierce a beggar's skin."
  The beggar looked at Robin with a wry smile upon his face and made
answer thus:
  "Far better let me be; for do not think I care a straw, or be afeard
for thy nip-crooked tree that thou call'st a bow, nor that I care
any whit for thy curn sticks that thou call'st arrows, which are no
more, in sooth, than skewers to fasten up a pudding bag withal. Here
do I defy thee to do me harm- for all thy loud talk thou wilt get
nothing from me but ill."
  Such fearless words from a ragged beggar roused Robin's wrath.
Straightway he nocked a broad arrow and bent his great bow. But e'er
'twas drawn a span, the beggar with his stout pike-staff reached
forward with so swift a stroke that the bow burst in twain. Nothing
daunted, Robin with a bound darted to strike down the beggar with
his sword, but that proved likewise vain, for the fellow with his
pike-staff struck such a fierce blow on Robin's hand that his sword
fell to the ground.
  Good Robin could not speak a word, for he was sick at heart and
faint from bitter pain. Unable either to fight or to flee, he knew not
what to do. Yet still the beggar with his terrible pike-staff laid
lusty blows upon his side and back, till at last Robin fell down on
the soft sward in a swoon, lying helpless and bleeding at the mercy of
his terrible foe.
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 15}
  "Stand up, stand up," the beggar man said; "'tis a shame to go to
rest. In truth, I think it were best to stay till thou gettest thy
money. Then go to the tavern and buy both food and wine with the
beggar's money. There thou canst boast of what thou didst get in the
forest."
  Good Robin answered ne'er a word, but lay still as a stone. Closed
were both his eyes, and his cheeks were pale as any clay. With a few
more blows upon his body the beggar thought him dead, and leaving
him to lie stark and still, his face upturned to the sky, he strode on
his way.
  Now it so happened that by good chance three of Robin's band came
walking by the way and found their master lying on the ground,
wounded, bleeding, and senseless.
  "Who hath done this foul deed, comrades?" said one. "Let us take our
dear master up, and carry him to yon brook, that we may sprinkle water
on his face and so bring him to life." So they took up good Robin, who
made a piteous moan, while blood gushed forth from his mouth and nose.
Yet though they searched all over his body, they found no cuts, but
many cruel bruises. When his brow had been bathed with cold water,
Robin at last came to his senses enough to speak a little.
  "Tell us, dear master," said his men, "tell us what is the matter,
and how thou didst fall into such an evil case."
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 20}
  Good Robin sighed deep e'er he began to tell of his disgrace. "For
twenty years and more have I been outlaw and forester in this wood,
yet I was never so hard bestead as ye have found me here. A beggar
with a clouted cloak hath with his pike-staff so mauled my back that I
fear 'twill never be well. He went o'er yon hill, and upon his head he
carried three hats. If e'er ye loved your master, go now to revenge me
of this vile deed and bring him back to me again. Take care that he
escape you not, for if ye cannot bring him to me, 'twere a great shame
upon us all."
  "One of us shall stay with thee because thou art in no state to be
left alone, and the other two, I warrant, shall bring the villain
beggar back to use as thou listest."
  "Now, by my faith," said good Robin, "enough has been said. Take
good heed, for I fear me ye will both be evil a-paid if he get a
chance to swing his wicked tree around your noddles."
  "Be not afraid, dear master, that we two can be bested by any base
beggar that carries naught but a staff! Thou shalt shortly see that
his staff will stand him in no stead. He shall be brought back
again, fast bound, to see if thou wilt have us slay him."
  "Be sly, then," said Robin, "and by stealth work your way into his
path before he is aware. Then pounce upon him, and first of all lay
hands on his staff."
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 25}
  The two outlaws then left Robin, clinging to a tree, like a poor,
tottering old man. Now the beggar had mended his pace and was striding
along over the hill, giving no thought to the trouble he had caused
and only anxious to reach his lodging ere nightfall. The two outlaws
ran at full speed by a lower path, careless of the mud and briars
along the way, going a distance of over three miles. Then, turning
to a little clump of bushes in a glen that the beggar must surely
pass, they hid themselves close behind trees on each side of the path,
standing ready till the beggar drew nigh. After a little they saw
him coming, and just as he got betwixt them both leaped upon him.
One gripped the pike-staff; and the other, with drawn dagger at his
breast, cried:
  "False and bloody knave, quit thy staff, or thou shalt need a
priest. Stir but a hair under thy three hats and, by Saint Wilfrid,
I will drive this dirk to the hilt in thy black heart."
  Taken off his guard, the beggar was so affrighted that he dared
not move. He could not run, he could not wield his staff; He was not
sure but other outlaws might be near; so in despair, thinking that
at last his life's end was near at hand, he began to crave mercy.
  "Grant me my life," he pleaded, "and hold away that ugly knife. I
never harmed you in all my life, neither by night nor day, and
indeed you do a great sin if you slay a poor silly beggar."
  "Thou liest, false and cruel varlet," cried the outlaw who held
his staff. "Thou hast near slain the gentlest and kindest man that
e'er was born. Back again to him thou shalt be led, fast bound with
thongs, to see if he will have thee slain or bid us hang thee on a
tree."
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 30}
  Then the beggar thought that all was done with him, though if he
could but escape out of their hands and get hold of his staff he was
sure that he would teach them another game. While they made ready to
bind him he cudgeled his brains for some wily scheme to free
himself. The only way that came into his mind was to tempt them with
money; so he said:
  "Brave gentlemen, be good to me, and let me go. It helps you not a
flea to take a beggar's blood. 'Twas but to save mine own hide that
I did hurt your master, and listen, good friends- I will give you a
recompense that shall make you rich if you will but set me free and do
me no more harm. I will give you a hundred pounds, and much more odd
silver that I have gathered these many years. Under this clouted cloak
I have it, far hidden beneath its folds next to my skin and eke in the
bottom of my meal-bag."
  To this neither of the young men answered a word, but each looked at
his companion to see whether he would be false to his honor and
disgrace the band. One argued, "We will take the money to our
captain and tell him that the beggar is slain." The other said, "Our
orders were 'Bring him back alive or dead.'" At last they agreed to
yield to the beggar's counsel and let him go, then follow after and
take him again by stealth when they had his money; for, being swift of
foot, they might easily overtake him.
  "False knave," said one, "say no more, but get the money and count
it out. 'Tis little enough to pay for the ill turn thou hast done
our master; yet come what may, if thou dost give us the money now we
will not take thee back."
  So the beggar thanked them right heartily, and straightway set about
loosening his clouted cloak to spread it on the ground. Then he took
from his neck a bag containing over two pecks of meal, which he set
down upon the cloak. Opening wide the bag, he bent down and felt in
every nook and corner for the money. Both young men drew their faces
closer to see the gold appear, when of a sudden the beggar lifted
out two great handfuls of meal and flung it in their faces, blinding
them so that they could do naught with their hands save strive to wipe
the meal from eyes, nose, and mouth. In a trice the beggar grasped his
pike-staff and, with a gleeful laugh, cried:
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 35}
  "Now, my pretty pair of blades, if I've done you wrong in mealing of
your clothes, with my staff I will strike off the meal again."
  With that, he began to ply his staff, filling the air with meal from
their bodies as his mighty blows fell on their shoulders, necks, and
arms. The young outlaws, half blinded and choked, could do naught to
help themselves. They turned and ran with all the speed they could
muster, leaving the beggar shaking his staff in the air and calling
upon them to stay awhile and get well dusted.
  "What's all this haste?" he cried. "May not you tarry still? I'll
pay you with a right good will until ye have had enough and to
spare. The shakings of my meal-bag have by chance blown into your
eyes, but what of that? I have a good pike-staff that will soon make
them clear."
  Thus he went on entreating them in right loving fashion to tarry,
but the young outlaws heard him not, for they were far away. Since the
night was creeping on apace, it would be vain to follow and attack him
now, so they thought it wise to return, and with sad hearts and
downcast looks they got them back to their master.
  "Well, my comrades," asked Robin, "how did ye speed in your quest?"
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 40}
  They answered him, "Full ill, and we were evil a-paid."
  "That cannot be," quoth Robin. "A man would think to look at your
clothes that ye have been working for the miller. Tell me the matter
truly- how ye fared, and what ye have done with the bold beggar I sent
you for but now."
  The young men drooped down, hanging their heads for very shame,
and could not speak a word. Then, with true anger in his voice,
Robin said:
  "Because I fell beneath the cudgel of this beggar fiend I think ye
feared he would serve you in the same fashion."
  At these words, so true and so just, the young men confessed, and
told Robin the truth all to the end- how the beggar blinded them
with the meal, how he basted their bones so sore to dust it from their
clothes, and how they fled to the forest.
                                                          {XV ^paragraph 45}
  Good Robin cried out: "Fie, fie for shame! We are dishonored
forevermore. Help me to lift my weary bones, and take me quickly to my
bower."
  As they carried him along the path he thought he would full fain
have revenge, yet even in his pain he smiled to think that two of
his merry young men had gotten a taste of that beggar's pike-staff
besides himself.

{XVI
                                XVI
                    ROBIN SELLS POTS AND DISHES
-
  ROBIN was angered to the depths of his heart at thought of the
beggar's brutishness, for he himself had never in his life struck a
fallen foe, to say nothing of beating a man who lay senseless and
helpless at his feet. Yet anon he bethought him: "In sooth, I was to
blame! I brought it upon mine own head, and must perforce bear the
pain I got." Such were his thoughts as he painfully dragged his aching
bones along, with the help of his two followers, back through the
forest to the oak glade. It seemed an age before he got there, and
twice he fainted from weakness. Little John met them with a very sad
face, and he wept to see his master in such a plight. Then with his
strong arms he fairly carried Robin to his bower, there to lie a month
or more till his swollen, bruised body grew strong and well once more.
  Many a time he bemoaned himself bitterly to Little John because he
could not go abroad. Then, with comforting words, mixed with a spice
of sound advice, Little John would soothe him, saying:
  "In truth, my dear master, thou art too prone to fight with
quarter-staff against a foe more used to that weapon. With thy good
long-bow, the case is different, for thou would'st ever be the
victor."
  "I cannot in cold blood," quoth Robin, "send a shaft through a foe's
body with but a pace or two between us. Once I slew a man, and ne'er
again will I take life save at dire need or in the heat of combat.
But, by the mass, I will no longer lie here like a cat tied in a bag."
                                                          {XVI ^paragraph 5}
  Again Little John would gently chide his master, bidding him wait at
least till he could stand upon his legs without wabbling. "For,"
said he, "our treasure is ample, our wants are all supplied, and the
men content. Be patient, therefore, for in a week or more, once
again thou wilt be strong- long before the wintry wind blows through
the glade."
  At last, toward the end of summer, the three best leeches of the
band- Friar Tuck, Arthur-a-Bland, and Little John- agreed that Robin
was well enough to go upon short trips to hunt the deer. Shooting
contests were held and games resumed, as a change from the more
serious work of gathering in the winter stores. It was now the
middle of August. The days were warm, the evenings long and light till
ten o'clock, so that the band was in a merry mood, as was their wont
when all went well.
  Thus it was that, on the next day, a bright, fair morn, being a
Saturday and a market-day, Robin, Little John, and others of the
band set forth toward the great highway that ran along the forest
edge, to gather tolls from any that were able to pay, and give away,
for charity's sake, to those in dire need. Anon they saw a man sitting
on the shafts of a rude little cart pulled by a pony. The cart was
filled with mugs, basins, and other pottery vessels, which the man
bought very cheap at Stoke, where they were made, and carted from town
to town to sell at a good profit. He was singing a merry ditty, now
and then whipping up his pony that he might reach Nottingham market in
good time. It was plain by his looks that he could take good care of
his pots as well as himself.
  "Yonder comes a stout potter," quoth jolly Robin, "that hath crossed
this forest many a time, yet hath never paid one penny of passage
money to us. He shall not escape us this time, I warrant."
  "Better let him pass, good master," said Little John. "I met the
fellow once at Wentbridge, and he gave me three such clouts that I
want no more from him, though I gave him clout for clout. I will lay
forty shillings there is not a man among us that can make the potter
pay toll."
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 10}
  Bold Robin could not let that pass. "Here are forty shillings," he
cried, "and more will I lay that I can make that bold potter pay
some token for his passage."
  "He will give thee his staff for a token! I vow that from him thou
wilt get no other pay, my master," said John. But Robin, without
more words, strode to the middle of the highroad, and, standing firm
as a rock till the potter drew nigh, laid his hand on the bridle,
bidding the man stand.
  "Fellow," bawled the potter, "what is thy will?"
  "All these three years and more, potter," quoth Robin, "thou hast
passed by this way, yet never hast been so courteous as to pay a penny
of toll to us."
  "What is thy name?" said the potter, "and what is thy right to ask
for passage money of me on the King's highway?"
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 15}
  "Robin Hood is my name, and king of these woods am I, to whom it
is thy bounden duty to pay toll."
  "Not a bad farthing shalt thou get from me," said the potter. "Let
go thy hand from my horse, or I vow to strike it off with my staff."
Straightway leaping down from the shaft, he unstrapped from under
the cart a stout pike-staff, saying in angry tones: "Now, bold outlaw,
take thy hand from my horse."
  Robin drew his sword and, with a buckler upon his arm, advanced to
meet the potter, who with a powerful balk-stroke smote off the shield.
In a trice the naughty pike-staff was brought down with another fierce
blow on Robin's neck as he stooped to get his buckler again. So
stiff was the stroke that it sent Robin sprawling on the ground.
  "Let us go to help our master," cried Little John, "or yon potter
will do him harm."
  Then, running toward Robin, with shouts of laughter, he said: "Who
has won the wager now? Shall I have the forty shillings, or shall
ye, master, have mine?"
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 20}
  "Yea, were they a hundred shillings," said Robin, "in faith, they
are all thine."
  "There is little courtesy," said the potter, "as I have heard wise
men say, to take from a poor yeoman what little he hath while
driving along the highway."
  "By my faith, thou saist true," said Robin, "and from this day forth
thou shalt never be hindered; for a friendship would I have with thee,
and good payment will I give. Make exchange with me of thy clothing,
for I will sell pots in Nottingham town, and thou shalt stay here in
the forest to feast on good venison. When I come back, if I sell
all, thine shall be the gain."
  "Marry, to that I will agree," quoth the potter. "Thou shalt find me
an honest fellow; and if thou canst sell my pots well, come back again
when thou dost list."
  Then spake Little John and his comrades, saying: "Master, take
care and beware of the Sheriff, for he would gladly slay thee by
fair means or foul. Alone, thou shalt be in great jeopardy."
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 25}
  "Nay, my good comrades," quoth Robin, "let me be, for by the help of
our Good Lady to Nottingham will I go."
  So Robin changed clothes with the potter, and, with some touches
here and there to make a better disguise, he jumped on the shaft of
the cart and drove away in a jolly mood, singing a merry song. When he
reached Nottingham, he drew up his horse close by the Sheriff's
gate, and gave it some oats and hay. Then setting forth his pots, both
large and small, upon the cart, so as to make the best show, he
began to cry out:
  "Crocks and pots, jugs and mugs, who wants to buy? I give one extra,
no matter how large or small."
  This way of bargaining was new to the wives and widows of
Nottingham, and soon drew a large crowd round his cart. Not content
with throwing in an extra pot, Robin sold pots worth five pence for
three pence. This made the women gape, both old and young; and while
they bought they said to each other, slyly, "This potter will never
thrive at this rate."
  "Thou wilt have none left ere long, if thou dost sell so cheap,"
said one buxom wife.
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 30}
  "For that cause came I hither," quoth smiling Robin, "to sell all
I have." And he did sell so fast that before noon only five pieces
were left.
  "Well done, thou cunning potter," said Robin to himself. "These five
unsold pots will I give with my compliments to the Sheriff's wife."
And so, in sooth, he did.
  "Grammercy, sir," said the Sheriff's wife, with a tender smile on
good Robin. "When thou dost come to this town again I shall buy what
pots I want from you, so much do I like thy courtesy. Thy kindness
is truly great, and I would that thou mightest come and dine with
the Sheriff and me."
  "God's mercy, good lady," said Robin, "thy bidding shall be done."
  Then a young maid carried in the pots, and Robin followed the
Sheriff's wife to the hall, where he met the Sheriff, who spake him
fair.
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 35}
  "Look," quoth the lady, "what this potter hath given thee and me for
a present- five pots, both large and small."
  "He is full welcome," said the Sheriff. "Let us enter and go to
dine."
  As they sat at the table, with merry talk and laughter, two of the
Sheriff's men began to speak of a prize of forty shillings offered for
the best shooting with the long-bow among the townspeople that day.
"Now, as I am a true Christian man," Robin said to himself, "this
shooting-match will I see."
  When they had appeased their hunger upon the very best of bread,
ale, and wine, to the shooting-butts they all went to see who would
win the prize. The Sheriff's men began to shoot, but they were very
poor archers, and none of them got nearer the mark than half the
length of a long-bow. The potter looked on with great contempt; and
when the Sheriff said, "What thinkest thou, good potter, of our
archery?" he made answer: "In plain truth, it seemeth to me to be very
vile. An I had a bow, with one shot I would beat them all."
  "I warrant thou shalt have a bow for that one shot," quoth the
Sheriff, "the best thou mayst choose from such as we have. Thou
seemest strong and stalwart as any here." He then bade a yeoman that
stood by bring some bows for the potter to choose from.
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 40}
  "'Tis the best here," quoth Robin, as he took up a bow, "though in
sooth 'tis a poor, weak thing. Nevertheless, with it I will make
good my word."
  So without more ado he strode up to the line, side by side with
the Sheriff's men, who smiled and twitted him upon his impudence in
daring to shoot in such company. The potter answered naught, but,
pulling the string to his ear, he carelessly shot the arrow within a
foot of the mark. Then the Sheriff's men tried once more with little
better success. When the potter again took his place to shoot, they
had greater respect for his skill and waited anxiously to see what
he would do. Taking much more careful aim, he let fly the shaft and
cleft the wand apart, much to the wonder of the Sheriff's men, who
thought it great shame that a common potter should win the prize
from them. But the Sheriff and his wife were both mightily pleased,
and said to the potter:
  "Thou art a man worthy to bear a bow in whatever place thou goest."
  "In my cart," he made answer, "I have a bow that I had from Robin
Hood."
  "Knowest thou Robin Hood?" asked the surprised Sheriff. "Prithee,
tell me of him."
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 45}
  "A hundred times," replied the potter, "have I shot with him under
his trysting-tree."
  "By my faith," quoth the Sheriff, "I would give a hundred pounds
to have that villainous outlaw now stand before me here."
  "I would fain win that hundred pounds," said the potter, "and
to-morrow after we have taken our breakfast, if thou wilt boldly go
with me, I will e'en show thee Robin Hood."
  "I will requite thee well," said the Sheriff, joyfully. "By my
faith, thou shalt not repent of serving me in this matter."
  Upon the morrow the potter was early ready with horse and cart.
Taking leave of the Sheriff's wife, he thanked her heartily for her
good cheer.
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 50}
  "Good dame," quoth he, "for my love to you, be pleased to wear
this gold ring."
  "Grammercy, good sir, I yield to thy wish, for I trow the
Sheriff's heart was never so light to see the fair forest as in the
company of so gallant a companion."
  So the Sheriff, on his horse, and the potter, seated in his little
cart, both set off for Sherwood.
  The morning was bright and warm, and the little birds sang merrily
among the green leaves. "The greenwood is a merry place," said
Robin, "for a man that has aught to spend, and by the sound of my horn
we shall soon know if Robin Hood be near at hand." Then he set his
horn to his mouth and blew a blast both loud and long, that could be
heard far adown the forest glade.
  "I hear my master's call," said Little John. "Let us haste, and
run to see if all be well." Anon through an opening of the trees
they appeared before the potter and addressed him, saying:
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 55}
  "Master, how hast thou fared in Nottingham? Hast thou sold all thy
wares?"
  "Yea, by my troth, Little John. Look thou and see. I have brought
the Sheriff of Nottingham in exchange for my goods."
  "He is full welcome," said Little John. "Such tidings make us glad."
  'Twas then that the Sheriff saw the trick that the potter had served
him, and he thought he would rather have given a hundred pounds than
to have met Robin Hood that day.
  "Had I known," quoth he, "that thou wert Robin Hood, thou shouldst
not have seen this fair forest for a thousand years."
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 60}
  "That wot I well," said jolly Robin, laughing. "Therefore thou shalt
leave thy horse and other gear with us. Hither thou camest
a-horseback, and back thou shalt go afoot to give my greetings to
thy good wife at home. I shall give her a white palfrey, and thou
mayst tell her that had she used less courtesy thou wouldst have fared
much more sadly at our hands." Thus the Sheriff parted from Robin, and
to Nottingham he took his way.
  His wife was there to give him a welcome. "How didst thou fare in
the greenwood?" she said. "And hast thou brought Robin home?"
  The Sheriff swore a great oath and said: "I have been basely
scorned, and tricked of all the moneys I took to the greenwood. My
large, fine horse, its gold trappings, my pouch with a hundred pounds,
were all stript from me amid the jeers and merry quips of that vile
band."
  Upon that, the good dame laughed loud and long. "Now," quoth she,
"he has then been well paid for all those pots he gave to us."
  So we leave the unhappy Sheriff and return to the greenwood, where
Robin called the potter to him, saying, "Good potter, what were thy
pots worth that I sold in Nottingham market?"
                                                         {XVI ^paragraph 65}
  Quoth the potter: "They were worth two pounds, but I should have
traded and made more by my traffic."
  "Thou shalt have ten pounds," said jolly Robin. "And remember,
bold potter, when thou comest to the greenwood thou shalt ever be
welcome."
  So they parted as the best of friends, each well satisfied with
the other. Then the potter set off blithe and merry on his way back to
Stoke to get his cart refilled with pots and crocks, hoping to make as
good a trade again. "But of that," quoth he, "I have grave doubts-
there is but one Robin Hood."

{XVII
                               XVII
                  ROBIN AND SIR GUY OF GISBOURNE
-
  THIS latest clever trick of Robin Hood's was the last straw that
broke the Sheriff's patience. He wept and sobbed; he wailed and sighed
full sore. Each man that sat at meat with him or passed him upon the
streets of Nottingham town seemed to be Robin Hood in disguise. The
disgrace was so much the harder to bear because his wife found delight
in constantly talking of the comely, courteous outlaw and his
present of the gold ring, which she still wore. So the Sheriff
longed for a dire revenge, and searched eagerly for some means whereby
he might put an end at once and forever to the troubles he had borne
for twenty-odd years.
  At last he bethought him to give a great feast and invite as many as
would come of the barons and knights of the shire. For he thought that
if they would not help him with money and men they might at least
advise him how best to rid the near-by forests of these pests. He
had oft tried to get the aid of bold yeomen of his town, but they
had flatly said him nay, for many of them had received kindness from
Robin and his men. So the Sheriff bade his servants prepare a great
feast, to which came not a few of the barons and knights.
  When they had eaten of the good things and drunk well of the wine,
the Sheriff arose and addressed them, laying bare all his woe. Thereat
one brave knight got upon his feet and said:
  "Sir Sheriff, while we grieve with thee in this trouble, not one
of us can soil his knightly hands to draw sword in so mean a cause- to
wit, the catching of a rascally deer-stealer. Such base deeds are meet
for thy yeomen or the King's foresters."
                                                         {XVII ^paragraph 5}
  "Oft have I promised them much gold," quoth the Sheriff, "but they
either will not or dare not encounter this band. Yea, they all turn
pale at the name of Robin Hood."
  "In faith," quoth the knight, "I know not any other means whereby
thou canst have thy will unless, haply, some knight down at the
heels for want of friends and gold were willing to lead a company of
trained men to the forest and drive the outlaws away."
  "Dost thou, Sir Knight, know of such a one?"
  "There is one," replied the knight, "who would do thy bidding, if
the prize were great. This Sir Guy of Gisbourne is bold enough to do
any deed thou mayst set for him, nor will he value his knightly
honor above five hundred pounds."
  After the guests had gone the Sheriff lost no time in seeking out
this Sir Guy, and on the morrow he sent a messenger on horseback to
the little market-town of Gisbourne in the west Riding of Yorkshire.
Now Sir Guy was poor; he had wasted his substance in riotous living;
but, instead of repenting, he was ever ready to do any deed, however
base, not only because he needed gold, but for the mere love of
doing evil.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 10}
  In his native town he was feared by every man, and abhorred by every
wife, widow, or lass. Besides his wickedness he was the ugliest
creature in merry England. His naturally savage features were
scarred by many wounds and cuts, for he had been to the wars in the
Holy Land, in Ireland, in Scotland, and in the South. Everywhere he
went, ever fighting; yet he seemed to bear a charmed life. Utterly
cruel, with a black and stony heart, his bold and fierce demeanor
affrighted all men. When he was angry, his face and scars turned a
livid blue, so awful to look upon that his foes took him for a demon
risen from the regions below. It was his wont to go clad from head
to foot in the hide of a horse. The ears stood up from a hood, back of
which hung the mane, and below was the horse's tail. This
body-covering was tanned soft with the hair outside, so that he who
wore it looked more a beast than a man. Such, then, was the evil Sir
Guy, whom the Sheriff's messenger went to seek as a leader to fight
and destroy the good and kind Robin Hood and his merry outlaws.
  When he reached the little town of Gisbourne, the messenger had
little trouble in learning the whereabouts of him he sought.
  "What is the price?" roared Sir Guy, when he had heard the tale.
"Repeat to me the sum, that I be not mistaken."
  "Five hundred pounds in good coin," said the messenger, "for the
living body of Robin Hood, or his head if thou slayest him."
  "'Tis a fair sum for so slight a deed," said Sir Guy, slowly,
"and, to be brief, I will do the Sheriff's will. The outlaw's head
is mine; the money is earned. Dost thou hear that?" Down came his fist
with such a crack on the table that the messenger nearly jumped out of
his skin.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 15}
  "Yea, Sir Guy, I hear, and doubt it not."
  "Well for thee thou hast no doubts. What, ho! knavish hind!" he
shouted to a servant. "Get my horse, and furnish him for combat. Get
me my two Irish daggers and my longest brown Egyptian blade. There
is work afoot for us, so choose the toughest yew long-bow and
double-pointed shafts, and be ready anon."
  All was soon in readiness, and ere long the two were riding back
toward Nottingham, which they reached late on the following day.
Meanwhile, the Sheriff had not been idle. He foresaw that Sir Guy
would willingly do a work so much to his taste, especially for a prize
so large. He had already gathered together a hundred of his own men
and two hundred of the King's foresters. The latter he would place
under the command of Sir Guy, and he himself would lead his own
servants. He was no coward, to say sooth, though his men were not of
the same metal.
  When the knight presented himself, the Sheriff's joy was
unbounded. "Such a fierce-looking monster did I ne'er behold," he
thought. "Surely he will slay bold Robin." Then he said aloud: "Thrice
welcome art thou, Sir Knight of Gisbourne. Let us dine and then talk
of what we have to do."
  So they went into the hall, where Sir Guy seated himself opposite
the place where the Sheriff's wife would sit. Unsheathing his two
Irish daggers, he laid one shining blade close beside his platter, the
other beside his wine-goblet, and prepared to eat. The Sheriff's
wife had been told of this man, and what he was about to do, but she
was so affrighted at the knives and the fellow's evil looks that she
fainted dead away in the arms of her husband, who helped the
servants to carry her away from the table.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 20}
  "What is the matter with thy good lady, Sir Sheriff?" asked Guy.
  "In sooth," said he, "she is overcome with joy to know that the
outlaw's end is near."
  "Ay, by the bones of Saint Withold!" growled Sir Guy, "of a truth it
is so. But tell me, what manner of man is this Robin Hood, famed as he
is so far and wide? Is he big of bone and broad of chest, like King
Richard, that all men fear him?"
  "Nay, by the mass," quoth the Sheriff, "he is as mild as a sucking
pig and gentle as a lamb. Marry, the cooing turtle-dove could not
match him in soft persuasion. But mark thee well, Sir Knight, no fox
was ever so sly; no adder creeping through the damp sward is so silent
as his footfall on the grass."
  "And what of his prowess?" asked Sir Guy. "I have heard of his skill
in archery, but doubt it."
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 25}
  "Doubt it not, Sir Knight, for no archer liveth, nor ever lived,
that can match him. With the broadsword and buckler, and eke with
the quarter-staff, he hath met in combat the strongest and best in
merry England, and he hath drawn them to his band. I know not of any
means to take him save to outnumber him. Outwit him- 'tis
impossible! Outfight him- 'tis doubtful! Haply if thou canst meet
him alone, thou mayst have the better of him. Indeed, rather would I
see it done in such a manner than in any other. Therefore it were well
that thou shouldst go before us to tempt the wily fox, if that may be,
to single combat. It is well known that he loves such fights; and
many, so I hear, have met him, hand to hand, alone in divers parts
of the forest."
  "Truly," said the Knight, "the thieving rogue hath affrighted all
the bravery out of Nottinghamshire. Nevertheless, I will do as thou
biddest. A blast from this horn shall tell that he is dead. But
come, good Sheriff, we tarry over-long. Rest assured that Robin Hood
shall meet his end before the moon doth cast her beams through the
forest leaves."
  So the Sheriff gave command, and soon his three hundred stalwart
yeomen and foresters stood ready to follow the two leaders, who,
both on horseback, rode in front on their way through the forest to
destroy the outlaws' nest.
  On that very same morning, just before sunrise, you might have
seen all of Robin's merry men wrapped snugly in their night-cloaks,
fast asleep on the grassy sward, round about the great oak. On a
low-hanging branch above Robin's head sat a throstle, singing so
loud that it roused him from his sleep. Half raising himself, he
looked at the bird, which kept pouring forth its mellow notes and
would not cease to sing. Then Robin said:
  "Now, by my faith, this night I had a dream, and it seemed to me
that two strong yeomen fought with me fast and furiously. Methought
they did beat me and bind me fast to a tree, taking from me both bow
and arrows. If I be Robin, and am awake in this merry wood, I will
take revenge on those two."
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 30}
  Little John, who lay by his side, had also been awakened by the
song-bird and heard what Robin said.
  "Dreams are swift, master," quoth he, "even as the wind that blows
o'er the hill. For if it be never so loud this night, to-morrow,
none the less, it may be still enough."
  "Marry, that is truth," quoth Robin, "but I shall go to seek
yonder strong yeomen, if in the forest they be."
  So he leaped up, and, throwing off his covering, shouted to his
comrades: "My merry men, bestir yourselves, and all make ready. Little
John, thou shalt go with me."
  So they all cast off their cloaks, took up their bows, and, after
partaking of a hearty breakfast, stood ready to march wherever their
brave captain should direct. And a fine body of men they were-
alert, strong, brave, obedient- so Robin and Little John thought, as
they strode past in single file away to the green forest.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 35}
  By the time the sun had risen high in all his glorious splendor, the
little birds were singing on every spray and twig; the cool morning
air was just crisp enough to make walking in the fair forest a delight
and put all in a joyous mood. The band had struck a different path
under the leadership of Will Scarlet, though ever within sound of
Robin's bugle-call as he strode along by the side of Little John. Anon
the two came in sight of a tall figure leaning against a tree. He
had a long sword and two sharp daggers that he wore by his side, and
his body was covered with the hide of a horse, ears, mane, and tail
complete.
  "God-a-mercy," said Robin, "what is this thing? Is it man or beast?"
  "Stand still," quoth Little John, "under this greenwood tree while I
go forth to yon strange thing to know what it doth mean."
  "Ah, John," quoth Robin, "I see well thou settest no store by me.
When was I ever wont to send my men before and tarry myself behind?
Were it not for the breaking of my bow, John, I would break thy head."
  These words rankled harshly in John's breast. He spake not a word in
answer, but turned aside with tears in his eyes, and then strode
swiftly away to join the main band, leaving Robin standing silent,
alone.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 40}
  He had gone but a short distance when he heard sounds. As he hurried
forward, the sounds became shouts and cries, and at last, when he came
near, he beheld a full pitched battle 'twixt the outlaw band and the
Sheriff's men. As he rushed along his heart grew sick with
heaviness, for he saw two of the band lying dead in a hollow piece
of ground by the side of a glade, and in the distance was Will
Scarlet, leaping along over rocks and stones for his very life, with
the Sheriff and seven score of his men close at his heels.
  "One shot now I will shoot," quoth John, "with all my might and main
to make yon Sheriff that presses on so fast stop in his career."
  Then he bent his great long-bow and pulled so hard that it burst
in twain and the parts fell down at his feet.
  "Woe is me," he cried, "thou wicked wood, that ever thou didst
grow on a tree; for now this day I am undone when I need thee most."
  The arrow flew, but with such a bad aim that instead of hitting
the Sheriff it struck Will-a-Trent to the ground- one of the Sheriff's
men who was very friendly to the band. Little John's heart was
crushed, and his hands hung limp by his side. Heedless of all that was
going on in the fight, he was caught by a number of the Sheriff's men,
who took him and quickly bound him to a tree.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 45}
  When the Sheriff heard that Little John was taken, he came up to
where the outlaw was pinioned, to jeer and mock at him. "I have thee
now," snarled he. "Thou shalt be drawn uphill and down dale tied to
a horse's tail. Then I will hang thee on the topmost tower of
Nottingham Castle."
  "Yet," quoth Little John, unafraid, "thou mayst fail of thy purpose,
if the good saints have their will. Our men are not all in my case."
  "No," roared the Sheriff, "but Robin Hood is now in the toils of the
brave Sir Guy of Gisbourne."
  Little John knew of this fell knight, and his heart sank lower
than ever to think that Robin was left alone with this villain, whom
he now knew to be the creature standing by the tree. So he repented
sore that he had crossed his dear master and had left him to his fate.
  So soon as Little John was gone, Robin Hood marched up to the man in
the horse-hide robe.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 50}
  "Good morrow, good fellow!" quoth he.
  "Good morrow, good fellow, to thee," the other made answer.
  "Methinks by that bow thou dost bear in thy hand thou shouldst be
a fair archer," said Robin.
  "I have lost my way," said the stranger, "and know not where to go."
  "I'll lead thee, good fellow, through the forest and be thy
guide," quoth Robin.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 55}
  "I am seeking for an outlaw," the stranger went on, "that men call
Robin Hood, and I would give forty pounds if I could meet with him
here."
  "Then come along with me, bold fellow, and Robin thou shalt soon
see. But first, under this greenwood tree let us test each other's
skill with bow and shaft, for haply we may meet this Robin Hood by
some odd chance in the mean time."
  "I like thy plan, brave archer," said the stranger; and forthwith
they cut a thin sapling that grew among the underbrush, which they set
in the ground, with a little garland on the top, threescore rods away.
  "Lead on, good fellow," quoth Robin, "and shoot, I prithee."
  "Nay, by my faith, good fellow," said the other, "thou shalt shoot
first."
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 60}
  "Well, so be it," quoth Robin; "I will even do as thou sayest."
The first time Robin shot he missed the wand by an inch; and the
stranger, though a right good archer, shot a foot or more away. But
upon the second trial he placed the arrow inside the garland. Then
Robin, as he had done many times before, loosed a shaft that cut the
wand in twain.
  "A blessing upon thy heart," said the stranger. "Fellow, thy
shooting is good; and if thy heart be as good as thy hand, Robin
Hood could do no better. Now tell me thy name, brave archer."
  "Nay, by my faith," quoth bold Robin, "that will I not tell till
thou hast told me thine."
  "I dwell," said he, "upon the moorlands of Yorkshire, and when I
am called by my right name, men call me Sir Guy of Gisbourne."
  "My dwelling," slowly said Robin, "is in this very wood, and men
know me as Robin Hood."
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 65}
  Then, with his hand upon the hilt of his sword, Sir Guy roared
out: "Thou art he whom I have long sought."
  "Well," quoth Robin, "I am ready, and care naught for thee.
Prepare thyself, for with my good broadsword will I cut short thy evil
day."
  Robin drew his sword, and Sir Guy his, at the same time
unsheathing his long, pointed Irish dagger, which he held in his
left hand. Facing each other with keen eyes, they watched their
chance. Both knew the combat was to be long and fierce; both were
equally determined to win. Each found the other a worthy foe, for in
skill and hardihood they were well matched. No one was by to see
fair play, save the little birds, and they were soon scared away by
the noise of the clashing swords and the deep, angry oaths of the fell
Sir Guy; as he fiercely lunged, parried, and feinted. Robin was well
aware of the peril in which he stood. Sir Guy was fighting for a great
prize. The victor would live, the vanquished would surely die. It
was a grim battle to the death.
  Two hours passed. Weary, yet still fighting, the face of Sir Guy
changed from a sickly yellow to a livid blue; then, as the fight
went on, his blood grew hotter and flowed to his face, darkening the
color to a deep purple. His long black locks were clotted and damp
with sweat, and from time to time, at each furious lunge, he swore
dreadful oaths because he could not budge his pale-faced, dogged
foeman. Never before in all his life did Robin fight so desperately;
never before was he so near death- and he knew it. Early in the
fight a faintness fell upon him; but he grimly set his teeth, and
new strength came. His strokes, though they dealt no wounds, began
to tell upon Sir Guy, robed as he was in a hot skin. For all his
wickedness, Sir Guy was a bold warrior, as many had found to their
cost, and he was too proud to ask for a moment's time to rest. Robin
watched him every second, fighting carefully for fear of some false,
dishonorable stroke, for he knew that he had to do with a man who
would not scruple to kill him by foul means.
  All of a sudden Robin slipped on a root, falling on one knee. Sir
Guy sprang forward nimbly and struck him in the left side- a base
and cowardly deed, for a true knight would have lowered his blade till
his foe got upon his feet.
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 70}
  "By our dear Lady," cried Robin, "'tis not a good man's destiny to
die before his day. Take that, thou villainous cheat!" So saying, he
leaped up and straightway, with a sudden stroke, drove his blade right
through Sir Guy's body. The knight fell backward, his sword dropped
from his uplifted arm, and he slowly sank lifeless to the sward.
  "There is now an end to one who hath been a traitor all his life,"
quoth Robin, as he leaned panting upon his sword. "Lie there, Sir Guy!
If thou hadst fought as befitted a knight, mayhap thou wouldst now
be alive, and I lying there in thy stead. But now thy knavishness hath
undone thee, and truly the world is well rid of thee."
  Robin's wound was but a scratch, for he had partly turned the
blow. When he had bound it up and rested a little, he doffed his
coat of Lincoln green, and clad himself from top to toe in the
horse-hide, saying, "Now I will see how my men have fared and what
hath befallen Little John." Anon he put Sir Guy's horn to his lips and
blew so loud a blast that the Sheriff heard it as he stood upon a
little hill waiting for the welcome sound.
  "Hearken," quoth the Sheriff, "for I hear good tidings. Yonder I
hear Sir Guy blowing his horn, as he said he would do when he had
slain Robin Hood. Ay, by the mass, yonder comes the good knight,
clad in his horse-hide coat. Come hither, come hither to me, thou good
Sir Guy. Ask whatever thou wilt of me!"
  "Oh, I will have none of thy gold," said Robin, "nor do I crave
any reward save only this: now that I have slain the master, let me go
and strike down the knavish servant at yonder tree. None other fee
will I have."
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 75}
  "Thou art a madman," said the Sheriff, "and art truly unworthy of
a knight's fee." But he pressed him no further, thinking so large a
sum were as well in his own pocket. So he granted Robin's request,
though in his heart he longed to carry Little John back to
Nottingham alive, as his own prisoner.
  When Little John heard his master's voice he knew his freedom was
close at hand through some good hap, and now he saw Robin coming as
fast as he could hie to cut his bonds. The Sheriff and his men
followed close upon Robin's heels to witness the end of Little John.
  "Stand aback, stand aback," shouted Robin. "Why do ye draw so
near? It is not the custom in my country for more than one to hear a
man's last confession. Put some space between us, while I do this
deed."
  So the men backed away; and Robin, pulling forth the Irish knife,
quickly loosed the bonds that held Little John's hands and feet. Then,
giving him Sir Guy's bow and arrows, he bade him look to himself. Both
turned about at the same instant with bows ready bent; and when the
Sheriff saw that his prisoner was free, he knew that Robin Hood had
again foiled his plans. The shock was so great that he had no heart to
stand and brave it out, but turned aside and made him ready in all
haste to ride toward his home in Nottingham town. He fled full fast,
and all his company did likewise, for they knew the deadly aim of
those two archers who had so just a cause for anger against them.
But before the Sheriff could ride out of sight Little John shot an
arrow which wounded him in the shoulder. Thus he rode into
Nottingham town with the broad arrow sticking from his back.
  Then it was that Little John turned to Robin, saying: "My dear, good
master, I do freely ask thy pardon, and shouldst thou grant it me I
make a vow nevermore to cross thy will or leave thee again in the
lurch."
                                                        {XVII ^paragraph 80}
  "Nay, nay, my trusty John, my best of true hearts, 'tis I should ask
pardon of thee, for I was out of temper and hasty of speech, so that I
spake unkindly."
  Thereupon they embraced and kissed each other full fondly on
either cheek and wept. Then through the forest these two firm
friends of over a quarter of a century strode together, in quiet
happiness, back home to their trysting-place, where they found most of
their comrades safe and happy. So the night was spent in feasting
and tales of deeds nobly done on that famous day when Sir Guy of
Gisbourne was slain.

{XVIII
                               XVIII
                    ROBIN RESCUES WILL STUTELY
-
  ON the following morning the outlaws began to be anxious because one
of their comrades had not yet joined them. This was Will Stutely- a
stout yeoman, and a cousin of Robin's, whom he loved well. Those who
saw him last, as they fought side by side against the Sheriff's men,
said that he was running with all speed, followed by a dozen of his
enemies. But they thought that Will would easily escape, because of
his well-known fleetness of foot and his thorough knowledge of the
forest paths. Quoth Robin:
  "My dear cousin I must not lose. Therefore without more ado we
will go to search for him."
  At that very moment they saw a town spy come running up with great
speed.
  "Tidings, brave Robin Hood," cried he, "ill tidings do I bring of
Will Stutely."
                                                        {XVIII ^paragraph 5}
  "What are thy tidings, trusty spy?" said Robin Hood. "Speak, I
beseech thee."
  "Thy cousin Will was surprised by three of the Sheriff's men, and
now he lies in the dungeon of Nottingham Castle, whence he will be
taken belike to-morrow, to be hanged from a cart gibbet in the
public square, outside the walls. But before they could place him in
the dungeon he did slay two of those that set upon him, which made the
Sheriff so angry that he fain would hurry him to the gallows."
  When Robin heard this dismal news he was sorely grieved, and he
swore a great oath that Will Stutely should be rescued, though many
a gallant yeoman should die for his sake.
  Straightway they made ready to go and storm the castle in
Nottingham. When the whole band stood all in a row, dressed in Lincoln
green, with stout yew bows at their backs and broadswords hanging at
their sides, they made a gallant show. As for Robin, he was clad
from top to toe in scarlet. No braver sight could be seen in all the
world on this bright, early morning, as they marched along the
well-known paths, firmly resolved to bring Will Stutely back home,
or die in the attempt. At the skirts of the forest the people saw them
striding along fully armed, with set faces, and they knew there
would be lively doings that day in Nottingham town. Many a cheer
went up from yeoman throats, for all knew of Will Stutely's capture.
Such news sped like wildfire o'er the town.
  When the band drew near the castle, Robin Hood bade them stand. "I
hold it good," said he, "that we stay here in ambush, and send forth
one to find out at what time the hanging is to be. Do thou, good Friar
Tuck, go forth to yonder palmer that stands beside the castle wall.
Some news he may tell to thee."
                                                       {XVIII ^paragraph 10}
  With that, stepped forth bold Friar Tuck, and thus spake to the
old man:
  "I pray thee, aged palmer, tell me, if thou dost know, when Will
Stutely must die- he that is of bold Robin Hood's men and now lies
in the dungeon."
  "Alack the day!" said the palmer, "Will Stutely must be hanged
this day upon the gallows. O that his noble master did know! He
would surely send some of his bold outlaws to succor the young man,
and take him away from so vile a death."
  "Ay, that is true," quoth Friar Tuck, "most truly would they soon
set him free if they were near this place. But fare thee well, thou
good old man, farewell and many thanks for thy news. If Will Stutely
is hanged this day, be sure his death will be bitterly revenged; for I
must tell thee that Robin Hood is aware of the Sheriff's order."
  The Friar was no sooner gone away from the palmer than the great
castle gates were opened wide, and there Will Stutely stood, bound
in a cart drawn by a black horse, guarded on every side. The rope
dangled above his head, and the sturdy hangman sat beside the captive.
As the cart moved outside the castle gate Will looked about to see
if no help were nigh. Then he spake boldly to the Sheriff:
                                                       {XVIII ^paragraph 15}
  "Now I see that I needs must die, yet grant me one boon, for my
noble master never had a man that was hanged upon a tree. Give me a
sword in my hand, I pray, and unbind my thongs, that I may die bravely
fighting either with thee or thy men. I will fight till I lie dead
on the ground, or, if ye are such cowards that ye dare not meet me
in fair fight, let me kill myself."
  But the Sheriff was deaf to his pleadings, for he had sworn the
outlaw should be hanged, and not killed as a brave man.
  "Do thou, Sheriff, but unbind my hands, I implore," again cried
Will. "I ask not now to fight, but only to slay myself, that I may not
disgrace my comrades."
  "Oh, no, not so," the Sheriff said. "Thou shalt surely die on the
gallows like a dog hung up by the neck, and so shall thy master,
too, if ever he comes into my power."
  Then cried Will scornfully: "Thou dastardly villain! Thou
faint-hearted peasant slave! If ever my master should cross thy path
after this foul deed he will serve thee as thou servest me. Mark that,
Sheriff, thou shalt yet hang from a tree." With yet bolder words he
went on: "My noble master scorneth such a vile thing as thou and all
thy cowardly crew, who are too faint-hearted to subdue a man so brave.
Do your worst; I defy such wretches, and will show you how a brave man
can meet death, however it come."
                                                       {XVIII ^paragraph 20}
  To all this the Sheriff made no answer. To say sooth, he was
thinking deeply if this bold young man's word might perchance come
true.
  Then all was quiet as they drove along to the gallows, and Will
closed his eyes to murmur to himself a silent prayer. When he again
looked about him he saw the long form of Little John leap forward
out of some bushes and quickly run up to him, crying:
  "I pray thee, Will, before thou diest, bid us farewell and take
leave of all thy good friends." Then, turning to the soldiers on
guard, quoth John: "I must needs borrow this young man for a little.
How say you, good Sheriff?"
  "Now, as I live," the Sheriff bawled out, in great anger, "that
long-legged varlet must be some sturdy rebel to act thus boldly to
my face in defiance of the law. Seize him, guards, and see that ye
hold him fast."
  But Little John leaped nimbly into the cart and hastily cut Will
Stutely's bonds. Then in a trice he snatched a sword from one of the
Sheriff's men, saying, "Here, Will, take thou this good blade. Use
it as well as thou mayst. Aid will come to thee straightway." Both
turned back to back, bidding a bold defiance to all, and shouted
loudly, "Robin Hood and his merry men have come to the rescue."
                                                       {XVIII ^paragraph 25}
  Straightway Robin and all his brave archers appeared, with shafts
ready nocked to let fly at the word of command. Robin stood with his
long arrow pointed straight at the breast of the Sheriff, who saw with
dismay that he was once more befooled and that his life was not
worth a straw. With trembling voice he cried to his men:
  "Make haste, let us begone, for our lives are in danger." Then he
put spurs to his horse, which ran with might and main back to town.
When they saw their master flee, his doughty men soon followed in
his path.
  "Oh, stay, oh, stay awhile!" cried Will Stutely. "Run not so fast
away, but take leave of us ere you go. Here is Robin Hood now, that
you were so fain to hang." Then, turning to Robin and his men, he
said: "Ah, my dear comrades, I little thought as I stood in that
cart to have seen the face of my dear master and Little John again,
because I knew not how to send tidings of my ill luck."
  Thus it was that Will Stutely was set free without the shedding of a
single drop of blood or the shooting of a single arrow.
  Their mission being fulfilled, they all turned to march quietly back
to the forest, having no will for revenge or pillage. As for Will,
he was little the worse for his adventure, and the band were well
satisfied to get him back so easily and without scathe. Full
joyously they feasted, that night, under the great oak, while the
Sheriff was filled with bitter shame when he found himself seated at
his table with the many guests he had bidden to witness the hanging of
the outlaw.

{XIX
                                XIX
                 ROBIN AND SIR RICHARD O' THE LEA
-
  TO hearty bodies and active minds feasting and merriment are but
passing pleasures. A few days after Will Stutely was rescued Robin's
merry men found the time hanging heavily upon their hands. The
larder was well filled, and they pined for something to do. As for
Robin, his last fierce combat with Sir Guy had given him his fill of
fighting; and, moreover, he knew that to follow up his victory over
the Sheriff past a certain point would only bring disaster. If the
Sheriff let him be, he would do the same by the Sheriff. He had no
wish to be driven from a place made comfortable after so many years of
labor, and he was well aware that a trained band of brave soldiers
under a capable leader could bring ruin to his forest kingdom. So he
wisely let well alone and made up his mind to enjoy the good things he
had.
  One fine May day as he stood leaning against a tree, Little John,
Will Scarlet, and Friar Tuck came and stood beside him. It was at
the noon-hour, and Little John said to him:
  "Master, let us now go to dine."
  Then spake good Robin. "To eat I have no will, till I have some
stranger-guest to dine with me. Perchance if thou goest to the
highway, thou mayst bring in some fat bishop, abbot, or knight
dwelling hereabouts who would be willing to pay for his feast."
                                                          {XIX ^paragraph 5}
  Quoth Little John: "Master, before we go to search for a guest, tell
unto us thy desire. Whom shall we take? Whom shall we leave, and where
shall we abide? Whom shall we beat and bind, and whom let go without
hurt?"
  "We have no foes," quoth Robin, "that do us hurt. Look to it ye do
no harm to any husbandman that tilleth with his plow, for he works
to our good and the weal of merry England. Likewise, harm not good
yeomen or craftsmen, for they, too, must work in peace for the general
good. Marry, an you meet by the way any knight or squire that would be
good fellows, urge them to be with me and share our cheer. But those
proud and lofty bishops and archbishops that by craft and guile extort
their ill-gotten gains from the thrifty poor, beat them and bind
them and bring them hither, for they are ever ready to eat and take
their fill of good things. And above all, bear in mind the High
Sheriff of Nottingham, who has tasted our good cheer so oft. Let him
know that he is still welcome."
  "We shall bear in mind thy commands, good master," said Little John,
"and the lesson take to heart."
  "It is a fair day," quoth Robin. "God send us a guest, that we may
together enjoy a merry feast! Take thy good bow in hand. Let Will
Scarlet and our holy friar wend with thee as comrades. Then walk up
Ermine Street, there to wait for some willing guest that by chance may
pass that way. Be he earl or baron, abbot or knight, bring him to
lodge with me."
  So away strode the three companions through the forest glade, and in
due time they got upon the broad highway of Ermine Street, one of
the five great roads of England. They looked eastward and westward,
but nobody of the sort they awaited chanced to pass by. Yet after a
little while, on looking up a small side lane, they beheld a knight
riding slowly toward them. Stepping forth to meet him, they saw that
he seemed sad and dreary, without any pride in himself. One foot was
in a stirrup, the other hung outside. His hood had fallen awry, and
his clothes were simple and poor. Indeed, a more doleful-seeming
knight they had never looked upon. Stepping forward, Little John
bent his knee, saying:
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 10}
  "Welcome to thee, gentle knight. Welcome be thou to our greenwood.
My master hath bidden thee to a merry feast, courteous sir. We three
are sent to bring thee to it."
  "Who is your master?" said the knight.
  Quoth John, "He is bold Robin Hood."
  "He is a good yeoman," replied the knight. "And I hear naught but
good of him. Therefore I do grant your request, and with you, my
brethren, will wend, though my purpose was to have dined this day at
Blythe or Doncaster." The gentle knight then rode along with the
outlaws; and, as they wended their way, ever and anon tears ran down
his cheeks. Much they marveled what it could be that made the knight
so unhappy. Soon they reached the great oak, where Robin stood ready
to receive them. Raising his cap, he bent his knee, saying:
"Welcome, Sir Knight, thou art to me. I have been fasting, gentle sir,
for three hours till thou shouldst come to us."
  Then, with words fair and free, the gentle knight made answer:
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 15}
  "God save thee, Robin Hood, and all thy brave companions."
  "Grammercy, Sir Knight. Let us together go to wash, for the feast is
even now spread."
  The sad knight was placed betwixt Robin and John, and he marveled at
the good things laid before him. Bread and wine there were in
plenty- the choicest cuts of venison, swans, pheasants, and capons-
indeed, no game or bird good for eating was lacking at the board. "Eat
heartily, sir knight," quoth Robin, "for our store is full."
  "Grammercy, sir," said the knight. "Such a dinner I have not seen
these many weeks, and should I come again to these parts, I hope to
make a feast as fine for thee."
  "In truth," said Robin, "I was never so greedy as to crave a
return for my entertainment. I know it is not the custom for a
yeoman to provide for a knight, but whether thou payest or not
before thou dost go hence, I care not."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 20}
  "I have not now the means to pay thee, good Robin, for I have naught
in my purse- to my very shame be it said. Could I but do so, I would
gladly pay for thy hearty fare, but of a truth there is naught in my
purse save a scurvy ten shillings- an unworthy sum to offer thee."
  "If that be the truth, an thou hast no more," said Robin, "I will
not take a penny of it. Go forth now, Little John, and tell me the
truth. If there be no more than ten shillings in the knight's purse,
not one penny will I touch."
  Then Little John went and took the purse that hung from the saddle
of the knight's horse, and, laying his mantle on the ground, shook out
the coins upon it. Letting the money lie there, he went back to his
master, saying:
  "The knight hath spoken the truth. There were but ten shillings in
the purse."
  "Fill up a cup of the best wine," quoth Robin, "and the knight shall
drink to better times! No marvel his raiment is so poor, since his
purse is so thin." For in sooth he was filled with pity to see a
knight without means to support his high station. "Tell me one
word," he said to the knight. "I trow thou wert made a knight
perforce, without money at hand to uphold it, or, peradventure, thou
hast lost thy goods and lands by sorry husbandry, living at strife
with thy neighbors."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 25}
  "By our Good Lady," said the knight, "none of these things is
true, for my ancestors have been knights more than a hundred years,
with lands and castles of their own, bringing in good revenue. But
sometimes, Robin, it may befall a man to have trouble, and even
disgrace; yet God, in His good time, doth amend his state. I am
known as Sir Richard o' the Lea, and, as my neighbors will tell
thee, till two or three years agone I had four hundred pounds of
good money to spend as I would. But now I have, I fear, neither
lands nor goods. All is lost to me save my wife and children. To
this sad state have I been brought, not by mine own doings, but in
such a way that I could not help it."
  "In what manner hast thou lost thy riches and lands?" asked Robin.
  With tears in his eyes, the knight replied: "For my great folly-
so men say- and for the great love I bear to my dear son, that
should have been my heir. When he was twenty years old he was ever
eager to joust in the tournaments, for he was brave and bold; and in a
quarrel he chanced to slay a knight of Lancashire. Thus, to save him
in his rights, I was fain to sell all my goods and chattels, and
pledge my lands until a certain day to the rich Prior of Saint
Mary's Abbey."
  "What is the amount to which thou art bound?" said Robin. "Come,
tell me the exact sum."
  "The sum is a large one- four hundred pounds, to a shilling."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 30}
  "And now, having leased thy lands," said Robin, "what shall befall
thee? What canst thou do now?"
  "All I can do," replied Sir Richard, "is to place my children and
dear wife in the care of some good abbess and go to the wars over
the salt sea, perchance to mend my sad state. So now, fare thee
well, good friend, and have good day." Bitter tears trickled down from
his eyes, and he could speak no more for a space. "One parting word,
my merry and kind friends," he said, at last: "perchance a time may
come when I shall have money to pay."
  "Nay, tarry awhile," quoth Robin. "Where be thy friends? Surely a
worthy knight in distress can borrow or get help for a brother's
love."
  "Brave outlaw, knights are not all noble. Now they scarce seem to
know me, though while I was rich at home they would boast loudly
enough of their great love to me. They shun me, taking no more heed of
my great dole than if I were a stranger."
  For very pity, then, wept all the outlaws. Robin thought of his
own early life- how his uncle had cheated him- and he asked himself,
Why should I not help this very worthy knight? "Be of good cheer,
brave knight," he said, "and fill up another cup of the good wine.
Tell me, hast thou no friend who will go surety should I lend thee the
sum of which thou standest in such sore need?"
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 35}
  "Nay, by Him that made me and shaped the sun and moon! He is the
only friend to whom I can look for help- He and our Lady Dear, who
hath never failed me before."
  "By my faith," said Robin, "if I searched all England through, there
is no better sponsor, and She shall stand surety for thee. Go forth
now, Little John, to my treasury and count out four hundred pounds,
and look to it thou dost count a-right, no more nor less. Then bring
it to us here."
  Straightway went Little John, blithe of heart, to the treasury;
and Will Scarlet followed on, for both were eager to see the sad
knight made happy again. So they counted out the money, but Little
John was over-generous, adding a little extra.
  Then said Will, "Is it counted a-right?"
  "What ails thee, Will?" said John. "Are we not giving aid to help
a good and true knight who hath fallen upon sad times? He will repay
to our great credit. We have enough and to spare." Even so, he was not
yet contented, for when he delivered the gold, he said: "Master, ye
must give the knight a livery to lap up his body, for his raiment is
very thin and worn. Ye have scarlet and green stuffs, and many rich
garments. There is no merchant in merry England, I dare say, that hath
so much."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 40}
  "Give him, then," quoth Robin, "three yards of every color, and
see that he getteth full measure."
  John took good care of that, for he used no other measure than his
long-bow, and with every yard he put in an extra piece for good luck.
  "Thou wouldst ruin thy master if he were a draper," said Will, who
stood by and laughed. "By my troth, John, we might as well give the
knight good measure. It hath cost us little to get."
  When the cloth had been brought and set before Robin and Sir
Richard, Little John said:
  "Thou must give the knight a horse to carry home all these goods.
Now that we have begun to help him, let us do it well."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 45}
  "Ay, marry, that we will. So bring the gray courser and put on a new
saddle. I can see, too, that the knight needeth a pair of boots. But
in faith, dear John, since thou hast been so generous with our things,
what wilt thou thyself give the good knight?"
  "I shall give him, sir," quoth John, "a pair of gilt spurs, with a
prayer that God may bring him soon out of his unhappy state."
  Then Sir Richard wore a cheerful smile, seeing how these noble
outlaws did good deeds to him, and he said to Robin:
  "My loving and kind sir, when shall I return to pay this great
debt I owe thee?"
  "Let it be this day twelvemonth, an it please thee, Sir Knight,
under this great oak-tree."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 50}
  So the knight made ready to depart, a great load having fallen
from him since he entered the outlaws' glade. But Robin bade him
tarry, saying:
  "It would be a great shame for a brave knight to ride alone, without
either squire, yeoman, or page by his side. In case of need to guard
the money, I shall lend thee Little John to serve as yeoman for a
while."
  At last the knight started on his way, with Little John by his side,
and as he looked back to the great oak he waved his hand and blessed
Robin Hood for his great kindness. Never before had he, in any
company, met with such brotherly love, and all had been done in such a
way as not to hurt his pride. After he had ridden some distance the
now happy knight spake to John, saying:
  "To-morrow I must perforce go to the Prior of Saint Mary's Abbey
in York town, to pay this four hundred pounds. If I be not there by
to-morrow even, all my lands are lost to me forever. The Prior, I
trow, would fain seize this land from me, for I know him to be a hard,
grasping churchman."
  "Have no fear, Sir Knight," quoth Little John. "I warrant we shall
be there in good time. Yet we will hasten our pace and push along
the Trent valley due north. We can pass by Doncaster before nightfall,
then with a good rest and early start we shall be in York by
afternoon."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 55}
  On the afternoon of the next day, the Prior of Saint Mary's Abbey
was seated at his ease near a table upon which were spread luscious
fruits, cakes, and wines. With him was a man of the law, whom he had
summoned to draw up legal papers in case the knight failed to
appear, also the Sheriff to represent the county where the land in
question lay. Quoth the Prior to his abbot, as he sipped his wine:
  "This day, twelvemonth agone, there came a knight to borrow four
hundred pounds upon all his free lands. If he come not soon, he
shall forfeit all, and the lands shall fall to Holy Church."
  "It is full early," said the abbot. "The day is not yet far gone. Be
patient with him a little while. I had as lief pay a hundred pounds to
have you tarry till even. The knight perchance hath been far beyond
the sea, and when in England once more, things will go better with
him. He may have suffered both hunger and cold. Great pity 'twere to
take his land, at least before his time is ended. God-a-mercy, have
you no conscience, Prior Vincent, to do the knight such great harm?"
  The Prior's face turned deep red with anger as he replied, "Thou
hast ever some reason to urge against the gaining of more riches for
the abbey, and in the guise of charity dost delight to cross me."
  The man of law bade them have patience, at least till the full
time was past; for, said he, "The knight may be dead or hanged, or
drowned; then his lands and rents will justly fall to you."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 60}
  While they were talking and waiting they heard a sound of horses'
hoofs in the courtyard, and through the half-open door they saw the
knight. "'Tis he," said the Prior, with a sad face, "but mayhap he
hath not the money." Then the knight dismounted, and, still wearing
his poor mantle, to make the Prior think he had no money, drew nigh to
the gate.
  "Welcome, Sir Knight," said the porter at the door. "My Lord
Prior, with his men, are waiting to greet thee." Then the porter swore
a great oath that never had he seen so fine a horse. "I will
straightway lead him to the stable," quoth he, "and give him some
fodder."
  "Nay, not so," quoth the knight. "Let the horse stand where he
is." So saying, he strode into the presence of the Prior and his
friends. Saluting them, he knelt down, saying, "Right glad am I, Sir
Prior, to come as I promised on this day."
  "Well," said the Prior, in a surly tone, "hast thou brought my pay?"
  Then the knight bethought him to make a test, to see whether the
Prior had a hard or a merciful heart; so he said:
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 65}
  "Not a penny."
  "Thou art a shrewd debtor," quoth the Prior. "Drink to me, Sir
Sheriff, for the land is now mine." Then, addressing the knight, he
said, "Wherefore dost thou come here, if indeed thou hast no money?"
  "I come thus, on my knees, to pray thee that thou wilt give me a
little time of grace- a few months- for I have found good friends that
will then help me in my sore need."
  "The time is past," quoth the man of law, "and thy land is now
forfeit to the Prior."
  "Nay, say not so. Be my friend and defend me, for the Prior is
rich and I am poor."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 70}
  But the lawyer had been promised a good fat fee, so he answered,
"I hold by the Prior in his rights."
  Then Sir Richard turned to the Sheriff, saying, "Take pity, Sir
Sheriff, and use thy good offices in my behalf."
  "Nay, in sooth," was the curt reply, "that I will not."
  Again the knight besought the Prior to be merciful. "For I will be
thy true servant till the four hundred pounds are fully paid."
  "Nay, by the mass," sternly replied the Prior, "of this land thou
wilt get none."
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 75}
  Then, rising from his knees and standing proudly up before them, the
knight cried angrily: "By Saint Dunstan, if I do not get what is mine,
full dear ye shall buy it."
  Straightway the Prior began to abuse him and spake evil words to
him, his anger swelling ever the more as he talked. "Out upon thee,
thou false, beggarly knight," he said at last; "Speed thy way out of
my hall."
  But Sir Richard made a threatening step forward, and in a stern
voice cried: "Thou liest, Prior Vincent, false knight I never was.
My fame and good name are known among true hearts. In jousts and
tournaments have I always been at the front, and all that know me
can bear witness to my bravery and truth. No true churchman, prior
or bishop, would be so discourteous as to let a noble knight kneel
so long."
  Then the sharp man of law perceived that, as the time was not yet
past, it might be that the knight could pay. So he turned to the
Prior, saying:
  "What wilt thou give if the knight will release his land, for you
may have some trouble to keep it in peace?"
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 80}
  "A hundred pounds will I give," said the Prior.
  "Nay, give him two hundred," said the lawyer.
  "Thou wicked Prior," quoth Sir Richard, "I vow thou shalt not be
my heir, though thou givest a thousand more." Then upon the table he
upturned his bag of gold. "There are thy four hundred pounds, thou
wretched usurer. Hadst thou shown me any courtesy or spoken one word
of kindness, some interest would have been thy reward."
  When the Prior saw the gold he stood speechless with amazement,
and he pushed his wine-cup away from him. Then he asked the man of law
to give him back his fee, now that no deed was to be made.
  "Nay, not a penny do I give back," cried the lawyer.
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 85}
  The Prior's face turned red with shame and anger; he lay back in his
wide arm-chair, closed his eyes, and would not speak a word.
  "Sir Prior," quoth the knight, "and thou man of law, now that I have
paid my debt the land is mine for aught ye can gainsay."
  Then he strode to the door, all his troubles over, with a bright and
cheerful face. At a near-by inn he donned his best clothing, and,
mounting his horse, rode away, well satisfied that he had with dignity
and noble demeanor shamed the wily Prior as a true knight should do.
The joy he felt in being rid of his great burden and his delight in
looking forward to the meeting with wife and family were unbounded.
The woodland notes of song-birds, the pretty flowers and green leaves,
all seemed so much more beautiful when he thought of his unhappy state
before he met Robin Hood, who seemed to him the kindest and best of
men. Now he was riding home as a noble knight should, with lofty mien,
rich raiment, a fine horse and trappings, and a servant by his side.
"Truly, my kind-hearted John," said he, "how sweet is life after
bitter trials! The thanks I owe thy master and thee, I cannot now
put into words."
  Right on they rode until they came to Sir Richard's Castle of
Briarlea. As he drew nigh to the gate his noble lady met him, saying:
  "Welcome, my dear husband. Are our land and castle lost to us, or
hath aught been saved?"
                                                         {XIX ^paragraph 90}
  "Be merry, good lady," quoth the knight, "and pray for Robin Hood,
that his soul may be ever in bliss. He it was that helped me in my
hour of need, and were it not for his great kindness, we should now
surely be beggars without home or land. The greedy Prior hath been
paid, and all is now our very own." Then he told how, while on his way
to ask the Prior for more time, the good Robin Hood had invited him to
dine and had loaned him the money to be paid in a year.
  "Now," he finished, "we will dwell peacefully at home, and with
careful saving gather together the four hundred pounds ready to pay at
the appointed time."
  Little John stayed with the knight and did his duty well, though
he pined to be back again at the oak glade. Yet he patiently waited
till the twelve months passed by. Then, true to his knightly pledge,
Sir Richard rode back once again to Sherwood Forest and there paid
back to Robin all he owed. Amid feasts and merrymaking, Little John
was welcomed home, and the knight's freedom from debt was cheered
and celebrated in joyous songs.

{XX
                                XX
                      ROBIN MEETS MAID MARIAN
-
  WHILE Little John was away at Sir Richard's castle, serving as his
squire, Robin Hood and all his merry men sorely missed him. The tall
outlaw was so jolly and kind of heart that every one of his companions
loved him full dear. For a time the oak glade seemed dull, and
Allan-a-Dale was more often asked to sing or play. Friar Tuck and Will
Scarlet did their best to make Robin be of good cheer, and right
glad were they when some adventure fell in their way.
  With the long years of woodland life, Robin Hood had changed but
little in face or form, though he had gained much in wisdom. He was
more resourceful than of yore, and through constant practice with
long-bow, sword, and quarter-staff, both in play and in stern battles,
he was perfect master of all his men. No longer young, he was now just
past the prime of life, and an extremely handsome man. His curly locks
and beard of a red-brown color set off his dark, ruddy complexion. His
clothes were either of deep Lincoln green or deep scarlet. Always as
neat as a pin, his weapons ever in perfect order, he was looked upon
as a hero by women and children when seen on the great highway or at
church. His manner to all, both high and low, was kind, without the
slightest trace of pride or vainglory, and his charity was
unbounded. If he met young lads venturing in the forest after birds'
nests, or hunting small game, he would take the greatest pains to
bring down some rare animal or bird for them with his unerring
shaft. If he met little lassies a-blackberrying, he had ever some
coins in his pouch to give them; and to the gaffers and old wives
likewise he gave gifts, if need were, with kindly words to boot. Small
wonder it was that the folks roundabout for miles knew him only to
love and venerate him.
  Now I must tell you that when Robin was a young boy living on his
father's land, nigh unto Needwood Forest, in North Staffordshire, he
had for a playmate a bonny maid of high degree called Maid Marian,
that for rare beauty, face, and favor, no maid could excel in all
the country round. To her, Robin was known as the Earl of
Huntingdon, and in their childish play they pledged themselves to
one another as young lovers.
  But fortune severed them when Robin left his home on that fateful
fifteenth birthday. Since then they had never set eyes on each
other, though oft in their thoughts they loved to remember the
youthful, happy days spent together. For a long time Marian was sad,
and oft she sighed for her absent friend. As time went on her
parents died, and she was left alone with friends, who, for a while,
were kind to her because she had lands of her own. But things
changed for the worse, and her lands were taken from her. Troubled
in mind, she bethought her of her childhood friend, who, she heard,
had become the famous outlaw, Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest. At last
she made up her mind to go and seek him out, throw herself at his
feet, and ask him to aid her for the sake of their old friendship.
Well aware of the danger of traveling alone dressed as a woman, she
decided to array herself like a youthful page and range through
Sherwood Forest till she found her dear Robin Hood.
                                                           {XX ^paragraph 5}
  So, clad in youth's attire, with quiver and bow, sword and
buckler, she started on her way, and soon reached the forest. On
that very same day Robin made up his mind to visit Nottingham town. To
shield him from the eyes of the Sheriff and his men, he put on a
patched gray suit and a hat of which he could draw the vizor down over
his eyes to shade his face. He had gone some distance, and was just
skirting round the wood by a well-worn but narrow pathway, when he
spied a youthful form coming toward him. Making his voice deep and
gruff, for fear the young stranger might be one of the Sheriff's
spies, he cried out:
  "What is thy business, young stranger, and where dost thou go in
this wood?"
  Thinking Robin was some rough thief, the youthful stranger boldly
replied: "What is that to thee? I go where I list. Mind thine own
affairs and leave me to mine."
  "That will I not," quoth Robin. "Not one step shalt thou stir
without my leave." Then, drawing his sword, he stepped forward
threateningly.
  But the youth drew out a thin, bright, glistening blade, and fell to
with such quick blows that Robin had all he could do to guard himself.
                                                          {XX ^paragraph 10}
  "Thou wilt find," quoth the youth, "little though I be, that I can
master thee and make some more holes in thy ragged coat- perchance
in thy skin, if it be not too thick."
  Robin answered not a word, but fought carefully, parrying and
feinting, but striking no earnest blow, for he had no will to hurt the
lad. At last the stranger, whose sword was lighter and more easily
handled, gave a sudden thrust which cut a deep flesh wound across
Robin's cheek, so that the blood ran fast down his face.
  "Oh, hold thy hand, young sir," said Robin, in his natural voice.
"Hold thy hand, and thou shalt be one of my merry men to range the
forest with bold Robin Hood."
  Then Marian remembered the voice of her lover, and said: "Ay, Robin,
'tis thine own self. At last I have found thee."
  "In good faith, who art thou that dost remember me?"
                                                          {XX ^paragraph 15}
  "Why, 'tis I- Marian- the maiden friend of thy youth, come in search
of thee to aid me in my sore need."
  Then he knew that it was Marian's voice; and he drew her quickly
toward him, and kissed her on the lips, like a true and loyal lover.
  After a space they turned and bent their steps toward the oak glade,
but on the way Marian made great dole over the wound she had given
him.
  "In truth," quoth jolly Robin, "'tis naught. Right glad am I to have
it, for without this wound I should not have found thee."
  Anon she told him of her sorrows, and asked him if he could find a
place for her safe keeping. "For, Robin," said she, "I have no other
friend but thee."
                                                          {XX ^paragraph 20}
  "Right blithe am I that 'tis so," quoth Robin. "We will find room
for thee in Allan-a-Dale's bower, under care of his wife, till the
time when thou shalt set the day for Friar Tuck to marry us."
  Soon they came to the oak glade, where Robin with a blast of his
horn drew all his band together, and told them in few words how the
case stood, and what he meant to do. Amid the loud cheers that made
the woods ring and re-echo, Allan-a-Dale's wife went up to Marian
and kissed her. Then, putting her arms around her waist, she led her
to the bower. On that same even was such a bustling and excitement
as ne'er was seen before, for all set to work in right good earnest to
make a stately banquet in honor of the betrothed chief and his fair
Maid Marian.
  In a short space the board was set, groaning with good things. A
great flagon of the best wine was placed before each man, that every
one in turn might drink a merry toast to their beloved captain and his
beautiful bride soon to be. When they had feasted long and well, Robin
rose from the table and pledged Marian in a deep cup, after which
all his tall, comely yeomen did likewise.
  Thus bravely did these stout hearts wish Robin well, and each cup,
as it was emptied, they filled with speed again. But all good times
must have an end, and so at last their merrymaking came to a close.
Just as the nightingale began its sweet song they all went to rest,
happy over the latest yet sweetest addition to their band.
  'Twas not many days hence when Friar Tuck, after much thought and
many whisperings with the others, announced that the wedding would now
be solemnized. And so they were married, the lovely bride decked out
with many beautiful jewels that were gifts from each one of the
band. On this day, the great oak, as well as the whole glade, was
festooned and garlanded with sweet flowers- jessamine, eglantine,
honeysuckle, and wild roses, forget-me-nots from the brookside, pied
daisies and cowslips. The sward was a thick carpet of sweet-smelling
posies, and the merry birds, when they saw the glade turned into a
garden, came to the twigs and branches and sang a glorious melody
together, while the happy bride and the brave groom walked slowly,
hand in hand, to their new and beautiful bower, where they lived
together in great content for many a long day after.

{XXI
                                XXI
                     KING RICHARD VISITS ROBIN
-
  KING RICHARD, the mighty warrior, had now returned home to his
kingdom, after an absence of more than four years in the Holy Land,
fighting the Turks. A year of that time he was held a prisoner,
chained in a castle in the Austrian Tyrol. He was set free upon
payment of a large ransom, and finally reached England in the spring
of 1194, where he met his mother, Eleanor, who told him of his brother
John's rebellion. Richard at once pushed northward, and on the 28th of
March the Castle of Nottingham, which was held by men-at-arms for
Prince John, surrendered to the King.
  The Sheriff was not slow in making complaint of the forest
outlaws; and Richard, ever fond of adventure, was moved to find out
for himself how the matter stood. So, much to the Sheriff's
surprise, he said that he would see Sherwood Forest and meet the
famous outlaw face to face.
  "It is my will to go clad as monk," quoth he, "and thou shalt choose
me out five knights to attend me."
  "My liege," said the Sheriff, "all shall be done as thou sayest,
and, as ever, thou dost wisely; for a monk or prior doth never fail to
entice this sly rogue."
                                                          {XXI ^paragraph 5}
  To this King Richard answered never a word, but watched the
Sheriff grimly as he made a low obeisance and departed; for, to say
sooth, he loved not this wily man over well. But in what he had
heard of Robin Hood and his deeds he found something to his liking. He
loved not hunting the deer as his forefathers had loved it, for his
great joy lay in fighting either in mortal hand-to-hand combats or
in tournaments. So stark was he that no man might withstand him in
single fight. None the less, he was jealous of his rights over the
forests, and of the rights of his earls and barons, who might hunt
as they listed so long as they gave him money and men for his wars.
  Of the nine years that Richard was King of England he dwelt but nine
months in his own kingdom. For the rest he was in foreign lands,
either at war or as a prisoner. Like Robin Hood, he delighted to
seek adventure in disguise, going oft alone, and trusting to his own
courage and strength of arm.
  So the day after the King came to Nottingham it was arranged that he
should visit Sherwood, under the guidance of the captain of the
foresters, who promised to lead him to Robin Hood's glade. King
Richard was arrayed in abbot's attire, and his five knights went as
monks, but all had on chain mail beneath their cloaks. Following
some distance behind was the King's war-horse, fully caparisoned,
together with some sumpter-horses under the care of his squires. After
they had gone some distance into the deep forest it so befell that
they met Robin Hood standing right in their path. Robin stepped
forward and placed his hand upon the bridle of the King's horse,
calling out:
  "Sir Abbot, by your leave, I desire that ye abide with us awhile. We
be yeomen of this forest, who live by the King's deer, for we have
no other shift. But I trow thou hast many churches with rents that
yield thee gold a-plenty. Therefore, good Abbot, prithee give us
some of thy moneys for holy charity."
  Then said the King: "Truly, I have brought with me no more than
forty pounds, for I have been at Nottingham these last few days with
our King, where I have spent much of my money on the great earls and
barons there. Wherefore, good sir, having but forty pounds, no more
can I give, though I would it were a hundred pounds that I might
give unto thee."
                                                         {XXI ^paragraph 10}
  Robin took the forty pounds, and, dividing it into parts, gave
half to his men. Then he spake courteously to the abbot:
  "Sir Abbot, far be it from me to take all thou hast; therefore
take this other part for thine own use, and I trust we shall meet
again another day."
  "Grammercy," said the King. "In sooth, thou art a reasonable outlaw,
and our King Richard greeteth thee, and doth send his seal to bid thee
come to Nottingham, both to dine and to drink with him." Thereupon
he took from his pouch the great seal, to show Robin it was in truth a
royal command.
  Robin uncovered his head, and knelt down on his knee, saying: "I
love no man in all the world so well as I do our mighty King. Welcome,
then, is this seal to me. And, Sir Abbot, for thy good tidings
to-day thou shalt dine with me under my trysting-tree for the love I
bear to our King."
  Forthwith he led the abbot and his monks to the great oak, and,
taking his horn, blew three loud blasts, whereat sevenscore hardy
yeomen came running, and stood ready all in a row, each man bending
his knee before Robin.
                                                         {XXI ^paragraph 15}
  The King said to himself, "Now, by Saint Austin, this to my thinking
is a wonderful sight to behold; for this outlaw's men are more to
his bidding than my men are to mine."
  Robin then gave some orders, and straightway the yeomen hasted to
make ready a feast for the King and his men. With might and main
they worked, and anon before the King were set great haunches of
venison and good white bread, with red wine and rich brown ale to wash
it down.
  "Make good cheer, Abbot," cried Robin, "and be assured that for
thy tidings of the King thou art blessed in my sight. Now shalt thou
see the life we lead before thou wendest thy way back to Nottingham,
that thou mayst tell our brave King thereof when next thou shalt
meet with him."
  When they had feasted enough, all started up in haste to show the
abbot their skill with the long-bow. The King looked about him
warily when he saw the outlaws bending their bows, thinking they might
perchance prove traitors. But he was soon undeceived when he saw
them placing two wands, with garlands of roses atop, for targets at
a hundred paces away.
  "The distance," quoth he, "is far too long for good aim."
                                                         {XXI ^paragraph 20}
  Quoth Robin: "I trow that any single man who faileth to shoot
through yon fair garland shall forfeit his arrows- be they made ever
so fine- and, what is more, he shall get a good buffet on the head
from his master."
  Then each shot in turn, and those who missed Robin smote wondrous
sore; for he wished the King to hear how his brave men were the best
archers in merry England. In the first two rounds Robin split the wand
both times, and so did Gilbert, the cook, whom they called Gilbert
of the White Hands, because he was always mixing the flour to make
bread. Then Little John and Will Scarlet again split the wand. At
the last shot that Robin took he missed the mark full three fingers.
  Then up spake good Gilbert. "Master, thine arrows are forfeit. Stand
forth and take thy pay in one sound buffet."
  "If it be so," quoth Robin, "I will deliver my arrows. I pray
thee, Sir Abbot, to serve me well with a buffet of thy strong arm."
  "It is not the custom of my order," said the King, "to smite a
good yeoman, and in sooth I fear I shall do thee harm. By thy leave,
good Robin, I had rather another should do it."
                                                         {XXI ^paragraph 25}
  "I give thee leave," quoth Robin. "Smite boldly; I fear no harm from
thee."
  So the King, with a half-smile upon his face, began to roll up his
sleeve, while Robin planted his feet wide apart and waited with a
light heart, for he thought that no fat abbot would budge him. The
next moment he found himself sprawling on the grass while the
greenwood seemed to swim round him. Slowly he arose, rubbing his
sore head.
  "I make my vow," quoth he, "thou art a stalwart churchman; there
is pith in that tough arm of thine. No other hath e'er before
smitten me so hard, and I did think that none but King Richard himself
had such might of arm." Then he looked closer at the smiter, and he
saw that the disguised abbot was in very truth the King. Falling again
to his knee, he cried: "'Tis my liege lord, the King of England, now I
know it well. Mercy I ask, under our trysting-tree, of thy kingly
goodness and grace. I ask it for all my men and for me."
  "Yea, good outlaw," said the King, "thy prayer I do grant thee, on
condition that thou and all thy company do forthwith leave the
greenwood and come back to the court, there to dwell close to my
person."
  "I make my vow to God," quoth Robin, "that I will go to thy court
and join thy service, and take with me my sevenscore men, to be thy
loyal, true servants forevermore."
                                                         {XXI ^paragraph 30}
  But fate decreed it otherwise, for the King went back to
Nottingham to hold a great council for a judgment against his brother,
Prince John. A few weeks later he crossed from the Isle of Wight to
Harfleur in France, and never returned to his court and country.

{XXII
                               XXII
                   ROBIN WINS THE QUEEN'S PRIZE
-
  SOME years after his visit to Robin Hood, King Richard went to his
fathers, being wounded in the arm by an arrow shot from the bow of a
young Norman, Bertrand de Gurdrum. In those days of rude surgery the
barbed iron head of the shaft could not be drawn out without cruelly
mangling the flesh. And so the Warrior King died. His brother, the
wicked Prince John, ascended the throne and by his unwisdom lost the
crown of England, the fair lands of Normandy, and other provinces.
At last the barons forced him to sign the Magna Charta, after he had
brought the people to a state of abject slavery. Suddenly the tyrant
was called to his last account. With his army he tried to cross the
estuary of the Wash against a strong inflowing tide. There the
King's baggage-wagons and sumpter-horses, with his treasures, his
armor, and clothing, were all swallowed up by the waters. Among them
stood King John, helpless and despairing- even his crown was swept
away by the strong current. Three days later he died from the
exposure.
  Then a little boy of nine years old became King under the name of
Henry III., and at his coronation a fillet of gold was placed upon his
head in lieu of the crown that was lost by King John.
  The young King grew to manhood, and in the course of time married
Eleanor. The nuptial festivities were of extraordinary splendor. The
citizens of London especially came forth with all their pomp, and
among their merrymakings was a great shooting-match at which costly
prizes were offered to the best archers from all over England.
  Robin Hood was now past threescore and ten, though no one would take
him to be more than forty-five. Breathing outdoor air night and day,
living upon plain, hearty food, and practising himself in the use of
all weapons as of yore, it seemed that he would always be young. There
was scarce a tinge of gray in his hair or beard, and his teeth were
white, glistening like those of a boy.
                                                         {XXII ^paragraph 5}
  Little John, some years younger than Robin, was quite as hearty.
Will Scarlet and the rest changed little save that the years
softened and mellowed them. One or two had gone to their long rest
in peace, followed by the prayers and good wishes of loving hearts.
Among them had gone the good Friar Tuck, whose remains were lovingly
carried through the greenwood in a huge oaken coffin, slung from the
shoulders of a dozen stalwart men, to a grave beside Fountains
Abbey, according to his last wish. The little chapel he had caused
to be built for the especial use of the outlaws had received his
careful attention to the last. Nevertheless, feeling that his time
would soon come, not knowing when he might be called away, he had
trained an assistant- a tall, comely lad named Cecil, whose gentleness
and sweet nature filled in a measure the void left by the loss of
the worthy friar. And so young Friar Cecil now called with a little
bell the outlaws to vespers and matin-song.
  We must now go into Nottingham town, to the Blue Boar Inn, the
same place where Robin, many years ago, had befooled the Tinker and
stolen his warrant. The old inn was much as before. On the same
seat, at the same bench, was seated a great, tall fellow dressed in
green, his long-bow and quiver at his back, talking quietly to another
bold archer dressed in red. Each had a tankard of ale beside him,
and their looks were bent upon a handsome boy of sixteen, richly
dressed as a page. The youth had just dismounted from a beautiful
white steed, which he turned over to the hostler to be fed. Striding
up to a bench near the archers, he called for the landlord, bidding
him bring a bottle of Rhenish wine. "I pray you, brave archers," he
cried, "drink me a toast to our noble and beautiful Queen Eleanor, and
to my search for the bold Robin Hood."
  The tall archer said to his companion, "We can drink to the first
part of that, but what would he with our captain?" So they drank
with the youth, and the tall fellow said: "Tell me truly what is thine
errand with Robin Hood, my fair young stranger? Perchance we may guide
thee to him if thou meanest no harm."
  "Nay, in sooth it is not so," quoth the youth. "I tell thee truly, I
am Richard Patrington, the Queen's page; and she did call me to her
chamber, saying, 'Post thou to Nottingham as fast as thou canst
ride; search throughout the forest of Sherwood to inquire of one
good yeoman or another where Robin Hood doth abide.'"
  "Tell me, sweet page," said the archer, "what is the cause that
the good Queen seeketh Robin Hood?"
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 10}
  "Sir archer," said the page, "'tis a message from our Queen for
Robin Hood. She will have him go up to London, and will guard him from
all harm, but more I will not tell thee as at this time."
  "We will guide thee, young page, so mount thy white steed and follow
us on through the forest."
  Straightway they set out, an archer on either side of the white
horse. Striding swiftly along, they reached the glade, where the
band were seated or lying at ease upon the greensward.
  "What gay young spark is this," cried one, "that Little John and
Will Scarlet have brought unto us?" For the page was dressed in
bright-colored velvets and adorned with silk ribbons and jewels.
  "There standeth Robin Hood," quoth Little John to the page.
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 15}
  Thereat young Patrington stepped forward and fell on one knee,
saying: "Famous outlaw, our noble Queen Eleanor doth send thee
greetings by me. Having heard of thy fame as an archer, she would fain
see thee and witness thy wondrous skill with the bow. Be it known to
thee that our gracious King Henry of great renown will shortly hold
a shooting-match in Finsbury Field, in presence of all the Court.
All the best archers in merry England will strive for a grand prize,
and our Queen would fain see the gallant Robin Hood the victor in
the match. She bids me command thee to be present, and doth promise to
guard thee and thy men that ye may return to Sherwood without harm.
This gold ring is a sign of her good-will, and she biddeth thee post
to fair London without any fear."
  Then Robin answered: "Fair young page, I will do the commands of our
noble Queen right merrily. This ring she sends by thee shall never
part from me." So saying, he kissed the ring right loyally and
placed it upon his finger. "Before we go, my gallant page, thou must
rest and take food, the while we go to array ourselves in seemly
guise." So he called Little John, Will Scarlet, and Allan-a-Dale, to
go with him to the Court.
  Anon they came forth, ready to start. Robin was clad from head to
foot in scarlet, and his men in Lincoln green, with black caps and
long, white, feathery plumes. Each had a fine horse, and with young
Patrington they rode away to London town.
  Early on the morn of the third day they came in sight of the walls
and battlements of the city. Their young guide was of great aid in
picking the way through the maze of people gathered together for
this great occasion, and they soon arrived at the Court, where Queen
Eleanor received Robin and his companions with much kindness.
  Quoth the Queen: "Thou art welcome, bold Robin Hood, and so are
thy true companions. I know of thy skill, and fear not to wager that
thou wilt bear off the great prize. Go forth and do thy best."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 20}
  Then Robin kneeled, saying: "Ay, that will I, your gracious
Majesty."
  So on the next day there were gathered together the most famous
archers of merry England at the archery range- Tepus, the bow-bearer
to the King, a great favorite with the common people; also young
Clifton, the winner of many prizes; and Gilbert the Smith, with his
strong arm, who pulled a mighty long-bow, though in truth he was
more famed for shooting far than for skill in marksmanship.
  Finsbury Field was a gay sight with its throngs of people, for
twenty renowned archers were about to strive for great prizes- three
hundred tuns of Rhenish wine, three hundred tuns of beer, and leave to
shoot three hundred of the fatted hart in Dalton Forest.
  On each side of the archery range were rows and rows of seats, all
filling with a noisy, chattering crowd of high officials, barons,
and knights, with their ladies fair.
  The targets were all set forth and the distance measured. All was in
readiness, waiting the advent of the King and the Queen to take
their seats on the royal dais. Soon loud cheers proclaimed their
coming, and at last the trumpet sounded as the royal pair rode along
with waving plumes and jewels flashing in the sunlight. Then,
dismounting, they took their seats, amidst the clamorous cheers of the
people.
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 25}
  When all were silent again, a herald entered the ground and gave
three loud blasts from a silver trumpet, calling the archers before
the King, to make their reverences to him before the shooting began.
  Now the King was exceeding proud of the archers of his guard. He
looked them over with an approving eye, well assured that he knew
who would win. Oft before had these famous bowmen given him good cause
for his trust; and now in right kingly, courteous fashion he bade them
do their uttermost.
  Amid a breathless silence the shooting began in good earnest, and
soon the targets were pricked full of arrows. Upon the second trial
many archers dropped out. New targets were set up, while the crowd
waited impatiently to cheer and shout for their favorites.
  'Twas then the noble Queen Eleanor turned to the King and asked:
"Are these in truth the very best archers in merry England?"
  "In good sooth," quoth the King, "not only the best in England,
but in all the world besides. Who can show such skill as Gilbert,
who hath twice pricked the very center with his shaft- or the bold
young Clifton? Fain would I see any that could match them."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 30}
  "Yet I know," replied the Queen, "of two archers who could easily
better their best."
  "Bring them forth, my Queen, if they be nigh," quoth the King,
laughing. "With so fair a champion, they should at least do
something to cover thy fair face from shame at their sure defeat."
  "Of that," said Eleanor, "I have no fear, and will match two archers
against all that are here to-day- providing thou, my King, wilt
grant them freedom to come and go as they list."
  "In sooth," laughed the King, "my fair Queen shall not ask in
vain. Bring forth whatsoever archer thou wilt, and I will promise
him freedom to go and come for forty days, without harm or
hindrance, under thy fair favor. What is more, should any shoot better
than my good bow-bearer, Tepus- or even do as well- I will give him
prizes to boot. And with thee I lay a wager of a silver bugle and a
gold-tipped arrow."
  "I take thy wager, Harry, my King." Then, with merry laughter from
all the knights and ladies near by, the Queen cried, "Is there no
noble knight of our Court that will share in this wager of his
Queen? Come hither to me, Sir Cyril Leigh, that art a full good
knight, or thou, good Bishop of Hereford, and lay a wager upon mine
archers."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 35}
  "Nay, pardon, most gracious and fair Queen," quoth the Bishop, "I
fear to wager what little I have against such brave archers as the
King's, and I know not any strange archer that can win."
  "Bring forth thy archers," said the King.
  "Marry, I will," quoth the Queen, merrily, trusting full well that
Robin would win the prize.
  Then she beckoned to young Richard Patrington, and bade him call
Robin Hood, who waited close by. Anon Robin and Little John were
seen marching across to the Royal pavilion, where they stopped, bent
their knees, and doffed their caps.
  King Henry gazed for a while and was silent. When the Bishop of
Hereford saw who the new-comers were, his face changed.
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 40}
  "By the mass," quoth he, "'tis the saucy villain, Robin Hood, and
his twin rogue, Little John," and he began to puff out with rage.
But the Queen stopped his further speech with a wave of her fair hand,
saying:
  "My brave archers, I have laid a wager that ye will outshoot the
best man now on Finsbury Field. Will ye both do your utmost to win the
prize, for the sake of your Queen?"
  "Ay, that we will, gracious Majesty," quoth Robin. Then catching
sight of the Bishop, he said: "My gracious Queen, I would fain crave a
boon of thee, which is only that I might speak a few words to my
lord the Bishop of Hereford here in this presence." As he said this he
quaked inwardly, despite his boldness, for the King looked black.
But Queen Eleanor was in a merry mood, and thought to have some
sport with the Bishop, so she said:
  "Thy boon is granted."
  Then Robin said unto the Bishop: "My Lord Bishop, seeing that we
have known each other of old time, I make bold to ask thee what thou
wilt wager with me that I have the worse in this match."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 45}
  "By my silver miter," quoth the Bishop, wrathfully, "all the money
within my purse, and that is fifteenscore nobles, nigh a hundred
pounds." With that, he cast his purse down before Robin. Then Robin
took the money pouch from his side and cast it beside the Bishop's
purse.
  "I know who this money must win," quoth Little John, smiling, as
they went to take their places for the shooting.
  As the archers were making ready for the second bout the King turned
to the Bishop and asked, "What is this that thou sayest? Who are these
men our Queen doth champion against the flower of English archery?"
  "My gracious King," quoth the Bishop, in slow, severe tones, "yon
villain in red is a notorious outlaw thief from Sherwood Forest, named
Robin Hood. The big, long-legged rogue in green is t'other villain's
right-hand helper, whom they call Little John. Both of them took me,
late one Saturday night, bound me fast to a tree, and made me sing a
mass. A murrain upon him and his vile outlaw band! Many a time hath he
robbed me and the Church, God wot!"
  At this the King was very wroth, and his brow grew dark. Turning
to the Queen, he said, in angered tones, "Can this be true?"
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 50}
  "What the Bishop saith," replied the Queen, "may be true; report
hath it that he once made merry with Robin Hood. But remember thy
royal promise of safety to those men for forty days."
  "True," said the King. "The promise shall be kept, but let them
beware what they do both now and when their time is past."
  Then he called forth his archers and bade them sternly to redouble
their efforts, because the Queen had laid a wager on the outlaw
Robin Hood. "So take heed," quoth he, "that your shafts fly true and
to the mark."
  Now, the King's archers, like everybody else, had heard of Robin
Hood; and Tepus, like a sensible man, replied simply:
  "We will do our best to uphold the honor of our illustrious King."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 55}
  "Well said, good Tepus. I am content, and by Saint Hubert, I believe
we have the victors upon our side."
  Finsbury Field was all agog with excitement, and a loud buzzing
could be heard as the news spread from one to another that the great
outlaw would now shoot on the Queen's wager against the King. Many
in the crowd liked it not, and there were some who murmured; yet on
second thought they considered that it would be wiser not openly to
affront the Queen, who was very popular.
  The trials had now brought down the competitors to six archers for
the King and only two for the Queen. The King's men were Gilbert of
Warwick, stout Tepus, the bow-bearer, young Clifton of Kent, Kenneth
of Tittenson, and two brothers, Hugh and Steve of the moorlands.
Then came Little John and Robin Hood for the Queen.
  Clad in bright colors, the men made a brave show; and so thought the
people as they stretched their necks, tier above tier, to see them.
Attendants had already set new targets in place, while six upright
willow wands, straight and true, exactly covered the center of each
target. Such a mark none was expected to touch at so long a range. A
score of new long-bows lay on the ground, ready for any who should
by accident damage his own weapon.
  The King's archers tossed up a penny for choice of targets, but
Robin and John put aside their chance, saying that all marks were
the same to them. In like manner did they choose to give others the
first trial. Each archer shot six arrows in turn. Tepus, leading,
did well, for every arrow hung on his target. Likewise, so did
Gilbert, one of his shafts striking the center ring, whereat loud
and long cheers went up. Clifton and Kenneth were not so true. Both
missed the target, each with a single shaft. Then came Little John's
turn. He stepped forward to the line with his great seven-foot bow,
and loosed his shafts so fast that it seemed to the beholders as if
they had been sped with a single pull of the string.
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 60}
  All the arrows hung safe on his target. He knew another round must
needs be shot, and he only wished to equal the rest. No cheering was
heard, and all the people watched closely as Robin stepped forward
with modest mien and held up his long-bow of greater length than his
own body. He slowly pulled from his quiver his best shaft, one of
those he had himself tied with feathers from the wild swan's wing.
  He looked first at the King, and next at the Queen. Then, with a
faint smile, he sped his shaft to the very center of the target.
Resting his bow upright, he said: "Good Tepus, for this round I rest
upon that shot alone."
  Still there was no cheering. The field was as if peopled with marble
statues. At last came whispering sounds, gradually growing louder,
till it was wafted on the faint wind to Robin's ear that his shot
was merely a stroke of luck and could not be repeated.
  "Master," whispered John, "shoot again to show that it was no chance
shot."
  "Nay, nay, John, be patient. Let the archers go on in their rightful
turns."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 65}
  With a slight paleness in his face, Tepus once more made a trial,
taking the most careful aim. Gilbert followed, and both lodged their
shafts in the center, making them even with Robin. The people were now
wild with delight, because their favorites, though they had made no
better shots than Robin, yet, having two arrows in the center ring,
would win the day unless Robin should by a miracle do better.
  The score now stood two center shots against one. Then Little John
once more took his bow, and this time shot with greater care. But
though he placed all his shafts very near the center, he failed to
beat the King's men. The King smiled, and bade the Bishop of Hereford,
who looked somewhat surly and downcast, be of good cheer.
  Now Robin took off his bow-string and put on a new one without
fray or flaw. Slowly and calmly he again took his place at the line.
In his seventy years of venturesome life he had won many a match,
and never had he been worsted with the long-bow. He felt that his
Queen placed great trust in his skill. To say sooth, she had gone
far toward quarreling with her husband, King Henry, whose temper was
something of the shortest, while his power made it unsafe for any to
cross his will.
  But of this Robin took no thought. To his simple mind, he was
there at the Queen's bidding, to do her honor, to win the prize, and
to maintain the fame of himself and his comrades who loved him. He
knew exactly what he could do. All was in his favor; the bright sun
was behind him to give a white light on the target, and not a breath
of air stirred to mar his aim. He alone of the vast throng was calm.
He could easily have played with the people, and teased them as a
cat does a mouse, by prolonging the contest.
  At last he raised the bow, and, drawing the string to the utmost
length of the shaft, held it there so long and so steadily that the
people wondered if he were struck stiff, though in truth 'twas but a
moment he stood so.
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 70}
  Twang! and the shaft sped, quick as light. The arrow split the
wand in twain, and still in its flight pierced clean through the
target in the very middle.
  A burst of genuine delight rent the air, and even the King could not
choose but cheer. The people stopped their shouts of a sudden, for
they saw Robin nock another shaft and shoot once more. The second
time, he split his own arrow that stood straight in the target's
center. Again, for the third time, an arrow went whizzing, and the
second shaft was split in twain.
  Then Robin unstrung his great bow, and, hanging it over his back, he
strode calmly down to make his obeisance to the Queen. Little John
followed at his master's heels, and the King's archers came some
distance behind.
  Finsbury Field was a very bedlam. The crowd rushed up to the targets
to view them close at hand and finger the broken shafts, for this
was a thing that would be told to their children in song and story for
many a year to come.
  As Robin bent his knee, the King scowled darkly, and without a
word he rose from his seat and left the pavilion.
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 75}
  Then Queen Eleanor said, smiling: "Rise, most gallant and brave
archer! Thou hast won the prize- nay, much more, thou hast made for
thyself in this our capital city an enduring name. Worthily hast
thou done, and thy victory shall remain a bright and splendid deed
of our reign. We will give command to send the prizes whithersoever
thou wilt have them."
  "Nay, fair and gracious Queen," quoth Robin, "Tepus and Gilbert
are good archers; upon them, I pray, bestow the prizes. I need no hart
of Dalton Forest, nor wine, nor beer, for we have enough and to spare.
But the silver bugle and gold-tipped arrow, an it please thee, give to
myself and my good John, that we may ever keep them, in remembrance of
this our visit."
  "As thou dost desire, brave outlaw, so it shall be done. But this
I must tell thee, bold Robin: I would fain be sure that thou wouldst
instantly depart from this our city, that thou mayst come to thy
home in the North without scathe. The King is deeply angered, and,
though we may trust to his promise, some treacherous one, thinking
to please him, may strive to do thee harm. So tarry not, but leave the
city at once, under the guidance of my page, Richard Patrington."
  "We will obey," quoth Robin. "But first I fain would speak a word
with yon Bishop concerning our wager." Then, turning to where the
Bishop of Hereford was seated, he said:
  "Sir Bishop, thy wager is lost, but take it back as a recompense for
that we took from thee in merry Sherwood."
                                                        {XXII ^paragraph 80}
  "Nay, now, master," said Little John, under his breath, "that
shall not be. We must divide it as a gift to the King's servants in
return for their good service on Finsbury Field."
  Quoth Robin: "Gracious Queen, honest Little John here hath put me in
mind that we owe something in courtesy to the King's servants.
Therefore, with thy good leave, we will fee them out of the Bishop's
purse, sin he hath fairly lost this wager."
  Then the Bishop's heart was as black as the glance he shot toward
John, for he had hoped to gather in Robin's money along with his own.
  When they had given largess of the money the Bishop had lost, they
followed young Patrington, and were soon lost among the dense crowd,
on their way back to their home in Sherwood Forest.

{XXIII
                               XXIII
                     ROBIN PURSUED BY THE KING
-
  YOUNG PATRINGTON guided the two archers toward the inn where their
horses had been left in charge of Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale.
They all mounted and rode together through Highgate, where they got
upon Ermine Street, that led due north toward Hertford, Northampton,
and Nottingham. When they were safe on the great highway, young
Patrington left them and returned to the Court. The four outlaws
were a merry party, riding abreast and chatting together of their
doings in London town. Will Scarlet was disappointed at seeing so
little of the city and its citizens, of which he had heard so much,
but Robin saw the wisdom of their hasty retreat. So they trotted
leisurely on, meaning to put up at St. Albans for the night.
  Now when the King arose from his seat in such great anger he went to
his chamber; and in due time the Queen followed, with divers officials
and dignitaries of the Court. Hiding his vexed spirit from the
Queen, the King asked for the Bishop, and when he had found him he
took him aside.
  "How now, Bishop?" quoth he. "Canst thou not devise some plan to
ensnare these two outlaw villains and bring them back hither? For I
know that thou hast good cause to hate them."
  "Yea, by the mass, that I have. These many years have I hoped to see
the sly fox trapped, and it would be a goodly sight for me to behold
the naughty thief dangling by the neck from some tall tree."
                                                        {XXIII ^paragraph 5}
  "Then," said the King, "Let us together follow after, with a score
of men-at-arms, to cut him off ere he reach his den."
  "Ay," quoth the Bishop, "that would be merry- but the promise to the
Queen."
  "The Queen," replied Henry, "must not know. Therefore be ready early
to-morrow, and I will give out that we go on a peaceful mission."
  Now young Patrington, who had returned and was talking to his
brother, one of the men-at-arms, chanced to learn of the plot, and
straightway went to tell the Queen. Thereat her Majesty was sore
vexed, and she bade young Richard ride hard and fast that night to
overtake the little band of outlaws and warn them of their peril. So
he mounted his horse and, galloping as fast as the wind, came at break
of day to St. Albans, where he soon found Robin and his comrades
making ready for an early start.
  "What is the matter, my fair young page?" said Robin. "Doth the
Queen again command our services?"
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 10}
  "Nay," replied the page, "but that dastard Bishop hath persuaded the
King to follow you with men-at-arms and to hang you all upon a tree.
The Queen bade me ride on before, to warn you; for they have by this
time started, and will soon be upon you."
  "Go back and carry our grateful thanks to our fair Queen, and say
that we will guard us well." So young Richard departed, and rode on
his way back to London town.
  "Now, my comrades," quoth Robin, "we must here scatter, leave the
highway, and take to the woods and by-paths. We will sell our horses
and go afoot." But Little John would have none of this plan. Much
better it seemed to him to ride apace and get to Sherwood before the
score of men-at-arms, that they might defend their trysting-place
against them.
  "Do as it pleaseth thee," quoth Robin, "for in this matter I will
lay no command upon any. But for mine own part, I will go afoot."
  So Little John, Will, and Allan galloped fast, and reached
Sherwood safe and sound without let or hindrance. But Robin led his
horse through the town seeking a buyer. Anon he met a milkman with a
mule, upon whose back were slung two milk-cans. The milkman wore a
long shepherd's smock, covering his body down to his shoes, and upon
his head he had a squirrel-skin hood with a tail hanging down upon
either side of his face. "Good faith," quoth merry Robin to himself,
"this garb will suit me well."
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 15}
  "Good milkman," said he, "wilt thou change thy old rickety mule
for my horse and trappings, and thy ragged smock-coat for my scarlet
raiment, with ten bright shillings to boot?"
  "Right blithely," quoth the milkman. Then, taking off his smock in a
trice, for fear Robin should repent him of so unequal a bargain, he
threw the smock in his face and laid hold upon the horse's bridle.
  "Not so fast," quoth Robin. "Take my plumed cap for thy skin
hood." The change was made, and both parted well content.
  Robin jogged alongside his mule and milk-pails till about the hour
of noon, when he stopped at a little village for food and rest.
While he sat on a bench, quietly munching a piece of hard rye bread
and now and then taking a draught of milk from a small cup that he
found with the cans, what was his surprise to see a company of
men-at-arms riding up with the King and the Bishop in the lead! They
came at a sharp trot, yet one of the men turned aside, saying,
"Milkman, hast thou seen four mounted archers pass along this road?"
  Then Robin made answer: "Was one arrayed in scarlet, the others in
green?"
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 20}
  "Yea, so they were."
  "Then," said Robin, "go straight ahead, and ye will catch them
soon."
  Without more words the man galloped away to join the others, and all
then mended their pace.
  Now Robin knew full well that they would soon come back from this
vain quest, so he gave his milk-cans to an old woman and cut him a
stout cudgel from the wayside. Then, throwing his leg over the
mule's back, he walloped the poor beast with might and main, and
went bibity-bump along the main highway, hoping to reach Fountains
Abbey in Needwood Forest before the dawn. So after journeying all
night he came to the Abbey at break of day, thoroughly tired out,
his back and arm full sore with belaboring the slothful mule.
  Just as Robin had foreseen, the King and the Bishop soon retraced
their steps. When they questioned other wayfarers they learned that no
such men as those they sought had passed along that road, and they
were full wroth that the milkman had befooled them. They found the
milk-cans, and as soon as the old woman had told them the way that
Robin had taken, they galloped off in full cry after their prey.
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 25}
  Meanwhile Robin, by good fortune, found Friar Cecil at Fountains
Abbey. After partaking of a good meal, which the Friar soon set before
him, he said:
  "Now, good Cecil, I must tarry here no longer, for those hounds
are in full cry, and the Bishop, who leads the King in quest of me,
knoweth this place. Therefore, if they come before I go, the
men-at-arms will surround the Abbey, and I am undone. Get me, then,
pious Cecil, a palmer's habit, to don in place of this milkman's
attire, which thou must bury in the garden. As for the mule, I will
leave it in this place, for it is a dull beast that hindereth me and
availeth not for speed."
  Then Robin strode off, with his palmer's staff and bottle, at a
swinging pace, that he might be well on his way before the King and
his company should reach the Abbey. Three hours later the King and the
Bishop stood knocking at the door, while the men-at-arms closed in
around the little hermitage.
  "By my mitered staff," roared the Bishop, "we've trapped the wily
fox at last! For there stands the mule upon whose back he rode to
this, his den."
  "Open," shouted the King, "or we will dash the door to splinters."
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 30}
  Then Cecil unchained the door, holding a small book in his hand, and
asked, with a pious, wondering look: "What can the matter be that ye
do so rudely disturb my vesper devotions?"
  "Reason enow!" quoth the Bishop. "Thy devotions must e'en wait
till we have skimmed the cream from the milkman that lies hidden in
some hole of thy den. Know, young Friar, that the Bishop of Hereford
speaks! Therefore bring forth straightway the owner of the mule."
  "I gladly give myself up, as owner of the mule, to thee, my Lord
Bishop. Enter, then, good sirs. Search, rest, accept food and drink,
and take whatever ye will."
  The King and the Bishop went in and hurriedly searched the room, but
found naught to show that any stranger had been there. "Hath no man
come hither in the night?" asked the Bishop.
  "None but a poor old palmer," replied Cecil, "who hath gone home
on his way to Trentham Abbey."
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 35}
  Said the Bishop to the King, "In faith, the sly rogue hath changed
his coat again."
  When they had eaten and drunk and rested for an hour, they started
on to Trentham, little the wiser for the many questions they asked
of Friar Cecil. Robin was now a long way on his journey, and had
reached the little town of Stafford. He was full sure that his
pursuers would be thrown off the scent at Fountains Abbey, but in this
he gave the Bishop too little credit for craft. You must know that
Robin had an old acquaintance at the little Priory of Trentham in
Friar Tunnicliffe, whom he had befriended in times gone by. He trusted
that the friar would now give him a hearty welcome, and mayhap shelter
him till the King's wrath abated.
  It was the last thing in his mind to lead the King and the Bishop to
Sherwood; for, though he doubted not that in fair fight his yeomen
could beat the King's sevenscore men-at-arms, yet he feared that, by
ill luck, the King himself might be wounded or killed by an arrow.
That would mean that an army would be sent against the outlaws. For
this cause Robin sought to entice the King away from the forest.
  Friar Tunnicliffe was a very pious and godly man, whose prayers were
almost as long as his appetite. It was his boast that he could eat
like a lion and sleep like a babe, yet he was wondrous thin and meager
of face, so that he seemed ever as if he fasted. When Robin knocked at
the Priory door he was admitted, like all pilgrims. Straightway he
asked for Friar Tunnicliffe; and when he made himself known, the
good friar fell upon his neck, bellowing and blubbering and bedewing
him with tears of gladness. Robin then told of the sad plight he was
in, and who it was that pursued him.
  "Do the King and the Bishop know," asked the good friar, "that
thou meanest to abide with us?"
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 40}
  "Nay, that I know not," said Robin. "All depends upon young Cecil,
whether he will tell the truth, or by craft persuade them to take
another road."
  "Be that as it may, we must at once get thee another disguise. Then,
should they come here, I will go with thee some distance. Both dressed
alike in our friars' gowns, with book and beads, cowl and hood, none
shall take note of us. By my faith," he cried, when Robin had
changed his attire, "thou art a better friar than I, and of a more
pious and holy mien."
  Just then they heard the clatter of horses' hoofs growing louder and
louder on the great Watling highway, which passed directly by the
Priory. Then Robin knew that the Bishop and the King were again upon
him. Good Friar Tunnicliffe hastily took up his staff, and both strode
on their way up the road toward Chester away from the approaching
horsemen. When they had gone a short space the friar bade his friend a
tender farewell and retraced his steps back to the Priory, while Robin
trudged along toward Chester.
  Now the Prior of Trentham was a jolly, fat, hospitable churchman,
and there was always good eating and drinking to be had in his
house. He was unaware of the meeting of Robin and the friar. When
the Bishop and the King made known to him who they were and what was
their purpose, he swelled with pride, for he liked nothing better than
to feast a great man at his plenteous board; and now that he had the
King with him, he vowed to give him a feast he would never forget. The
King confessed he was growing weary of chasing this wily outlaw, and
the Bishop's mouth always watered at mention of a feast.
  As for Robin, he pushed along at a swinging pace, and was soon
past the nunnery at Stoke. Up Hartshill and down along Thistlebery
he went, on the way to Nantwich, where he stopped for a little to
rest, but soon pressed on and reached Chester on the following noon.
The King was sore weary after his hard ride of a hundred and fifty
miles, and was well content to lie stretched at full length upon a
downy couch in Prior William's chamber. Soon he became aware that
the Priory had a larder well stored with good things, for a pleasing
odor was wafted to his nostrils on the gentle morning breeze.
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 45}
  Prior William of Trentham both knew how to provide all sorts of
dainties and rich dishes and was himself a gallant trencherman. It was
his wont to stuff himself till unbidden tears trickled down his
ruddy cheeks at the sad thought that no more could be tucked away.
Then he would sleep away his heaviness, snoring loudly. Throughout the
feast he scarce spake, save ever and anon to bid his guests be merry
and make good cheer.
  "Truly," quoth the King, at last, "I am full sore, so well have I
fared. And thy rich, brown ale hath a nutty flavor that maketh me ever
crave it the more."
  "I am honored," quoth the jolly Prior, "that my King doth commend my
simple fare. The ale is of a special brew, of the finest Kentish
hops and Staffordshire barley, with the pure waters of our silvery
Trent- of which, by the mass, my cellar shall never run dry, though my
own need requires four gallons each day, and two extra of Sundays
and saints' days."
  "Methinks," said the King, slyly, "saints' days come nigh every
day in the year."
  "Marry, that they do," quoth the Prior, "and I make my vow never
to miss one."
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 50}
  The King and the Bishop were now fully satisfied and ready for rest,
so they laid them down, and were soon slumbering, forgetful of the
chase. Meanwhile brave Robin was carrying a message from Friar
Tunnicliffe to a brother at St. Dunstan's Abbey, which set forth
that he was a poor monk on his way to London and that any aid given
him would benefit the Church. For he had made up his mind that his
safest course would be to go back to London, where through the Queen's
good help he might win the King's pardon.
  The good friar of St. Dunstan's received him with much kindness,
telling him that some holy fathers were going to London on the morrow,
and that he would furnish him with a mount.
  "Much thanks," quoth Robin, "and take these five pounds for the poor
of the parish as a gift in return for thy help." So he set forth in
company with the priests, and when he arrived in London he left them
and hied to Court.
  When he came before Queen Eleanor, he fell down upon his knee before
her and said, "An it please thee, gracious Queen, I am come to speak
with King Henry."
  Queen Eleanor answered bold Robin, "The King is gone to merry
Sherwood, and when he went he said, 'I go to seek Robin Hood.'"
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 55}
  "Then fare thee well, my Queen. To Sherwood I will hie apace, for
I fain would see what it is that the King would have, if I can but
meet with his Majesty."
  But when King Henry came home, he had not yet set eyes upon Robin
Hood.
  "Thou art welcome home, Henry, my sovereign liege," said the
Queen. "That bold archer, Robin Hood, hath been here to seek thy
person."
  When the King heard that Robin had been to Court seeking him, he
laughed and answered: "He is a cunning knave, for we have sought him
this whole three weeks, uphill and down dale, through town and
village, through woodland and field, yet the crafty fox escaped us."
  "A boon, a boon!" cried Queen Eleanor. "I beg it here of your grace,
to pardon his life and seek no more to take him."
                                                       {XXIII ^paragraph 60}
  "By my crown and scepter, he shall have pardon. So brave and bold
a heart I like well. So crafty and wise an outlaw doth deserve the
freedom of his merry woodland life. If the Bishop will have Robin
Hood, let him go a-hunting alone, for I have had enough."

{XXIV
                               XXIV
                  ROBIN RESCUES THE WIDOW'S SONS
-
  ROBIN kept his word to the Queen that he would hie apace back to
Sherwood, and never before in all his life did he enter the oak
glade more glad at heart. Though Little John and his comrades had
feared no whit for his safety, yet they gave him a mighty cheer when
at last they saw him come forth from the forest trees. So, when they
had feasted well, they sat them down to talk, for it was early
evening.
  "How sweet to my ear," quoth Robin, "is the song of that throstle,
pouring out thanks to God! And so, too, do I thank my Maker, that I am
here once more safe and sound among my own dear comrades, after such a
chase as the King gave me. As for that fat Bishop, I make a vow,
when next we have him here, to make him fast forty days and nights.
I'll warrant I will square his roundness."
  The Bishop never again came nigh Sherwood Forest, and for some weeks
all went quietly in the glade. But it fell upon a merry May day that
Robin Hood set forth for Nottingham, and by the wayside he spied an
old woman sitting, who rocked to and fro and wept full sore.
  "What is the matter, good woman," he asked, "that thou dost so
weep and mourn?"
                                                         {XXIV ^paragraph 5}
  "The matter is bad enough, good sir," quoth she. "In Nottingham town
this day three of my sons must die, and thou seest me a poor widow
left alone to pine."
  "What have they done?" said Robin Hood. "Have they slain priest or
friar, or have they burned the farmers' hayricks?"
  "Nay, good sir, none of these things have they done."
  "Then what have they done, I pray thee tell unto me?"
  "'Tis for slaying of the King's fallow deer," said she. "Though they
did bear their long-bows in thy company, they were ambushed and
taken by the Sheriff's men, and are now lost to me for ever."
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 10}
  "Say not so, good woman, by the truth of my body," quoth bold
Robin Hood. "Thou hast told me in good time, and be assured thy sons
shall come safe to thee again."
  "Art thou not Robin Hood?" quoth the old woman.
  "In very truth, that I am. Dost thou not remember how thou didst
make me dine and sup with thee in thy cottage when I was in danger?
Now, therefore, I will gather my men, and we will save thy sons to
thee." Then he gave three loud blasts upon his horn, and all his men
came running over the lea.
  "My comrades," said Robin, "three of our men are this day
condemned to die. Therefore, I pray you, go back and cover your
green coats with mantles, then meet me at the hangman's tree."
  He himself strode away to Nottingham town, and when he drew nigh the
gate he met an old palmer walking slowly along the highway.
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 15}
  "What news, good palmer?" he cried. "What news of the town this fair
day?"
  The old man answered, "Three squires in Nottingham town are to die
this day for slaying of the King's deer."
  "Come, change thine apparel for mine, old man," quoth Robin. "Here
are forty shillings in good silver, go spend it in food and drink."
  "Alack-a-day, ne'er laugh an old man to scorn, wherever thou
goest; for my apparel is torn and ragged, and thine is rich and good."
  "What is that to thee, thou silly old man? I have need of thy ragged
old clothes, and here are twenty pieces of good gold that I will
give for them."
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 20}
  The palmer, with wondering eyes, took the money; and Robin put on
the old man's hat, which stood full high in the crown. Then he cast
over his shoulder the cloak, patched with black and blue and red. Next
he put on the old man's breeches, which were also patched all over.
"By the truth of my body, when I am fully dressed," quoth Robin, "I
can truly say, 'This man loved little price.'" Then he put on the
palmer's shoes, that were patched beneath and full of holes above.
Robin looked himself over with a wry smile, then, bidding the palmer
God-speed, he walked on to the town. There, wandering up and down
the streets, he chanced to meet the proud Sheriff.
  "The saints save thee, dread Sheriff," quoth he. "What wilt thou
give to a silly old man to-day to be hangman?"
  Now the Sheriff had been hunting all over the town, yet had found no
one who would do the deed, so this offer was just to his liking.
"The hangman's fee to-day," he replied, "is thirteen pence and the
three suits of the men that are to die upon the gallows." Then Robin
twirled around and gave a lively hop, skip, and jump. "Nay, by the
mass," quoth the Sheriff, "that is a lively caper for an old man."
  "I was ne'er a hangman in all my life," cried Robin, "nor do I
like the trade, for a curse is upon the man that was first a
hangman. Proud Sheriff, I have a horn in my pocket, that I got from
Robin Hood, and a blast from it would blow thee little good."
  "Oh, wind that horn, thou ragged fellow," said the Sheriff. "I
care not though thou blow such a blast that both thine eyes fall out."
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 25}
  Then Robin took the horn from under his ragged coat and blew both
loud and shrill. Instantly a hundred and fifty of his men were seen
running up the street.
  "Who are those men," the Sheriff said, "that run so hard and fast?"
  Brave Robin replied, "In truth, they are friends of mine, come to
pay a visit to thee." Straightway he took a sword from one of his
men and led the band on to the prison door, while a dozen stout yeomen
took the Sheriff and bound him hand and foot. When the prison guards
saw Robin and Little John, they fell on their knees begging for
mercy and gave up the key of the prison. Soon the three young men were
given their freedom.
  "Now come with me, my three brave fellows," quoth Robin. "I wish
to bring you back myself to your weeping mother." So Robin led the
three brothers to the widow's cottage, and when they all stood
before her, he said, "Good widow, as I promised, I have freed thy
three sons and now bring them back to thee safe and sound."
  "The saints shower blessings upon thy head, bold Robin Hood, and a
widow's prayer follow thee where'er thou dost go."
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 30}
  Now while Robin was doing this good deed, a sad thing befell without
his knowledge. Some of his men took up the gallows and placed it, as
well as the Sheriff, upon a cart; then, with a mighty shout, they
dragged it to an open glade in the forest. The Sheriff now saw that
his last hour was nigh. He knew that these men were grimly resolved to
revenge themselves for his cruelty through many long years. His own
men had forsaken him, and he thought it hard they should leave him
to die the most ignoble death known to man, yet he bethought him
that this death was but the same he had planned for three of their own
band at this very hour. His mind went back to Will Stutely and to
Little John- how near they had been to a like fate. He quaked to see
how fast they worked to set up the gallows. In but a few more
moments he, old in the service of the King, was to breathe his last.
Then four brawny fellows laid their heavy hands on him and bound his
arms tightly to his body with hide thongs.
  "Where, oh, where is Robin, your captain, and where is Little John?"
moaned the Sheriff, in piteous tones. "They would never see done so
foul a deed, for with all their faults I have never known them to
stain their fame with cold-blooded murder."
  "No, thou wretch," said one outlaw, "but we know what thou wouldst
have done, this very hour, and many a time before. Didst thou e'er
have mercy upon us? Think on Will Stutely- saved from the very
gallows, and these to-day, our comrades, three brothers, worthy sons
of a poor lone widow! Three good men for shooting a deer! Away with
him- hanging's too good for such a knave!"
  Thus died the Sheriff of Nottingham, not with the will or
knowledge of Robin Hood, but through the hasty anger of some of his
men who had grown lawless in his old age.
  'Twas but an hour later when Robin, Little John, and Will Stutely
were returning to the oak glade, happy indeed that they had given back
to the poor old widow her three young sons. As they turned from a
little fern-clad path into an open glade they saw hanging high above
them the body of a man hung up by the neck.
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 35}
  "God-a-mercy!" quoth Robin, "what have we here? And who are they
that would defile our woods with such a horrid sight?"
  But Will Stutely at once understood what had been done. "Our men,"
quoth he, "have done here the worst day's work of their lives, dear
uncle. That is the Sheriff of Nottingham that hangs so high in air."
  "What!" shouted Robin and Little John in the same breath. "Nay, nay,
our men would not of their own free will be guilty of so foul a deed."
Then Robin put his horn to his mouth and blew three loud blasts, and
then another three. Ere the echoes died away the whole band came
running at full speed through the forest and ranged themselves
before him.
  "My loved and brave companions of many years," said Robin Hood,
gazing up at the grim-looking thing aloft, "is this the work of mine
own band?"
  None gave answer, and none dared look their leader in the face,
but all hung their heads in shame.
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 40}
  "'Tis a black day's work that ye have done for us all, and by it
we shall all pay dearly but justly. What can we do, think ye, my
men? We cannot leave the grim thing hanging there. Who is there
among you that dares take the body back to Nottingham? The townsfolk
know full well ye took the Sheriff away along with the gallows. In a
little while the King will be told, and then what think ye he will
do?" With bowed heads Robin and Little John left the place, and the
men silently followed on at a distance behind.
-
  Five days had passed since the Sheriff met his fate. The outlaws
went about their usual affairs in glum silence. The merry song and
laughter had died away; the glade was silent and gloomy. Robin and
John felt a storm was brewing, so they got together a fair share of
their treasure and money and brought it to Fountains Abbey. On the
sixth day one of the widow's sons came and stood before Robin Hood.
  "What news," quoth Robin, "hast thou to give a broken old man?"
  "Dire and black is the news, bold Robin. The Sheriff's men have
cut down the body, and all the town and country is ablaze with rage.
Yet they know that neither Little John nor thou had part in the crime.
The King hath sent five companies of archers, with knights and
men-at-arms, all to storm the oak glade and kill every outlaw. My
two brothers have been seized, and on pain of death must guide the
army to this place on the morrow soon after break of day. I alone have
ventured to tell the tale and warn thee."
                                                        {XXIV ^paragraph 45}
  Then Robin called his men around him, and told them what was in
store for them. "Go, my comrades all," he said, "to the treasury,
and share among yourselves whatever may be therein. Take all ye want
from the armory, the clothiery, and the buttery. But see that ye share
alike. Take the goods to whatever hiding-places ye like, but let
them be far from here. Henceforth each man must be his own master.
Go where ye will, but stay not here to see another sunrise. For
myself, I will hie to Fountains Abbey, there to await my end and
patiently endure what judgment the King may lay upon me. If I should
be pardoned, then with the help of young Friar Cecil I will give
myself to God and our good Lady dear, till the final day."
  At these last words he turned aside; and many of the outlaws wept
scalding tears as they slowly moved away for the final sharing of
their goods, of which there was enough to place them all above want
for many years to come. In such wise did Robin leave them, well-nigh
heartbroken with sorrow and shame. Followed by Little John and
Cecil, he strode from the glade into the leafy forest; and with one
glance backward he saw, through his blinding tears, the last of his
woodland home of the merry, happy past.
  As the sun set, like a blood-red ball flickering through the leafy
trees behind the great oak, the glen was lonely and silent. Not a
single footfall touched the greensward that for threescore years and
more had been trampled by many feet. At morning, at noon, and at
evening, the air had resounded with music, song, and merry jest,
with laughter and jocund jollity. But now all was changed and still.
The sevenscore archers, in large and small groups, had gone their
ways. The birds now sang to themselves a doleful ditty; their merry
human companions had left them never to return.
  Early on the following morn, archers and men-at-arms could be seen
tearing down the two great towers. The great oak, with its secret
passage, was cut to pieces; the beautiful bower that Robin had kept
fresh and green since the day, years agone, when Marian had died,
was leveled to the ground. Indeed, all that the outlaws had made for
their use and comfort was clean destroyed. Such was the doleful and
bitter end of Robin Hood's woodland home in Sherwood Forest.

{XXV
                                XXV
                   ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL
-
  AND now, with sad, aching hearts, we go to Fountains Abbey, lovingly
and piously built, stone upon stone, by the jolly Friar Tuck, whose
body rests peacefully beside the trickling fountain. In the little,
well-known cell we find the bold and brave Robin Hood. What a change
has come over the dear, kindly face in a few hours! His hair and beard
seem to have grown quite white in a single day. His strong, sturdy
body, of late so youthful, now looks loose and limp. His cheerful,
manly voice has become low and sad-toned. Young Cecil begs him to take
some barley-broth and then lie down in sleep to forget his woe.
  "Nay, nay, my gentle Cecil," quoth Robin, "I have no wish to eat
or drink; and as for sleep, I am not worthy of such a boon."
  "Alack, good master," said Little John, with a rising lump in his
throat, "take it not so to heart. Thou art not to blame, or the King
would have been here ere now, for he knoweth thy retreat."
  Quoth Robin: "I am not able to shoot one shot more, and my arrows
will not again flee. Take me, then, sweet Little John, to Kirkley
nunnery, that my cousin- who is the abbess and well skilled in
leechcraft- may bleed me and so heal me of my illness. Help me,
pious Cecil, to fair Kirkley, that the abbess may mend my state." So
they placed him upon a litter drawn by a mule, and with Little John
and tall, young Cecil walking on either side, he came by easy stages
to the nunnery. Little John rang the bell to call the abbess.
                                                          {XXV ^paragraph 5}
  "Come in," quoth she, when she saw Robin, "and drink some wine to
strengthen thy body."
  "Nay, my cousin, I will neither eat nor drink till thou hast bled
me."
  "Well, Cousin Robin, I have a room in the tall tower which thou hast
never seen; and if it please thee to enter, I will do that which
thou dost desire."
  When Little John and Cecil would have followed after, the abbess
said: "Go back, go back, our skill is sufficient and we need no help."
So they stayed outside the nunnery and sat under the shade of a
leafy tree, waiting, very down-hearted, till they should hear news
of their master.
  Now I must tell you that this wicked woman knew full well what had
befallen the Sheriff of Nottingham, and in her evil heart she
conceived it would please the King to hear of Robin's death. Thus
she resolved so to bleed Robin that he would never recover. Taking him
by the hand, she led him to a private room in the nunnery tower and
tied his arm tight round with linen bands. Then she took a long
sharp knife, and with evil intent cut into one of the larger veins, so
that he would bleed fast and soon die. After she had done this she
heartlessly left him alone in the room, locked the door, and went away
out of sight and sound.
                                                         {XXV ^paragraph 10}
  Robin soon grew weaker, and he cried aloud, begging for help; but no
help was nigh. Then he got up and tried to raise the casement
window, that he might leap down or cry out to his faithful John, but
his weakness was so great that he could move it only a little. At
last, weary and faint, he bethought him of his horn, which so oft
had saved him from danger. Setting it to his lips, he blew three
weak blasts.
  When Little John heard the sound he leaped to his feet, crying: "I
fear my master is near dead; he blows so wearily." Then he ran as fast
as he could go to the nunnery door, but they would not open to him.
  Nearly beside himself with rage, he looked about him and saw a
massive piece of oak. Straightway he picked it up in his brawny arms
and hurled it with such force that it split the strong door apart.
Then, followed by Cecil, he ran up, screaming loudly, "Master, my dear
master, I have come to save thee."
  As he paused to listen he thought he heard a faint cry of
distress; and, bounding up the steps of the tower, he threw his
great body with a terrific bang against the door so that the lock
burst. He found his poor master still bleeding and faint upon the
floor.
  "A boon, a boon, master," he cried, as he knelt and supported him in
his arms.
                                                         {XXV ^paragraph 15}
  "What is the boon," faintly asked Robin Hood, "that thou dost beg of
me?"
  "It is to burn this fair Kirkley Hall," quoth John, "and all their
nunnery."
  "Now, nay," quoth Robin Hood, "that boon I will not grant. I never
hurt woman in all my life, nor man in woman's company, and now at
the end of my life it shall not be. It is for God and our good Lady to
wipe away all stains. Let these poor women be, for I am dying, dear
John, and fain would be at peace with all now, as I wished when in
health. Thou hast been ever a faithful comrade and dear brother, so
let my end be without strife or guile. Now give me my long-bow in my
hand, that through this window I may shoot one more shaft, and
wheresoever it is taken up, there let my grave be dug."
  Then the great, large-hearted John, with hot tears on his cheeks,
lifted up his beloved master and carried him, tenderly as a mother
carries her babe, to the open casement. Young Friar Cecil lifted up
the great bow, nocked a shaft, and placed it in the weak, pale
hands. Robin pulled the string as far as he could, and with a loud
twang the shaft sped on its way.
  "Oh, sweet music of my bow that lulls me to everlasting sleep!"
quoth he. "A last boon, my faithful brothers, do I ask before I die.
Lay a green sod before my head, and another at my feet, and place my
bent bow by my side, that I may still hear its sweet music. Make the
top of my grave of gravel and green shrubs. Let me have length and
breadth enough to lie at ease. Then place a stone upon the sod, that
they may say when I am dead, 'Here lies the bold Robin Hood.'"
                                                         {XXV ^paragraph 20}
  Both readily promised him it should be done. Then gently and
slowly his head fell upon John's breast, and his spirit winged its
way. John carried his master tenderly down the winding stairs out of
the nunnery, and they buried him where the arrow had struck beneath
a wide-branching oak-tree.
  So here we take leave of the noble and brave Robin Hood.
  Little John and Friar Cecil went back to Fountains Abbey, but not to
stay. Old memories were so closely woven about this little hermitage
that they could not bear a life of loneliness there. So each one
wended his own way. John went to join some relatives who lived at a
little village called Hathersage in Derbyshire, where he lived a
retired life for a few years, and where he was buried. Young Friar
Cecil, with a long life-work before him, entered a priory, and gave
himself wholly to the Church.
-
-
                              THE END