ROBIN HOOD

by J. Walker McSpadden

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II


CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV


CHAPTER V


CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII


CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX


CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI


CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII


CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV


CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII


CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX


CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI


CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII


CHAPTER XXIV   

CHAPTER I

HOW ROBIN HOOD BECAME AN OUTLAW

     List and hearken, gentlemen,
     That be of free-born blood,
     I shall you tell of a good yeoman,
     His name was Robin Hood.

     Robin was a proud outlaw,
     While as he walked on the ground.
     So courteous an outlaw as he was one
     Was never none else found.

In the days of good King Harry the Second of England—he of the
warring sons—there were certain forests in the north country set
aside for the King’s hunting, and no man might shoot deer therein under
penalty of death. These forests were guarded by the King’s Foresters, the
chief of whom, in each wood, was no mean man but equal in authority to the
Sheriff in his walled town, or even to my lord Bishop in his abbey.

One of the greatest of royal preserves was Sherwood and Barnesdale forests
near the two towns of Nottingham and Barnesdale. Here for some years dwelt
one Hugh Fitzooth as Head Forester, with his good wife and son Robert. The
boy had been born in Lockesley town—in the year 1160, stern records
say—and was often called Lockesley, or Rob of Lockesley. He was a
comely, well-knit stripling, and as soon as he was strong enough to walk
his chief delight was to go with his father into the forest. As soon as
his right arm received thew and sinew he learned to draw the long bow and
speed a true arrow. While on winter evenings his greatest joy was to hear
his father tell of bold Will o’ the Green, the outlaw, who for many
summers defied the King’s Foresters and feasted with his men upon King’s
deer. And on other stormy days the boy learned to whittle out a straight
shaft for the long bow, and tip it with gray goose feathers.

The fond mother sighed when she saw the boy’s face light up at these
woodland tales. She was of gentle birth, and had hoped to see her son
famous at court or abbey. She taught him to read and to write, to doff his
cap without awkwardness and to answer directly and truthfully both lord
and peasant. But the boy, although he took kindly to these lessons of
breeding, was yet happiest when he had his beloved bow in hand and
strolled at will, listening to the murmur of the trees.

Two playmates had Rob in these gladsome early days. One was Will Gamewell,
his father’s brother’s son, who lived at Gamewell Lodge, hard by
Nottingham town. The other was Marian Fitzwalter, only child of the Earl
of Huntingdon. The castle of Huntingdon could be seen from the top of one
of the tall trees in Sherwood; and on more than one bright day Rob’s white
signal from this tree told Marian that he awaited her there: for you must
know that Rob did not visit her at the castle. His father and her father
were enemies. Some people whispered that Hugh Fitzooth was the rightful
Earl of Huntingdon, but that he had been defrauded out of his lands by
Fitzwalter, who had won the King’s favor by a crusade to the Holy Land.
But little cared Rob or Marian for this enmity, however it had arisen.
They knew that the great green—wood was open to them, and that the
wide, wide world was full of the scent of flowers and the song of birds.

Days of youth speed all too swiftly, and troubled skies come all too soon.
Rob’s father had two other enemies besides Fitzwalter, in the persons of
the lean Sheriff of Nottingham and the fat Bishop of Hereford. These three
enemies one day got possession of the King’s ear and whispered therein to
such good—or evil—purpose that Hugh Fitzooth was removed from
his post of King’s Forester. He and his wife and Rob, then a youth of
nineteen, were descended upon, during a cold winter’s evening, and
dispossessed without warning. The Sheriff arrested the Forester for
treason—of which, poor man, he was as guiltless as you or I—and
carried him to Nottingham jail. Rob and his mother were sheltered over
night in the jail, also, but next morning were roughly bade to go about
their business. Thereupon they turned for succor to their only kinsman,
Squire George of Gamewell, who sheltered them in all kindness.

But the shock, and the winter night’s journey, proved too much for Dame
Fitzooth. She had not been strong for some time before leaving the forest.
In less than two months she was no more. Rob felt as though his heart was
broken at this loss. But scarcely had the first spring flowers begun to
blossom upon her grave, when he met another crushing blow in the loss of
his father. That stern man had died in prison before his accusers could
agree upon the charges by which he was to be brought to trial.

Two years passed by. Rob’s cousin Will was away at school; and Marian’s
father, who had learned of her friendship with Rob, had sent his daughter
to the court of Queen Eleanor. So these years were lonely ones to the
orphaned lad. The bluff old Squire was kind to him, but secretly could
make nothing of one who went about brooding and as though seeking for
something he had lost. The truth is that Rob missed his old life in the
forest no less than his mother’s gentleness, and his father’s
companionship. Every time he twanged the string of the long bow against
his shoulder and heard the gray goose shaft sing, it told him of happy
days that he could not recall.

One morning as Rob came in to breakfast, his uncle greeted him with, “I
have news for you, Rob, my lad!” and the hearty old Squire finished his
draught of ale and set his pewter tankard down with a crash.

“What may that be, Uncle Gamewell?” asked the young man.

“Here is a chance to exercise your good long bow and win a pretty prize.
The Fair is on at Nottingham, and the Sheriff proclaims an archer’s
tournament. The best fellows are to have places with the King’s Foresters,
and the one who shoots straightest of all will win for prize a golden
arrow—a useless bauble enough, but just the thing for your lady
love, eh, Rob my boy?” Here the Squire laughed and whacked the table again
with his tankard.

Rob’s eyes sparkled. “‘Twere indeed worth shooting for, uncle mine,” he
said. “I should dearly love to let arrow fly alongside another man. And a
place among the Foresters is what I have long desired. Will you let me
try?”

“To be sure,” rejoined his uncle. “Well I know that your good mother would
have had me make a clerk of you; but well I see that the greenwood is
where you will pass your days. So, here’s luck to you in the bout!” And
the huge tankard came a third time into play.

The young man thanked his uncle for his good wishes, and set about making
preparations for the journey. He traveled lightly; but his yew bow must
needs have a new string, and his cloth-yard arrows must be of the
straightest and soundest.

One fine morning, a few days after, Rob might have been seen passing by
way of Lockesley through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham town. Briskly
walked he and gaily, for his hopes were high and never an enemy had he in
the wide world. But ‘twas the very last morning in all his life when he
was to lack an enemy! For, as he went his way through Sherwood, whistling
a blithe tune, he came suddenly upon a group of Foresters, making merry
beneath the spreading branches of an oak-tree. They had a huge meat pie
before them and were washing down prodigious slices of it with nut brown
ale.

One glance at the leader and Rob knew at once that he had found an enemy.
‘Twas the man who had usurped his father’s place as Head Forester, and who
had roughly turned his mother out in the snow. But never a word said he
for good or bad, and would have passed on his way, had not this man,
clearing his throat with a huge gulp, bellowed out: “By my troth, here is
a pretty little archer! Where go you, my lad, with that tupenny bow and
toy arrows? Belike he would shoot at Nottingham Fair! Ho! Ho!”

A roar of laughter greeted this sally. Rob flushed, for he was mightily
proud of his shooting.

“My bow is as good as yours,” he retorted, “and my shafts will carry as
straight and as far. So I’ll not take lessons of any of ye.”

They laughed again loudly at this, and the leader said with frown:

“Show us some of your skill, and if you can hit the mark here’s twenty
silver pennies for you. But if you hit it not you are in for a sound
drubbing for your pertness.”

“Pick your own target,” quoth Rob in a fine rage. “I’ll lay my head
against that purse that I can hit it.”

“It shall be as you say,” retorted the Forester angrily, “your head for
your sauciness that you hit not my target.”

Now at a little rise in the wood a herd of deer came grazing by, distant
full fivescore yards. They were King’s deer, but at that distance seemed
safe from any harm. The Head Forester pointed to them.

“If your young arm could speed a shaft for half that distance, I’d shoot
with you.”

“Done!” cried Rob. “My head against twenty pennies I’ll cause yon fine
fellow in the lead of them to breathe his last.”

And without more ado he tried the string of his long bow, placed a shaft
thereon, and drew it to his ear. A moment, and the quivering string sang
death as the shaft whistled across the glade. Another moment and the
leader of the herd leaped high in his tracks and fell prone, dyeing the
sward with his heart’s blood.

A murmur of amazement swept through the Foresters, and then a growl of
rage. He that had wagered was angriest of all.

“Know you what you have done, rash youth?” he said. “You have killed a
King’s deer, and by the laws of King Harry your head remains forfeit. Talk
not to me of pennies but get ye gone straight, and let me not look upon
your face again.”

Rob’s blood boiled within him, and he uttered a rash speech. “I have
looked upon your face once too often already, my fine Forester. ‘Tis you
who wear my father’s shoes.”

And with this he turned upon his heel and strode away.

The Forester heard his parting thrust with an oath. Red with rage he
seized his bow, strung an arrow, and without warning launched it full af’
Rob. Well was it for the latter that the Forester’s foot turned on a twig
at the critical instant, for as it was the arrow whizzed by his ear so
close as to take a stray strand of his hair with it. Rob turned upon his
assailant, now twoscore yards away.

“Ha!” said he. “You shoot not so straight as I, for all your bravado. Take
this from the tupenny bow!”

Straight flew his answering shaft. The Head Forester gave one cry, then
fell face downward and lay still. His life had avenged Rob’s father, but
the son was outlawed. Forward he ran through the forest, before the band
could gather their scattered wits—still forward into the great
greenwood. The swaying trees seemed to open their arms to the wanderer,
and to welcome him home.

Toward the close of the same day, Rob paused hungry and weary at the
cottage of a poor widow who dwelt upon the outskirts of the forest. Now
this widow had often greeted him kindly in his boyhood days, giving him to
eat and drink. So he boldly entered her door. The old dame was right glad
to see him, and baked him cakes in the ashes, and had him rest and tell
her his story. Then she shook her head.

“‘Tis an evil wind that blows through Sherwood,” she said. “The poor are
despoiled and the rich ride over their bodies. My three sons have been
outlawed for shooting King’s deer to keep us from starving, and now hide
in the wood. And they tell me that twoscore of as good men as ever drew
bow are in hiding with them.”

“Where are they, good mother?” cried Rob. “By my faith, I will join them.”

“Nay, nay,” replied the old woman at first. But when she saw that there
was no other way, she said: “My sons will visit me to-night. Stay you here
and see them if you must.”

So Rob stayed willingly to see the widow’s sons that night, for they were
men after his own heart. And when they found that his mood was with them,
they made him swear an oath of fealty, and told him the haunt of the band—a
place he knew right well. Finally one of them said:

“But the band lacks a leader—one who can use his head as well as his
hand. So we have agreed that he who has skill enough to go to Nottingham,
an outlaw, and win the prize at archery, shall be our chief.”

Rob sprang to his feet. “Said in good time!” cried he, “for I had started
to that self-same Fair, and all the Foresters, and all the Sheriff’s men
in Christendom shall not stand between me and the center of their target!”

And though he was but barely grown he stood so straight and his eye
flashed with such fire that the three brothers seized his hand and
shouted:

“A Lockesley! a Lockesley! if you win the golden arrow you shall be chief
of outlaws in Sherwood Forest!”

So Rob fell to planning how he could disguise himself to go to Nottingham
town; for he knew that the Foresters had even then set a price on his head
in the market-place.

It was even as Rob had surmised. The Sheriff of Nottingham posted a reward
of two hundred pounds for the capture, dead or alive, of one Robert
Fitzooth, outlaw. And the crowds thronging the streets upon that busy Fair
day often paused to read the notice and talk together about the death of
the Head Forester.

But what with wrestling bouts and bouts with quarter-staves, and wandering
minstrels, there came up so many other things to talk about, that the
reward was forgotten for the nonce, and only the Foresters and Sheriff’s
men watched the gates with diligence, the Sheriff indeed spurring them to
effort by offers of largess. His hatred of the father had descended to the
son.

The great event of the day came in the afternoon. It was the archer’s
contest for the golden arrow, and twenty men stepped forth to shoot. Among
them was a beggar-man, a sorry looking fellow with leggings of different
colors, and brown scratched face and hands. Over a tawny shock of hair he
had a hood drawn, much like that of a monk. Slowly he limped to his place
in the line, while the mob shouted in derision. But the contest was open
to all comers, so no man said him nay.

Side by side with Rob—for it was he—stood a muscular fellow of
swarthy visage and with one eye hid by a green bandage. Him also the crowd
jeered, but he passed them by with indifference while he tried his bow
with practiced hand.

A great crowd had assembled in the amphitheater enclosing the lists. All
the gentry and populace of the surrounding country were gathered there in
eager expectancy. The central box contained the lean but pompous Sheriff,
his bejeweled wife, and their daughter, a supercilious young woman enough,
who, it was openly hinted, was hoping to receive the golden arrow from the
victor and thus be crowned queen of the day.

Next to the Sheriff’s box was one occupied by the fat Bishop of Hereford;
while in the other side was a box wherein sat a girl whose dark hair, dark
eyes, and fair features caused Rob’s heart to leap. ‘Twas Maid Marian! She
had come up for a visit from the Queen’s court at London town, and now sat
demurely by her father the Earl of Huntingdon. If Rob had been grimly
resolved to win the arrow before, the sight of her sweet face multiplied
his determination an hundredfold. He felt his muscles tightening into
bands of steel, tense and true. Yet withal his heart would throb, making
him quake in a most unaccountable way.

Then the trumpet sounded, and the crowd became silent while the herald
announced the terms of the contest. The lists were open to all comers. The
first target was to be placed at thirty ells distance, and all those who
hit its center were allowed to shoot at the second target, placed ten ells
farther off. The third target was to be removed yet farther, until the
winner was proved. The winner was to receive the golden arrow, and a place
with the King’s Foresters. He it was also who crowned the queen of the
day.

The trumpet sounded again, and the archers prepared to shoot. Rob looked
to his string, while the crowd smiled and whispered at the odd figure he
cut, with his vari-colored legs and little cape. But as the first man
shot, they grew silent.

The target was not so far but that twelve out of the twenty contestants
reached its inner circle. Rob shot sixth in the line and landed fairly,
being rewarded by an approving grunt from the man with the green blinder,
who shot seventh, and with apparent carelessness, yet true to the
bull’s-eye.

The mob cheered and yelled themselves hoarse at this even marksmanship.
The trumpet sounded again, and a new target was set up at forty ells.

The first three archers again struck true, amid the loud applause of the
onlookers; for they were general favorites and expected to win. Indeed
‘twas whispered that each was backed by one of the three dignitaries of
the day. The fourth and fifth archers barely grazed the center. Rob fitted
his arrow quietly and with some confidence sped it unerringly toward the
shining circle.

“The beggar! the beggar!” yelled the crowd; “another bull for the beggar!”
In truth his shaft was nearer the center than any of the others. But it
was not so near that “Blinder,” as the mob had promptly christened his
neighbor, did not place his shaft just within the mark. Again the crowd
cheered wildly. Such shooting as this was not seen every day in Nottingham
town.

The other archers in this round were disconcerted by the preceding shots,
or unable to keep the pace. They missed one after another and dropped
moodily back, while the trumpet sounded for the third round, and the
target was set up fifty ells distant.

“By my halidom you draw a good bow, young master,” said Rob’s queer
comrade to him in the interval allowed for rest. “Do you wish me to shoot
first on this trial?”

“Nay,” said Rob, “but you are a good fellow by this token, and if I win
not, I hope you may keep the prize from yon strutters.” And he nodded
scornfully to the three other archers who were surrounded by their
admirers, and were being made much of by retainers of the Sheriff, the
Bishop, and the Earl. From them his eye wandered toward Maid Marian’s
booth. She had been watching him, it seemed, for their eyes met; then hers
were hastily averted.

“Blinder’s” quick eye followed those of Rob. “A fair maid, that,” he said
smilingly, “and one more worthy the golden arrow than the Sheriff’s
haughty miss.”

Rob looked at him swiftly, and saw naught but kindliness in his glance.

“You are a shrewd fellow and I like you well,” was his only comment.

Now the archers prepared to shoot again, each with some little care. The
target seemed hardly larger than the inner ring had looked, at the first
trial. The first three sped their shafts, and while they were fair shots
they did not more than graze the inner circle.

Rob took his stand with some misgiving. Some flecking clouds overhead made
the light uncertain, and a handful of wind frolicked across the range in a
way quite disturbing to a bowman’s nerves. His eyes wandered for a brief
moment to the box wherein sat the dark-eyed girl. His heart leaped! she
met his glance and smiled at him reassuringly. And in that moment he felt
that she knew him despite his disguise and looked to him to keep the honor
of old Sherwood. He drew his bow firmly and, taking advantage of a
momentary lull in the breeze, launched the arrow straight and true-singing
across the range to the center of the target.

“The beggar! the beggar! a bull! a bull!” yelled the fickle mob, who from
jeering him were now his warm friends. “Can you beat that, Blinder?”

The last archer smiled scornfully and made ready. He drew his bow with
ease and grace and, without seeming to study the course, released the
winged arrow. Forward it leaped toward the target, and all eyes followed
its flight. A loud uproar broke forth when it alighted, just without the
center and grazing the shaft sent by Rob. The stranger made a gesture of
surprise when his own eyes announced the result to him, but saw his error.
He had not allowed for the fickle gust of wind which seized the arrow and
carried it to one side. But for all that he was the first to congratulate
the victor.

“I hope we may shoot again,” quoth he. “In truth I care not for the golden
bauble and wished to win it in despite of the Sheriff for whom I have no
love. Now crown the lady of your choice.” And turning suddenly he was lost
in the crowd, before Rob could utter what it was upon his lips to say,
that he would shoot again with him.

And now the herald summoned Rob to the Sheriff’s box to receive the prize.

“You are a curious fellow enough,” said the Sheriff, biting his lip
coldly; “yet you shoot well. What name go you by?”

Marian sat near and was listening intently.

“I am called Rob the Stroller, my Lord Sheriff,” said the archer.

Marian leaned back and smiled.

“Well, Rob the Stroller, with a little attention to your skin and clothes
you would not be so bad a man,” said the Sheriff. “How like you the idea
of entering my service.

“Rob the Stroller has ever been a free man, my Lord, and desires no
service.”

The Sheriff’s brow darkened, yet for the sake of his daughter and the
golden arrow, he dissembled.

“Rob the Stroller,” said he, “here is the golden arrow which has been
offered to the best of archers this day. You are awarded the prize. See
that you bestow it worthily.”

At this point the herald nudged Rob and half inclined his head toward the
Sheriff’s daughter, who sat with a thin smile upon her lips. But Rob
heeded him not. He took the arrow and strode to the next box where sat
Maid Marian.

“Lady,” he said, “pray accept this little pledge from a poor stroller who
would devote the best shafts in his quiver to serve you.”

“My thanks to you, Rob in the Hood,” replied she with a roguish twinkle in
her eye; and she placed the gleaming arrow in her hair, while the people
shouted, “The Queen! the Queen!”

The Sheriff glowered furiously upon this ragged archer who had refused his
service, taken his prize without a word of thanks, and snubbed his
daughter. He would have spoken, but his proud daughter restrained him. He
called to his guard and bade them watch the beggar. But Rob had already
turned swiftly, lost himself in the throng, and headed straight for the
town gate.

That same evening within a forest glade a group of men—some twoscore
clad in Lincoln green—sat round a fire roasting venison and making
merry. Suddenly a twig crackled and they sprang to their feet and seized
their weapons.

“I look for the widow’s sons,” a clear voice said, “and I come alone.”

Instantly the three men stepped forward.

“Tis Rob!” they cried; “welcome to Sherwood Forest, Rob!” And all the men
came and greeted him; for they had heard his story.

Then one of the widow’s sons, Stout Will, stepped forth and said:

“Comrades all, ye know that our band has sadly lacked a leader—one
of birth, breeding, and skill. Belike we have found that leader in this
young man. And I and my brothers have told him that the band would choose
that one who should bring the Sheriff to shame this day and capture his
golden arrow. Is it not so?”

The band gave assent.

Will turned to Rob. “What news bring you from Nottingham town?” asked he.

Rob laughed. “In truth I brought the Sheriff to shame for mine own
pleasure, and won his golden arrow to boot. But as to the prize ye must
e’en take my word, for I bestowed it upon a maid.”

And seeing the men stood in doubt at this, he continued: “But I’ll gladly
join your band, and you take me, as a common archer. For there are others
older and mayhap more skilled than I.”

Then stepped one forward from the rest, a tall swarthy man. And Rob
recognized him as the man with the green blinder; only this was now
removed, and his freed eye gleamed as stoutly as the other one.

“Rob in the Hood—for such the lady called you,” said he, “I can
vouch for your tale. You shamed the Sheriff e’en as I had hoped to do; and
we can forego the golden arrow since it is in such fair hands. As to your
shooting and mine, we must let future days decide. But here I, Will
Stutely, declare that I will serve none other chief save only you.”

Then good Will Stutely told the outlaws of Rob’s deeds, and gave him his
hand of fealty. And the widow’s sons did likewise, and the other members
every one, right gladly; because Will Stutely had heretofore been the
truest bow in all the company. And they toasted him in nut brown ale, and
hailed him as their leader, by the name of Robin Hood. And he accepted
that name because Maid Marian had said it.

By the light of the camp-fire the band exchanged signs and passwords. They
gave Robin Hood a horn upon which he was to blow to summon them. They
swore, also, that while they might take money and goods from the unjust
rich, they would aid and befriend the poor and the helpless; and that they
would harm no woman, be she maid, wife, or widow. They swore all this with
solemn oaths, while they feasted about the ruddy blaze, under the
greenwood tree.

And that is how Robin Hood became an outlaw.

CHAPTER II

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET LITTLE JOHN

     “O here is my hand,” the stranger reply’d,
     “I’ll serve you with all my whole heart.
     My name is John Little, a man of good mettle,
     Ne’er doubt me for I’ll play my part.”
 
     “His name shall be altered,” quoth William Stutely,
     “And I will his godfather be:
     Prepare then a feast, and none of the least,
     For we will be merry,” quoth he.

All that summer Robin Hood and his merry men roamed in Sherwood Forest,
and the fame of their deeds ran abroad in the land. The Sheriff of
Nottingham waxed wroth at the report, but all his traps and excursions
failed to catch the outlaws. The poor people began by fearing them, but
when they found that the men in Lincoln green who answered Robin Hood’s
horn meant them no harm, but despoiled the oppressor to relieve the
oppressed, they ‘gan to have great liking for them. And the band increased
by other stout hearts till by the end of the summer fourscore good men and
true had sworn fealty.

But the days of quiet which came on grew irksome to Robin’s adventurous
spirit. Up rose he, one gay morn, and slung his quiver over his shoulders.

“This fresh breeze stirs the blood, my lads,” quoth he, “and I would be
seeing what the gay world looks like in the direction of Nottingham town.
But tarry ye behind in the borders of the forest, within earshot of my
bugle call.”

Thus saying he strode merrily forward to the edge of the wood, and paused
there a moment, his agile form erect, his brown locks flowing and his
brown eyes watching the road; and a goodly sight he made, as the wind blew
the ruddy color into his cheeks.

The highway led clear in the direction of the town, and thither he boldly
directed his steps. But at a bend in the road he knew of a by-path leading
across a brook which made the way nearer and less open, into which he
turned. As he approached the stream he saw that it had become swollen by
recent rains into quite a pretty torrent. The log foot-bridge was still
there, but at this end of it a puddle intervened which could be crossed
only with a leap, if you would not get your feet wet.

But Robin cared little for such a handicap. Taking a running start, his
nimble legs carried him easily over and balanced neatly upon the end of
the broad log. But he was no sooner started across than he saw a tall
stranger coming from the other side. Thereupon Robin quickened his pace,
and the stranger did likewise, each thinking to cross first. Midway they
met, and neither would yield an inch.

“Give way, fellow!” roared Robin, whose leadership of a band, I am afraid,
had not tended to mend his manners.

The stranger smiled. He was almost a head taller than the other.

“Nay,” he retorted, “fair and softly! I give way only to a better man than
myself.”

“Give way, I say”, repeated Robin, “or I shall have to show you a better
man.”

His opponent budged not an inch, but laughed loudly. “Now by my halidom!”
he said good-naturedly, “I would not move after hearing that speech, even
if minded to it before; for this better man I have sought my life long.
Therefore show him to me, an it please you.”

“That will I right soon,” quoth Robin. “Stay you here a little while, till
I cut me a cudgel like unto that you have been twiddling in your fingers.”
So saying he sought his own bank again with a leap, laid aside his long
bow and arrows, and cut him a stout staff of oak, straight, knotless, and
a good six feet in length. But still it was a full foot shorter than his
opponent’s. Then back came he boldly.

“I mind not telling you, fellow,” said he, “that a bout with archery would
have been an easier way with me. But there are other tunes in England
besides that the arrow sings.” Here he whirred the staff about his head by
way of practice. “So make you ready for the tune I am about to play upon
your ribs. Have at you! One, two—”

“Three!” roared the giant smiting at him instantly.

Well was it for Robin that he was quick and nimble of foot; for the blow
that grazed a hair’s breadth from his shoulder would have felled an ox.
Nevertheless while swerving to avoid this stroke, Robin was poising for
his own, and back came he forthwith—whack!

Whack! parried the other.

Whack! whack! whack! whack!

The fight waxed fast and furious. It was strength pitted against subtlety,
and the match was a merry one. The mighty blows of the stranger went
whistling around Robin’s ducking head, while his own swift undercuts were
fain to give the other an attack of indigestion. Yet each stood firmly in
his place not moving backward or forward a foot for a good half hour, nor
thinking of crying “Enough!” though some chance blow seemed likely to
knock one or the other off the narrow foot-bridge. The giant’s face was
getting red, and his breath came snorting forth like a bull’s. He stepped
forward with a furious onslaught to finish this audacious fellow. Robin
dodged his blows lightly, then sprang in swiftly and unexpectedly and
dealt the stranger such a blow upon the short ribs that you would have
sworn the tanner was trimming down his hides for market.

The stranger reeled and came within an ace of falling, but regained his
footing right quickly.

“By my life, you can hit hard!” he gasped forth, giving back a blow almost
while he was yet staggering.

This blow was a lucky one. It caught Robin off his guard. His stick had
rested a moment while he looked to see the giant topple into the water,
when down came the other upon his head, whack! Robin saw more stars in
that one moment than all the astronomers have since discovered, and
forthwith he dropped neatly into the stream.

The cool rushing current quickly brought him to his senses, howbeit he was
still so dazed that he groped blindly for the swaying reeds to pull
himself up on the bank. His assailant could not forbear laughing heartily
at his plight, but was also quick to lend his aid. He thrust down his long
staff to Robin crying, “Lay hold of that, an your fists whirl not so much
as your head!”

Robin laid hold and was hauled to dry land for all the world like a fish,
except that the fish would never have come forth so wet and dripping. He
lay upon the warm bank for a space to regain his senses. Then he sat up
and gravely rubbed his pate.

“By all the saints!” said he, “you hit full stoutly. My head hums like a
hive of bees on a summer morning.”

Then he seized his horn, which lay near, and blew thereon three shrill
notes that echoed against the trees. A moment of silence ensued, and then
was heard the rustling of leaves and crackling of twigs like the coming of
many men; and forth from the glade burst a score or two of stalwart
yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, like Robin, with good Will Stutely and
the widow’s three sons at their head.

“Good master,” cried Will Stutely, “how is this? In sooth there is not a
dry thread on your body.”

“Why, marry,” replied Robin, “this fellow would not let me pass the
footbridge, and when I tickled him in the ribs, he must needs answer by a
pat on the head which landed me overboard.”

“Then shall he taste some of his own porridge,” quoth Will. “Seize him,
lads!”

“Nay, let him go free,” said Robin. “The fight was a fair one and I abide
by it. I surmise you also are quits?” he continued, turning to the
stranger with a twinkling eye.

“I am content,” said the other, “for verily you now have the best end of
the cudgel. Wherefore, I like you well, and would fain know your name.”

“Why,” said Robin, “my men and even the Sheriff of Nottingham know me as
Robin Hood, the outlaw.”

“Then am I right sorry that I beat you,” exclaimed the man, “for I was on
my way to seek you and to try to join your merry company. But after my
unmannerly use of the cudgel, I fear we are still strangers.”

“Nay, never say it!” cried Robin, “I am glad I fell in with you; though,
sooth to say, I did all the falling!”

And amid a general laugh the two men clasped hands, and in that clasp the
strong friendship of a lifetime was begun.

“But you have not yet told us your name,” said Robin, bethinking himself.

“Whence I came, men call me John Little.”

“Enter our company then, John Little; enter and welcome. The rites are
few, the fee is large. We ask your whole mind and body and heart even unto
death.”

“I give the bond, upon my life,” said the tall man.

Thereupon Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up and said: “The
infant in our household must be christened, and I’ll stand godfather. This
fair little stranger is so small of bone and sinew, that his old name is
not to the purpose.” Here he paused long enough to fill a horn in the
stream. “Hark ye, my son,”—standing on tiptoe to splash the water on
the giant—“take your new name on entering the forest. I christen you
Little John.”

At this jest the men roared long and loud.

“Give him a bow, and find a full sheath of arrows for Little John,” said
Robin joyfully. “Can you shoot as well as fence with the staff, my
friend?”

“I have hit an ash twig at forty yards,” said Little John.

Thus chatting pleasantly the band turned back into the woodland and sought
their secluded dell, where the trees were the thickest, the moss was the
softest, and a secret path led to a cave, at once a retreat and a
stronghold. Here under a mighty oak they found the rest of the band, some
of whom had come in with a brace of fat does. And here they built a ruddy
fire and sat down to the meat and ale, Robin Hood in the center with Will
Stutely on the one hand and Little John on the other. And Robin was right
well pleased with the day’s adventure, even though he had got a drubbing;
for sore ribs and heads will heal, and ‘tis not every day that one can
find a recruit as stout of bone and true of soul as Little John.

CHAPTER III

HOW ROBIN HOOD TURNED BUTCHER, AND ENTERED THE SHERIFF’S SERVICE

     The butcher he answered jolly Robin,
     “No matter where I do dwell,
     For a butcher am I, and to Nottingham
     Am I going, my flesh to sell.”
 

The next morning the weather had turned ill, and Robin Hood’s band stayed
close to their dry and friendly cave. The third day brought a diversion in
the shape of a trap by a roving party of the Sheriff’s men. A fine stag
had been struck down by one Of Will Stutely’s fellows, and he and others
had stepped forth from the covert to seize it, when twenty bowmen from
Nottingham appeared at the end of the glade. Down dropped Will’s men on
all fours, barely in time to hear a shower of arrows whistle above their
heads. Then from behind the friendly trees they sent back such a welcome
that the Sheriff’s men deemed it prudent not to tarry in their steps. Two
of them, in sooth, bore back unpleasant wounds in their shoulders, from
the encounter.

When they returned to town the Sheriff waxed red with rage.

“What,” he gasped, “do my men fear to fight this Robin Hood, face to face?
Would that I could get him within my reach, once. We should see then; we
should see!”

What it was the Sheriff would see, he did not state. But he was to have
his wish granted in short space, and you and I will see how he profited by
it.

The fourth day and the one following this friendly bout, Little John was
missing. One of his men said that he saw him talking with a beggar, but
did not know whither they had gone. Two more days passed. Robin grew
uneasy. He did not doubt the faith of Little John, but he was fearful lest
a roving band of Foresters had captured him.

At last Robin could not remain quiet. Up sprang he, with bow and arrows,
and a short sword at his side.

“I must away to Nottingham town, my men,” he cried. “The goodly Sheriff
has long desired to see me; and mayhap he can tell me tidings of the best
quarter-staff in the shire”—meaning Little John.

Others of the band besought him to let them go with him, but he would not.

“Nay,” he said smilingly, “the Sheriff and I are too good friends to put
doubt upon our meeting. But tarry ye in the edge of the wood opposite the
west gate of the town, and ye may be of service ere to-morrow night.”

So saying he strode forward to the road leading to Nottingham, and stood
as before looking up and down to see if the way was clear. Back at a bend
in the road he heard a rumbling and a lumbering, when up drove a stout
butcher, whistling gaily, and driving a mare that sped slowly enough
because of the weight of meat with which the cart was loaded.

“A good morrow to you, friend,” hailed Robin. “Whence come you and where
go you with your load of meat?”

“A good morrow to you,” returned the butcher, civilly enough. “No matter
where I dwell. I am but a simple butcher, and to Nottingham am I going, my
flesh to sell. ‘Tis Fair week, and my beef and mutton should fetch a fair
penny,” and he laughed loudly at his jest. “But whence come you?”

“A yeoman am I, from Lockesley town. Men call me Robin Hood.”

“The saints forefend that you should treat me ill!” said the butcher in
terror. “Oft have I heard of you, and how you lighten the purses of the
fat priests and knights. But I am naught but a poor butcher, selling this
load of meat, perchance, for enough to pay my quarter’s rent.”

“Rest you, my friend, rest you,” quoth Robin, “not so much as a silver
penny would I take from you, for I love an honest Saxon face and a fair
name with my neighbors. But I would strike a bargain with you.”

Here he took from his girdle a well-filled purse, and continued, “I would
fain be a butcher, this day, and sell meat at Nottingham town. Could you
sell me your meat, your cart, your mare, and your good-will, without loss,
for five marks?”

“Heaven bless ye, good Robin,” cried the butcher right joyfully, “that can
I!” And he leaped down forthwith from the cart, and handed Robin the reins
in exchange for the purse.

“One moment more,” laughed Robin, “we must e’en change garments for the
nonce. Take mine and scurry home quickly lest the King’s Foresters try to
put a hole through this Lincoln green.”

So saying he donned the butcher’s blouse and apron, and, climbing into the
cart, drove merrily down the road to the town.

When he came to Nottingham he greeted the scowling gate-keeper blithely
and proceeded to the market-place. Boldly he led his shuffling horse to
the place where the butchers had their stalls.

He had no notion of the price to ask for his meat, but put on a foolish
and simple air as he called aloud his wares:

     “Hark ye, lasses and dames, hark ye,
     Good meat come buy, come buy,
     Three pen’orths go for one penny,
     And a kiss is good, say I!”
 

Now when the folk found what a simple butcher he was, they crowded around
his cart; for he really did sell three times as much for one penny as was
sold by the other butchers. And one or two serving-lasses with twinkling
eyes liked his comely face so well that they willingly gave boot of a
kiss.

But the other butchers were wroth when they found how he was taking their
trade; and they accordingly put their heads together.

One said, “He is a prodigal and has sold his father’s land, and this is
his first venture in trading.”

Another said, “He is a thief who has murdered a butcher, and stolen his
horse and meat.”

Robin heard these sayings, but only laughed merrily and sang his song the
louder. His good-humor made the people laugh also and crowd round his cart
closely, shouting uproariously when some buxom lass submitted to be
kissed.

Then the butchers saw that they must meet craft with craft; and they said
to him, “Come, brother butcher, if you would sell meat with us, you must
e’en join our guild and stand by the rules of our trade.”

“We dine at the Sheriff’s mansion to-day,” said another, “and you must
take one of our party.”

     “Accurst of his heart,” said jolly Robin,
     “That a butcher will deny.
     I’ll go with you, my brethren true,
     And as fast as I can hie.”
 

Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he left his horse and cart in charge
of a friendly hostler and prepared to follow his mates to the Mansion
House.

It was the Sheriff’s custom to dine various guilds of the trade, from time
to time, on Fair days, for he got a pretty profit out of the fees they
paid him for the right to trade in the market-place. The Sheriff was
already come with great pomp into the banqueting room, when Robin Hood and
three or four butchers entered, and he greeted them all with great
condescension; and presently the whole of a large company was seated at a
table groaning beneath the good cheer of the feast.

Now the Sheriff bade Robin sit by his right hand, at the head of the
board; for one or two butchers had whispered to the official, “That fellow
is a right mad blade, who yet made us much sport to-day. He sold more meat
for one penny than we could sell for three; and he gave extra weight to
whatsoever lass would buss him.” And others said, “He is some prodigal who
knows not the value of goods, and may be plucked by a shrewd man right
closely.”

The Sheriff was will to pluck a prodigal with the next man, and he was
moreover glad to have a guest who promised to enliven the feast. So, as I
have told you, he placed Robin by his side, and he made much of him and
laughed boisterously at his jests; though sooth to say, the laugh were
come by easily, for Robin had never been in merrier mood, and his quips
and jests soon put the whole table at a roar.

Then my lord Bishop of Hereford came in, last of all, to say a ponderous
grace and take his seat on the other side of the Sheriff—the
prelate’s fat body showing up in goodly contrast to the other’s lean
bones.

After grace was said, and while the servants clattered in with the meat
platters, Robin stood up and said:

“An amen say I to my lord Bishop’s thanks! How, now, my fine fellows, be
merry and drink deep; for the shot I’ll pay ere I go my way, though it
cost me five pounds and more. So my lords and gentlemen all, spare not the
wine, but fall to lustily.”

“Hear! hear!” shouted the butchers.

“Now are you a right jolly soul,” quoth the Sheriff, “but this feast is
mine own. Howbeit you must have many a head of horned beasts, and many an
acre of broad land, to spend from your purse so freely.”

“Aye, that have I,” returned Robin, his eyes all a twinkle, “five hundred
horned beasts have I and my brothers, and none of them have we been able
to sell. That is why I have turned butcher. But I know not the trade, and
would gladly sell the whole herd, an I could find a buyer.”

At this, the Sheriff’s greed ‘gan to rise. Since this fool would be
plucked, thought he, why should not he do the plucking?

“Five hundred beasts, say you?” he queried sharply.

“Five hundred and ten fat beasts by actual count, that I would sell for a
just figure. Aye, to him who will pay me in right money, would I sell them
for twenty pieces of gold. Is that too much to ask, lording?”

Was there ever such an idiot butcher? thought the Sheriff; and he so far
forgot his dignity as to nudge the Bishop in his fat ribs.

“Nay, good fellow,” quoth he chuckling, “I am always ready to help any in
my shire. An you cannot find a buyer for your herd at this just figure, I
will e’en buy them myself.”

At this generosity Robin was quite overcome, and fell to praising the
Sheriff to the skies, and telling him that he should not have cause to
forget the kindness.

“Tut, tut,” said the Sheriff, “‘tis naught but a trade. Drive in your herd
tomorrow to the market-place and you shall have money down.”

“Nay, excellence,” said Robin, “that can I not easily do, for they are
grazing in scattered fashion. But they are over near Gamewell, not more
than a mile therefrom at most. Will you not come and choose your own
beasts tomorrow?”

“Aye, that I will,” said the Sheriff, his cupidity casting his caution to
the winds. “Tarry with me over night, and I will go with you in the
morning.”

This was a poser for Robin, since he liked not the idea of staying over
night at the Sheriff’s house. He had hoped to appoint a meeting-place for
the other, but now saw that this might excite doubt. He looked around at
the company. By this time, you must know, the feast had progressed far,
and the butchers were deep in their cups. The Sheriff and Robin had talked
in a low voice, and my lord Bishop was almost asleep.

“Agreed,” said Robin presently, and the words were no sooner out of his
mouth than the door opened and a serving-man entered bearing tray of
mulled wine. At sight of the fellow’s face, Robin gave an involuntary
start of surprise which was instantly checked. The other also saw him,
stood still a moment, and as if forgetting something turned about and left
the hall.

It was Little John.

A dozen questions flashed across Robin’s mind, and he could find answer
for none of them. What was Little John doing in the Sheriff’s house? Why
had he not told the band? Was he true to them? Would he betray him?

But these questions of distrust were dismissed from Robin’s open mind as
soon as they had entered. He knew that Little John was faithful and true.

He recovered his spirits and began again upon a vein of foolish banter,
for the amusement of the Sheriff and his guests, all being now merry with
wine.

“A song!” one of them shouted, and the cry was taken up round the table.
Robin mounted his chair and trolled forth:

     “A lass and a butcher of Nottingham
     Agreed ‘twixt them for to wed.
     Says he, ‘I’ll give ye the meat, fair dame,
     And ye will give me the bread.”
 

Then they joined in the chorus amid a pounding of cups upon the board:

     “With a hey and a ho
     And a hey nonny no,
     A butcher of Nottingham!”
 

While the song was at its height, Little John reappeared, with other
servants, and refilled the cups. He came up to Robin and, as if asking him
if he would have more wine, said softly, “Meet me in the pantry to-night.”

Robin nodded, and sang loudly. The day was already far spent, and
presently the company broke up with many hiccupy bows of the Sheriff and
little notice of the drowsy Bishop.

When the company was dispersed, the Sheriff bade a servant show Robin to
his room, and promised to see him at breakfast the next day.

Robin kept his word and met Little John that night, and the sheriff next
day; but Little John has been doing so much in the meantime that he must
be allowed a chapter to himself.

So let us turn to another story that was sung of, in the ballads of olden
time, and find out how Little John entered the Sheriff’s service.

CHAPTER IV

HOW LITTLE JOHN ENTERED THE SHERIFF’S SERVICE

     List and hearken, gentlemen,
     All ye that now be here,
     Of Little John, that was Knight’s-man,
     Good mirth ye now shall hear.

It had come around another Fair day at Nottingham town, and folk crowded
there by all the gates. Goods of many kinds were displayed in gaily
colored booths, and at every cross-street a free show was in progress.
Here and there, stages had been erected for the play at quarter-staff, a
highly popular sport.

There was a fellow, one Eric of Lincoln, who was thought to be the finest
man with the staff for miles around. His feats were sung about in ballads
through all the shire. A great boaster was he withal, and to-day he
strutted about on one of these corner stages, and vaunted of his prowess,
and offered to crack any man’s crown for a shilling. Several had tried
their skill with Eric, but he had soon sent them spinning in no gentle
manner, amid the jeers and laughter of the onlookers.

A beggar-man sat over against Eric’s stage and grinned every time a pate
was cracked. He was an uncouth fellow, ragged and dirty and unshaven. Eric
caught sight of his leering face at one of his boasts—for there was
a lull in the game, because no man else wanted to come within reach of
Eric’s blows. Eric, I say, noticed the beggar-man grinning at him rather
impudently, and turned toward him sharply.

“How now, you dirty villain!” quoth he, “mend your manners to your
betters, or, by our Lady, I’ll dust your rags for you.”

The beggar-man still grinned. “I am always ready to mend my manners to my
betters,” said he, “but I am afraid you cannot teach me any better than
you can dust my jacket.”

“Come up! Come up!” roared the other, flourishing his staff.

“That will I,” said the beggar, getting up slowly and with difficulty. “It
will pleasure me hugely to take a braggart down a notch, an some good man
will lend me a stout quarter-staff.”

At this a score of idlers reached him their staves—being ready
enough to see another man have his head cracked, even if they wished to
save their own—and he took the stoutest and heaviest of all. He made
a sorry enough figure as he climbed awkwardly upon the stage, but when he
had gained it, he towered full half a head above the other, for all his
awkwardness. Nathless, he held his stick so clumsily that the crowd
laughed in great glee.

Now each man took his place and looked the other up and down, watching
warily for an opening. Only a moment stood they thus, for Eric, intent on
teaching this rash beggar a lesson and sweeping him speedily off the
stage, launched forth boldly and gave the other a sounding crack on the
shoulder. The beggar danced about, and made as though he would drop his
staff from very pain, while the crowd roared and Eric raised himself for
another crushing blow. But just then the awkward beggar came to life.
Straightening himself like a flash, he dealt Eric a back-handed blow, the
like of which he had never before seen. Down went the boaster to the floor
with a sounding thump, and the fickle people yelled and laughed themselves
purple; for it was a new sight to see Eric of Lincoln eating dust.

But he was up again almost as soon as he had fallen, and right quickly
retreated to his own ringside to gather his wits and watch for an opening.
He saw instantly that he had no easy antagonist, and he came in cautiously
this time.

And now those who stood around saw the merriest game of quarter-staff that
was ever played inside the walls of Nottingham town. Both men were on
their guard and fenced with fine skill, being well matched in prowess.
Again and again did Eric seek to force an opening under the other’s guard,
and just as often were his blows parried. The beggar stood sturdily in his
tracks contenting himself with beating off the attack. For a long time
their blows met like the steady crackling of some huge forest fire, and
Eric strove to be wary, for he now knew that the other had no mean wits or
mettle. But he grew right mad at last, and began to send down blows so
fierce and fast that you would have sworn a great hail-storm was pounding
on the shingles over your head. Yet he never so much as entered the tall
beggar’s guard.

Then at last the stranger saw his chance and changed his tune of fighting.
With one upward stroke he sent Eric’s staff whirling through the air. With
another he tapped Eric on the head; and, with a third broad swing, ere the
other could recover himself, he swept him clear off the stage, much as you
would brush a fly off the window pane.

Now the people danced and shouted and made so much ado that the
shop-keepers left their stalls and others came running from every
direction. The victory of the queer beggar made him immensely popular.
Eric had been a great bully, and many had suffered defeat and insult at
his hands. So the ragged stranger found money and food and drink
everywhere at his disposal, and he feasted right comfortably till the
afternoon.

Then a long bow contest came on, and to it the beggar went with some of
his new friends. It was held in the same arena that Robin had formerly
entered; and again the Sheriff and lords and ladies graced the scene with
their presence, while the people crowded to their places.

When the archers had stepped forward, the herald rose and proclaimed the
rules of the game: how that each man should shoot three shots, and to him
who shot best the prize of a yoke of fat steers should belong. A dozen
keen-eyed bowmen were there, and among them some of the best fellows in
the Forester’s and Sheriff’s companies. Down at the end of the line
towered the tall beggar-man, who must needs twang a bow-string with the
best of them.

The Sheriff noted his queer figure and asked: “Who is that ragged fellow?”

“‘Tis he that hath but now so soundly cracked the crown of Eric of
Lincoln,” was the reply.

The shooting presently began, and the targets soon showed a fine
reckoning. Last of all came the beggar’s turn.

“By your leave,” he said loudly, “I’d like it well to shoot with any other
man here present at a mark of my own placing.” And he strode down the
lists with a slender peeled sapling which he stuck upright in the ground.
“There,” said he, “is a right good mark. Will any man try it?”

But not an archer would risk his reputation on so small a target.

Whereupon the beggar drew his bow with seeming carelessness and split the
wand with his shaft.

“Long live the beggar!” yelled the bystanders.

The Sheriff swore a full great oath, and said: “This man is the best
archer that ever yet I saw.” And he beckoned to him, and asked him: “How
now, good fellow, what is your name, and in what country were you born?”

“In Holderness I was born,” the man replied; “men call me Reynold
Greenleaf.”

“You are a sturdy fellow, Reynold Greenleaf, and deserve better apparel
than that you wear at present. Will you enter my service? I will give you
twenty marks a year, above your living, and three good suits of clothes.”

“Three good suits, say you? Then right gladly will I enter your service,
for my back has been bare this many a long day.”

Then Reynold turned him about to the crowd and shouted: “Hark ye, good
people, I have entered the Sheriff’s service, and need not the yoke of
steers for prize. So take them for yourselves, to feast withal.”

At this the crowd shouted more merrily than ever, and threw their caps
high into the air. And none so popular a man had come to Nottingham town
in many a long day as this same Reynold Greenleaf.

Now you may have guessed, by this time, who Reynold Greenleaf really was;
so I shall tell you that he was none other than Little John. And forth
went he to the Sheriff’s house, and entered his service. But it was a
sorry day for the Sheriff when he got his new man. For Little John winked
his shrewd eye and said softly to himself: “By my faith, I shall be the
worst servant to him that ever yet had he!”

Two days passed by. Little John, it must be confessed, did not make a good
servant. He insisted upon eating the Sheriff’s best bread and drinking his
best wine, so that the steward waxed wroth. Nathless the Sheriff held him
in high esteem, and made great talk of taking him along on the next
hunting trip.

It was now the day of the banquet to the butchers, about which we have
already heard. The banquet hall, you must know, was not in the main house,
but connected with it by a corridor. All the servants were bustling about
making preparations for the feast, save only Little John, who must needs
lie abed the greater part of the day. But he presented himself at last,
when the dinner was half over; and being desirous of seeing the guests for
himself he went into the hall with the other servants to pass the wine.
First, however, I am afraid that some of the wine passed his own lips
while he went down the corridor. When he entered the banqueting hall, whom
should he see but Robin Hood himself. We can imagine the start of surprise
felt by each of these bold fellows upon seeing the other in such strange
company. But they kept their secrets, as we have seen, and arranged to
meet each other that same night. Meanwhile, the proud Sheriff little knew
that he harbored the two chief outlaws of the whole countryside beneath
his roof.

After the feast was over and night was beginning to advance, Little John
felt faint of stomach and remembered him that he had eaten nothing all
that day. Back went he to the pantry to see what eatables were laid by.
But there, locking up the stores for the night, stood the fat steward.

“Good Sir Steward,” said Little John, “give me to dine, for it is long for
Greenleaf to be fasting.”

The steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys at his girdle.

“Sirrah lie-abed,” quoth he, “‘tis late in the day to be talking of
eating. Since you have waited thus long to be hungry, you can e’en take
your appetite back to bed again.”

“Now by mine appetite, that will I not do,” cried Little John. “Your own
paunch of fat would be enough for any bear to sleep on through the winter.
But my stomach craves food, and food it shall have!”

Saying this he brushed past the steward and tried the door, but it was
locked fast; whereat the fat steward chuckled and jangled his keys again.

Then was Little John right mad, and he brought down his huge fist on the
door-panel with a sledge-hammer blow that shivered an opening you could
thrust your hand into. Little John stooped and peered through the hole to
see what food lay within reach, when crack! went the steward’s keys upon
his crown, and the worthy danced around him playing a tattoo that made
Little John’s ears ring. At this he turned upon the steward and gave him
such a rap that his back went nigh in two, and over went the fat fellow
rolling on the floor.

“Lie there,” quoth Little John, “till ye find strength to go to bed.
Meanwhile, I must be about my dinner.” And he kicked open the buttery door
without ceremony and brought to light a venison pasty and cold roast
pheasant—goodly sights to a hungry man. Placing these down on a
convenient shelf he fell to with right good will. So Little John ate and
drank as much as he would.

Now the Sheriff had in his kitchen a cook, a stout man and bold, who heard
the rumpus and came in to see how the land lay. There sat Little John
eating away for dear life, while the fat steward was rolled under the
table like a bundle of rags.

“I make my vow!” said the cook, “you are a shrewd hind to dwell thus in a
household, and ask thus to dine.” So saying he laid aside his spit and
drew a good sword that hung at his side.

“I make my vow!” said Little John, “you are a bold man and hardy to come
thus between me and my meat. So defend yourself and see that you prove the
better man.” And he drew his own sword and crossed weapons with the cook.

Then back and forth they clashed with sullen sound. The old ballad which
tells of their fight says that they thought nothing for to flee, but
stiffly for to stand. There they fought sore together, two miles away and
more, but neither might the other harm for the space of a full hour.

“I make my vow!” cried Little John, “you are the best swordsman that ever
yet I saw. What say you to resting a space and eating and drinking good
health with me. Then we may fall to again with the swords.”

“Agreed!” said the cook, who loved good fare as well as a good fight; and
they both laid by their swords and fell to the food with hearty will. The
venison pasty soon disappeared, and the roast pheasant flew at as lively a
rate as ever the bird itself had sped. Then the warriors rested a space
and patted their stomachs, and smiled across at each other like bosom
friends; for a man when he as dined looks out pleasantly upon the world.

“And now good Reynold Greenleaf,” said the cook, “we may as well settle
this brave fight we have in hand.”

“A true saying,” rejoined the other, “but first tell me, friend—for
I protest you are my friend henceforth—what is the score we have to
settle?”

“Naught save who can handle the sword best,” said the cook. “By my troth I
had thought to carve you like a capon ere now.”

“And I had long since thought to shave your ears,” replied Little John.
“This bout we can settle in right good time. But just now I and my master
have need of you, and you can turn your stout blade to better service than
that of the Sheriff.”

“Whose service would that be?” asked the cook.

“Mine,” answered a would-be butcher entering the room, “and I am Robin
Hood.”

CHAPTER V

HOW THE SHERIFF LOST THREE GOOD SERVANTS AND FOUND THEM AGAIN

     “Make good cheer,” said Robin Hood.
     “Sheriff! for charity!
     And for the love of Little John
     Thy life is granted thee!”
 

The cook gasped in amazement. This Robin Hood! and under the Sheriff’s
very roof!

“Now by my troth you are a brave fellow,” he said. “I have heard great
tales of your prowess, and the half has not been told. But who might this
tall slasher be?”

“Men do call me Little John, good fellow.”

“Then Little John, or Reynold Greenleaf, I like you well, on my honor as
Much the miller’s son; and you too, bold Robin Hood. An you take me, I
will enter your service right gladly.”

“Spoken like a stout man!” said Robin, seizing him by the hand. “But I
must back to my own bed, lest some sleepy warden stumble upon me, and I be
forced to run him through. Lucky for you twain that wine flowed so freely
in the house to-day; else the noise of your combat would have brought
other onlookers besides Robin Hood. Now if ye would flee the house
to-night, I will join you in the good greenwood to-morrow.”

“But, good master,” said the cook, “you would not stay here over night!
Verily, it is running your head into a noose. Come with us. The Sheriff
has set strict watch on all the gates, since ‘tis Fair week, but I know
the warden at the west gate and could bring us through safely. To-morrow
you will be stayed.” “Nay, that will I not,” laughed Robin, “for I shall
go through with no less escort than the Sheriff himself. Now do you,
Little John, and do you, Much the miller’s son, go right speedily. In the
borders of the wood you will find my merry men. Tell them to kill two fine
harts against to-morrow eve, for we shall have great company and lordly
sport.”

And Robin left them as suddenly as he had come.

“Comrade,” then said Little John, “we may as well bid the Sheriff’s roof
farewell. But ere we go, it would seem a true pity to fail to take such of
the Sheriff’s silver plate as will cause us to remember him, and also
grace our special feasts.”

“‘Tis well said indeed,” quoth the cook.

Thereupon they got a great sack and filled it with silver plate from the
shelves where it would not at once be missed, and they swung the sack
between them, and away they went, out of the house, out of the town, and
into the friendly shelter of Sherwood Forest.

The next morning the servants were late astir in the Sheriff’s house. The
steward awoke from a heavy sleep, but his cracked head was still in such a
whirl that he could not have sworn whether the Sheriff had ever owned so
much as one silver dish. So the theft went undiscovered for the nonce.

Robin Hood met the Sheriff at breakfast, when his host soon spoke of what
was uppermost in his heart—the purchase of the fine herd of cattle
near Gamewell. ‘Twas clear that a vision of them, purchased for twenty
paltry gold pieces, had been with him all through the night, in his
dreams. And Robin again appeared such a silly fellow that the Sheriff saw
no need of dissembling, but said that he was ready to start at once to
look at the herd.

Accordingly they set forth, Robin in his little butcher’s cart, behind the
lean mare, and the Sheriff mounted on a horse. Out of Nottingham town,
through gates open wide, they proceeded, and took the hill road leading
through Sherwood Forest. And as they went on and plunged deeper among the
trees, Robin whistled blithely and sang snatches of tunes.

“Why are you so gay, fellow?” said the Sheriff, for, sooth to say, the
silence of the woods was making him uneasy.

“I am whistling to keep my courage up,” replied Robin.

“What is there to fear, when you have the Sheriff of Nottingham beside
you?” quoth the other pompously.

Robin scratched his head.

“They do say that Robin Hood and his men care little for the Sheriff,” he
said.

“Pooh!” said the Sheriff. “I would not give that for their lives,
if I could once lay hands upon them.” And he snapped his fingers angrily.
“But Robin Hood himself was on this very road the last time I came to
town,” said the other.

The Sheriff started at the crackling of a twig under his horse’s feet, and
looked around.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“Aye, that did I! He wanted the use of this mare and cart to drive to
Nottingham. He said he would fain turn butcher. But see!”

As he spoke he came to a turn in the road, and there before them stood a
herd of the King’s deer, feeding. Robin pointed to them and continued:

“There is my herd of cattle, good Master Sheriff! How do you like them?
Are they not fat and fair to see?”

The Sheriff drew rein quickly. “Now fellow,” quoth he, “I would I were
well out of this forest, for I care not to see such herds as these, or
such faces as yours. Choose your own way, therefore, whoever you be, and
let me go mine.”

“Nay,” laughed Robin, seizing the Sheriff’s bridle, “I have been at too
much pains to cultivate your company to forego it now so easily. Besides I
wish you to meet some of my friends and dine with me, since you have so
lately entertained me at your board.”

So saying he clapped a horn on his lips and winded three merry notes. The
deer bounded away; and before the last of them was seen, there came a
running and a rustling, and out from behind covert and tree came full
twoscore of men, clad in Lincoln green, and bearing good yew bows in their
hands and short swords at their sides. Up they ran to Robin Hood and
doffed their caps to him respectfully, while the Sheriff sat still from
very amazement.

“Welcome to the greenwood!” said one of the leaders, bending the knee with
mock reverence before the Sheriff.

The Sheriff glared. It was Little John.

“Woe the worth, Reynold Greenleaf,” he said, “you have betrayed me!”

“I make my vow,” said Little John, “that you are to blame, master. I was
misserved of my dinner, when I was at your house. But we shall set you
down to a feast we hope you will enjoy.”

“Well spoken, Little John,” said Robin Hood. “Take you his bridle and let
us do honor to the guest who has come to feast with us.”

Then turning abruptly the whole company plunged into the heart of the
forest.

After twisting and turning till the Sheriff’s bewildered head sat dizzily
upon his shoulders, the greenwood men passed through a narrow alley amid
the trees which led to a goodly open space flanked by wide-spreading oaks.
Under the largest of these a pleasant fire was crackling, and near it two
fine harts lay ready for cooking. Around the blaze were gathered another
company of yeomen quite as large as that which came with Robin Hood. Up
sprang they as the latter advanced and saluted their leader with
deference, but with hearty gladness to see him back again.

That merry wag Will Stutely was in command; and when he saw the palefaced
Sheriff being led in like any culprit, he took his cloak and laid it
humbly upon the ground and besought the Sheriff to alight upon it, as the
ground of Sherwood was unused to such dignitaries.

“Bestir yourselves, good fellows!” cried Robin Hood; “and while our new
cook, whom I see with us, is preparing a feast worthy of our high guest,
let us have a few games to do him honor!”

Then while the whole glade was filled with the savory smell of roasting
venison and fat capons, and brown pasties warmed beside the blaze, and
mulled wine sent forth a cordial fragrance, Robin Hood placed the Sheriff
upon a knoll beneath the largest oak and sat himself down by him.

First stepped forward several pairs of men armed with the quarter-staff,
the widow’s sons among them, and so skilfully did they thrust and parry
and beat down guards, that the Sheriff, who loved a good game as well as
any man, clapped his hands, forgetting where he was, and shouted, “Well
struck! well struck! Never have I seen such blows at all the Fairs of
Nottingham!”

Then the best archers of the band set up a small wand at eightscore paces
distant, and thereon they affixed a wreath of green. And the archers began
to shoot; and he who shot not through the garland without disturbing its
leaves and tendrils was fain to submit to a good sound buffet from Little
John. But right cunning was the shooting, for the men had spent a certain
time in daily practice, and many were the shafts which sped daintily
through the circle. Nathless now and again some luckless fellow would
shoot awry and would be sent winding from a long arm blow from the tall
lieutenant while the glade roared with laughter. And none more hearty a
guffaw was given than came from the Sheriff’s own throat, for the spirit
of the greenwood was upon him.

But presently his high mood was dashed. The company sat down to meat, and
the guest was treated to two more disturbing surprise. The cook came
forward to serve the food, when the Sheriff beheld in him his own former
servant, and one whom he supposed was at the moment in the scullery at
Nottingham.

Much the miller’s son grinned by way of answer to the Sheriff’s amazement,
and served the plates, and placed them before the party. Then did the
Sheriff gasp and fairly choke with rage. The service was his own
silverware from the Mansion House!

“You rascals! you rogues!” he spluttered. “Was it not enough to defraud me
out of three of my servants, that you must also rob me of my best silver
service? Nay, by my life, but I will not touch your food!”

But Robin Hood bade him pause.

“Gramercy!” quoth he, “servants come and go, in merry England, and so does
service. The platters are but used to do your worship honor. And as for
your life, it is forfeit to your eagerness to buy my herd of cattle so
cheaply. Now sit you down again and make good cheer, Sheriff, for charity!
And for the love of Little John your life is granted you!”

So the Sheriff sat him down again, with the best face he could assume, and
soon the cook’s viands were disappearing down his gullet as rapidly as the
next man’s. And they feasted royally and clinked each other’s cups until
the sun had ceased to print the pattern of the leaves upon the forest
carpet.

Then the Sheriff arose and said: “I thank you, Robin Hood, one-time
butcher, and you, Little John, one-time beggar, and you, Much, one-time
cook, and all you good men who have entertained me in Sherwood so well.
Promises I make not as to how I shall requite you when next you come to
Nottingham, for I am in the King’s service. So for the present the score
rests with you. But the shadows grow long and I must away, if you will be
pleased to pilot me to the road.”

Then Robin Hood and all his men arose and drank the Sheriff’s health, and
Robin said: “If you must needs go at once we will not detain you—except
that you have forgotten two things.”

“What may they be?” asked the Sheriff, while his heart sank within him.

“You forget that you came with me to-day to buy a herd of horned beasts;
likewise that he who dines at the Greenwood Inn must pay the landlord.”

The Sheriff fidgeted like a small boy who has forgotten his lesson.

“Nay, I have but a small sum with me,” he began apologetically.

“What is that sum, gossip?” questioned Little John, “for my own wage
should also come out of it!”

“And mine!” said Much.

“And mine!” smiled Robin.

The Sheriff caught his breath. “By my troth, are all these silver dishes
worth anything?”

The outlaws roared heartily at this.

“I’ll tell you what it is, worship,” said Robin, “we three rascally
servants will compound our back wages for those plates. And we will keep
the herd of cattle free for our own use—and the King’s. But this
little tavern bill should be settled! Now, what sum have you about you?”

“I have only those twenty pieces of gold, and twenty others,” said the
Sheriff: and well it was that he told the truth for once, for Robin said:

“Count it, Little John.”

Little John turned the Sheriff’s wallet inside out. “‘Tis true enough,” he
said.

“Then you shall pay no more than twenty pieces for your entertainment,
excellence,” decreed Robin. “Speak I soothly, men of greenwood?”

“Good!” echoed the others.

“The Sheriff should swear by his patron saint that he will not molest us,”
said Will Stutely; and his addition was carried unanimously.

“So be it, then,” cried Little John, approaching the sheriff. “Now swear
by your life and your patron saint—”

“I will swear it by St. George, who is patron of us all,” said the Sheriff
vigorously, “that I will never disturb or distress the outlaws in
Sherwood.”

“But let me catch any of you out of Sherwood!” thought he to
himself.

Then the twenty pieces of gold were paid over, and the Sheriff once more
prepared to depart.

“Never had we so worshipful a guest before,” said Robin; “and as the new
moon is beginning to silver the leaves, I shall bear you company myself
for part of the way. ‘Twas I who brought you into the wood.”

“Nay, I protest against your going needlessly far,” said Sheriff.

“But I protest that I am loath to lose your company,” replied Robin. “The
next time I may not be so pleased.”

And he took the Sheriff’s horse by the bridle rein, and led him through
the lane and by many a thicket till the main road was reached.

“Now fare you well, good Sheriff,” he said, “and when next you think to
despoil a poor prodigal, remember the herd you would have bought over
against Gamewell. And when next you employ a servant, make certain that he
is not employing you.”

So saying he smote the nag’s haunch, and off went the Sheriff upon the
road to Nottingham.

And that is how—you will find from many ballads that came to be sung
at the Sheriff’s expense, and which are known even to the present day—that,
I say, is how the Sheriff lost three good servants and found them again.

CHAPTER VI

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET WILL SCARLET

     The youngster was clothed in scarlet red
     In scarlet fine and gay;
     And he did frisk it o’er the plain,
     And chanted a roundelay.

One fine morning, soon after the proud Sheriff had been brought to grief,
Robin Hood and Little John went strolling down a path through the wood. It
was not far from the foot—bridge where they had fought their
memorable battle; and by common impulse they directed their steps to the
brook to quench their thirst and rest them in the cool bushes. The morning
gave promise of a hot day. The road even by the brook was dusty. So the
cooling stream was very pleasing and grateful to their senses.

On each side of them, beyond the dusty highway, stretched out broad fields
of tender young corn. On the yon side of the fields uprose the sturdy oaks
and beeches and ashes of the forest; while at their feet modest violets
peeped out shyly and greeted the loiterers with an odor which made the
heart glad. Over on the far side of the brook in a tiny bay floated three
lily-pads; and from amid some clover blossoms on the bank an industrious
bee rose with the hum of busy contentment. It was a day so brimful of
quiet joy that the two friends lay flat on their backs gazing up at the
scurrying clouds, and neither caring to break the silence.

Presently they heard some one coming up the road whistling gaily, as
though he owned the whole world and ‘twas but made to whistle in. Anon he
chanted a roundelay with a merry note.

“By my troth, a gay bird!” quoth Robin, raising up on his elbow. “Let us
lie still, and trust that his purse is not as light as his heart.”

So they lay still, and in a minute more up came a smart stranger dressed
in scarlet and silk and wearing a jaunty hat with a curling cock feather
in it. His whole costume was of scarlet, from the feather to the silk
hosen on his legs. A goodly sword hung at his side, its scabbard all
embossed with tilting knights and weeping ladies. His hair was long and
yellow and hung clustering about his shoulders, for all the world like a
schoolgirl’s; and he bore himself with as mincing a gait as the pertest of
them.

Little John clucked his teeth drolly at this sight. “By my troth, a gay
bird!” he said echoing the other’s words—then added, “But not so bad
a build for all his prettiness. Look you, those calves and thighs are well
rounded and straight. The arms, for all that gold-wrought cloak, hang
stoutly from full shoulders. I warrant you the fop can use his dainty
sword right well on occasion.”

“Nay,” retorted Robin, “he is naught but a ladies’ man from court. My
long-bow ‘gainst a plugged shilling that he would run and bellow lustily
at sight of a quarter-staff. Stay you behind this bush and I will soon get
some rare sport out of him. Belike his silk purse may contain more pennies
than the law allows to one man in Sherwood or Barnesdale.”

So saying Robin Hood stepped forth briskly from the covert and planted
himself in the way of the scarlet stranger. The latter had walked so
slowly that he was scarce come to their resting-place; and now on
beholding Robin he neither slackened nor quickened his pace but sauntered
idly straight ahead, looking to the right and to the left, with the finest
air in the world, but never once at Robin.

“Hold!” quoth the outlaw. “What mean ye by running thus over a wayfarer,
rough shod?”

“Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?” said the stranger in a smooth
voice, and looking at Robin for the first time.

“Because I bid you to,” replied Robin.

“And who may you be?” asked the other as coolly as you please.

“What my name is matters not,” said Robin; “but know that I am a public
tax-gatherer and equalizer of shillings. If your purse have more than a
just number of shillings or pence, I must e’en lighten it somewhat; for
there are many worthy people round about these borders who have less than
the just amount. Wherefore, sweet gentleman, I pray you hand over your
purse without more ado, that I may judge of its weight in proper fashion.”

The other smiled as sweetly as though a lady were paying him a compliment.

“You are a droll fellow,” he said calmly. “Your speech amuses me mightily.
Pray continue, if you have not done, for I am in no hurry this morning.”

“I have said all with my tongue that is needful,” retorted Robin,
beginning to grow red under the collar. “Nathless, I have other arguments
which may not be so pleasing to your dainty skin. Prithee, stand and
deliver. I promise to deal fairly with the purse.”

“Alack-a-day!” said the stranger with a little shrug of his shoulders; “I
am deeply sorrowful that I cannot show my purse to every rough lout that
asks to see it. But I really could not, as I have further need of it
myself and every farthing it contains. Wherefore, pray stand aside.”

“Nay that will I not! and ‘twill go the harder with you if you do not
yield at once.”

“Good fellow,” said the other gently, “have I not heard all your speech
with patience? Now that is all I promised to do. My conscience is salved
and I must go on my way. To-rol-o-rol-e-loo!” he caroled, making as though
to depart.

“Hold, I say!” quoth Robin hotly; for he knew how Little John must be
chuckling at this from behind the bushes. “Hold I say, else I shall have
to bloody those fair locks of yours!” And he swung his quarter-staff
threateningly.

“Alas!” moaned the stranger shaking his head. “The pity of it all! Now I
shall have to run this fellow through with my sword! And I hoped to be a
peaceable man henceforth!” And sighing deeply he drew his shining blade
and stood on guard.

“Put by your weapon,” said Robin. “It is too pretty a piece of steel to
get cracked with common oak cudgel; and that is what would happen on the
first pass I made at you. Get you a stick like mine out of yon
undergrowth, and we will fight fairly, man to man.”

The stranger thought a moment with his usual slowness, and eyed Robin from
head to foot. Then he unbuckled his scabbard, laid it and the sword aside,
and walked deliberately over to the oak thicket. Choosing from among the
shoots and saplings he found a stout little tree to his liking, when he
laid hold of it, without stopping to cut it, and gave a tug. Up it came
root and all, as though it were a stalk of corn, and the stranger walked
back trimming it as quietly as though pulling up trees were the easiest
thing in the world.

Little John from his hiding-place saw the feat, and could hardly restrain
a long whistle. “By our Lady!” he muttered to himself, “I would not be in
Master Robin’s boots!”

Whatever Robin thought upon seeing the stranger’s strength, he uttered not
a word and budged not an inch. He only put his oak staff at parry as the
other took his stand.

There was a threefold surprise that day, by the brookside. The stranger
and Robin and Little John in the bushes all found a combat that upset all
reckoning. The stranger for all his easy strength and cool nerve found an
antagonist who met his blows with the skill of a woodman. Robin found the
stranger as hard to hit as though fenced in by an oak hedge. While Little
John rolled over and over in silent joy.

Back and forth swayed the fighters, their cudgels pounding this way and
that, knocking off splinters and bark, and threatening direst damage to
bone and muscle and skin. Back and forth they pranced kicking up a cloud
of dust and gasping for fresh air. From a little way off you would have
vowed that these two men were trying to put out a fire, so thickly hung
the cloud of battle over them. Thrice did Robin smite the scarlet man—with
such blows that a less stout fellow must have bowled over. Only twice did
the scarlet man smite Robin, but the second blow was like to finish him.
The first had been delivered over the knuckles, and though ‘twas a
glancing stroke it well nigh broke Robin’s fingers, so that he could not
easily raise his staff again. And while he was dancing about in pain and
muttering a dust-covered oath, the other’s staff came swinging through the
cloud at one side—zip!—and struck him under the arm. Down went
Robin as though he were a nine-pin—flat down into the dust of the
road. But despite the pain he was bounding up again like an India rubber
man to renew the attack, when Little John interfered.

“Hold!” said he, bursting out of the bushes and seizing the stranger’s
weapon. “Hold, I say!”

“Nay,” retorted the stranger quietly, “I was not offering to smite him
while he was down. But if there be a whole nest of you hatching here by
the waterside, cluck out the other chicks and I’ll make shift to fight
them all.”

“Not for all the deer in Sherwood!” cried Robin. “You are a good fellow
and a gentleman. I’ll fight no more with you, for verily I feel sore in
wrist and body. Nor shall any of mine molest you henceforth.”

Sooth to say, Robin did not look in good fighting trim. His clothes were
coated with dirt, one of his hosen had slipped halfway down from his knee,
the sleeve of his jerkin was split, and his face was streaked with sweat
and dirt. Little John eyed him drolly.

“How now, good master,” quoth he, “the sport you were to kick up has left
you in sorry plight. Let me dust your coat for you.”

“Marry, it has been dusted enough already,” replied Robin; “and I now
believe the Scripture saying that all men are but dust, for it has sifted
me through and through and lined my gullet an inch deep. By your leave”—and
he went to the brookside and drank deep and laved his face and hands.

All this while the stranger had been eyeing Robin attentively and
listening to his voice as though striving to recall it.

“If I mistake not,” he said slowly at last, “you are that famous outlaw,
Robin Hood of Barnesdale.”

“You say right,” replied Robin; “but my fame has been tumbling sadly about
in the dust to-day.”

“Now why did I not know you at once?” continued the stranger. “This battle
need not have happened, for I came abroad to find you to-day, and thought
to have remembered your face and speech. Know you not me, Rob, my lad?
Hast ever been to Gamewell Lodge?”

“Ha! Will Gamewell! my dear old chum, Will Gamewell!” shouted Robin,
throwing his arms about the other in sheer affection. “What an ass I was
not to recognize you! But it has been years since we parted, and your
gentle schooling has polished you off mightily.”

Will embraced his cousin no less heartily.

“We are quits on not knowing kinsmen,” he said, “for you have changed and
strengthened much from the stripling with whom I used to run foot races in
old Sherwood.”

“But why seek you me?” asked Robin. “You know I am an outlaw and dangerous
company. And how left you mine uncle? and have you heard aught of late of—of
Maid Marian?”

“Your last question first,” answered Will, laughing, “for I perceive that
it lies nearest your heart. I saw Maid Marian not many weeks after the
great shooting at Nottingham, when you won her the golden arrow. She
prizes the bauble among her dearest possessions, though it has made her an
enemy in the Sheriff’s proud daughter. Maid Marian bade me tell you, if I
ever saw you, that she must return to Queen Eleanor’s court, but she could
never forget the happy days in the greenwood. As for the old Squire, he is
still hale and hearty, though rheumatic withal. He speaks of you as a sad
young dog, but for all that is secretly proud of your skill at the bow and
of the way you are pestering the Sheriff, whom he likes not. ‘Twas for my
father’s sake that I am now in the open, an outlaw like yourself. He has
had a steward, a surly fellow enough, who, while I was away at school,
boot-licked his way to favor until he lorded it over the whole house. Then
he grew right saucy and impudent, but my father minded it not, deeming the
fellow indispensable in managing the estate. But when I came back it irked
me sorely to see the fellow strut about as though he owned the place. He
was sly enough with me at first, and would brow-beat the Squire only while
I was out of earshot. It chanced one day, however, that I heard loud
voices through an open window and paused to hearken. That vile servant
called my father ‘a meddling old fool,’ ‘Fool and meddler art thou
thyself, varlet,’ I shouted, springing through the window, ‘that
for thy impudence!’ and in my heat I smote him a blow mightier than I
intended, for I have some strength in mine arm. The fellow rolled over and
never breathed afterwards, I think I broke his neck or something the like.
Then I knew that the Sheriff would use this as a pretext to hound my
father, if I tarried. So I bade the Squire farewell and told him I would
seek you in Sherwood.”

“Now by my halidom!” said Robin Hood; “for a man escaping the law, you
took it about as coolly as one could wish. To see you come tripping along
decked out in all your gay plumage and trolling forth a roundelay, one
would think you had not a care in all the world. Indeed I remarked to
Little John here that I hoped your purse was not as light as your heart.”

“Belike you meant head,” laughed Will; “and is this Little John the
Great? Shake hands with me, an you will, and promise me to cross a staff
with me in friendly bout some day in the forest!”

“That will I!” quoth Little John heartily. “Here’s my hand on it. What is
your last name again, say you?”

“‘Tis to be changed,” interposed Robin; “then shall the men armed with
warrants go hang for all of us. Let me bethink myself. Ah!—I have
it! In scarlet he came to us, and that shall be his name henceforth.
Welcome to the greenwood, Will Scarlet!”

“Aye, welcome, Will Scarlet!” said Little John; and they all clasped hands
again and swore to be true each to the other and to Robin Hood’s men in
Sherwood Forest.

CHAPTER VII

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET FRIAR TUCK

     The friar took Robin Hood on his back,
     Deep water he did bestride,
     And spake neither good word nor bad,
     Till he came at the other side.

In summer time when leaves grow green, and flowers are fresh and gay,
Robin Hood and his merry men were all disposed to play. Thus runs a quaint
old ballad which begins the next adventure. Then some would leap and some
would run and some try archery and some ply the quarter-staff and some
fall to with the good broad sword. Some again would try a round at buffet
and fisticuff; and thus by every variety of sport and exercise they
perfected themselves in skill and made the band and its prowess well known
throughout all England.

It had been a custom of Robin Hood’s to pick out the best men in all the
countryside. Whenever he heard of one more than usually skilled in any
feat of arms he would seek the man and test him in personal encounter—which
did not always end happily for Robin. And when he had found a man to his
liking he offered him service with the bold fellows of Sherwood Forest.

Thus it came about that one day after a practice at shooting, in which
Little John struck down a hart at five hundred feet distance, Robin Hood
was fain to boast.

“God’s blessing on your heart!” he cried, clapping the burly fellow on the
shoulder; “I would travel an hundred miles to find one who could match
you!”

At this Will Scarlet laughed full roundly.

“There lives a curtall friar in Fountain’s Abbey—Tuck, by name—who
can beat both him and you,” he said.

Robin pricked up his ears at this free speech.

“By our Lady,” he said, “I’ll neither eat nor drink till I see this same
friar.”

And with his usual impetuosity he at once set about arming himself for the
adventure. On his head he placed a cap of steel. Underneath his Lincoln
green he wore a coat of chain metal. Then with sword and buckler girded at
his side he made a goodly show. But he also took with him his stout yew
bow and a sheaf of chosen arrows.

So he set forth upon his way with blithe heart; for it was a day when the
whole face of the earth seemed glad and rejoicing in pulsing life.
Steadily he pressed forward by winding ways till he came to a green broad
pasture land at whose edge flowed a stream dipping in and out among the
willows and rushes on the banks. A pleasant stream it was, but it flowed
calmly as though of some depth in the middle. Robin did not fancy getting
his feet wet, or his fine suit of mail rusted, so he paused on the hither
bank to rest and take his bearings.

As he sat down quietly under the shade of a drooping willow he heard
snatches of a jovial song floating to him from the farther side; then came
a sound of two men’s voices arguing. One was upholding the merits of hasty
pudding and the other stood out stoutly for meat pie, “especially”—quoth
this one—“when flavored with young onions!”

“Gramercy!” muttered Robin to himself, “that is a tantalizing speech to a
hungry man! But, odds bodikins! did ever two men talk more alike than
those two fellows yonder!”

In truth Robin could well marvel at the speech, for the voices were
curiously alike.

Presently the willows parted on the other bank, and Robin could hardly
forebear laughing out right. His mystery was explained. It was not two men
who had done all this singing and talking, but one—and that one a
stout curtall friar who wore a long cloak over his portly frame, tied with
a cord in the middle. On his head was a knight’s helmet, and in his hand
was a no more warlike weapon than a huge pasty pie, with which he sat down
by the water’s edge. His twofold argument was finished. The meat pie had
triumphed; and no wonder! for it was the present witness, soon to give its
own testimony.

But first the friar took off his helmet to cool his head, and a droll
picture he made. His head was as round as an apple, and eke as smooth in
spots. A fringe of close curling black hair grew round the base of his
skull, but his crown was bare and shiny as an egg. His cheeks also were
smooth and red and shiny; and his little gray eyes danced about with the
funniest air imaginable. You would not have blamed Robin Hood for wanting
to laugh, had you heard this serious two-faced talk and then seen this
jovial one-faced man. Good humor and fat living stood out all over him;
yet for all that he looked stout enough and able to take care of himself
with any man. His short neck was thick like that of a Berkshire bull; his
shoulders were set far back, and his arms sprouted therefrom like two oak
limbs. As he sat him down, the cloak fell apart disclosing a sword and
buckler as stout as Robin’s own.

Nathless, Robin was not dismayed at sight of the weapons. Instead, his
heart fell within him when he saw the meat pie which was now in fair way
to be devoured before his very eyes; for the friar lost no time in
thrusting one hand deep into the pie, while he crossed himself with the
other.

Thereupon Robin seized his bow and fitted a shaft.

“Hey, friar!” he sang out, “carry me over the water, or else I cannot
answer for your safety.”

The other started at the unexpected greeting, and laid his hand upon his
sword. Then he looked up and beheld Robin’s arrow pointing full upon him.

“Put down your bow, fellow,” he shouted back, “and I will bring you over
the brook. ‘Tis our duty in life to help each other, and your keen shaft
shows me that you are a man worthy of some attention.” So the friar knight
got him up gravely, though his eyes twinkled with a cunning light, and
laid aside his beloved pie and his cloak and his sword and his buckler,
and waded across the stream with waddling dignity. Then he took Robin Hood
upon his back and spoke neither good word nor bad till he came to the
other side.

Lightly leaped Robin off his back, and said, “I am much beholden to you,
good father.”

“Beholden, say you!” rejoined the other drawing his sword; “then by my
faith you shall e’en repay your score. Now mine own affairs, which are of
a spiritual kind and much more important than yours which are carnal, lie
on the other side of this stream. I see that you are a likely man and one,
moreover, who would not refuse to serve the church. I must therefore pray
of you that whatsoever I have done unto you, you will do also unto me. In
short, my son, you must e’en carry me back again.”

Courteously enough was this said; but so suddenly had the friar drawn his
sword that Robin had no time to unsling his bow from his back, whither he
had placed it to avoid getting it wet, or to unfasten his scabbard. So he
was fain to temporize.

“Nay, good father, but I shall get my feet wet,” he commenced.

“Are your feet any better than mine?” retorted the other. “I fear me now
that I have already wetted myself so sadly as to lay in a store of
rheumatic pains by way of penance.”

“I am not so strong as you,” continued Robin; “that helmet and sword and
buckler would be my undoing on the uncertain footing amidstream, to say
nothing of your holy flesh and bones.”

“Then I will lighten up, somewhat,” replied the other calmly. “Promise to
carry me across and I will lay aside my war gear.”

“Agreed,” said Robin; and the friar thereupon stripped himself; and Robin
bent his stout back and took him up even as he had promised.

Now the stones at the bottom of the stream were round and slippery, and
the current swept along strongly, waist-deep, in the middle. More-over
Robin had a heavier load than the other had borne, nor did he know the
ford. So he went stumbling along now stepping into a deep hole, now
stumbling over a boulder in a manner that threatened to unseat his rider
or plunge them both clear under current. But the fat friar hung on and dug
his heels into his steed’s ribs in as gallant manner as if he were riding
in a tournament; while as for poor Robin the sweat ran down him in
torrents and he gasped like the winded horse he was. But at last he
managed to stagger out on the bank and deposit his unwieldy load.

No sooner had he set the friar down than he seized his own sword.

“Now, holy friar,” quoth he, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow,
“what say the Scriptures that you quote so glibly?—Be not weary of
well doing. You must carry me back again or I swear that I will make a
cheese-cloth out of your jacket!”

The friar’s gray eyes once more twinkled with a cunning gleam that boded
no good to Robin; but his voice was as calm and courteous as ever.

“Your wits are keen, my son,” he said; “and I see that the waters of the
stream have not quenched your spirit. Once more will I bend my back to the
oppressor and carry the weight of the haughty.”

So Robin mounted again in high glee, and carried his sword in his hand,
and went prepared to tarry upon the other side. But while he was
bethinking himself what great words to use, when he should arrive thither,
he felt himself slipping from the friar’s broad back. He clutched
frantically to save himself but had too round a surface to grasp, besides
being hampered by his weapon. So down went he with a loud splash into the
middle of the stream, where the crafty friar had conveyed him.

“There!” quoth the holy man; “choose you, choose you, my fine fellow,
whether you will sink or swim!” And he gained his own bank without more
ado, while Robin thrashed and spluttered about until he made shift to
grasp a willow wand and thus haul himself ashore on the other side.

Then Robin’s rage waxed furious, despite his wetting, and he took his bow
and his arrows and let fly one shaft after another at the worthy friar.
But they rattled harmlessly off his steel buckler, while he laughed and
minded them no more than if they had been hail-stones.

“Shoot on, shoot on, good fellow,” he sang out; “shoot as you have begun;
if you shoot here a summer’s day, your mark I will not shun!”

So Robin shot, and passing well, till all his arrows were gone, when from
very rage he began to revile him.

“You bloody villain!” shouted he, “You psalm-singing hypocrite! You
reviler of good hasty pudding! Come but within reach of my sword arm, and,
friar or no friar, I’ll shave your tonsure closer than ever bald-pated
monk was shaven before!”

“Soft you and fair!” said the friar unconcernedly; “hard words are cheap,
and you may need your wind presently. An you would like a bout with
swords, meet me halfway i’ the stream.”

And with this speech the friar waded into the brook, sword in hand, where
he was met halfway by the impetuous outlaw.

Thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle. Up and down, in and out, back
and forth they fought. The swords flashed in the rays of the declining sun
and then met with a clash that would have shivered less sturdy weapons or
disarmed less sturdy wielders. Many a smart blow was landed, but each
perceived that the other wore an undercoat of linked mail which might not
be pierced. Nathless, their ribs ached at the force of the blows. Once and
again they paused by mutual consent and caught breath and looked hard each
at the other; for never had either met so stout a fellow.

Finally in a furious onset of lunge and parry Robin’s foot stepped on a
rolling stone, and he went down upon his knees. But his antagonist would
not take this advantage: he paused until Robin should get upon his feet.

“Now by our Lady!” cried the outlaw, using his favorite oath, “you are the
fairest swordsman that I have met in many a long day. I would beg a boon
of you.”

“What is it?” said the other.

“Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth and blow three blasts thereon.”

“That will I do,” said the curtall friar, “blow till your breath fails, an
it please you.”

Then, says the old ballad, Robin Hood set his horn to mouth and blew
mighty blasts; and half a hundred yeomen, bows bent, came raking over the
lee.

“Whose men are these,” said the friar, “that come so hastily?”

“These men are mine,” said Robin Hood, feeling that his time to laugh was
come at last.

Then said the friar in his turn, “A boon, a boon, the like I gave to you.
Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth and whistle three blasts
thereon.”

“That will I do,” said Robin, “or else I were lacking in courtesy.”

The friar set his fist to his mouth and put the horn to shame by the
piercing whistles he blew; whereupon half a hundred great dogs came
running and jumping so swiftly that they had reached their bank as soon as
Robin Hood’s men had reached his side.

Then followed a rare foolish conflict. Stutely, Much, Little John and the
other outlaws began sending their arrows whizzing toward the opposite
bank; but the dogs, which were taught of the friar, dodged the missiles
cleverly and ran and fetched them back again, just as the dogs of to-day
catch sticks.

“I have never seen the like of this in my days!” cried Little John,
amazed.

“‘Tis rank sorcery and witchcraft.”

“Take off your dogs, Friar Tuck!” shouted Will Scarlet, who had but then
run up, and who now stood laughing heartily at the scene.

“Friar Tuck!” exclaimed Robin, astounded. “Are you Friar Tuck? Then am I
your friend, for you are he I came to seek.”

“I am but a poor anchorite, a curtall friar,” said the other, whistling to
his pack, “by name Friar Tuck of Fountain’s Dale. For seven years have I
tended the Abbey here, preached o’ Sundays, and married and christened and
buried folk—and fought too, if need were; and if it smacks not too
much of boasting, I have not yet met the knight or trooper or yeoman that
I would yield before. But yours is a stout blade. I would fain know you.”

“‘Tis Robin Hood, the outlaw, who has been assisting you at this
christening,” said Will Scarlet glancing roguishly at the two opponents’
dripping garments. And at this sally the whole bad burst into a shout of
laughter, in which Robin and Friar Tuck joined.

“Robin Hood!” cried the good friar presently, holding his sides; “are you
indeed that famous yeoman? Then I like you well; and had I known you
earlier, would have both carried you across and shared my pasty pie with
you.”

“To speak soothly,” replied Robin gaily, “‘twas that same pie that led me
to be rude. Now, therefore, bring it and your dogs and repair with us to
the greenwood. We have need of you—with this message came I to-day
to seek you. We will build you a hermitage in Sherwood Forest, and you
shall keep us from evil ways. Will you not join our band?”

“Marry, that will I!” cried Friar Tuck jovially. “Once more will I cross
this much beforded stream, and go with you to the good greenwood!”

CHAPTER VIII

HOW ALLAN-A-DALE’S WOOING WAS PROSPERED

     “What is thy name?” then said Robin Hood,
     “Come tell me, without any fail!”
      “By the faith o’ my body,” then said the young man,
     “My name it is Allan-a-Dale.”
 

Friar Tuck and Much the miller’s son soon became right good friends over
the steaming stew they jointly prepared for the merry men that evening.
Tuck was mightily pleased when he found a man in the forest who could make
pasties and who had cooked for no less person than the High Sheriff
himself. While Much marveled at the friar’s knowledge of herbs and simples
and woodland things which savored a stew greatly. So they gabbled together
like two old gossips and, between them, made such a tasty mess that Robin
Hood and his stout followers were like never to leave off eating. And the
friar said grace too, with great unction, over the food; and Robin said
Amen! and that henceforth they were always to have mass of Sundays.

So Robin walked forth into the wood that evening with his stomach full and
his heart, therefore, in great contentment and love for other men. He did
not stop the first passer-by, as his manner often was, and desire a fight.
Instead, he stepped behind a tree, when he heard a man’s voice in song,
and waited to behold the singer. Perhaps he remembered, also, the merry
chanting of Will Scarlet, and how he had tried to give it pause a few days
before.

Like Will, this fellow was clad in scarlet, though he did not look quite
as fine a gentleman. Nathless, he was a sturdy yeoman of honest face and a
voice far sweeter than Will’s. He seemed to be a strolling minstrel, for
he bore a harp in his hand, which he thrummed, while his lusty tenor voice
rang out with—

     “Hey down, and a down, and a down!
     I’ve a lassie back i’ the town;
     Come day, come night, Come dark or light,
     She will wed me, back i’ the town!”
 

Robin let the singer pass, caroling on his way.

“‘Tis not in me to disturb a light-hearted lover, this night,” he
muttered, a memory of Marian coming back to him. “Pray heaven she may be
true to him and the wedding be a gay one ‘back i’ the town!”’

So Robin went back to his camp, where he told of the minstrel.

“If any of ye set on him after this,” quoth he in ending, “bring him to
me, for I would have speech with him.”

The very next day his wish was gratified. Little John and Much the
miller’s son were out together on a foraging expedition when they espied
the same young man; at least, they thought it must be he, for he was clad
in scarlet and carried a harp in his hand. But now he came drooping along
the way; his scarlet was all in tatters; and at every step he fetched a
sigh, “Alack and a well-a-day!”

Then stepped forth Little John and Much the miller’s son.

“Ho! do not wet the earth with your weeping,” said Little John, “else we
shall all have lumbago.”

No sooner did the young man catch sight of them than he bent his bow, and
held an arrow back to his ear.

“Stand off! stand off!” he said; “what is your will with me?”

“Put by your weapon,” said Much, “we will not harm you. But you must come
before our master straight, under yon greenwood tree.”

So the minstrel put by his bow and suffered himself to be led before Robin
Hood.

“How now!” quoth Robin, when he beheld his sorry countenance, “are you not
he whom I heard no longer ago than yesternight caroling so blithely about
‘a lassie back i’ the town’?”

“The same in body, good sir,” replied the other sadly; “but my spirit is
grievously changed.”

“Tell me your tale,” said Robin courteously. “Belike I can help you.”

“That can no man on earth, I fear,” said the stranger; “nathless, I’ll
tell you the tale. Yesterday I stood pledged to a maid, and thought soon
to wed her. But she has been taken from me and is to become an old
knight’s bride this very day; and as for me, I care not what ending comes
to my days, or how soon, without her.”

“Marry, come up!” said Robin; “how got the old knight so sudden vantage?”

“Look you, worship, ‘tis this way. The Normans overrun us, and are in such
great favor that none may say them nay. This old returned Crusader coveted
the land whereon my lady dwells. The estate is not large, but all in her
own right; whereupon her brother says she shall wed a title, and he and
the old knight have fixed it up for to-day.”

“Nay, but surely—” began Robin.

“Hear me out, worship,” said the other. “Belike you think me a sorry dog
not to make fight of this. But the old knight, look you, is not
come-at-able. I threw one of his varlets into a thorn hedge, and another
into a water-butt, and a third landed head-first into a ditch. But I
couldn’t do any fighting at all.”

“‘Tis a pity!” quoth Little John gravely. He had been sitting cross-legged
listening to this tale of woe. “What think you, Friar Tuck, doth not a bit
of fighting ease a man’s mind?”

“Blood-letting is ofttimes recommended of the leeches,” replied Tuck.

“Does the maid love you?” asked Robin Hood.

“By our troth, she loved me right well,” said the minstrel. “I have a
little ring of hers by me which I have kept for seven long years.”

“What is your name?” then said Robin Hood.

“By the faith of my body,” replied the young man, “my name is
Allan-a-Dale.”

“What will you give me, Allan-a-Dale,” said Robin Hood, “in ready gold or
fee, to help you to your true love again, and deliver her back unto you?”

“I have no money, save only five shillings,” quoth Allan; “but—are
you not Robin Hood?”

Robin nodded.

“Then you, if any one, can aid me!” said Allan-a-Dale eagerly. “And if you
give me back my love, I swear upon the Book that I will be your true
servant forever after.”

“Where is this wedding to take place, and when?” asked Robin.

“At Plympton Church, scarce five miles from here; and at three o’ the
afternoon.”

“Then to Plympton we will go!” cried Robin suddenly springing into action;
and he gave out orders like a general: “Will Stutely, do you have
four-and-twenty good men over against Plympton Church ‘gainst three o’ the
afternoon. Much, good fellow, do you cook up some porridge for this youth,
for he must have a good round stomach—aye, and a better gear! Will
Scarlet, you will see to decking him out bravely for the nonce. And Friar
Tuck, hold yourself in readiness, good book in hand, at the church. Mayhap
you had best go ahead of us all.”

The fat Bishop of Hereford was full of pomp and importance that day at
Plympton Church. He was to celebrate the marriage of an old knight—a
returned Crusader—and a landed young woman; and all the gentry
thereabout were to grace the occasion with their presence. The church
itself was gaily festooned with flowers for the ceremony, while out in the
church-yard at one side brown ale flowed freely for all the servitors.

Already were the guests beginning to assemble, when the Bishop, back in
the vestry, saw a minstrel clad in green walk up boldly to the door and
peer within. It was Robin Hood, who had borrowed Allan’s be-ribboned harp
for the time.

“Now who are you, fellow?” quoth the Bishop, “and what do you here at the
church-door with you harp and saucy air?”

“May it please your Reverence,” returned Robin bowing very humbly, “I am
but a strolling harper, yet likened the best in the whole North Countree.
And I had hope that my thrumming might add zest to the wedding to-day.”

“What tune can you harp?” demanded the Bishop.

“I can harp a tune so merry that a forlorn lover will forget he is
jilted,” said Robin. “I can harp another tune that will make a bride
forsake her lord at the altar. I can harp another tune that will bring
loving souls together though they were up hill and down dale five good
miles away from each other.”

“Then welcome, good minstrel,” said the Bishop, “music pleases me right
well, and if you can play up to your prattle, ‘twill indeed grace your
ceremony. Let us have a sample of your wares.”

“Nay, I must not put finger to string until the bride and groom have come.
Such a thing would ill fortune both us and them.”

“Have it as you will,” said the Bishop, “but here comes the party now.”

Then up the lane to the church came the old knight, preceded by ten
archers liveried in scarlet and gold. A brave sight the archers made, but
their master walked slowly leaning upon a cane and shaking as though in a
palsy.

And after them came a sweet lass leaning upon her brother’s arm. Her hair
did shine like glistering gold, and her eyes were like blue violets that
peep out shyly at the sun. The color came and went in her cheeks like that
tinting of a sea-shell, and her face was flushed as though she had been
weeping. But now she walked with a proud air, as though she defied the
world to crush her spirit. She had but two maids with her, finikin lasses,
with black eyes and broad bosoms, who set off their lady’s more delicate
beauty well. One held up the bride’s gown from the ground; the other
carried flowers in plenty.

“Now by all the wedding bells that ever were rung!” quoth Robin boldly,
“this is the worst matched pair that ever mine eyes beheld!”

“Silence, miscreant!” said a man who stood near.

The Bishop had hurriedly donned his gown and now stood ready to meet the
couple at the chancel.

But Robin paid no heed to him. He let the knight and his ten archers pass
by, then he strode up to the bride, and placed himself on the other side
from her brother.

“Courage, lady!” he whispered, “there is another minstrel near, who mayhap
may play more to your liking.”

The lady glanced at him with a frightened air, but read such honesty and
kindness in his glance that she brightened and gave him a grateful look.

“Stand aside, fool!” cried the brother wrathfully.

“Nay, but I am to bring good fortune to the bride by accompanying her
through the church-doors,” said Robin laughing.

Thereupon he was allowed to walk by her side unmolested, up to the chancel
with the party.

“Now strike up your music, fellow!” ordered the Bishop.

“Right gladly will I,” quoth Robin, “an you will let me choose my
instrument. For sometimes I like the harp, and other times I think the
horn makes the merriest music in all the world.”

And he drew forth his bugle from underneath his green cloak and blew three
winding notes that made the church—rafters ring again.

“Seize him!” yelled the Bishop; “there’s mischief afoot! These are the
tricks of Robin Hood!”

The ten liveried archers rushed forward from the rear of the church, where
they had been stationed. But their rush was blocked by the onlookers who
now rose from their pews in alarm and crowded the aisles. Meanwhile Robin
had leaped lightly over the chancel rail and stationed himself in a nook
by the altar.

“Stand where you are!” he shouted, drawing his bow, “the first man to pass
the rail dies the death. And all ye who have come to witness a wedding
stay in your seats. We shall e’en have one, since we are come into the
church. But the bride shall choose her own swain!”

Then up rose another great commotion at the door, and four-and-twenty good
bowmen came marching in with Will Stutely at their head. And they seized
the ten liveried archers and the bride’s scowling brother and the other
men on guard and bound them prisoners.

Then in came Allan-a-Dale, decked out gaily, with Will Scarlet for best
man. And they walked gravely down the aisle and stood over against the
chancel.

“Before a maiden weds she chooses—an the laws of good King Harry be
just ones,” said Robin. “Now, maiden, before this wedding continues, whom
will you have to husband?”

The maiden answered not in words, but smiled with a glad light in her
eyes, and walked over to Allan and clasped her arms about his neck.

“That is her true love,” said Robin. “Young Allan instead of the gouty
knight. And the true lovers shall be married at this time before we depart
away. Now my lord Bishop, proceed with the ceremony!”

“Nay, that shall not be,” protested the Bishop; “the banns must be cried
three times in the church. Such is the law of our land.”

“Come here, Little John,” called Robin impatiently; and plucked off the
Bishop’s frock from his back and put it on the yeoman.

Now the Bishop was short and fat, and Little John was long and lean. The
gown hung loosely over Little John’s shoulders and came only to his waist.
He was a fine comical sight, and the people began to laugh consumedly at
him.

“By the faith o’ my body,” said Robin, “this cloth makes you a man. You’re
the finest Bishop that ever I saw in my life. Now cry the banns.”

So Little John clambered awkwardly into the quire, his short gown
fluttering gaily; and he called the banns for the marriage of the maid and
Allan-a-Dale once, twice, and thrice.

“That’s not enough,” said Robin; “your gown is so short that you must talk
longer.”

Then Little John asked them in the church four, five, six, and seven
times.

“Good enough!” said Robin. “Now belike I see a worthy friar in the back of
this church who can say a better service than ever my lord Bishop of
Hereford. My lord Bishop shall be witness and seal the papers, but do you,
good friar, bless this pair with book and candle.”

So Friar Tuck, who all along had been back in one corner of the church,
came forward; and Allan and his maid kneeled before him, while the old
knight, held an unwilling witness, gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; and
the friar began with the ceremony.

When he asked, “Who giveth this woman?” Robin stepped up and answered in a
clear voice:

“I do! I, Robin Hood of Barnesdale and Sherwood! And he who takes her from
Allan-a-Dale shall buy her full dearly.”

So the twain were declared man and wife and duly blessed; and the bride
was kissed by each sturdy yeoman beginning with Robin Hood.

Now I cannot end this jolly tale better than in the words of the ballad
which came out of the happening and which has been sung in the villages
and countryside ever since:

     “And thus having end of this merry wedding,
     The bride lookt like a queen;
     And so they returned to the merry greenwood
     Amongst the leaves so green.”
 

CHAPTER IX

HOW THE WIDOW’S THREE SONS WERE RESCUED

     Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,
     With a link a down and a down,
     And there he met with the proud Sheriff,
     Was walking along the town.

The wedding-party was a merry one that left Plympton Church, I ween; but
not so merry were the ones left behind. My lord Bishop of Hereford was
stuck up in the organ-loft and left, gownless and fuming. The ten liveried
archers were variously disposed about the church to keep him company; two
of them being locked in a tiny crypt, three in the belfry, “to ring us a
wedding peal,” as Robin said; and the others under quire seats or in the
vestry. The bride’s brother at her entreaty was released, but bidden not
to return to the church that day or interfere with his sister again on
pain of death. While the rusty old knight was forced to climb a high tree,
where he sat insecurely perched among the branches, feebly cursing the
party as it departed.

It was then approaching sundown, but none of the retainers or villagers
dared rescue the imprisoned ones that night, for fear of Robin Hood’s men.
So it was not until sunup the next day, that they were released. The
Bishop and the old knight, stiff as they were, did not delay longer than
for breakfast, but so great was their rage and shame—made straight
to Nottingham and levied the Sheriff’s forces. The Sheriff himself was not
anxious to try conclusions again with Robin in the open. Perhaps he had
some slight scruples regarding his oath. But the others swore that they
would go straight to the King, if he did not help them, so he was fain to
consent.

A force of an hundred picked men from the Royal Foresters and swordsmen of
the shire was gathered together and marched straightway into the
greenwood. There, as fortune would have it, they surprised some score of
outlaws hunting, and instantly gave chase. But they could not surround the
outlaws, who kept well in the lead, ever and anon dropping behind a log or
boulder to speed back a shaft which meant mischief to the pursuers. One
shaft indeed carried off the Sheriff’s hat and caused that worthy man to
fall forward upon his horse’s neck from sheer terror; while five other
arrows landed in the fleshy parts of Foresters’ arms.

But the attacking party was not wholly unsuccessful. One outlaw in his
flight stumbled and fell; when two others instantly stopped and helped to
put him on his feet again. They were the widow’s three sons, Stout Will,
and Lester, and John. The pause was an unlucky one for them, as a party of
Sheriff’s men got above them and cut them off from their fellows.
Swordsmen came up in the rear, and they were soon hemmed in on every side.
But they gave good account of themselves, and before they had been
overborne by force of numbers they had killed two and disabled three more.

The infuriated attackers were almost on the point of hewing the stout
outlaws to pieces, when the Sheriff cried:

“Hold! Bind the villains! We will follow the law in this and take them to
the town jail. But I promise ye the biggest public hanging that has been
seen in this shire for many changes of the moon!”

So they bound the widow’s three sons and carried them back speedily to
Nottingham.

Now Robin Hood had not chanced to be near the scene of the fight, or with
his men; so for a time he heard nothing of the happening.

But that evening while returning to the camp he was met by the widow
herself, who came weeping along the way.

“What news, what news, good woman?” said Robin hastily but courteously;
for he liked her well.

“God save ye, Master Robin!” said the dame wildly. “God keep ye from the
fate that has met my three sons! The Sheriff has laid hands on them and
they are condemned to die.”

“Now, by our Lady! That cuts me to the heart! Stout Will, and Lester, and
merry John! The earliest friends I had in the band, and still among the
bravest! It must not be! When is this hanging set?”

“Middle the tinker tells me that it is for tomorrow noon,” replied the
dame.

“By the truth o’ my body,” quoth Robin, “you could not tell me in better
time. The memory of the old days when you freely bade me sup and dine
would spur me on, even if three of the bravest lads in all the shire were
not imperiled. Trust to me, good woman!”

The old widow threw herself on the ground and embraced his knees.

“‘Tis dire danger I am asking ye to face,” she said weeping; “and yet I
knew your brave true heart would answer me. Heaven help ye, good Master
Robin, to answer a poor widow’s prayers!”

Then Robin Hood sped straightway to the forest-camp, where he heard the
details of the skirmish—how that his men had been out-numbered five
to one, but got off safely, as they thought, until a count of their
members had shown the loss of the widow’s three sons.

“We must rescue them, my men!” quoth Robin, “even from out the shadow of
the rope itself!”

Whereupon the band set to work to devise ways and means.

Robin walked apart a little way with his head leaned thoughtfully upon his
breast—for he was sore troubled—when whom should he meet but
an old begging palmer, one of a devout order which made pilgrimages and
wandered from place to place, supported by charity.

This old fellow walked boldly up to Robin and asked alms of him; since
Robin had been wont to aid members of his order.

“What news, what news, thou foolish old man?” said Robin, “what news, I do
thee pray?”

“Three squires in Nottingham town,” quoth the palmer, “are condemned to
die. Belike that is greater news than the shire has had in some Sundays.”

Then Robin’s long-sought idea came to him like a flash.

“Come, change thine apparel with me, old man,” he said, “and I’ll give
thee forty shillings in good silver to spend in beer or wine.”

“O, thine apparel is good,” the palmer protested, “and mine is ragged and
torn. The holy church teaches that thou should’st ne’er laugh an old man
to scorn.”

“I am in simple earnest, I say. Come, change thine apparel with mine. Here
are twenty pieces of good broad gold to feast they brethren right
royally.”

So the palmer was persuaded; and Robin put on the old man’s hat, which
stood full high in the crown; and his cloak, patched with black and blue
and red, like Joseph’s coat of many colors in its old age; and his
breeches, which had been sewed over with so many patterns that the
original was scarce discernible; and his tattered hose; and his shoes,
cobbled above and below. And while as he made the change in dress he made
so many whimsical comments also about a man’s pride and the dress that
makes a man, that the palmer was like to choke with cackling laughter.

I warrant you, the two were comical sights when they parted company that
day. Nathless, Robin’s own mother would not have known him, had she been
living.

The next morning the whole town of Nottingham was early astir, and as soon
as the gates were open country-folk began to pour in; for a triple hanging
was not held there every day in the week, and the bustle almost equated a
Fair day.

Robin Hood in his palmer’s disguise was one of the first ones to enter the
gates, and he strolled up and down and around the town as though he had
never been there before in all his life. Presently he came to the
market-place, and beheld thereon three gallows erected.

“Who are these builded for, my son?” asked he of a rough soldier standing
by.

“For three of Robin Hood’s men,” answered the other. “And it were Robin
himself, ‘twould be thrice as high I warrant ye. But Robin is too smart to
get within the Sheriff’s clutches again.”

The palmer crossed himself.

“They say that he is a bold fellow,” he whined.

“Ha!” said the soldier, “he may be bold enough out behind stumps i’ the
forest, but the open market-place is another matter.”

“Who is to hang these three poor wretches?” asked the palmer.

“That hath the Sheriff not decided. But here he comes now to answer his
own questions.” And the soldier came to stiff attention as the Sheriff and
his body-guard stalked pompously up to inspect the gallows.

“O, Heaven save you, worshipful Sheriff!” said the palmer. “Heaven protect
you! What will you give a silly old man to-day to be your hangman?”

“Who are you, fellow?” asked the Sheriff sharply.

“Naught save a poor old palmer. But I can shrive their souls and hang
their bodies most devoutly.”

“Very good,” replied the other. “The fee to-day is thirteen pence; and I
will add thereunto some suits of clothing for that ragged back of yours.”

“God bless ye!” said the palmer. And he went with the soldier to the jail
to prepare his three men for execution.

Just before the stroke of noon the doors of the prison opened and the
procession of the condemned came forth. Down through the long lines of
packed people they walked to the market-place, the palmer in the lead, and
the widow’s three sons marching firmly erect between soldiers.

At the gallows foot they halted. The palmer whispered to them, as though
offering last words of consolation; and the three men, with arms bound
tightly behind their backs, ascended the scaffold, followed by their
confessor.

Then Robin stepped to the edge of the scaffold, while the people grew
still as death; for they desired to hear the last words uttered to the
victims. But Robin’s voice did not quaver forth weakly, as formerly, and
his figure had stiffened bolt upright beneath the black robe that covered
his rags.

“Hark ye, proud Sheriff!” he cried. “I was ne’er a hangman in all my life,
nor do I now intend to begin that trade. Accurst be he who first set the
fashion of hanging! I have but three more words to say. Listen to them!”

And forth from the robe he drew his horn and blew three loud blasts
thereon. Then his keen hunting-knife flew forth and in a trice, Stout
Will, Lester, and merry John were free men and had sprung forward and
seized the halberds from the nearest soldiers guarding the gallows.

“Seize them! ‘Tis Robin Hood!” screamed the Sheriff, “an hundred pounds if
ye hold them, dead or alive!”

“I make it two hundred!” roared the fat Bishop.

But their voices were drowned in the uproar that ensued immediately after
Robin blew his horn. He himself had drawn his sword and leaped down the
stairs from the scaffold, followed by his three men. The guard had closed
around them in vain effort to disarm them, when “A rescuer” shouted Will
Stutely’s clear voice on one side of them, and “A rescue!” bellowed Little
John’s on the other; and down through the terror-stricken crowd rushed
fourscore men in Lincoln green, their force seeming twice that number in
the confusion. With swords drawn they fell upon the guard from every side
at once. There was a brief clash of hot weapons, then the guard scattered
wildly, and Robin Hood’s men formed in a compact mass around their leader
and forced their way slowly down the market-place.

“Seize them! In the King’s name!” shrieked the Sheriff. “Close the gates!”

In truth, the peril would have been even greater, had this last order been
carried out. But Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale had foreseen that event,
and had already overpowered the two warders.

So the gates stood wide open, and toward them the band of outlaws headed.

The soldiers rallied a force of twice their number and tried resolutely to
pierce their center. But the retreating force turned thrice and sent such
volleys of keen arrows from their good yew bows, that they kept a distance
between the two forces.

And thus the gate was reached, and the long road leading up the hill, and
at last the protecting greenwood itself. The soldiers dared come no
farther. And the widow’s three sons, I warrant you, supped more heartily
that night than ever before in their whole lives.

CHAPTER X

HOW A BEGGAR FILLED THE PUBLIC EYE

     Good Robin accost him in his way,
     To see what he might be;
     If any beggar had money,
     He thought some part had he.

One bright morning, soon after the stirring events told in the last
chapter, Robin wandered forth alone down the road to Barnesdale, to see if
aught had come of the Sheriff’s pursuit. But all was still and serene and
peaceful. No one was in sight save a solitary beggar who came sturdily
along his way in Robin’s direction. The beggar caught sight of Robin, at
the same moment, as he emerged from the trees, but gave no sign of having
seen him. He neither slackened nor quickened his pace, but jogged forward
merrily, whistling as he came, and beating time by punching holes in the
dusty road with the stout pike-staff in his hand.

The curious look of the fellow arrested Robin’s attention, and he decided
to stop and talk with him. The fellow was bare-legged and bare-armed, and
wore a long shift of a shirt, fastened with a belt. About his neck hung a
stout, bulging bag, which was buckled by a good piece of leather thong.

     He had three hats upon his head,
     Together sticked fast,
     He cared neither for the wind nor wet,
     In lands where’er he past.

The fellow looked so fat and hearty, and the wallet on his shoulder seemed
so well filled, that Robin thought within himself,

“Ha! this is a lucky beggar for me! If any of them have money, this is the
chap, and, marry, he should share it with us poorer bodies.”

So he flourished his own stick and planted himself in the traveler’s path.

“Sirrah, fellow!” quoth he; “whither away so fast? Tarry, for I would have
speech with ye!”

The beggar made as though he heard him not, and kept straight on with his
faring.

“Tarry, I say, fellow!” said Robin again; “for there’s a way to make folks
obey!”

“Nay, ‘tis not so,” answered the beggar, speaking for the first time; “I
obey no man in all England, not even the King himself. So let me pass on
my way, for ‘tis growing late, and I have still far to go before I can
care for my stomach’s good.”

“Now, by my troth,” said Robin, once more getting in front of the other,
“I see well by your fat countenance, that you lack not for good food,
while I go hungry. Therefore you must lend me of your means till we meet
again, so that I may hie to the nearest tavern.”

“I have no money to lend,” said the beggar crossly. “Methinks you are as
young a man as I, and as well able to earn a supper. So go your way, and
I’ll go mine. If you fast till you get aught out of me, you’ll go hungry
for the next twelvemonth.”

“Not while I have a stout stick to thwack your saucy bones!” cried Robin.
“Stand and deliver, I say, or I’ll dust your shirt for you; and if that
will not teach you manners, then we’ll see what a broad arrow can do with
a beggar’s skin!”

The beggar smiled, and answered boast with boast. “Come on with your
staff, fellow! I care no more for it than for a pudding stick. And as for
your pretty bow—that for it!”

And with amazing quickness, he swung his pike-staff around and knocked
Robin’s bow clean out of his hand, so that his fingers smarted with pain.
Robin danced and tried to bring his own staff into action; but the beggar
never gave him a chance. Biff! whack! came the pike-staff, smiting him
soundly and beating down his guard.

There were but two things to do; either stand there and take a sound
drubbing, or beat a hasty retreat. Robin chose the latter—as you or
I would probably have done—and scurried back into the wood, blowing
his horn as he went.

“Fie, for shame, man!” jeered the bold beggar after him. “What is your
haste? We had but just begun. Stay and take your money, else you will
never be able to pay your reckoning at the tavern!”

But Robin answered him never a word. He fled up hill and down dale till he
met three of his men who were running up in answer to his summons.

“What is wrong?” they asked.

“‘Tis a saucy beggar,” said Robin, catching his breath. “He is back there
on the highroad with the hardest stick I’ve met in a good many days. He
gave me no chance to reason with him, the dirty scamp!”

The men—Much and two of the widow’s sons—could scarce conceal
their mirth at the thought of Robin Hood running from a beggar. Nathless,
they kept grave faces, and asked their leader if he was hurt.

“Nay,” he replied, “but I shall speedily feel better if you will fetch me
that same beggar and let me have a fair chance at him.”

So the three yeomen made haste and came out upon the highroad and followed
after the beggar, who was going smoothly along his way again, as though he
were at peace with all the world.

“The easiest way to settle this beggar,” said Much, “is to surprise him.
Let us cut through yon neck of woods and come upon him before he is
aware.”

The others agreed to this, and the three were soon close upon their prey.

“Now!” quoth Much; and the other two sprang quickly upon the beggar’s back
and wrested his pike-staff from his hand. At the same moment Much drew his
dagger and flashed it before the fellow’s breast.

“Yield you, my man!” cried he; “for a friend of ours awaits you in the
wood, to teach you how to fight properly.”

“Give me a fair chance,” said the beggar valiantly, “and I’ll fight you
all at once.”

But they would not listen to him. Instead, they turned him about and began
to march him toward the forest. Seeing that it was useless to struggle,
the beggar began to parley.

“Good my masters,” quoth he, “why use this violence? I will go with ye
safe and quietly, if ye insist, but if ye will set me free I’ll make it
worth your while. I’ve a hundred pounds in my bag here. Let me go my way,
and ye shall have all that’s in the bag.”

The three outlaws took council together at this.

“What say you?” asked Much of the others. “Our master will be more glad to
see this beggar’s wallet than his sorry face.”

The other two agreed, and the little party came to a halt and loosed hold
of the beggar.

“Count out your gold speedily, friend,” said Much. There was a brisk wind
blowing, and the beggar turned about to face it, directly they had
unhanded him.

“It shall be done, gossips,” said he. “One of you lend me your cloak and
we will spread it upon the ground and put the wealth upon it.”

The cloak was handed him, and he placed his wallet upon it as though it
were very heavy indeed. Then he crouched down and fumbled with the leather
fastenings. The outlaws also bent over and watched the proceeding closely,
lest he should hide some of the money on his person. Presently he got the
bag unfastened and plunged his hands into it. Forth from it he drew—not
shining gold—but handfuls of fine meal which he dashed into the
eager faces of the men around him. The wind aided him in this, and soon
there arose a blinding cloud which filled the eyes, noses, and mouths of
the three outlaws till they could scarcely see or breathe.

While they gasped and choked and sputtered and felt around wildly for that
rogue of a beggar, he finished the job by picking up the cloak by its
corners and shaking it vigorously in the faces of his suffering victims.
Then he seized a stick which lay conveniently near, and began to rain
blows down upon their heads, shoulders, and sides, all the time dancing
first on one leg, then on the other, and crying,

“Villains! rascals! here are the hundred pounds I promised. How do you
like them? I’ faith, you’ll get all that’s in the bag.”

Whack! whack! whack! whack! went the stick, emphasizing each word. Howls
of pain might have gone up from the sufferers, but they had too much meal
in their throats for that. Their one thought was to flee, and they
stumbled off blindly down the road, the beggar following them a little way
to give them a few parting love-taps.

“Fare ye well, my masters,” he said finally turning the other way; “and
when next I come along the Barnesdale road, I hope you will be able to
tell gold from meal dust!”

With this he departed, an easy victor, and again went whistling on his
way, while the three outlaws rubbed the meal out of their eyes and began
to catch their breath again.

As soon as they could look around them clearly, they beheld Robin Hood
leaning against a tree trunk and surveying them smilingly. He had
recovered his own spirits in full measure, on seeing their plight.

“God save ye, gossips!” he said, “ye must, in sooth, have gone the wrong
way and been to the mill, from the looks of your clothes.”

Then when they looked shamefaced and answered never a word, he went on, in
a soft voice,

“Did ye see aught of that bold beggar I sent you for, lately?”

“In sooth, master,” responded Much the miller’s son, “we heard more of him
than we saw him. He filled us so full of meal that I shall sweat meal for
a week. I was born in a mill, and had the smell of meal in my nostrils
from my very birth, you might say, and yet never before did I see such a
quantity of the stuff in so small space.”

And he sneezed violently.

“How was that?” asked Robin demurely.

“Why we laid hold of the beggar, as you did order, when he offered to pay
for his release out of the bag he carried upon his back.”

“The same I coveted,” quoth Robin as if to himself.

“So we agreed to this,” went on Much, “and spread a cloak down, and he
opened his bag and shook it thereon. Instantly a great cloud of meal
filled the air, whereby we could neither see nor breathe; and in the midst
of this cloud he vanished like a wizard.”

“But not before he left certain black and blue spots, to be remembered by,
I see,” commented Robin.

“He was in league with the evil one,” said one of the widow’s sons,
rubbing himself ruefully.

Then Robin laughed outright, and sat him down upon the gnarled root of a
tree, to finish his merriment.

“Four bold outlaws, put to rout by a sorry beggar!” cried he. “I can laugh
at ye, my men, for I am in the same boat with ye. But ‘twould never do to
have this tale get abroad—even in the greenwood—how that we
could not hold our own with the odds in our favor. So let us have this
little laugh all to ourselves, and no one else need be the wiser!”

The others saw the point of this, and felt better directly, despite their
itching desire to get hold of the beggar again. And none of the four ever
told of the adventure.

But the beggar must have boasted of it at the next tavern; or a little
bird perched among the branches of a neighboring oak must have sung of it.
For it got abroad, as such tales will, and was put into a right droll
ballad which, I warrant you, the four outlaws did not like to hear.

CHAPTER XI

HOW ROBIN HOOD FOUGHT GUY OF GISBORNE

     “I dwell by dale and down,” quoth he,
     “And Robin to take I’m sworn;
     And when I am called by my right name,
     I am Guy of good Gisborne.”
 

Some weeks passed after the rescue of the widow’s three sons; weeks spent
by the Sheriff in the vain effort to entrap Robin Hood and his men. For
Robin’s name and deeds had come to the King’s ears, in London town, and he
sent word to the Sheriff to capture the outlaw, under penalty of losing
his office. So the Sheriff tried every manner of means to surprise Robin
Hood in the forest, but always without success. And he increased the price
put upon Robin’s head, in the hope that the best men of the kingdom could
be induced to try their skill at a capture.

Now there was a certain Guy of Gisborne, a hireling knight of the King’s
army, who heard of Robin and of the price upon his head. Sir Guy was one
of the best men at the bow and the sword in all the King’s service. But
his heart was black and treacherous. He obtained the King’s leave
forthwith to seek out the forester; and armed with the King’s scroll he
came before the Sheriff at Nottingham.

“I have come to capture Robin Hood,” quoth he, “and mean to have him, dead
or alive.”

“Right gladly would I aid you,” answered the Sheriff, “even if the King’s
seal were not sufficient warrant. How many men need you?”

“None,” replied Sir Guy, “for I am convinced that forces of men can never
come at the bold robber. I must needs go alone. But do you hold your men
in readiness at Barnesdale, and when you hear a blast from this silver
bugle, come quickly, for I shall have the sly Robin within my clutches.”

“Very good,” said the Sheriff. “Marry, it shall be done.” And he set about
giving orders, while Guy of Gisborne sallied forth disguised.

Now as luck would have it, Will Scarlet and Little John had gone to
Barnesdale that very day to buy suits of Lincoln green for certain of the
yeomen who had come out at the knees and elbows. But not deeming it best
for both of them to run their necks into a noose, together, they parted
just outside the town, and Will went within the gates, while John tarried
and watched at the brow of the hill on the outside.

Presently whom should he see but this same Will flying madly forth from
the gates again, closely pursued by the Sheriff and threescore men. Over
the moat Will sprang, through the bushes and briars, across the swamp,
over stocks and stones, up the woodland roads in long leaps like a scared
jack rabbit. And after him puffed the Sheriff and his men, their force
scattering out in the flight as one man would tumble head-first into a
ditch, another mire up in the swamp, another trip over a rolling stone,
and still others sit down on the roadside and gasp for wind like fish out
of water.

Little John could not forbear laughing heartily at the scene, though he
knew that ‘twould be anything but a laughing matter if Will should stumble.
And in truth one man was like to come upon him. It was William-a-Trent,
the best runner among the Sheriff’s men. He had come within twenty feet of
Scarlet and was leaping upon him with long bounds like a greyhound, when
John rose up quickly, drew his bow and let fly one of his fatal shafts. It
would have been better for William-a-Trent to have been abed with sorrow—says
the ballad—than to be that day in the greenwood slade to meet with
Little John’s arrow. He had run his last race.

The others halted a moment in consternation, when the shaft came hurtling
down from the hill; but looking up they beheld none save Little John, and
with a cry of fierce joy they turned upon him. Meanwhile Will Scarlet had
reached the brow of the hill and sped down the other side.

“I’ll just send one more little message of regret to the Sheriff,” said
Little John, “before I join Will.”

But this foolhardy deed was his undoing, for just as the arrow left the
string, the good yew bow that had never before failed him snapped in
twain.

“Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, that ere thou grew on a tree!”
cursed Little John, and planted his feet resolutely in the earth resolved
to sell the path dearly; for the soldiers were now so close upon him that
he dared not turn.

And a right good account of himself he gave that day, dealing with each
man as he came up according to his merit. And so winded were the pursuers
when they reached the top of the hill that he laid out the first ten of
them right and left with huge blows of his brawny fist.

But if five men can do more than three, a score can overcome one.

A body of archers stood off at a prudent distance and covered Little John
with their arrows.

“Now yield you!” panted the Sheriff. “Yield you, Little John, or Reynold
Greenleaf, or whatever else name you carry this day! Yield you, or some
few of these shafts will reach your heart!”

“Marry, my heart has been touched by your words ere now,” said Little
John; “and I yield me.”

So the Sheriff’s men laid hold of Little John and bound him fast with many
cords, so fearful were they lest he should escape. And the Sheriff laughed
aloud in glee, and thought of how he should avenge his stolen plate, and
determined to make a good day’s work of it.

“By the Saints!” he said, “you shall be drawn by dale and down, and hanged
high on a hill in Barnesdale this very day.”

“Hang and be hanged!” retorted the prisoner. “You may fail of your purpose
if it be Heaven’s will.”

Back down the hill and across the moor went the company speedily, for they
feared a rescue. And as they went the stragglers joined them. Here a man
got up feebly out of the ditch and rubbed his pate and fell in like a
chicken with the pip going for its dinner. Yonder came hobbling a man with
a lame ankle, or another with his shins torn by the briars or another with
his jacket all muddy from the marsh. So in truth it was a tatterdemalion
crew that limped and straggled and wandered back into Barnesdale that day.
Yet all were merry, for the Sheriff had promised them flagons of wine, and
moreover they were to hang speedily the boldest outlaw in England, next to
Robin Hood himself.

The gallows was quickly put up and a new rope provided.

“Now up with you!” commanded the Sheriff, “and let us see if your
greenwood tricks will avail you to-morrow.”

“I would that I had bold Robin’s horn,” muttered poor John; “methinks ‘tis
all up with me even as the Sheriff hath spoken.”

In good sooth the time was dire and pressing. The rope was placed around
the prisoner’s neck and the men prepared to haul away.

“Are you ready?” called the Sheriff. “One—two—”

But before the “three” left his lips the faint sound of a silver bugle
came floating over the hill.

“By my troth, that is Sir Guy of Gisborne’s horn,” quoth the Sheriff; “and
he bade me not to delay answering its summons. He has caught Robin Hood.”

“Pardon, Excellency,” said one of his men; “but if he has caught Robin
Hood, this is a merry day indeed. And let us save this fellow and build
another gallows and hang them both together.”

“That’s a brave thought!” said the Sheriff slapping his knee. “Take the
rascal down and bind him fast to the gallows-tree against our return.”

So Little John was made fast to the gallows-tree, while the Sheriff and
all his men who could march or hobble went out to get Robin Hood and bring
him in for the double hanging.

Let us leave talking of Little John and the Sheriff, and see what has
become of Robin Hood.

In the first place, he and Little John had come near having a quarrel that
self-same morning because both had seen a curious looking yeoman, and each
wanted to challenge him singly. But Robin would not give way to his
lieutenant, and that is why John, in a huff, had gone with Will to
Barnesdale.

Meanwhile Robin approached the curious looking stranger. He seemed to be a
three-legged creature at first sight, but on coming nearer you would have
seen that ‘twas really naught but a poorly clad man, who for a freak had
covered up his rags with a capul-hide, nothing more nor less than the
sun-dried skin of a horse, complete with head, tail, and mane. The skin of
the head made a helmet; while the tail gave the curious three-legged
appearance.

“Good-morrow, good fellow,” said Robin cheerily, “methinks by the bow you
bear in your hand that you should be a good archer.”

“Indifferent good,” said the other returning his greeting; “but ‘tis not
of archery that I am thinking this morning, for I have lost my way and
would fain find it again.”

“By my faith, I could have believed ‘twas your wits you’d lost!” thought
Robin smiling. Then aloud: “I’ll lead you through the wood,” quoth he, “an
you will tell me your business. For belike your speech is much gentler
than your attire.”

“Who are you to ask me my business?” asked the other roughly.

“I am one of the King’s Rangers,” replied Robin, “set here to guard his
deer against curious looking strollers.”

“Curious looking I may be,” returned the other, “but no stroller. Hark ye,
since you are a Ranger, I must e’en demand your service. I am on the
King’s business and seek an outlaw. Men call him Robin Hood. Are you one
of his men?”—eyeing him keenly.

“Nay, God forbid!” said Robin; “but what want you with him?”

“That is another tale. But I’d rather meet with that proud outlaw than
forty good pounds of the King’s money.”

Robin now saw how the land lay.

“Come with me, good yeoman,” said he, “and belike, a little later in the
day, I can show you Robin’s haunts when he is at home. Meanwhile let us
have some pastime under the greenwood tree. Let us first try the mastery
at shooting arrows.”

The other agreed, and they cut down two willow wands of a summer’s growth
that grew beneath a brier, and set them up at a distance of threescore
yards.

“Lead on, good fellow,” quoth Robin. “The first shot to you.”

“Nay, by my faith,” said the other, “I will follow your lead.”

So Robin stepped forth and bent his bow carelessly and sent his shaft
whizzing toward the wand, missing it by a scant inch. He of the horse-hide
followed with more care yet was a good three-fingers’ breadth away. On the
second round, the stranger led off and landed cleverly within the small
garland at the top of the wand; but Robin shot far better and clave the
wand itself, clean at the middle.

“A blessing on your heart!” shouted Capul-Hide; “never saw I such shooting
as that! Belike you are better than Robin Hood himself. But you have not
yet told me your name.”

“Nay, by my faith,” quoth Robin, “I must keep it secret till you have told
me your own.”

“I do not disdain to tell it,” said the other. “I dwell by dale and down,
and to take bold Robin am I sworn. This would I tell him to his face, were
he not so great a craven. When I am called by my right name, I am Guy of
Gisborne.”

This he said with a great show of pride, and he strutted back and forth,
forgetful that he had just been beaten at archery.

Robin eyed him quietly. “Methinks I have heard of you elsewhere. Do you
not bring men to the gallows for a living?”

“Aye, but only outlaws such as Robin Hood.”

“But pray what harm has Robin Hood done you?”

“He is a highway robber,” said Sir Guy, evading the question.

“Has he ever taken from the rich that he did not give again to the poor?
Does he not protect the women and children and side with weak and
helpless? Is not his greatest crime the shooting of a few King’s deer?”

“Have done with your sophistry,” said Sir Guy impatiently. “I am more than
ever of opinion that you are one of Robin’s men yourself.”

“I have told you I am not,” quoth Robin briefly. “But if I am to help you
catch him, what is your plan?”

“Do you see this silver bugle?” said the other. “A long blast upon it will
summon the Sheriff and all his men, when once I have Robin within my
grasp. And if you show him to me, I’ll give you the half of my forty
pounds reward.”

“I would not help hang a man for ten times forty pounds,” said the outlaw.
“Yet will I point out Robin to you for the reward I find at my sword’s
point. I myself am Robin Hood of Sherwood and Barnesdale.”

“Then have at you!” cried the other springing swiftly into action. His
sword leaped forth from beneath the horse’s hide with the speed born of
long practice, and before Robin had come to guard, the other had smitten
at him full and foul. Robin eluded the lunge and drew his own weapon.

“A scurvy trick!” quoth he grimly, “to strike at a man unprepared.”

Then neither spoke more, but fell sternly to work—lunge and thrust
and ward and parry—for two full hours the weapons smote together
sullenly, and neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy would yield an inch. I
promise you that if you could have looked forth on the fight from behind
the trunk of some friendly tree, you would have seen deadly sport such as
few men beheld in Sherwood Forest. For the fighters glared sullenly at
each other, the fires of hatred burning in their eyes. One was fighting
for his life; the other for a reward and the King’s favor.

Still circled the bright blades swiftly in the air—now gleaming in
the peaceful sunlight—again hissing like maddened serpents. Neither
had yet touched the other, until Robin, in an unlucky moment, stumbled
over the projecting root of a tree; when Sir Guy, instead of giving him
the chance to recover himself, as any courteous knight would have done,
struck quickly at the falling man and wounded him in the left side.

“Ah, dear Lady in Heaven,” gasped Robin uttering his favorite prayer,
“shield me now! ‘Twas never a man’s destiny to die before his day.”

And adroitly he sprang up again, and came straight at the other with an
awkward but unexpected stroke. The knight had raised his weapon high to
give a final blow, when Robin reached beneath and across his guard. One
swift lunge, and Sir Guy of Gisborne staggered backward with a deep groan,
Robin’s sword through his throat.

Robin looked at the slain man regretfully.

“You did bring it upon yourself,” said he; “and traitor and hireling
though you were, I would not willingly have killed you.”

He looked to his own wound. It was not serious, and he soon staunched the
blood and bound up the cut. Then he dragged the dead body into the bushes,
and took off the horse’s hide and put it upon himself. He placed his own
cloak upon Sir Guy, and marked his face so none might tell who had been
slain. Robin’s own figure and face were not unlike the other’s.

Pulling the capul-hide well over himself, so that the helmet hid most of
his face, Robin seized the silver bugle and blew a long blast. It was the
blast that saved the life of Little John, over in Barnesdale, for you and
I have already seen how it caused the fond Sheriff to prick up his ears
and stay the hanging, and go scurrying up over the hill and into the wood
with his men in search of another victim.

In five-and-twenty minutes up came running a score of the Sheriff’s best
archers.

“Did you signal us, lording?” they asked, approaching Robin.

“Aye,” said he, going to meet the puffing Sheriff.

“What news, what news, Sir Guy?” said that officer.

“Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne had a fight; and he that wears Robin’s
cloak lies under the covert yonder.”

“The best news I have heard in all my life!” exclaimed the Sheriff rubbing
his hands. “I would that we could have saved him for the hanging—though
I cannot now complain.”

“The hanging?” repeated Robin.

“Yes. This is our lucky day on the calendar. After you left me we narrowly
missed running one of the fellows—I believe ‘twas Will Scarlet—to
earth; and another who came to his relief we were just about to hang, when
your horn blew.”

“Who was the other?” asked the disguised outlaw.

“Whom do you suppose?” laughed the Sheriff. “The best man in the
greenwood, next to Robin Hood himself—Little John, Reynold
Greenleaf!” For the Sheriff could not forget the name Little John had
borne under his own roof at Nottingham.

“Little John!” thought Robin with a start. Verily that was a lucky blast
of the bugle! “But I see you have not escaped without a scratch,”
continued the Sheriff, becoming talkative through pure glee. “Here, one of
you men! Give Sir Guy of Gisborne your horse; while others of you bury
that dog of an outlaw where he lies. And let us hasten back to Barnesdale
and finish hanging the other.”

So they put spurs to their horses, and as they rode Robin forced himself
to talk merrily, while all the time he was planning the best way to succor
Little John.

“A boon, Sheriff,” he said as they reached the gates of the town.

“What is it, worthy sir? You have but to speak.”

“I do not want any of your gold, for I have had a brave fight. But now
that I have slain the master, let me put an end to the man; so it shall be
said that Guy of Gisborne despatched the two greatest outlaws of England
in one day.”

“Have it as you will,” said the Sheriff, “but you should have asked a
knight’s fee and double your reward, and it would have been yours. It
isn’t every man that can take Robin Hood.” “No, Excellency,” answered
Robin. “I say it without boasting, that no man took Robin Hood yesterday
and none shall take him to-morrow.”

Then he approached Little John, who was still tied to the gallows-tree;
and he said to the Sheriff’s men, “Now stand you back here till I see if
the prisoner has been shrived.” And he stooped swiftly, and cut Little
John’s bonds, and thrust into his hands Sir Guy’s bow and arrows, which he
had been careful to take.

“‘Tis I, Robin!” he whispered. But in truth, Little John knew it already,
and had decided there was to be no hanging that day.

Then Robin blew three loud blasts upon his own horn, and drew forth his
own bow; and before the astonished Sheriff and his men could come to arms
the arrows were whistling in their midst in no uncertain fashion.

And look! Through the gates and over the walls came pouring another flight
of arrows! Will Scarlet and Will Stutely had watched and planned a rescue
ever since the Sheriff and Robin rode back down the hill. Now in good time
they came; and the Sheriff’s demoralized force turned tail and ran, while
Robin and Little John stood under the harmless gallows, and sped swift
arrows after them, and laughed to see them go.

Then they joined their comrades and hasted back to the good greenwood, and
there rested. They had got enough sport for one day.

CHAPTER XII

HOW MAID MARIAN CAME BACK TO SHERWOOD FOREST; ALSO, HOW ROBIN HOOD CAME
BEFORE QUEEN ELEANOR.

     But Robin Hood, he himself had disguis’d,
     And Marian was strangely attir’d,
     That they proved foes, and so fell to blows,
     Whose valor bold Robin admir’d.

     And when he came at London’s court,
     He fell down on his knee.
     “Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen,
     “And all thy good yeomandree.”
 

Now it fell out that one day not long thereafter, Robin was minded to try
his skill at hunting. And not knowing whom he might meet in his rambles,
he stained his face and put on a sorry-looking jacket and a long cloak
before he sallied forth. As he walked, the peacefulness of the morning
came upon him, and brought back to his memory the early days so long ago
when he had roamed these same glades with Marian. How sweet they seemed to
him now, and how far away! Marian, too, the dainty friend of his youth—would
he ever see her again? He had thought of her very often of late, and each
time with increasing desire to hear her clear voice and musical laugh, and
see her eyes light up at his coming.

Perhaps the happiness of Allen-a-Dale and his lady had caused Robin’s
heart-strings to vibrate more strongly; perhaps, too, the coming of Will
Scarlet. But, certes, Robin was anything but a hunter this bright morning
as he walked along with head drooping in a most love-lorn way.

Presently a hart entered the glade in full view of him, grazing
peacefully, and instantly the man of action awoke. His bow was drawn and a
shaft all but loosed, when the beast fell suddenly, pierced by a clever
arrow from the far side of the glade.

Then a handsome little page sprang gleefully from the covert and ran
toward the dying animal. This was plainly the archer, for he flourished
his bow aloft, and likewise bore a sword at his side, though for all that
he looked a mere lad.

Robin approached the hart from the other side.

“How dare you shoot the King’s beasts, stripling?” he asked severely.

“I have as much right to shoot them as the King himself,” answered the
page haughtily. “How dare you question me?”

The voice stirred Robin strongly. It seemed to chime into his memories of
the old days. He looked at the page sharply, and the other returned the
glance, straight and unafraid.

“Who are you, my lad?” Robin said more civilly.

“No lad of yours, and my name’s my own,” retorted the other with spirit.

“Softly! Fair and softly, sweet page, or we of the forest will have to
teach you manners!” said Robin.

“Not if you stand for the forest!” cried the page, whipping out his
sword. “Come, draw, and defend yourself!”

He swung his blade valiantly; and Robin saw nothing for it but to draw
likewise. The page thereupon engaged him quite fiercely, and Robin found
that he had many pretty little tricks at fencing.

Nathless, Robin contented himself with parrying, and was loth to exert all
his superior strength upon the lad. So the fight lasted for above a
quarter of an hour, at the end of which time the page was almost spent and
the hot blood flushed his cheeks in a most charming manner.

The outlaw saw his distress, and to end the fight allowed himself to be
pricked slightly on the wrist.

“Are you satisfied, fellow?” asked the page, wincing a little at sight of
the blood.

“Aye, honestly,” replied Robin; “and now perhaps you will grant me the
honor of knowing to whom I owe this scratch?”

“I am Richard Partington, page to Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor,” answered
the lad with dignity; and again the sound of his voice troubled Robin
sorely.

“Why come you to the greenwood alone, Master Partington?”

The lad considered his answer while wiping his sword with a small lace
kerchief. The action brought a dim confused memory to Robin. The lad
finally looked him again in the eye.

“Forester, whether or no you be a King’s man, know that I seek one Robin
Hood, an outlaw, to whom I bring amnesty from the Queen. Can you tell me
aught of him?” And while awaiting his answer, he replaced the kerchief in
his shirt. As he did so, the gleam of a golden trophy caught the outlaw’s
eye.

Robin started forward with a joyful cry.

“Ah! I know you now! By the sight of yon golden arrow won at the Sheriff’s
tourney, you are she on whom I bestowed it, and none other than Maid
Marian!”

“You—are—?” gasped Marian, for it was she; “not Robin!”

“Robin’s self!” said he gaily; and forthwith, clad as he was in rags, and
stained of face, he clasped the dainty page close to his breast, and she
forsooth yielded right willingly.

“But Robin!” she exclaimed presently, “I knew you not, and was rude, and
wounded you!”

“‘Twas nothing,” he replied laughingly, “so long as it brought me you.”

But she made more ado over the sore wrist than Robin had received for all
his former hurts put together. And she bound it with the little kerchief,
and said, “Now ‘twill get well!” and Robin was convinced she spoke the
truth, for he never felt better in all his life. The whole woods seemed
tinged with a roseate hue, since Marian had come again.

But she, while happy also, was ill at ease; and Robin with a man’s slow
discernment at last saw that it was because of her boy’s attire. He
thought bluntly that there was naught to be ashamed of, yet smilingly
handed her his tattered long cloak, which she blushingly put on, and
forthwith recovered her spirits directly.

Then they began to talk of each other’s varied fortunes, and of the many
things which had parted them; and so much did they find to tell that the
sun had begun to decline well into the afternoon before they realized how
the hours sped.

“I am but a sorry host!” exclaimed Robin, springing to his feet. “I have
not once invited you to my wild roof.”

“And I am but a sorry page,” replied Marian; “for I had clean forgot that
I was Richard Partington, and really did bring you a message from Queen
Eleanor!”

“Tell me on our way home, and there you shall be entrusted to Mistress
Dale. While the first of my men we meet will I send back for your deer.”

So she told him, as they walked back through the glade, how that the fame
of his prowess had reached Queen Eleanor’s ears, in London town. And the
Queen had said, “Fain would I see this bold yeoman, and behold his skill
at the long-bow.” And the Queen had promised him amnesty if he and four of
his archers would repair to London against the next tournament the week
following, there to shoot against King Henry’s picked men, of whom the
King was right vain. All this Marian told in detail, and added:

“When I heard Her Majesty say she desired to see you, I asked leave to go
in search of you, saying I had known you once. And the Queen was right
glad, and bade me go, and sent this gold ring to you from off her finger,
in token of her faith.”

Then Robin took the ring and bowed his head and kissed it loyally. “By
this token will I go to London town,” quoth he, “and ere I part with the
Queen’s pledge, may the hand that bears it be stricken off at the wrist!”
By this time they were come to the grove before the cave, and Robin
presented Maid Marian to the band, who treated her with the greatest
respect. Will Scarlet was especially delighted to greet again his old time
friend, while Allan-a-Dale and his good wife bustled about to make her
welcome in their tiny thatched cottage.

That evening after they had supped royally upon the very hart that Marian
had slain, Allan sang sweet songs of Northern minstrelsy to the fair guest
as she sat by Robin’s side, the golden arrow gleaming in her dark hair.
The others all joined in the chorus, from Will Scarlet’s baritone to Friar
Tuck’s heavy bass. Even Little John essayed to sing, although looked at
threateningly by Much the miller’s son.

Then Robin bade Marian repeat her message from the Queen, which Marian did
in a way befitting the dignity of her royal mistress. After which the
yeomen gave three cheers for the Queen and three more for her page, and
drank toasts to them both, rising to their feet.

“Ye have heard,” quoth Robin standing forth, “how that Her Majesty—whom
God preserve!—wishes but four men to go with me. Wherefore, I choose
Little John and Will Stutely, my two lieutenants, Will Scarlet, my cousin,
and Allan-a-Dale, my minstrel. Mistress Dale, also, can go with her
husband and be company for the Queen’s page. We will depart with early
morning, decked in our finest. So stir ye, my lads! and see that not only
your tunics are fresh, but your swords bright and your bows and arrows
fit. For we must be a credit to the Queen as well as the good greenwood.
You, Much, with Stout Will, Lester, and John, the widow’s three sons,
shall have command of the band while we are away; and Friar Tuck shall
preside over the needs of your souls and stomachs.”

The orders were received with shouts of approval, and toasts all around
were drunk again in nut-brown ale, ere the company dispersed to rest after
making ready for the journey.

The next morning was as fine a summer’s day as ever you want to see, and
the green leaves of the forest made a pleasing background for the gay
picture of the yeomen setting forth. Says the old ballad—it was a
seemly sight to see how Robin Hood himself had dressed, and all his
yeomanry. He clothed his men in Lincoln green, and himself in scarlet red,
with hats of black and feathers white to bravely deck each head. Nor were
the two ladies behind-hand, I ween, at the bedecking.

Thus the chosen party of seven sallied forth being accompanied to the edge
of the wood by the whole band, who gave them a merry parting and Godspeed!

The journey to London town was made without incident. The party proceeded
boldly along the King’s highroad, and no man met them who was disposed to
say them nay. Besides, the good Queen’s warrant and ring would have
answered for them, as indeed it did at the gates of London. So on they
sped and in due course came to the palace itself and awaited audience with
the Queen.

Now the King had gone that day to Finsbury Field, where the tourney was
soon to be held, in order to look over the lists and see some of his
picked men whom he expected to win against all comers. So much had he
boasted of these men, that the Queen had secretly resolved to win a wager
of him. She had heard of the fame of Robin Hood and his yeomen, as Marian
had said; and Marian on her part had been overjoyed to be able to add a
word in their favor and to set out in search of them.

To-day the Queen sat in her private audience-room chatting pleasantly with
her ladies, when in came Mistress Marian Fitzwalter attired again as
befitted her rank of lady-in-waiting. She courtesied low to the Queen and
awaited permission to speak.

“How now!” said the Queen smiling; “is this my lady Marian, or the page,
Richard Partington?”

“Both, an it please Your Majesty. Richard found the man you sought, while
Marian brought him to you.”

“Where is he?” asked Queen Eleanor eagerly.

“Awaiting your audience—he and four of his men, likewise a lady of
whose wooing and wedding I can tell you a pretty story at another time.”

“Have them admitted.”

So Marian gave orders to a herald, and presently Robin Hood and his little
party entered the room.

Now the Queen had half-expected the men to be rude and uncouth in
appearance, because of their wild life in the forest; but she was
delightfully disappointed. Indeed she started back in surprise and almost
clapped her hands. For, sooth to say, the yeomen made a brave sight, and
in all the court no more gallant men could be found. Marian felt her
cheeks glow with pride, at sight of the half-hidden looks of admiration
sent forth by the other ladies-in-waiting.

Robin had not forgot the gentle arts taught by his mother, and he wore his
fine red velvet tunic and breeches with the grace of a courtier. We have
seen, before, what a dandified gentleman Will Scarlet was; and
Allan-a-Dale, the minstrel, was scarcely less goodly to look upon. While
the giant Little John and broad-shouldered Will Stutely made up in stature
what little they lacked in outward polish. Mistress Dale, on her part,
looked even more charming, if possible, than on the momentous day when she
went to Plympton Church to marry one man and found another.

Thus came the people of the greenwood before Queen Eleanor, in her own
private audience room. And Robin advanced and knelt down before her, and
said:

“Here I am, Robin Hood—I and my chosen men! At Your Majesty’s
bidding am I come, bearing the ring of amnesty which I will protect—as
I would protect Your Majesty’s honor—with my life!”

“Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen smiling graciously.

“Thou art come in good time, thou and all thy brave yeomanry.”

Then Robin presented each of his men in turn, and each fell on his knee
and was greeted with most kindly words. And the Queen kissed fair Mistress
Dale upon the cheek, and bade her remain in the palace with her ladies
while she was in the city. And she made all the party be seated to rest
themselves after their long journey. Fine wines were brought, and cake,
and rich food, for their refreshment. And as they ate and drank, the Queen
told them further of the tourney to be held at Finsbury Field, and of how
she desired them to wear her colors and shoot for her. Meantime, she
concluded, they were to lie by quietly and be known of no man.

To do all this, Robin and his men pledged themselves full heartily. Then
at the Queen’s request, they related to her and her ladies some of their
merry adventures; whereat the listeners were vastly entertained, and
laughed heartily. Then Marian, who had heard of the wedding at Plympton
Church, told it so drolly that tears stood in the Queen’s eyes from
merriment.

“My lord Bishop of Hereford!” she said, “‘Twas indeed a comical business
for him! I shall keep that to twit his bones, I promise you! So this is
our minstrel?” she added presently, turning to Allan-a-Dale. “Methinks I
have already heard of him. Will he not harp awhile for us to-day?”

Allan bowed low, and took a harp which was brought to him, and he thrummed
the strings and sang full sweetly the border songs of the North Countree.
And the Queen and all her ladies listened in rapt silence till all the
songs were ended.

CHAPTER XIII

HOW THE OUTLAWS SHOT IN KING HARRY’S TOURNEY

     The King is into Finsbury Field
     Marching in battle ‘ray,
     And after follows bold Robin Hood,
     And all his yeomen gay.

The morning of the great archery contest dawned fair and bright, bringing
with it a fever of impatience to every citizen of London town, from the
proudest courtier to the lowest kitchen wench. Aye, and all the
surrounding country was early awake, too, and began to wend their way to
Finsbury Field, a fine broad stretch of practice ground near Moorfields.
Around three sides of the Field were erected tier upon tier of seats, for
the spectators, with the royal boxes and booths for the nobility and
gentry in the center. Down along one end were pitched gaily colored tents
for the different bands of King’s archers. There were ten of these bands,
each containing a score of men headed by a captain of great renown; so
to-day there were ten of the pavilions, each bearing aloft the Royal Arms
and vari-colored pennants which fluttered lightly in the fresh morning
breeze.

Each captain’s flag was of peculiar color and device. First came the royal
purple streamer of Tepus, own bow-bearer to the King, and esteemed the
finest archer in all the land. Then came the yellow of Clifton of
Buckinghamshire; and the blue of Gilbert of the White Hand—he who
was renowned in Nottinghamshire; and the green of Elwyn the Welshman; and
the White of Robert of Cloudesdale; and, after them, five other captains
of bands, each a man of proved prowess. As the Queen had said aforetime,
the King was mightily proud of his archers, and now held this tourney to
show their skill and, mayhap, to recruit their forces.

The uprising tiers of seats filled early, upon this summer morning, and
the merry chatter of the people went abroad like the hum of bees in a
hive. The royal party had not yet put in an appearance, nor were any of
the King’s archers visible. So the crowd was content to hide its
impatience by laughing jibes passed from one section to another, and
crying the colors of their favorite archers. In and out among the seats
went hawkers, their arms laden with small pennants to correspond with the
rival tents. Other vendors of pie and small cakes and cider also did a
thrifty business, for so eager had some of the people been to get good
seats, that they had rushed away from home without their breakfast.

Suddenly the gates at the far end, next the tents, opened wide, and a
courier in scarlet and gold, mounted upon a white horse, rode in blowing
lustily upon the trumpet at his lips; and behind him came six
standard-bearers riding abreast. The populace arose with a mighty cheer.
King Harry had entered the arena. He bestrode a fine white charger and was
clad in a rich dark suit of slashed velvet with satin and gold facings.
His hat bore a long curling ostrich plume of pure white and he doffed it
graciously in answer to the shouts of the people. By his side rode Queen
Eleanor, looking regal and charming in her long brocade riding-habit;
while immediately behind them came Prince Richard and Prince John, each
attired in knightly coats of mail and helmets. Lords and ladies of the
realm followed; and finally, the ten companies of archers, whose progress
round the field was greeted with hardly less applause than that given the
King himself.

The King and Queen dismounted from their steeds, ascended the steps of the
royal box, and seated themselves upon two thrones, decked with purple and
gold trapping, upon a dais sheltered by striped canvas. In the booths at
each side the members of the Court took their places; while comely pages
ran hither and thither bearing the royal commands. ‘Twas a lordly sight, I
ween, this shifting of proud courtiers, flashing of jeweled fans, and
commingling of bright colors with costly gems!

Now the herald arose to command peace, and soon the clear note of his
bugle rose above the roar of the crowd and hushed it to silence. The
tenscore archers ranged themselves in two long rows on each side of the
lists—a gallant array—while their captains, as a special mark
of favor, stood near the royal box.

“Come hither, Tepus,” said the King to his bow-bearer. “Come, measure me
out this line, how long our mark must be.”

“What is the reward?” then asked the Queen.

“That will the herald presently proclaim,” answered the King. “For first
prize we have offered a purse containing twoscore golden pounds; for
second, a purse containing twoscore silver pennies; and for third a silver
bugle, inlaid with gold. Moreover, if the King’s companies keep these
prizes, the winning companies shall have, first, two tuns of Rhenish wine;
second, two tuns of English beer; and, third, five of the fattest harts
that run on Dallom Lea. Methinks that is a princely wager,” added King
Harry laughingly.

Up spake bold Clifton, secure in the King’s favor. “Measure no marks for
us, most sovereign liege,” quoth he; “for such largess as that, we’ll
shoot at the sun and the moon.”

“‘Twill not be so far as that,” said the King. “But get a line of good
length, Tepus, and set up the targets at tenscore paces.”

Forthwith, Tepus bowed low, and set up ten targets, each bearing the
pennant of a different company, while the herald stood forth again and
proclaimed the rules and prizes. The entries were open to all comers. Each
man, also, of the King’s archers should shoot three arrows at the target
bearing the colors of his band, until the best bowman in each band should
be chosen. These ten chosen archers should then enter a contest for an
open target—three shots apiece—and here any other bowman
whatsoever was asked to try his skill. The result at the open targets
should decide the tourney.

Then all the people shouted again, in token that the terms of the contest
pleased them; and the archers waved their bows aloft, and wheeled into
position facing their respective targets.

The shooting now began, upon all the targets at once, and the multitude
had so much ado to watch them, that they forgot to shout. Besides, silence
was commanded during the shooting. Of all the fine shooting that morning,
I have not now space to tell you. The full score of men shot three times
at each target, and then three times again to decide a tie. For, more than
once, the arrow shot by one man would be split wide open by his successor.
Every man’s shaft bore his number to ease the counting; and so close would
they stick at the end of a round, that the target looked like a big
bristle hairbrush. Then must the spectators relieve their tense spirits by
great cheering; while the King looked mighty proud of his skilled bowmen.

At last the company targets were decided, and Tepus, as was expected, led
the score, having made six exact centers in succession. Gilbert of the
White Hand followed with five, and Clifton with four. Two other captains
had touched their center four times, but not roundly. While in the other
companies it so chanced that the captains had been out-shot by some of the
men under them.

The winners then saluted the King and Queen, and withdrew for a space to
rest and renew their bow-strings for the keenest contest of all; while the
lists were cleared and a new target—the open one—was set up at
twelvescore paces. At the bidding of the King, the herald announced that
the open target was to be shot at, to decide the title of the best archer
in all England; and any man there present was privileged to try for it.
But so keen had been the previous shooting, that many yeomen who had come
to enter the lists now would not do so; and only a dozen men stepped forth
to give in their names.

“By my halidom!” said the King, “these must be hardy men to pit themselves
against my archers!”

“Think you that your ten chosen fellows are the best bowmen in all
England?” asked the Queen.

“Aye, and in all the world beside,” answered the King; “and thereunto I
would stake five hundred pounds.”

“I am minded to take your wager,” said the Queen musingly, “and will e’en
do so if you grant me a boon.”

“What is it?” asked the King.

“If I produce five archers who can out-shoot your ten, will you grant my
men full grace and amnesty?”

“Assuredly!” quoth the King in right good humor. “Nathless, I tell you
now, your wager is in jeopardy, for there never were such bowmen as Tepus
and Clifton and Gilbert!”

“Hum!” said the Queen puckering her brow, still as though lost in thought.
“I must see if there be none present to aid me in my wager. Boy, call
hither Sir Richard of the Lea and my lord Bishop of Hereford!”

The two summoned ones, who had been witnessing the sport, came forward.

“Sir Richard,” said she, “thou art a full knight and good. Would’st advise
me to meet a wager of the King’s, that I can produce other archers as good
as Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton?”

“Nay, Your Majesty,” he said, bending his knee. “There be none present
that can match them. Howbeit,”—he added dropping his voice—“I
have heard of some who lie hid in Sherwood Forest who could show them
strange targets.”

The Queen smiled and dismissed him.

“Come hither, my lord Bishop of Hereford,” quoth she, “would’st thou
advance a sum to support my wager ‘gainst the King?”

“Nay, Your Majesty,” said the fat Bishop, “an you pardon me, I’d not lay
down a penny on such a bet. For by my silver mitre, the King’s archers are
men who have no peers.”

“But suppose I found men whom thou knewest to be masters at the
bow,” she insisted roguishly, “would’st thou not back them? Belike, I have
heard that there be men round about Nottingham and Plympton who carry such
matters with a high hand!”

The Bishop glanced nervously around, as if half expecting to see Robin
Hood’s men standing near; then turned to find the Queen looking at him
with much amusement lurking in her eyes.

“Odds bodikins! The story of my misadventure must have preceded me!” he
thought, ruefully. Aloud he said, resolved to face it out,

“Your Majesty, such tales are idle and exaggerated. An you pardon me, I
would add to the King’s wager that his men are invincible.”

“As it pleases thee,” replied the Queen imperturbably. “How much?”

“Here is my purse,” said the Bishop uneasily. “It contains fifteen score
nobles, or near a hundred pounds.”

“I’ll take it at even money,” she said, dismissing him; “and Your Majesty”—turning
to the King who had been conversing with the two princes and certain of
the nobles—“I accept your wager of five hundred pounds.”

“Very good,” said the King, laughing as though it were a great jest. “But
what had minded you to take such interest in the sport, of a sudden?”

“It is as I have said. I have found five men whom I will pit against any
you may produce.”

“Then we will try their skill speedily,” quoth the King. “How say you, if
first we decide this open target and then match the five best thereat
against your unknown champions?”

“Agreed,” said the Queen. Thereupon she signed to Maid Marian to step
forward, from a near-by booth where she sat with other ladies-in-waiting,
and whispered something in her ear. Marian courtesied and withdrew.

Now the ten chosen archers from the King’s bands came forth again and took
their stand; and with them stood forth the twelve untried men from the
open lists. Again the crowd was stilled, and every eye hung upon the
speeding of the shafts. Slowly but skilfully each man shot, and as his
shaft struck within the inner ring a deep breath broke from the multitude
like the sound of the wind upon the seashore. And now Gilbert of the White
Hand led the shooting, and ‘twas only by the space of a hairsbreadth upon
the line that Tepus tied his score. Stout Elwyn, the Welshman, took third
place; one of the private archers, named Geoffrey, come fourth; while
Clifton must needs content himself with fifth.

The men from the open lists shot fairly true, but nervousness and fear of
ridicule wrought their undoing.

The herald then came forward again, and, instead of announcing the
prize-winners, proclaimed that there was to be a final contest. Two men
had tied for first place, declared His Majesty the King, and three others
were entitled to honors. Now all these five were to shoot again, and they
were to be pitted against five other of the Queen’s choosing—men who
had not yet shot upon that day.

A thrill of astonishment and excitement swept around the arena. “Who were
these men of the Queen’s choosing?” was upon every lip. The hubbub of
eager voices grew intense; and in the midst of it all, the gate at the far
end of the field opened and five men entered and escorted a lady upon
horseback across the arena to the royal box. The lady was instantly
recognized as Mistress Marian of the Queen’s household, but no one seemed
to know the faces of her escort. Four were clad in Lincoln green, while
the fifth, who seemed to be the leader, was dressed in a brave suit of
scarlet red. Each man wore a close fitting cap of black, decked with a
curling white feather. For arms, they carried simply a stout bow, a sheaf
of new arrows, and a short hunting-knife.

When the little party came before the dais on which the King and Queen
sat, the yeomen doffed their caps humbly, while Maid Marian was assisted
to dismount.

“Your Gracious Majesty,” she said, addressing the Queen, “these be the men
for whom you sent me, and who are now come to wear your colors and service
you in the tourney.”

The Queen leaned forward and handed them each a scarf of green and gold.

“Lockesley,” she said in a clear voice, “I thank thee and thy men for this
service. Know that I have laid a wager with the King that ye can outshoot
the best five whom he has found in all his bowmen.” The five men pressed
the scarfs to their lips in token of fealty.

The King turned to the Queen inquiringly.

“Who are these men you have brought before us?” asked he.

Up came the worthy Bishop of Hereford, growing red and pale by turns.

“Your pardon, my liege lord!” cried he; “But I must denounce these fellows
as outlaws. Yon man in scarlet is none other than Robin Hood himself. The
others are Little John and Will Stutely and Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale—all
famous in the North Countree for their deeds of violence.”

“As my lord Bishop personally knows!” added the Queen significantly.

The King’s brows grew dark. The name of Robin Hood was well known to him,
as to every man there present.

“Is this true?” he demanded sternly.

“Aye, my lord,” responded the Queen demurely. “But, bethink you—I
have your royal promise of grace and amnesty.”

“That will I keep,” said the King, holding in check his ire by a mighty
effort. “But, look you! Only forty days do I grant of respite. When this
time has elapsed, let these bold outlaws look to their safety!”

Then turning to his five victorious archers, who had drawn near, he added,
“Ye have heard, my men, how that I have a wager with the Queen upon your
prowess. Now here be men of her choosing—certain free shafts of
Sherwood and Barnesdale. Wherefore look well to it, Gilbert and Tepus and
Geoffrey and Elwyn and Clifton! If ye outshoot these knaves, I will fill
your caps with silver pennies—aye, and knight the man who stands
first. But if ye lose, I give the prizes, for which ye have just striven,
to Robin Hood and his men, according to my royal word.”

“Robin Hood and his men!” the saying flew round the arena with the speed
of wild-fire, and every neck craned forward to see the famous fellows who
had dared to brave the King’s anger, because of the Queen.

Another target was now set up, at the same distance as the last, and it
was decided that the ten archers should shoot three arrows in turn.
Gilbert and Robin tossed up a penny for the lead, and it fell to the
King’s men. So Clifton was bidden to shoot first.

Forth he stood, planting his feet firmly, and wetting his fingers before
plucking the string. For he was resolved to better his losing score of
that day. And in truth he did so, for the shaft he loosed sped true, and
landed on the black bull’s-eye, though not in the exact center. Again he
shot, and again he hit the black, on the opposite rim. The third shaft
swerved downward and came within the second ring, some two fingers’
breadths away. Nathless, a general cry went up, as this was the best
shooting Clifton had done that day.

Will Scarlet was chosen to follow him, and now took his place and
carefully chose three round and full-feathered arrows.

“Careful, my sweet coz!” quoth Robin in a low tone. “The knave has left
wide space at the center for all of your darts.”

But Robin gave Will the wrong caution, for over-much care spoiled his aim.
His first shaft flew wide and lodged in the second ring even further away
than the worst shot of Clifton.

“Your pardon, coz!” quoth Robin hastily. “Bid care go to the bottom of the
sea, and do you loose your string before it sticks to your fingers!”

And Will profited by this hint, and loosed his next two shafts as freely
as though they flew along a Sherwood glade. Each struck upon the
bull’s-eye, and one even nearer the center than his rival’s mark. Yet the
total score was adjudged in favor of Clifton. At this Will Scarlet bit his
lip, but said no word, while the crowd shouted and waved yellow flags for
very joy that the King’s man had overcome the outlaw. They knew, also,
that this demonstration would please the King.

The target was now cleared for the next two contestants—Geoffrey and
Allan-a-Dale. Whereat, it was noticed that many ladies in the Queen’s
booths boldly flaunted Allan’s colors, much to the honest pride which
glowed in the cheeks of one who sat in their midst.

“In good truth,” said more than one lady to Mistress Dale, “if thy husband
can handle the longbow as skilfully as the harp, his rival has little show
of winning!”

The saying augured well. Geoffrey had shot many good shafts that day; and
indeed had risen from the ranks by virtue of them. But now each of his
three shots, though well placed in triangular fashion around the rim of
the bull’s-eye, yet allowed an easy space for Allan to graze within. His
shooting, moreover, was so prettily done, that he was right heartily
applauded—the ladies and their gallants leading in the
hand-clapping.

Now you must know that there had long been a friendly rivalry in Robin
Hood’s band as to who was the best shot, next after Robin himself. He and
Will Stutely had lately decided their marksmanship, and Will had found
that Robin’s skill was now so great as to place the leader at the head of
all good bowmen in the forest. But the second place lay between Little
John and Stutely, and neither wished to yield to the other. So to-day they
looked narrowly at their leader to see who should shoot third. Robin read
their faces at a glance, and laughing merrily, broke off two straws and
held them out.

“The long straw goes next!” he decided; and it fell to Stutely.

Elwyn the Welshman was to precede him; and his score was no whit better
than Geoffrey’s. But Stutely failed to profit by it. His besetting sin at
archery had ever been an undue haste and carelessness. To-day these were
increased by a certain moodiness, that Little John had outranked him. So
his first two shafts flew swiftly, one after the other, to lodging places
outside the Welshman’s mark.

“Man! man!” cried Robin entreatingly, “you do forget the honor of the
Queen, and the credit of Sherwood!”

“I ask your pardon, master!” quoth Will humbly enough, and loosing as he
spoke his last shaft. It whistled down the course unerringly and struck in
the exact center—the best shot yet made.

Now some shouted for Stutely and some shouted for Elwyn; but Elwyn’s total
mark was declared the better. Whereupon the King turned to the Queen.
“What say you now?” quoth he in some triumph. “Two out of the three first
rounds have gone to my men. Your outlaws will have to shoot better than
that in order to save your wager!”

The Queen smiled gently.

“Yea, my lord,” she said. “But the twain who are left are able to do the
shooting. You forget that I still have Little John and Robin Hood.”

“And you forget, my lady, that I still have Tepus and Gilbert.”

So each turned again to the lists and awaited the next rounds in silent
eagerness. I ween that King Harry had never watched the invasion of an
enemy with more anxiety than he now felt.

Tepus was chosen to go next and he fell into the same error with Will
Scarlet. He held the string a moment too long, and both his first and
second arrows came to grief. One of them, however, came within the black
rim, and he followed it up by placing his third in the full center, just
as Stutely had done in his last. These two centers were the fairest shots
that had been made that day; and loud was the applause which greeted this
second one. But the shouting was as nothing to the uproar which followed
Little John’s shooting. That good-natured giant seemed determined to outdo
Tepus by a tiny margin in each separate shot; for the first and the second
shafts grazed his rival’s on the inner side, while for the third Little
John did the old trick of the forest: he shot his own arrow in a graceful
curve which descended from above upon Tepus’s final center shaft with a
glancing blow that drove the other out and left the outlaw’s in its place.

The King could scarce believe his eyes. “By my halidom!” quoth he, “that
fellow deserves either a dukedom or a hanging! He must be in league with
Satan himself! Never saw I such shooting.”

“The score is tied, my lord,” said the Queen; “we have still to see
Gilbert and Robin Hood.”

Gilbert now took his stand and slowly shot his arrows, one after another,
into the bull’s-eye. ‘Twas the best shooting he had yet done, but there
was still the smallest of spaces left—if you looked closely—at
the very center.

“Well done, Gilbert!” spoke up Robin Hood. “You are a foeman worthy of
being shot against.” He took his own place as he spoke. “Now if you had
placed one of your shafts there”—loosing one of his own—“and
another there”—out sped the second—“and another there”—the
third was launched—“mayhap the King would have declared you the best
bowman in all England!”

But the last part of his merry speech was drowned in the wild tumult of
applause which followed his exploit. His first two shafts had packed
themselves into the small space left at the bull’s-eye; while his third
had split down between them, taking half of each, and making all three
appear from a distance, as one immense arrow.

Up rose the King in amazement and anger.

“Gilbert is not yet beaten!” he cried. “Did he not shoot within the mark
thrice? And that is allowed a best in all the rules of archery.”

Robin bowed low.

“As it please Your Majesty!” quoth he. “But may I be allowed to place the
mark for the second shooting?”

The King waved his hand sullenly.. Thereupon Robin prepared another old
trick of the greenwood, and got him a light, peeled willow wand which he
set in the ground in place of the target.

“There, friend Gilbert,” called he gaily; “belike you can hit that!”

“I can scarce see it from here,” said Gilbert, “much less hit it.
Nathless, for the King’s honor, I will try.”

But this final shot proved his undoing, and his shaft flew harmlessly by
the thin white streak. Then came Robin to his stand again, and picked his
arrow with exceeding care, and tried his string. Amid a breathless pause
he drew the good yew bow back to his ear, glanced along the shaft, and let
the feathered missile fly. Straight it sped, singing a keen note of
triumph as it went. The willow wand was split in twain, as though it had
met a hunter’s knife.

“Verily, I think your bow is armed with witchcraft!” cried Gilbert. “For I
did not believe such shooting possible.”

“You should come to see our merry lads in the greenwood,” retorted Robin
lightly. “For willow wands do not grow upon the cobblestones of London
town.”

Meanwhile the King in great wrath had risen to depart, first signing the
judges to distribute the prizes. Never a word said he, of good or ill, to
the Queen, but mounted his horse and, followed by his sons and knights,
rode off the field. The archers dropped upon one knee as he passed, but he
gave them a single baleful look and was gone.

Then the Queen beckoned the outlaws to approach, and they did so and knelt
at her feet.

“Right well have ye served me,” she said, “and sorry am I that the King’s
anger is aroused thereby. But fear ye not. His word and grace hold true.
As to these prizes ye have gained, I add others of mine own—the
wagers I have won from His Majesty the King and from the lord Bishop of
Hereford. Buy with some of these moneys the best swords ye can find in
London, for all your band, and call them the swords of the Queen. And
swear with them to protect all the poor and the helpless and the women—kind
who come your way.”

“We swear,” said the five yeomen solemnly.

Then the Queen gave each of them her hand to kiss, and arose and departed
with all her ladies. And after they were gone, the King’s archers came
crowding around Robin and his men, eager to get a glimpse of the fellows
about whom they had heard so much. And back of them came a great crowd of
the spectators pushing and jostling in their efforts to come nearer.

“Verily!” laughed Little John, “they must take us for a Merry Andrew
show!”

Now the judges came up, and announced each man his prize, according to the
King’s command. To Robin was give the purse containing twoscore golden
pounds; to Little John the twoscore silver pennies; and to Allan-a-Dale
the fine inlaid bugle, much to his delight, for he was skilled at blowing
sweet tunes upon the horn hardly less than handling the harp strings. But
when the Rhenish wine and English beer and harts of Dallom Lea were spoken
of, Robin said:

“Nay, what need we of wine or beer, so far from the greenwood? And ‘twould
be like carrying coals to Newcastle, to drive those harts to Sherwood! Now
Gilbert and Tepus and their men have shot passing well. Wherefore, the
meat and drink must go to them, an they will accept it of us.”

“Right gladly,” replied Gilbert grasping his hand. “Ye are good men all,
and we will toast you every one, in memory of the greatest day at archery
that England has ever seen, or ever will see!”

Thus said all the King’s archers, and the hand of good-fellowship was
given amid much shouting and clapping on the shoulder-blades.

And so ended King Harry’s tourney, whose story has been handed down from
sire to son, even unto the present day.

CHAPTER XIV

HOW ROBIN HOOD WAS SOUGHT OF THE TINKER

     And while the tinker fell asleep,
     Robin made haste away,
     And left the tinker in the lurch,
     For the great shot to pay.

King Henry was as good as his word. Robin Hood and his party were suffered
to depart from London—the parting bringing keen sorrow to Marian—and
for forty days no hand was raised against them. But at the end of that
time, the royal word was sent to the worthy Sheriff at Nottingham that he
must lay hold upon the outlaws without further delay, as he valued his
office.

Indeed, the exploits of Robin and his band, ending with the great tourney
in Finsbury Field, had made a mighty stir through all England, and many
there were to laugh boldly at the Nottingham official for his failures to
capture the outlaws.

The Sheriff thereupon planned three new expeditions into the greenwood,
and was even brave enough to lead them, since he had fifteen-score men at
his beck and call each time. But never the shadow of an outlaw did he see,
for Robin’s men lay close, and the Sheriff’s men knew not how to come at
their chief hiding-place in the cove before the cavern.

Now the Sheriff’s daughter had hated Robin Hood bitterly in her heart ever
since the day he refused to bestow upon her the golden arrow, and shamed
her before all the company. His tricks, also, upon her father were not
calculated to lessen her hatred, and so she sought about for means to aid
the Sheriff in catching the enemy.

“There is no need to go against this man with force of arms,” she said.
“We must meet his tricks with other tricks of our own.”

“Would that we could!” groaned the Sheriff. “The fellow is becoming a
nightmare unto me.”

“Let me plan a while,” she replied. “Belike I can cook up some scheme for
his undoing.”

“Agreed,” said the Sheriff, “and if anything comes of your planning, I
will e’en give you an hundred silver pennies for a new gown, and a double
reward to the man who catches the outlaws.”

Now upon that same day, while the Sheriff’s daughter was racking her
brains for a scheme, there came to the Mansion House a strolling tinker
named Middle, a great gossip and braggart. And as he pounded away upon
some pots and pans in the scullery, he talked loudly about what he
would do, if he once came within reach of that rascal Robin Hood.

“It might be that this simple fellow could do something through his very
simplicity,” mused the Sheriff’s daughter, overhearing his prattle. “Odds
bodikins! ‘twill do no harm to try his service, while I bethink myself of
some better plan.”

And she called him to her, and looked him over—a big brawny fellow
enough, with an honest look about the eye, and a countenance so open that
when he smiled his mouth seemed the only country on the map.

“I am minded to try your skill at outlaw catching,” she said, “and will
add goodly measure to the stated reward if you succeed. Do you wish to
make good your boasted prowess?”

The tinker grinned broadly.

“Yes, your ladyship,” he said.

“Then here is a warrant made out this morning by the Sheriff himself. See
that you keep it safely and use it to good advantage.”

And she dismissed him.

Middle departed from the house mightily pleased with himself, and proud of
his commission. He swung his crab-tree-staff recklessly in his glee—so
recklessly that he imperiled the shins of more than one angry passer-by—and
vowed he’d crack the ribs of Robin Hood with it, though he was surrounded
by every outlaw in the whole greenwood.

Spurred on by the thoughts of his own coming bravery, he left the town and
proceeded toward Barnesdale. The day was hot and dusty, and at noontime he
paused at a wayside inn to refresh himself. He began by eating and
drinking and dozing, in turn, then sought to do all at once.

Mine host of the “Seven Does” stood by, discussing the eternal Robin with
a drover.

“Folk do say that my lord Sheriff has sent into Lincoln for more
men-at-arms and horses, and that when he has these behind him, he’ll soon
rid the forest of these fellows.”

“Of whom speak you?” asked the tinker sitting up.

“Of Robin Hood and his men,” said the host; “but go to sleep again. You
will never get the reward!”

“And why not?” asked the tinker, rising with great show of dignity.

“Where our Sheriff has failed, and the stout Guy of Gisborne, and many
more beside, it behoves not a mere tinker to succeed.”

The tinker laid a heavy hand upon the innkeeper’s fat shoulder, and tried
to look impressive.

“There is your reckoning, host, upon the table. I must e’en go upon my
way, because I have more important business than to stand here gossiping
with you. But be not surprised, if, the next time you see me, I shall have
with me no less person than Robin Hood himself!”

And he strode loftily out the door and walked up the hot white road toward
Barnesdale.

He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he met a young man with
curling brown hair and merry eyes. The young man carried his light cloak
over his arm, because of the heat, and was unarmed save for a light sword
at his side. The newcomer eyed the perspiring tinker in a friendly way,
and seeing he was a stout fellow accosted him.

“Good-day to you!” said he.

“Good-day to you!” said the tinker; “and a morrow less heating.”

“Aye,” laughed the other. “Whence come you? And know you the news?”

“What is the news?” said the gossipy tinker, pricking up his ear; “I am a
tinker by trade, Middle by name, and come from over against Banbury.”

“Why as for the news,” laughed the stranger, “I hear that two tinkers were
set i’ the stocks for drinking too much ale and beer.”

“If that be all your news,” retorted Middle, “I can beat you clear to the
end of the lane.”

“What news have you? Seeing that you go from town to town, I ween you can
outdo a poor country yokel at tidings.”

“All I have to tell,” said the other, “is that I am especially
commissioned”—he felt mightily proud of these big words—“especially
commissioned to seek a bold outlaw which they call Robin Hood.”

“So?” said the other arching his brows. “How ‘especially commissioned’?”

“I have a warrant from the Sheriff, sealed with the King’s own seal, to
take him where I can; and if you can tell me where he is, I will e’en make
a man of you.”

“Let me see the warrant,” said the other, “to satisfy myself if it be
right; and I will do the best I can to bring him to you.”

“That will I not,” replied the tinker; “I will trust none with it. And if
you’ll not help me to come at him I must forsooth catch him by myself.”

And he made his crab-tree-staff whistle shrill circles in the air.

The other smiled at the tinker’s simplicity, and said:

“The middle of the road on a hot July day is not a good place to talk
things over. Now if you’re the man for me and I’m the man for you, let’s
go back to the inn, just beyond the bend of road, and quench our thirst
and cool our heads for thinking.”

“Marry come up!” quoth the tinker. “That will I! For though I’ve just come
from there, my thirst rises mightily at the sound of your voice.”

So back he turned with the stranger and proceeded to the “Seven Does.”

The landlord arched his eyebrows silently when he saw the two come in, but
served them willingly.

The tinker asked for wine, and Robin for ale. The wine was not the most
cooling drink in the cellar, nor the clearest headed. Nathless, the tinker
asked for it, since it was expensive and the other man had invited him to
drink. They lingered long over their cups, Master Middle emptying one
after another while the stranger expounded at great length on the best
plans for coming at and capturing Robin Hood.

In the end the tinker fell sound asleep while in the act of trying to get
a tankard to his lips. Then the stranger deftly opened the snoring man’s
pouch, took out the warrant, read it, and put it in his own wallet.
Calling mine host to him, he winked at him with a half smile and told him
that the tinker would pay the whole score when he awoke. Thus was Master
Middle left in the lurch “for the great shot to pay.”

Nathless, the stranger seemed in no great hurry. He had the whim to stay
awhile and see what the droll tinker might do when he awoke. So he hid
behind a window shutter, on the outside, and awaited events.

Presently the tinker came to himself with a prodigious yawn, and reached
at once for another drink.

“What were you saying, friend, about the best plan (ya-a-a-ah!) for
catching this fellow?—Hello!—where’s the man gone?”

He had looked around and saw no one with him at the table.

“Host! host!” he shouted, “where is that fellow who was to pay my
reckoning?”

“I know not,” answered the landlord sharply. “Mayhap he left the money in
your purse.”

“No he didn’t!” roared Middle, looking therein. “Help! Help! I’ve been
robbed! Look you, host, you are liable to arrest for high treason! I am
here upon the King’s business, as I told you earlier in the day. And yet
while I did rest under your roof, thinking you were an honest man (hic!)
and one loving of the King, my pouch has been opened and many matters of
state taken from it.”

“Cease your bellowing!” said the landlord. “What did you lose?”

“Oh, many weighty matters, I do assure you. I had with me, item, a
warrant, granted under the hand of my lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, and
sealed with the Kings’s own seal, for the capture (hic!)—and arrest—and
overcoming of a notorious rascal, one Robin Hood of Barnesdale. Item, one
crust of bread. Item, one lump (hic!) of solder. Item, three pieces of
twine. Item, six single keys (hic!), useful withal. Item, twelve silver
pennies, the which I earned this week (hic!) in fair labor. Item—”

“Have done with your items!” said the host. “And I marvel greatly to hear
you speak in such fashion of your friend, Robin Hood of Barnesdale. For
was he not with you in all good-fellowship?”

“Wh-a-at? That Robin Hood?” gasped Middle with staring eyes. “Why
did you not tell me?”

“Faith, I saw no need o’ telling you! Did you not tell me the first
time you were here to-day, that I need not be surprised if you came back
with no less person than Robin Hood himself?”

“Jesu give me pardon!” moaned the tinker. “I see it all now. He got me to
drinking, and then took my warrant, and my pennies, and my crust—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the host. “I know all about that. But pay me the
score for both of you.”

“But I have no money, gossip. Let me go after that vile bag-o’-bones, and
I’ll soon get it out of him.”

“Not so,” replied the other. “If I waited for you to collect from Robin
Hood, I would soon close up shop.”

“What is the account?” asked Middle.

“Ten shillings, just.”

“Then take here my working-bag and my good hammer too; and if I light upon
that knave I will soon come back after them.”

“Give me your leathern coat as well,” said mine host; “the hammer and bag
of tools are as naught to me.”

“Gramercy!” cried Master Middle, losing what was left of his temper. “It
seems that I have escaped one thief only to fall into the hands of
another. If you will but walk with me out into the middle of the road,
I’ll give you such a crack as shall drive some honesty into your thick
skull.”

“You are wasting your breath and my time,” retorted the landlord.

“Give me your things, and get you gone after your man, speedily.”

Middle thought this to be good advice; so he strode forth from the “Seven
Does” in a black mood.

Ere he had gone half a mile, he saw Robin Hood walking demurely among the
trees a little in front of him.

“Ho there, you villain!” roared the tinker. “Stay your steps! I am
desperately in need of you this day!”

Robin turned about with a surprised face.

“What knave is this?” he asked gently, “who comes shouting after me?”

“No knave! no knave at all!” panted the other, rushing up. “But an honest—man—who
would have—that warrant—and the money for drink!”

“Why, as I live, it is our honest tinker who was seeking Robin Hood! Did
you find him, gossip?”

“Marry, that did I! and I’m now going to pay him my respects!”

And he plunged at him, making a sweeping stroke with his crab-tree-cudgel.

Robin tried to draw his sword, but could not do it for a moment through
dodging the other’s furious blows. When he did get it in hand, the tinker
had reached him thrice with resounding thwacks. Then the tables were
turned, for he dashed in right manfully with his shining blade and made
the tinker give back again.

The greenwood rang with the noise of the fray. ‘Twas steel against wood,
and they made a terrible clattering when they came together. Robin thought
at first that he could hack the cudgel to pieces, for his blade was one of
Toledo—finely tempered steel which the Queen had given him. But the
crab-tree-staff had been fired and hardened and seasoned by the tinker’s
arts until it was like a bar of iron—no pleasant neighbor for one’s
ribs.

Robin presently found this out to his sorrow. The long reach and long
stick got to him when ‘twas impossible for him to touch his antagonist. So
his sides began to ache sorely.

“Hold your hand, tinker,” he said at length. “I cry a boon of you.”

“Before I do it,” said the tinker, “I’d hang you on this tree.”

But even as he spoke, Robin found the moment’s grace for which he longed;
and immediately grasped his horn and blew the three well-known blasts of
the greenwood.

“A murrain seize you!” roared the tinker commencing afresh. “Up to your
old tricks again, are you? Well, I’ll have time to finish my job, if I
hurry.”

But Robin was quite able to hold his own at a pinch, and they had not
exchanged many lunges and passes when up came Little John and Will Scarlet
and a score of yeomen at their heels. Middle was seized without ceremony,
while Robin sat himself down to breathe. “What is the matter?” quoth
Little John, “that you should sit so weariedly upon the highway side?”

“Faith, that rascally tinker yonder has paid his score well upon my hide,”
answered Robin ruefully.

“That tinker, then,” said Little John, “must be itching for more work.
Fain would I try if he can do as much for me.”

“Or me,” said Will Scarlet, who like Little John was always willing to
swing a cudgel.

“Nay,” laughed Robin. “Belike I could have done better, an he had given me
time to pull a young tree up by the roots. But I hated to spoil the
Queen’s blade upon his tough stick or no less tough hide. He had a warrant
for my arrest which I stole from him.”

“Also, item, twelve silver pennies,” interposed the tinker, unsubdued;
“item, one crust of bread, ‘gainst my supper. Item, one lump of solder.
Item, three pieces of twine. Item, six single keys. Item—”

“Yes, I know,” quoth the merry Robin; “I stood outside the landlord’s
window and heard you count over your losses. Here they are again; and the
silver pennies are turned by magic into gold. Here also, if you will, is
my hand.”

“I take it heartily, with the pence!” cried Middle. “By my leathern coat
and tools, which I shall presently have out of that sly host, I swear that
I never yet met a man I liked as well as you! An you and your men here
will take me, I swear I’ll serve you honestly. Do you want a tinker? Nay,
but verily you must! Who else can mend and grind your swords and patch
your pannikins—and fight, too, when occasion serve? Mend your pots!
mend your pa-a-ans!”

And he ended his speech with the sonorous cry of his craft.

By this time the whole band was laughing uproariously at the tinker’s
talk.

“What say you, fellows?” asked Robin. “Would not this tinker be a good
recruit?”

“That he would!” answered Will Scarlet, clapping the new man on the back.
“He will keep Friar Tuck and Much the miller’s son from having the blues.”

So amid great merriment and right good fellowship the outlaws shook Middle
by the hand, and he took oath of fealty, and thought no more of the
Sheriff’s daughter.

CHAPTER XV

HOW ROBIN HOOD WAS TANNED OF THE TANNER

     In Nottingham there lived a jolly tanner,
     With a hey down, down, a down down!
     His name was Arthur-a-Bland,
     There was ne’er a squire in Nottinghamshire

     Dare bid bold Arthur stand.
     And as he went forth, in a summer’s morning,
     With a hey down, down, a down down!
     To the forest of merrie Sherwood,
     To view the red deer, that range here and there,
     There met he with bold Robin Hood.

The Sheriff’s daughter bided for several days in the faint hope that she
might hear tidings of the prattling tinker. But never a word heard she,
and she was forced to the conclusion that her messenger had not so much as
laid eyes upon the outlaw. Little recked she that he was, even then,
grinding sword-points and sharpening arrows out in the good greenwood,
while whistling blithely or chatting merrily with the good Friar Tuck.

Then she bethought herself of another good man, one Arthur-a-Bland, a
tanner who dwelt in Nottingham town and was far-famed in the tourneys
round about. He had done some pretty tricks at archery, but was strongest
at wrestling and the quarter-staff. For three years he had cast all comers
to the earth in wrestling until the famous Eric o’ Lincoln broke a rib for
him in a mighty tussle. Howsoever, at quarter-staff he had never yet met
his match; so that there was never a squire in Nottinghamshire dare bid
bold Arthur stand.

     With a long pike-staff on his shoulder,
     So well he could clear his way
     That by two and three he made men flee
     And none of them could stay.

Thus at least runs the old song which tells of his might.

“This is just the man for me!” thought the Sheriff’s daughter to herself;
and she forthwith summoned him to the Mansion House and commissioned him
to seek out Robin Hood.

The warrant was quite to Arthur’s liking, for he was happiest when out in
the forest taking a sly peep at the King’s deer; and now he reckoned that
he could look at them boldly, instead of by the rays of the moon. He could
say to any King’s Forester who made bold to stop him: “I am here on the
King’s business!”

“Gramercy! No more oak-bark and ditch-water and the smell of half-tanned
hides to-day!” quoth he, gaily. “I shall e’en see what the free air of
heaven tastes like, when it sweeps through the open wood.”

So the tanner departed joyfully upon his errand, but much more interested
in the dun deer of the forest than in any two-legged rovers therein. This
interest had, in fact, caused the Foresters to keep a shrewd eye upon him
in the past, for his tannery was apt to have plenty of meat in it that was
more like venison than the law allowed. As for the outlaws, Arthur bore
them no ill-will; indeed he had felt a secret envy in his heart at their
free life; but he was not afraid to meet any two men who might come
against him. Nathless, the Sheriff’s daughter did not choose a very good
messenger, as you shall presently see.

Away sped the tanner, a piece of bread and some wine in his wallet, a good
longbow and arrows slung across his shoulder, his stout quarter-staff in
his hand, and on his head a cap of trebled raw-hide so tough that it would
turn the edge of a broadsword. He lost no time in getting out of the hot
sun and into the welcome shade of the forest, where he stalked cautiously
about seeking some sign of the dun deer.

Now it so chanced that upon that very morning Robin Hood had sent Little
John to a neighboring village to buy some cloth of Lincoln green for new
suits for all the band. Some of the money recently won of the King was
being spent in this fashion, ‘gainst the approach of winter. Will Scarlet
had been sent on a similar errand to Barnesdale some time before, if you
remember, only to be chased up the hill without his purchase. So to-day
Little John was chosen, and for sweet company’s sake Robin went with him a
part of the way until they came to the “Seven Does,” the inn where Robin
had recently played his prank upon Middle the tinker. Here they drank a
glass of ale to refresh themselves withal, and for good luck; and Robin
tarried a bit while Little John went on his errand.

Presently Robin entered the edge of the wood, when whom should he see but
Arthur-a-Bland, busily creeping after a graceful deer that browsed alone
down the glade. “Now by Saint George and the Dragon!” quoth Robin to
himself. “I much fear that yon same fellow is a rascally poacher come
after our own and the King’s meat!”

For you must know, by a curious process of reasoning, Robin and his men
had hunted in the royal preserves so long that they had come to consider
themselves joint owners to every animal which roamed therein.

“Nay!” he added, “this must be looked into! That cow-skin cap in sooth
must hide a scurvy varlet!”

And forthwith he crept behind a tree, and thence to another, stalking our
friend Arthur as busily as Arthur was stalking the deer.

This went on for quite a space, until the tanner began to come upon the
deer and to draw his bow in order to tickle the victim’s ribs with a
cloth-yard shaft. But just at this moment Robin unluckily trod upon a twig
which snapped and caused the tanner to turn suddenly.

Robin saw that he was discovered, so he determined to put a bold face on
the matter, and went forward with some smart show of authority.

“Hold!” he cried: “stay your hand! Why, who are you, bold fellow, to range
so boldly here? In sooth, to be brief, ye look like a thief that has come
to steal the King’s deer.”

“Marry, it is scant concern of yours, what I look like!” retorted
Arthur-a-Bland. “Who are you, who speak so bravely?”

“You shall soon find out who I am!” quoth Robin, determining to find some
sport in the matter. “I am a keeper of this forest. The King knows that I
am looking after his deer for him; and therefore we must stay you.”

“Have you any assistants, friend?” asked the tanner calmly. “For it is not
one man alone who can stop me.”

“Nay truly, gossip,” replied Robin. “I have a good yew bow, also a right
sharp blade at my side. Nathless I need no better assistant than a good
oak-graff like unto yours. Give me a baker’s dozen of minutes with it and
it shall pleasure me to crack that pate of yours for your sauciness!”

“Softly, my man! Fair and softly! Big words never killed so much as a
mouse—least of all yon deer which has got away while you were
filling all the woods with your noisy breath. So choose your own
playthings. For your sword and your bow I care not a straw; nor for all
your arrows to boot. If I get but a knock at you, ‘twill be as much as
you’ll need.”

“Now by our Lady! Will you listen to the braggart?” cried Robin in a fine
rage. “Marry, but I’ll teach ye to be more mannerly!”

So saying he unbuckled his belt; and, flinging his bow upon the ground he
seized hold of a young sapling that was growing near by. His hunting knife
soon had it severed and lopped into shape.

“Now come, fellow!” said Arthur-a-Bland, seeing that he was ready. “And if
I do not tan your hide for you in better shape than ever calf-skin was
turned into top-boots, may a murrain seize me!”

“Stay,” said Robin, “methinks my cudgel is half a foot longer than yours.
I would have them of even length before you begin your tanning.”

“I pass not for length,” bold Arthur replied; “my staff is long enough, as
you will shortly find out. Eight foot and a half, and ‘twill knock down a
calf”—here he made it whistle in the air—“and I hope it will
knock down you.”

Forthwith the two men spat on their hands, laid firm hold upon their
cudgels and began slowly circling round each other, looking for an
opening.

Now it so chanced that Little John had fared expeditiously with his
errand. He had met the merchant, from whom he was wont to buy Lincoln
green, coming along the road; and had made known his wants in few words.
The merchant readily undertook to deliver the suits by a certain day in
the following month. So Little John, glad to get back to the cool shelter
of the greenwood, hasted along the road lately taken by Robin.

Presently he heard the sound of angry voices, one of which he recognized
as his captain’s.

“Now, Heaven forfend,” quoth he, “that Robin Hood has fallen into the
clutches of a King’s man! I must take a peep at this fray.”

So he cautiously made his way from tree to tree, as Robin had done, till
he came to the little open space where Robin and Arthur were circling
about each other with angry looks, like two dogs at bay.

“Ha! this looks interesting!” muttered Little John to himself, for he
loved a good quarter-staff bout above anything else in the world, and was
the best man at it in all the greenwood. And he crawled quietly underneath
a friendly bush—much as he had done when Robin undertook to teach
Will Scarlet a lesson—and chuckled softly to himself and slapped his
thigh and prepared to watch the fight at his ease.

Indeed it was both exciting and laughable. You would have chuckled one
moment and caught your breath the next, to see those two stout fellows
swinging their sticks—each half as long again as the men were, and
thick as their arm—and edging along sidewise, neither wishing to
strike the first blow.

At last Robin could no longer forbear, and his good right arm swung round
like a flash. Ping! went the stick on the back of the other’s head,
raising such a welt that the blood came. But the tanner did not seem to
mind it at all, for bing! went his own staff in return, giving Robin as
good as he had sent. Then the battle was on, and furiously it waged. Fast
fell the blows, but few save the first ones landed, being met in mid-air
by a counter-blow till the thwacking sticks sounded like the steady roll
of a kettle-drum and the oak—bark flew as fine as it had ever done
in Arthur-a-Bland’s tannery.

Round and round they fought, digging their heels into the ground to keep
from slipping, so that you would have vowed there had been a yoke of oxen
ploughing a potato-patch. Round and round, up and down, in and out, their
arms working like threshing-machines, went the yeoman and the tanner, for
a full hour, each becoming more astonished every minute that the other was
such a good fellow. While Little John from underneath his bushy covert had
much ado to keep from roaring aloud in pure joy.

Finally Robin saw his chance and brought a full arm blow straight down
upon the other’s head with a force that would have felled a bullock. But
Arthur’s trebled cow-skin cap here stood him in good stead: the blow
glanced off without doing more than stunning him. Nathless, he reeled and
had much ado to keep from falling; seeing which Robin stayed his hand—to
his own sorrow, for the tanner recovered his wits in a marvelous quick
space and sent back a sidelong blow which fairly lifted Robin off his feet
and sent him tumbling on to the grass.

“Hold your hand! hold your hand!” roared Robin with what little breath he
had left. “Hold, I say, and I will give you the freedom of the greenwood.”

“Why, God-a-mercy,” said Arthur; “I may thank my staff for that—not
you.”

“Well, well, gossip’ let be as it may. But prithee tell me your name and
trade. I like to know fellows who can hit a blow like that same last.”

“I am a tanner,” replied Arthur-a-Bland. “In Nottingham long have I
wrought. And if you’ll come to me I swear I’ll tan your hides for naught.”

“Odds bodikins!” quoth Robin ruefully. “Mine own hide is tanned enough for
the present. Howsoever, there be others in this wood I would fain see you
tackle. Harkee, if you will leave your tan-pots and come with me, as sure
as my name is Robin Hood, you shan’t want gold or fee.”

“By the breath o’ my body!” said Arthur, “that will I do!” and he gripped
him gladly by the hand. “But I am minded that I clean forgot the errand
that brought me to Sherwood. I was commissioned by some, under the
Sheriff’s roof, to capture you.”

“So was a certain tinker, now in our service,” said Robin smilingly.

“Verily ‘tis a new way to recruit forces!” said the tanner laughing
loudly. “But tell me, good Robin Hood, where is Little John? I fain would
see him, for he is a kinsman on my mother’s side.”

“Here am I, good Arthur-a-Bland!” said a voice; and Little John literally
rolled out from under the bush to the sward. His eyes were full of tears
from much laughter which had well-nigh left him powerless to get on his
feet.

As soon as the astonished tanner saw who it was, he gave Little John a
mighty hug around the neck, and lifted him up on his feet, and the two
pounded each other on the back soundly, so glad were they to meet again.

“O, man, man!” said Little John as soon as he had got his breath. “Never
saw I so fine a sight in all my born days. You did knock him over like as
he were a ninepin!”

“And you do joy to see me thwacked about on the ribs?” asked Robin with
some choler.

“Nay, not that, master!” said Little John. “But ‘tis the second time I
have had special tickets to a show from beneath the bushes, and I cannot
forbear my delight. Howsoever, take no shame unto yourself, for this same
Arthur-a-Bland is the best man at the quarter-staff in all
Nottinghamshire. It commonly takes two or three men to hold him.”

“Unless it be Eric o’ Lincoln,” said Arthur modestly; “and I well know how
you paid him out at the Fair.”

“Say no more!” said Robin springing to his feet; “for well I know that I
have done good business this day, and a few bruises are easy payment for
the stout cudgel I am getting into the band. Your hand again, good
Arthur-a-Bland! Come! let us after the deer of which I spoiled your
stalking.”

“Righty gladly!” quoth Arthur. “Come, Cousin Little John! Away with vats
and tan-bark and vile-smelling cowhides! I’ll follow you two in the sweet
open air to the very ends of earth!”

CHAPTER XVI

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET SIR RICHARD OF THE LEA

     Then answered him the gentle knight
     With words both fair and thee:
     “God save thee, my good Robin,
     And all thy company!”
 

Now you must know that some months passed by. The winter dragged its weary
length through Sherwood Forest, and Robin Hood and his merry men found
what cheer they could in the big crackling fires before their woodland
cave. Friar Tuck had built him a little hermitage not far away, where he
lived comfortably with his numerous dogs.

The winter, I say, reached an end at last, and the blessed spring came and
went. Another summer passed on apace, and still neither King nor Sheriff
nor Bishop could catch the outlaws, who, meanwhile, thrived and prospered
mightily in their outlawry. The band had been increased from time to time
by picked men such as Arthur-a-Bland and David of Doncaster—he who
was the jolliest cobbler for miles around—until it now numbered a
full sevenscore of men; seven companies each with its stout lieutenant
serving under Robin Hood. And still they relieved the purses of the rich,
and aided the poor, and feasted upon King’s deer until the lank Sheriff of
Nottingham was well-nigh distracted.

Indeed, that official would probable have lost his office entirely, had it
not been for the fact of the King’s death. Henry passed away, as all Kings
will, in common with ordinary men, and Richard of the Lion Heart was
proclaimed as his successor.

Then Robin and his men, after earnest debate, resolved to throw themselves
upon the mercy of the new King, swear allegiance, and ask to be organized
into Royal Foresters. So Will Scarlet and Will Stutely and Little John
were sent to London with this message, which they were first to entrust
privately to Maid Marian. But they soon returned with bad tidings. The new
King had formerly set forth upon a crusade to the Holy Land, and Prince
John, his brother, was impossible to deal with—being crafty, cruel
and treacherous. He was laying his hands upon all the property which could
easily be seized; among other estates, that of the Earl of Huntingdon,
Robin’s old enemy and Marian’s father, who had lately died.

Marian herself was in sore straits. Not only had her estates been taken
away, and the maid been deprived of the former protection of the Queen,
but the evil Prince John had persecuted her with his attentions. He
thought that since the maid was defenseless he could carry her away to one
of his castles and none could gainsay him.

No word of this peril reached Robin’s ears, although his men brought him
word of the seizure of the Huntingdon lands. Nathless he was greatly
alarmed for the safety of Maid Marian, and his heart cried out for her
strongly. She had been continually in his thoughts ever since the
memorable shooting at London town.

One morning in early autumn when the leaves were beginning to turn gold at
the edges, the chestnut-pods to swell with promise of fatness, and the
whole wide woodland was redolent with the ripe fragrance of fruit and
flower, Robin was walking along the edge of a small open glade busy with
his thoughts. The peace of the woods was upon him, despite his broodings
of Marian and he paid little heed to a group of does quietly feeding among
the trees at the far edge of the glade.

But presently this sylvan picture was rudely disturbed for him. A stag,
wild and furious, dashed suddenly forth from among the trees, scattering
the does in swift alarm. The vicious beast eyed the green-and-gold tunic
of Robin, and, lowering it head, charged at him impetuously. So sudden was
its attack that Robin had no time to bend his bow. He sprang behind a tree
while he seized his weapon.

A moment later the wild stag crashed blindly into the tree-trunk with a
shock which sent the beast reeling backward, while the dislodged leaves
from the shivering tree fell in a small shower over Robin’s head.

“By my halidom, I am glad it was not me you struck, my gentle friend!”
quoth Robin, fixing an arrow upon the string. “Sorry indeed would be any
one’s plight who should encounter you in this black humor.”

Scarcely had he spoken when he saw the stag veer about and fix its glances
rigidly on the bushes to the left side of the glade. These were parted by
a delicate hand, and through the opening appeared the slight figure of a
page. It was Maid Marian, come back again to the greenwood!

She advanced, unconscious alike of Robin’s horrified gaze and the evil
fury of the stag.

She was directly in line with the animal, so Robin dared not launch an
arrow. Her own bow was slung across her shoulder, and her small sword
would be useless against the beast’s charge. But now as she caught sight
of the stag she pursed her lips as though she would whistle to it.

“For the love of God, dear lady!” cried Robin; and then the words died in
his throat.

With a savage snort of rage, the beast rushed at this new and inviting
target—rushed so swiftly and from so short a distance that she could
not defend herself. She sprang to one side as it charged down upon her,
but a side blow from its antlers stretched her upon the ground. The stag
stopped, turned, and lowered its head preparing to gore her to death.

Already its cruel horns were coming straight for her, while she, white of
face and bewildered by the sudden attack, was struggling to rise and draw
her sword. A moment more and the end would come. But the sharp voice of
Robin and already spoken.

“Down, Marian!” he cried, and the girl instinctively obeyed, just as the
shaft from Robin’s bow went whizzing close above her head and struck with
terrific force full in the center of the stag’s forehead.

The beast stumbled in its charge and fell dead, across the body of the
fainting maid.

Robin was quickly by her side, and dragged the beast from off the girl.

Picking her up in his strong arms, he bore her swiftly to the side of one
of the many brooks which watered the vale.

He dashed cool water upon her face, roughly almost, in his agony of fear
that the she was already dead, and he could have shed tears of joy to see
those poor, closed eyelids tremble. He redoubled his efforts; and
presently she gave a little gasp.

“Where am I? What is’t?”

“You are in Sherwood, dear maid, tho’, i’ faith, we gave you a rude
reception!”

She opened her eyes and sat up. “Methinks you have rescued me from sudden
danger, sir,” she said.

Then she recognized Robin for the first time, and a radiant smile came
over her face, together with the rare blush of returned vitality, and her
head sank upon his shoulder with a little tremble and sigh of relief.

“Oh, Robin, it is you!” she murmured.

“Aye, ‘tis I. Thank heaven, I was at hand to do you service!” Robin’s
tones were deep and full of feeling. “I swear, dear Marian, that I will
not let you from my care henceforth.”

Not another word was spoken for some moments, while her head still rested
confidingly upon his breast. Then recollecting, he suddenly cried:

“Gramercy, I make but a poor nurse! I have not even asked if any of your
bones were broken.”

“No, not any,” she answered springing lightly to her feet to show him.

“That foolish dizziness o’ercame me for the nonce, but we can now proceed
on our way.”

“Nay, I meant not that,” he protested; “why should we haste? First tell me
of the news in London town, and of yourself.”

So she told him how that the Prince had seized upon her father’s lands,
and had promised to restore them to her if she would listen to his suit;
and how that she knew he meant her no good, for he was even then suing for
a Princess’s hand.

“That is all, Robin,” she ended simply; “and that is why I donned again my
page’s costume and came to you in the greenwood.”

Robin’s brow had grown fiercely black at the recital of her wrong; and he
had laid stern hand upon the hilt of his sword. “By this sword which Queen
Eleanor gave me!” he said impetuously; “and which was devoted to the
service of all womankind, I take oath that Prince John and all his armies
shall not harm you!”

So that is how Maid Marian came to take up her abode in the greenwood,
where the whole band of yeomen welcomed her gladly and swore fealty; and
where the sweet lady of Allan-a-Dale made her fully at home.

But this was a day of deeds in Sherwood Forest, and we ‘gan to tell you
another happening which led to later events.

While Robin and Marian were having their encounter with the stag, Little
John, Much the miller’s son, and Will Scarlet had sallied forth to watch
the highroad leading to Barnesdale, if perchance they might find some
haughty knight or fat priest whose wallet needed lightening.

They had scarcely watched the great road known as Watling Street which
runs from Dover in Kent to Chester town—for many minutes, when they
espied a knight riding by in a very forlorn and careless manner.

     All dreary was his semblance,
     And little was his pride,
     His one
     foot in the stirrup stood,
     His other waved beside.

     His visor hung down o’er his eyes,
     He rode in single array,
     A sorrier man than he was one
     Rode never in summer’s day.

Little John came up to the knight and bade him stay; for who can judge of
a man’s wealth by his looks? The outlaw bent his knee in all courtesy, and
prayed him to accept the hospitality of the forest.

“My master expects you to dine with him, to-day,” quoth he, “and indeed
has been fasting while awaiting your coming, these three hours.”

“Who is your master?” asked the knight.

“None other than Robin Hood,” replied Little John, laying his hand upon
the knight’s bridle.

Seeing the other two outlaws approaching, the knight shrugged his
shoulders, and replied indifferently.

“‘Tis clear that your invitation is too urgent to admit of refusal,” quoth
he, “and I go with you right willingly, my friends. My purpose was to have
dined to-day at Blyth or Doncaster; but nothing matters greatly.”

So in the same lackadaisical fashion which had marked all his actions that
day, the knight suffered his horse to be led to the rendezvous of the band
in the greenwood.

Marian had not yet had time to change her page’s attire, when the three
escorts of the knight hove in sight. She recognized their captive as Sir
Richard of the Lea, whom she had often seen at court; and fearing lest he
might recognize her, she would have fled. But Robin asked her, with a
twinkle, if she would not like to play page that day, and she in roguish
mood consented to do so.

“Welcome, Sir Knight,” said Robin, courteously. “You are come in good
time, for we were just preparing to sit down to meat.”

“God save and thank you, good master Robin,” returned the knight; “and all
your company. It likes me well to break the fast with you.”

So while his horse was cared for, the knight laid aside his own heavy
gear, and laved his face and hands, and sat down with Robin and all his
men to a most plentiful repast of venison, swans, pheasants, various small
birds, cake and ale. And Marian stood behind Robin and filled his cup and
that of the guest.

After eating right heartily of the good cheer, the knight brightened up
greatly and vowed that he had not enjoyed so good a dinner for nigh three
weeks. He also said that if ever Robin and his fellows should come to his
domains, he would strive to set them down to as good a dinner on his own
behalf.

But this was not exactly the sort of payment which Robin had expected to
receive. He thanked the knight, therefore, in set phrase, but reminded him
that a yeoman like himself might hardly offer such a dinner to a knight as
a gift of charity.

“I have no money, Master Robin,” answered the knight frankly. “I have so
little of the world’s goods, in sooth, that I should be ashamed to offer
you the whole of it.”

“Money, however little, always jingles merrily in our pockets,” said
Robin, smiling. “Pray you tell me what you deem a little sum.”

“I have of my own ten silver pennies,” said the knight. “Here they are,
and I wish they were ten times as many.”

He handed Little John his pouch, and Robin nodded carelessly.

“What say you to the total, Little John?” he asked as though in jest.

“‘Tis true enough, as the worthy knight hath said,” responded the big
fellow gravely emptying the contents on his cloak.

Robin signed to Marian, who filled a bumper of wine for himself and his
guest.

“Pledge me, Sir Knight!” cried the merry outlaw; “and pledge me heartily,
for these sorry times. I see that your armor is bent and that your clothes
are torn. Yet methinks I saw you at court, once upon a day, and in more
prosperous guise. Tell me now, were you a yeoman and made a knight by
force? Or, have you been a bad steward to yourself, and wasted your
property in lawsuits and the like? Be not bashful with us. We shall not
betray your secrets.”

“I am a Saxon knight in my own right; and I have always lived a sober and
quiet life,” the sorrowful guest replied. “‘Tis true you have seen me at
court, mayhap, for I was an excited witness of your shooting before King
Harry—God rest his bones! My name is Sir Richard of the Lea, and I
dwell in a castle, not a league from one of the gates of Nottingham, which
has belonged to my father, and his father, and his father’s father before
him. Within two or three years ago my neighbors might have told you that a
matter of four hundred pounds one way or the other was as naught to me.
But now I have only these ten pennies of silver, and my wife and son.”

“In what manner have you lost your riches?” asked Robin.

“Through folly and kindness,” said the knight, sighing. “I went with King
Richard upon a crusade, from which I am but lately returned, in time to
find my son—a goodly youth—grown up. He was but twenty, yet he
had achieved a squire’s training and could play prettily in jousts and
tournaments and other knightly games. But about this time he had the ill
luck to push his sport too far, and did accidentally kill a knight in the
open lists. To save the boy, I had to sell my lands and mortgage my
ancestral castle; and this not being enough, in the end I have had to
borrow money, at a ruinous interest, from my lord of Hereford.”

“A most worthy Bishop,” said Robin ironically. “What is the sum of your
debt?”

“Four hundred pounds,” said Sir Richard, “and the Bishop swears he will
foreclose the mortgage if they are not paid promptly.”

“Have you any friends who would become surety for you?”

“Not one. If good King Richard were here, the tale might be otherwise.”

“Fill your goblet again, Sir Knight,” said Robin; and he turned to whisper
a word in Marian’s ear. She nodded and drew Little John and Will Scarlet
aside and talked earnestly with them, in a low tone.

“Here is health and prosperity to you, gallant Robin,” said Sir Richard,
tilting his goblet. “I hope I may pay your cheer more worthily, the next
time I ride by.”

Will Scarlet and Little John had meanwhile fallen in with Marian’s idea,
for they consulted the other outlaws, who nodded their heads. Thereupon
Little John and Will Scarlet went into the cave near by and presently
returned bearing a bag of gold. This they counted out before the
astonished knight; and there were four times one hundred gold pieces in
it.

“Take this loan from us, Sir Knight, and pay your debt to the Bishop,”
then said Robin. “Nay, no thanks; you are but exchanging creditors. Mayhap
we shall not be so hard upon you as the Christian Bishop; yet, again we
may be harder. Who can tell?”

There were actual tears in Sir Richard’s eyes, as he essayed to thank the
foresters. But at this juncture, Much, the miller’s son, came from the
cave dragging a bale of cloth. “The knight should have a suit worthy of
his rank, master—think you not so?”

“Measure him twenty ells of it,” ordered Robin.

“Give him a good horse, also,” whispered Marian. “‘Tis a gift which will
come back four-fold, for this is a worthy man. I know him well.”

So the horse was given, also, and Robin bade Arthur-a-Bland ride with the
knight as far as his castle, as esquire.

The knight was sorrowful no longer; yet he could hardly voice his thanks
through his broken utterance. And having spent the night in rest, after
listening to Allan-a-Dale’s singing, he mounted his new steed the
following morning an altogether different man.

“God save you, comrades, and keep you all!” said he, with deep feeling in
his tones; “and give me a grateful heart!”

“We shall wait for you twelve months from to-day, here in this place,”
said Robin, shaking him by the hand; “and then you will repay us the loan,
if you have been prospered.”

“I shall return it to you within the year, upon my honor as Sir Richard of
the Lea. And for all time, pray count on me as a steadfast friend.”

So saying the knight and his esquire rode down the forest glade till they
were lost to view.

CHAPTER XVII

HOW THE BISHOP WAS DINED

     “O what is the matter?” then said the Bishop,
     “Or for whom do you make this a-do?
     Or why do you kill the King’s venison,
     When your company is so few?”
 
     “We are shepherds,” quoth bold Robin Hood,
     “And we keep sheep all the year,
     And we are disposed to be merrie this day,
     And to kill of the King’s fat deer.”
 

Not many days after Sir Richard of the Lea came to Sherwood Forest, word
reached Robin Hood’s ears that my lord Bishop of Hereford would be riding
that way betimes on that morning. ‘Twas Arthur-a-Bland, the knight’s
quondam esquire, who brought the tidings, and Robin’s face brightened as
he heard it.

“Now, by our Lady!” quoth he, “I have long desired to entertain my lord in
the greenwood, and this is too fair a chance to let slip. Come, my men,
kill me a venison; kill me a good fat deer. The Bishop of Hereford is to
dine with me today, and he shall pay well for his cheer.”

“Shall we dress it here, as usual?” asked Much, the miller’s son.

“Nay, we play a droll game on the churchman. We will dress it by the
highway side, and watch for the Bishop narrowly, lest he should ride some
other way.”

So Robin gave his orders, and the main body of his men dispersed to
different parts of the forest, under Will Stutely and Little John, to
watch other roads; while Robin Hood himself took six of his men, including
Will Scarlet, and Much, and posted himself in full view of the main road.
This little company appeared funny enough, I assure you, for they had
disguised themselves as shepherds. Robin had an old wool cap, with a tail
to it, hanging over his ear, and a shock of hair stood straight up through
a hole in the top. Besides there was so much dirt on his face that you
would never have known him. An old tattered cloak over his hunter’s garb
completed his make-up. The others were no less ragged and unkempt, even
the foppish Will Scarlet being so badly run down at the heel that the
court ladies would hardly have had speech with him.

They quickly provided themselves with a deer and made great preparations
to cook it over a small fire, when a little dust was seen blowing along
the highway, and out of it came the portly Bishop cantering along with ten
men-at-arms at his heels. As soon as he saw the fancied shepherds he
spurred up his horse, and came straight toward them.

“Who are ye, fellows, who make so free with the King’s deer?” he asked
sharply.

“We are shepherds,” answered Robin Hood, pulling at his forelock
awkwardly.

“Heaven have mercy! Ye seem a sorry lot of shepherds. But who gave you
leave to cease eating mutton?”

“‘Tis one of our feast days, lording, and we were disposed to be merry
this day, and make free with a deer, out here where they are so many.”

“By me faith, the King shall hear of this. Who killed yon beast?”

“Give me first your name, excellence, so that I may speak where ‘tis
fitting,” replied Robin stubbornly.

“‘Tis my lord Bishop of Hereford, fellow!” interposed one of the guards
fiercely. “See that you keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“If ‘tis a churchman,” retorted Will Scarlet, “he would do better to mind
his own flocks rather than concern himself with ours.”

“Ye are saucy fellows, in sooth,” cried the Bishop, “and we will see if
your heads will pay for your manners. Come! quit your stolen roast and
march along with me, for you shall be brought before the Sheriff of
Nottingham forthwith.”

“Pardon, excellence!” said Robin, dropping on his knees. “Pardon, I pray
you. It becomes not your lordship’s coat to take so many lives away.”

“Faith, I’ll pardon you!” said the Bishop. “I’ll pardon you, when I see
you hanged! Seize upon them, my men!”

But Robin had already sprung away with his back against a tree. And from
underneath his ragged cloak he drew his trusty horn and winded the
piercing notes which were wont to summon the band.

The Bishop no sooner saw this action than he knew his man, and that there
was a trap set; and being an arrant coward, he wheeled his horse sharply
and would have made off down the road; but his own men, spurred on the
charge, blocked his way. At almost the same instant the bushes round about
seemed literally to become alive with outlaws. Little John’s men came from
one side and Will Stutely’s from the other. In less time than it takes to
tell it, the worthy Bishop found himself a prisoner, and began to crave
mercy from the men he had so lately been ready to sentence.

     “O pardon, O pardon,” said the Bishop,
     “O pardon, I you pray.
     For if I had known it had been you,
     I’d have gone some other way.”
 

“I owe you no pardon,” retorted Robin, “but I will e’en treat you better
than you would have treated me. Come, make haste, and go along with me. I
have already planned that you shall dine with me this day.”