The first struck the giant's shoulder and fell clattering upon the red tiles. The second dish struck Little John as he recoiled and cut his forehead and head. Blood ran down instantly over his cheek. The third smashed itself against the wall harmlessly. Drawing in his breath, Little John commenced a long chase of his foe, who had raced off to the other side of the table.

Neither man spoke, but each eyed the other warily. Anger shone on one face, jealous hate upon the other. They moved round and round the table carefully.

There were knives in plenty upon it; and every now and again Roger would seize one and fling it hurriedly at his enemy. Little John ruthlessly followed him, without flinching or abating his set purpose by one jot.

At last he made a dart upon Roger and the chase grew furious. Dishes, plates, covers, pots and pans—all that came in the way of them went flying. The noise was awful; then suddenly ceased—for Little John had grasped his prey by the short skirt of his tunic. In another second of time Roger was secured, fluttering, cursing, and green with a sick terror.

Little John lifted him up bodily and flung him with all his strength against the wall of the kitchen. He rebounded from the wall to the dresser; and in convulsive agony gripped hold of those utensils near him. All fell, with reverberations of sound, downward with him to the ground. There Roger lay still—save for a slight and hideous twitching of his mouth.

Little John opened the door to Robin. "Hasten—hasten away from here, soon as you can. There is danger and death."

"And you?"

"I shall escape. I have a story for them." Little John suddenly pushed Robin back into the larder. "'Tis too late: be silent on your life."

Some servants, alarmed by the din, entered. They found Little John, the new kitchen-drawer, bending in consternation over the lifeless form of the cook. "Run, run," cried he, scarce glancing at them. "Here is Roger the cook suddenly dying. His brain has given way. See how the foam flecks upon his lips. Get me water for him. Or stay, help me carry him to his bed."

Little John picked him up tenderly and with a face full of seeming concern. The others, aghast at the mere thought of touching a madman, shrank back. The giant carried the unconscious Roger out of the kitchen.

The servants came and busied themselves in restoring the kitchen to order. One of them opened the larder; but Robin had laid himself full length upon the top shelf. So he was not discovered.

The night wore on and most of the servants went yawningly to bed. Little John returned, telling the few who remained that the cook was recovered from his fit; but was still delirious and unsafe. "I will bank the fire and sleep here, so that I may be able to go to him," continued Little John, with a kind air. "By my wits, but he did mightily scare me when first the distemper showed in him. He sliced me with the spit. See how my head is cut, and my cheek shows you how his horrid teeth did meet in my flesh."

"Did he indeed bite you, Master Nailor?"

"By my bones, he bit and tore me like a wild beast. But since I am so big and not fearful of him I will e'en watch him through the night, unless you choose to do service, Mickleham?"

Mickleham swore roundly that he would not.

"Then get you gone, gossip," said the giant, busying himself with the fire. "'Tis late: and my lord of Hereford has business abroad at an early hour."

He bade Robin go back into the buttery and stay there until dawn, there being no chance of escape out of the castle at this hour. "Play your part, Locksley, and avoid the Bishop's eyes—even as have I. We may meet on the morrow."

"You have not betrayed us, Little John?"

"Roger the cook was to have sold you. Therefore have I quietened him for the nonce. Here's my hand on it, Locksley: that Little John is loyal. But I do not love Stuteley yet."

"It will come in time," answered Robin, sleepily. "You are both sound fellows. Give you good night, honest John. I'll sleep none the worse for my pillow." He stretched himself amid the trampled rushes of the buttery, and laid his head upon the prone body of one of the sleeping butchers. Full a dozen of them had fallen into slumber to the Sheriffs rush-bottomed buttery floor.

Little John went back to the kitchen and there carefully and silently collected Master Monceux's gold plate. He put it all into a stout sack, tied it up, and waited patiently for dawn.



CHAPTER XIX

Robin woke from a heavy slumber at daybreak. A faint noise from without the buttery disturbed him. He very quietly rose up, and, picking his way across the room, came to the entrance to the kitchens. He opened one of the doors and found a passage, grey-lit by the first gleam of dawn.

At the end of it was the figure of a man. His height revealed him for Little John. Over his shoulders was a short sack.

Seeing Robin, he beckoned to him; then whispered his plans. But Robin did not intend to leave Nottingham so soon.

"Go, Little John, and take that which is in your sack——"

"I shall bring it to you, gossip," spoke Little John, in a muffled voice: "to your haunts in Barnesdale. You shall see who is the better servant—Stuteley or myself. Here have I the Sheriff's plate——"

An audacious notion flashed upon Robin.

"Take it to our cave in Barnesdale, honest John," said he, swiftly, indicating the sack, "and, harkee; I will follow later with such a guest as never our greenwood has yet carried. Lay out a royal feast and kill one of the fattest bucks. Take my dagger in token to them that I have sent you."

"Who will you bring with you, gossip? Not my lord of Hereford?"

"I will bring Monceux himself," said Robin, boldly. "Leave the business in my hands. Go now, if you know a safe road from out of this place."

"I have a friend at the gate who will ask me no questions," answered Little John, softly. "But you?"

"My wit shall lead me out from Nottingham," Robin told him.

Little John let himself out by one of the postern doors, and found means to convey the Sheriff's plate through the streets. Afterwards when he reached the gate, he continued to win his passage by pure statesmanship, pretending that he had been sent out at that strange hour to snare young rabbits for his lord's breakfast!

Meanwhile, Robin returned to the buttery, and waited for events to shape themselves. Ere long the butchers began yawning and quarrelling betwixt themselves; and Robin artfully persuaded them, by setting one against the other, to a free fight.

The servants separated them, and in anger bade them all begone. Robin besought them to let him stay, saying that he wished an audience with my lord the Sheriff.

"Out upon you, pestilent fellow!" cried one of the servants. "You scum of the earth! This comes of hobnobbing with such rascals. Go hence quickly, with your fellows, or we will break all your bones."

So were they all bustled out into the cold streets, and Robin, in his butcher's smock, went back, as if very crest-fallen, to his empty cart and lean horse.

In due season the servants found that the Sheriff's new kitchen-hand was gone, and with him the gold plate. Then they remembered how he had been found with the cook.

Roger was plucked out of his bed, with all his bruises and wounds upon him, to give evidence before Monceux, who was in a great fume. All that spite and jealousy might do Roger performed with gusto, and so fixed the blame upon Little John that no one else was even suspected.

Roger would have now spoken as to Barnesdale, and betrayed the secret caves to the Sheriff; but he had once before persuaded them to search the cave near Gamewell, with ill results.

"Enough of these tales," snarled the Sheriff; "keep them for the Bishop's ears. I am concerned for my plate; and will recover it ere I put forth on any other enterprise."

He sent out his archers and men-at-arms, with such an incoherent description of Little John that near all the tall men of Nottingham were brought under arrest. The gate-keeper who had been so foolish as to open to Little John became so fearful of the Sheriff's anger that, when they questioned him, he vowed by all the saints that he had clapped eyes on no such fellow in his life.

Monceux, getting more and more enraged, chanced at last upon the butchers. He bade them all to be brought before him.

Small comfort did he gather from any, least of all from Robin, who behaved in so foolish a manner before the great man that all who had not believed him crazy before, were now well sure of it.

He would persist in talking to the irate lord of his own affairs: how he had just inherited a farm with many head of cattle—such beasts! how he had sold some of them in the market on the previous day for large moneys; how he intended to always sell at Nottingham, since there the people were so rich and generous.

"I have full five hundred and ten horned beasts upon my land that I will sell for a just figure," said Robin. "Ay, to him who will pay me in right money will I sell them for twenty pieces. Is that too much to ask, lording?"

Monceux, in the midst of his frenzy, suddenly quieted down. This was the idiot butcher of whom people had been chattering. No use to bluster and threaten him.

Five hundred and ten fat beasts for twenty pieces! Was ever such a fool? "I'll buy your beasts of you, butcher," said Monceux, "and will give you twice the money you ask."

At this Robin was quite overcome, and fell to praising him to the skies. For the moment the missing plate was forgotten.

"Drive in your beasts, butcher," said Monceux.

"They are but at Gamewell, excellence," said Robin; "not more than a mile beyond it at most. Will you not come and choose your own beasts? The day is fine."

The Sheriff dismissed all but Robin, in order that they might settle it quietly. If he did not close upon this bargain straightway it would be lost to him.

After some hesitation, "I will go with you, butcher," spoke Master Monceux. After all, what had he to fear? Surely no man, be he ever so wicked and desperate an outlaw, would dare to lay hands upon the Sheriff of Nottingham!

Monceux had all along suspected the Bishop of Hereford's story. There were no robbers in Sherwood now—the Bishop had invented the tale in order to cover up some disgraceful carousal, and had bribed his men. It had been a plot by which my lord of Hereford had been able to foist himself and his company upon the Sheriff, and so gain both free lodging in Nottingham and save giving in charity to the poor folk of the town.

Thus Master Monceux argued swiftly within himself.

"Get ready, butcher, for," he said, briskly, "I will join you in a few minutes."

He laid a solemn and dreadful charge upon the captain of his men-at-arms and upon those of his household to find him his plate ere he returned. He swore that their own goods should be seized and sold if they failed him in this matter!

Then he affected to be going in secret search himself.

So the two of them, without guard, went off together, Robin driving his shambling horse and rickety cart beside the Sheriff's little fat brown pony.

They passed through the gate, and Monceux left word there that his archers were to follow him to Gamewell so soon as they had returned from their searching for his plate.

Robin was very gay, and kept the Sheriff amused with his foolish chattering. Monceux congratulated himself more and more.

They had drawn nigh to Gamewell, and to that little gravel-pit wherein was one of the hidden passages to the Barnesdale caves. Peering irresolute through the tree-trunks far off to their right, Robin spied a herd of deer.

They stood and trembled at sight of Robin and the Sheriff, preparing to stampede.

Robin guessed that they had been driven by the greenwood men all that day—that perchance Stuteley and the rest were near the beasts, in ambush. Reining in his lean horse, he turned in his cart to call to the Sheriff.

"See, excellence, here are my beasts, coming to welcome me! Now choose those which your eyes like and pay me the gold."

Monceux saw then that he had been duped, and flew into a terrible passion. Robin cut his reproaches very short, however; and, taking off his butcher's smock, blew on his horn that short, queer signal.

The Sheriff turned to fly, but had not travelled a hundred yards ere, hearing an uncomfortable hissing sound, made by an arrow, as it flew just over his head, thought it better to stop. Robin had hidden his bow and quiver in the straw at the bottom of the butcher's cart. He now stood up and sped his shafts all round and about the poor Sheriff.

Then Monceux reined up his fat pony and surrendered himself grudgingly, trying to bargain all the while. "If I give you my horse, and a golden penny, will you let me go, butcher?" said he, whiningly. "Did I not treat you well last night, giving you a fair supper and much ale? This is ill requiting my usage of you, butcher."

Suddenly he saw himself surrounded by the men of the greenwood, headed by Stuteley. Robin nodded, and in a moment the Sheriff was seized and hurried away to the gravel-pit, and his pony was set galloping in the direction of Nottingham with empty saddle.

The greenwood men soon brought their captive through the dangerous passage, having first blindfolded him. Within five hours of his departure from Nottingham my lord the Sheriff found himself in a strange, unknown part of Sherwood, seated amongst two score and ten wild fellows, to a wilder meal of venison, brown bread, and wine.

With a shock of surprise he saw that the hot, juicy portion of the King's beast handed to him as his share was smoking fragrantly upon a golden plate. He glanced around from the merry faces of the lawless men to the dishes and plates from which they were eating. All were of gold and very familiar.

His rolling eye encountered that of Little John's, coolly helping himself to a second serve. "You rascal! you rogue!" spluttered Monceux. "You scum of the kitchens! Where is my plate? You shall be shred into little pieces for this trick, and you also, false butcher."

"Nay, excellence," said a gentle voice near to him, "this is no butcher; but rather Master Robin o' th' Hood, a good yeoman and right Saxon. Some call him Robin of Locksley. Let me fill your goblet, excellence, for you have spilled all the wine."

Monceux glared at the speaker, a handsome lad dressed gaily in page's costume. The Sheriff's frown would have frightened most people, but the dark-haired boy only laughed and tossed his head in a queerly fascinating way. The Sheriff, relaxing, held out his goblet, and smiled back upon the page.

"Well done, Master Gilbert of Blois!" cried Robin, who sat at the Sheriff's left hand. "Now tell me how you discovered me, and I will love you——"

The lad blushed furiously. "I knew you from the first, Robin o' th' Hood," he answered, defiantly.

"In truth?" questioned Robin, slily, and with his own suspicions growing. No wonder he had seen nothing of Marian in Nottingham town.

"In truth—well, no," submitted the page. "Let me fill your tankard, friend. But very soon I did discover you. Is this the stag that you killed, Robin o' th' Hood?" he added, innocently.

Robin nodded; and the Sheriff flashed another look of anger upon him. "Sit you beside me, Gilbert," Robin ordered; "I am very fain to have speech with you."

Marian, with her woman's intuition, knew from his tone that she also was discovered. Yet she braved it out. "I will fill all the cups, Robin o' th' Hood," she said, firmly, with an adorable little shake of her black curls; "then will hear your adventures as a Nottingham butcher, which I see you are dying to tell to us."

The page skipped lightly from under Robin's threatening hand, and the merry men laughed loud and long. "He calls you Robin o' th' Hood, master!" cried John Berry, roaring like a bull. For some reason this nick-name tickled him mightily. He kept repeating it in all kinds of tones, and those about him began to laugh also.

"'Tis a very excellent name," said Robin, a little vexed. "A merry name, a man's name, and a name to my heart! I do adopt it from this day; for is not Robin Fitzooth of Locksley dead? My lord the Sheriff can tell you that he is, for he has burned him. Laugh at it, or like it, friends, which you will. But pledge me in it, for I have paid the reckoning."

Little John, Stuteley, and Much rose to their feet together in their hurry to be first. The others were not slow in following them.

"Long life to you and happiness, Robin o' th' Hood! Here's fortune's best and confusion to all your enemies! Huzza, Robin o' th' Hood!"

The darkening woods echoed it back to them. "Robin o' th' Hood! Robin—Hood!"

"You will have to be christened, gossip," said Little John, with an air of importance; "and surely I know the man who will be sponsor. But you spoke just now of a reckoning; and I do see that our guest is become fidgety. Shall I tot up the bill for him?"

"Do so, friend."

The Sheriff appeared uneasy at this. "I have not my purse with me," he began, apologetically.

"How did you purpose paying me for my beasts?" asked Robin.

"Why—that is—I have, of course, a small sum about me."

"What is that sum, gossip?" questioned Little John, very kindly.

"'Tis no more than forty pieces of gold," said Monceux, recollecting that he had named this amount to Robin.

"Is that all?"

"I have not another penny-piece, good Master Hood," replied the Sheriff.

"If that is true, then you shall pay no more than ten pieces of gold for your entertainment, excellence," decreed Robin. "Speak I soothly, men of the greenwood?"

"The Sheriff should swear by his patron saint that he will never more molest us," said one of the company, wisely; and this addition was carried unanimously.

"So be it, then," cried Little John, approaching Monceux. "Now, swear by your life and your patron saint——"

"I will swear it by St. George, who is patron of us all," cried the fat Sheriff, vigorously; and he swore that never again would he disturb or distress them in Sherwood.

"Let me catch anyone of you out of it!" thought he to himself.

Then he paid them ten pieces of gold; and having done this, rose up to go.

It was already full dusk. "Gossip," observed Little John, reprovingly, "you did not hand me your wallet, but took out instead the ten golden pieces. Let me see for myself that thirty remain. Mayhap some evil person has robbed you unbeknown."

"Nay—I do not think that," said the Sheriff, quickly; "I take great care of all my belongings——"

"Yet you may have been despoiled," persisted Little John; "permit me to satisfy myself and this company that you have had honorable treatment in these happy woods."

With a groan Monceux yielded his wallet, and Stuteley counted out the money in it with a loud voice; otherwise the company was silent. "There is another wallet, gossip," said the inexorable Little John, pointing towards the Sheriff's belt.

In all they counted out one hundred gold pieces. "We must add another 'nought' to the foot of our bill, excellence," said Robin, gravely. "Be of good heart; what is 'nought' but nothing? Ten pounds and a 'nought' added to it is a most reasonable account for such royal fare. Take then this money which you first gave me; we will keep the wallets."

"'Tis monstrous! 'Tis an enormity," bellowed Monceux, flying out. "Already you have stolen my plate, and now would strip me utterly! 'Tis rank villainy, and I promise you all——"

"You have promised enough to-night, Sheriff," retorted Robin: "away with him, Stuteley, and go you, too, Little John. Take our guest through the secret path so far as the roadway by Nottingham gate. There he may find his archers waiting for him. Be speedy."

They nodded and grasped the struggling Sheriff by either arm. His eyes were speedily bandaged by little Gilbert, and he made an undignified exit. Whilst the rest busied themselves removing the remains of the feast, Robin spoke quietly with the page.

"Since Little John has happily returned to us, Master Gilbert," said Robin, "'tis clear that he will want his quarters again. So I must move you."

"It matters not, Robin."

"You are over young to consort with such wild company, Gilbert," Robin continued; "and so I will take you to a safe asylum, unless, of course, you would sooner return into Nottingham."

"I have now no real home in Nottingham," said Marian, frankly. "My father has gone to London to find us a home there. He has been offered a post in the King's household. So soon as he had departed they sent for me to attend at the Sheriff's castle, saying I was to become maid to the demoiselle Marie. This I would not; and so escaped in the early dawn of the day——"

"I have a friend at Gamewell," said Robin, diffidently. "In sooth, it is mine own uncle, and he surely would not refuse me in this. Will you go with me, Gilbert, at once? Soon it will be night indeed."

"I'll go anywhere with you, Robin," answered the little page.

Yet Robin would not affect to recognize Marian, though his heart was thumping in his body. He led her silently, hastily, through the strange passages towards Gamewell, thinking how he should bring a welcome for the maid.

"You are not talkative, friend Robin," murmured his companion once.

"My heart is too full for speech, Gilbert," said Robin, softly then; and this answer seemed to satisfy Master Gilbert of Blois. Under the night he smiled happily to himself.

"Is this your bad hand, Robin?" he asked, presently, "the one that I did wound? Poor fingers! I am sorry now. Can you forgive me, Robin?"



CHAPTER XX

When they had reached the little hut near by the pleasance, Robin bade her stay. "I now must play Yellow Lady," said he, lightly. "She is the spirit of this grove, and under her guise I can venture near to the house. Lend me your cloak—the color will not matter on so dark a night."

"I will not be left alone here," said Marian at this, with great decision. "Not for all the Montfichets in Christendom. I'll go with you."

They crossed the pleasance side by side. Lights burned within Gamewell to guide them.

"I am not afraid, Robin," announced Master Gilbert of Blois, courageously. "You know I am no coward."

"Take my hand then," said Robin; "I like to feel that you are with me."

"Yet you have but known me a day," said Marian, trying to peep at him. Her tone was questioning and full of pretty malice.

He had a mind then to take her in his arms, but again forebore. "Be silent now," whispered he; "I must proclaim myself. I have scarce knowledge of the servants here, my chief friend being old Warrenton, and he is in the greenwood."

"Let us go back there," suggested his companion; "I am willing to risk the wild beasts and the Sheriffs wrath."

"'Tis no place for you," said Robin. "Here you will be both safe and comfortable."

"I do not like the shape of this house," argued Marian. "I do not feel that I will be happy in it."

"It is a home worthy to be your sister's, let alone yours, Master Gilbert. Now be done with your grumbling, for here you shall stay until your father's return."

At this she made a grimace, but obeyed him meekly, notwithstanding. As they drew near to the courtyard, Robin bade her follow him cautiously until they had made a full circle of it, and crept round to the front of the hall.

By good fortune the bridge was down. Old Gamewell had no fear of the world, it would seem. They might pretend now that they had crossed to the hall from the road. Robin wound his horn suddenly and confidently.

The dogs within Gamewell began to bark and growl, and presently they heard sounds of approach. In a moment more the doors were opened and they saw a servant armed with a lanthorn and a stick.

"I would have audience with Master Montfichet," said Robin, in a bold voice. "Pray take me to him at once."

"Do you come from Nottingham?" asked the man, civilly.

"I left there this day," replied Robin.

"Follow me," said the servant, briefly. He waited until they were safely inside; then closed the doors carefully. He led them across the court to the inner doors.

Here another fellow was in waiting, also carrying a light. "These are travellers from Nottingham, desiring audience of Master Gamewell," observed the first servant.

"Your names, gentles?" asked the second.

"I am Robin o' th' Hood, and this is Master Gilbert of Blois," said Robin, at once.

They were escorted into the great hall, and there, sat beside the open hearth, was old Squire George. He made a pathetic figure. Robin felt his heart go out to him.

Yet even when he had satisfied himself in a single glance as to the identity of one of the late-coming guests, Montfichet gave no sign. His was a strange nature, and he could not forgive Robin his innocent deceit.

"Sir," said Robin, respectfully, "I do feel shame in coming before you without waiting for your word of welcome. My errand must be my excuse."

"'Tis Robin Fitzooth!" said old Montfichet, then. "I was told that you had been killed long since."

"Robin Fitzooth is truly dead, sir. Behold in his place Robin o' th' Hood. I come to ask a service at your hands for the memory of this dead man, and in redemption of your promise given to him once in Nottingham."

"Ask it, friend."

The Squire's tones were kinder. Looking at him, Robin saw that he had aged. There were no longer signs of that fastidious attention to his apparel which had characterized Montfichet of Gamewell.

"There is, sir, a maid who, losing her father on a journey to London, hath had great trouble put upon her by the Sheriff. Monceux would persecute her, in short; and she has flown from the city. Now, I would ask an asylum for her here."

"She shall be made welcome and given full freedom of Gamewell," answered Montfichet, rising. "I shall rejoice to see her here, in sooth, for my days lack company. When will you bring her to me, Master Robin o' th' Hood, and pray what makes you wear so strange a name?"

He spoke quite in his old manner, and half smiled at them. He glanced toward Master Gilbert of Blois. "Is this your little esquire, young Stuteley?" asked he, lifting his brows. "Truly he has grown out of all memory."

Robin felt himself to be in an awkward fix. His eyes glanced from one to the other. Marian, at last, took pity on his distress. "Good my lord," said she, with that pretty shake of her dark curls, "I am the maid for whom Master Robin pleads so earnestly. I am Marian Fitzwalter out of her petticoats and into a boy's clothes. I had no other way of flying from Nottingham, so behold me for the nonce as Gilbert of Blois."

The Squire listened, and slowly his face relaxed. Anything spirited or daring always appealed to him strongly. "You are a pretty page, I swear, Master Gilbert! Sure it will be hard for you to make fairer maid than man. Welcome either way to Gamewell. I'll keep you safe from Monceux; I have no love for him in any case. You have fasted to-day, no doubt; I'll have supper brought us here."

"We have already supped, sir," said Robin, relieved to find this easy way out of a difficult business. He had the hope that Marian would in some way bring about a reconciliation between him and the Squire.

"We will sup a second time," said Montfichet. "Ho there! bring us a pasty and a flagon! Hurry, knaves, bring us the best of our larder. Come, Robin, sit here at my right hand, and you, Gilbert, by his side. And so already it has come to this, Robin? Will not the greenwoods seem dull to-morrow?"

"Mayhap I might change them for a seat at your table on occasion, sir?" asked Robin.

"To see how badly I treat my guest? Is that it? Come when you will, Robin o' th' Hood. Tell me now, why did you choose this name? Another was offered you."

"Ask Master Gilbert here, sir—he is responsible for't. And, honestly, I do like the name—'tis uncommon. May I pledge you, sir? Here's to our friendship! May we grow old in it and ripe in it!"

"I have no wish, Robin, to grow either old or ripe," said Marian, settling herself. "Let us eat first, and make our speeches afterward. Help me to the pasty before you, and do not chatter so much."

Squire George nodded in approval. "Spoken like a man," cried he. "Robin is too full of words to-night. Ay, but I am right glad to see him here, for all that! Fill your glass, kinsman, and the lady's. Nay, look not so distressed at her; up to the top, man, up to the top! This is no time for half-measures."

* * * * *

In the morning when Robin came blithely from his bed—the first bed that he had known for many months—he found the Squire waiting for him in the hall. His face was grave. "I must speed you, Robin," said he; "I have news that Monceux is abroad, and will attack your company at Barnesdale."

Robin had told him all, and the Squire had neither approved nor disapproved. Working in his mind was jealous wonderment that Robin should prefer such a life to that which might have been his at Gamewell. The Squire made no show of this, however.

"I will guard Mistress Fitzwalter from all harm, rely upon me. And go, since you must. Here is our Master Gilbert—Gilbert no more. I should scarcely have known her."

Marian entered from the other end of the hall. The maids had found her a dress, grey-blue as her eyes. She bloomed like an early rose on this sweet spring morning.

"And you are going to leave me, Robin?" she said, mournfully.

The Squire had disappeared. Robin, approaching, took her hand. He looked up from it, and saw the golden arrow gleaming in her hair—that arrow which had so strangely marked the beginning of his troubles. Marian smiled, and her eyes invited him.

And so these two kissed each other frankly, mouth to mouth.

* * * * *

A little later Robin was speeding through the forest. His feet were light, and he sang softly to himself as he trod the springy grass.

Suddenly a sad song broke upon his ear. 'Twas a doleful song, full of tears; and Robin, in consternation, stopped short.

Along the woodland path there came towards him a minstrel carrying a harp and trailing a rope. "Marry, friend, but your harp is out of all harmony!" began Robin.

"I do not play upon it," retorted the minstrel.

"You sing a sad song," said Robin; "and I, who am happy, am put out of countenance by it. Therefore sing it not until I am far from you."

"My heart overflows with sorrow," said the minstrel, "and so I must sing of sadness and of death."

"Tell me your sorrow, friend," Robin begged, "and walk with me back upon the road. Like as not I can help you."

"I should not speak my grief to you," the minstrel told him, "for you are happy."

"One who lives in the greenwood cannot be otherwise," observed Robin. "Come, walk with me, and coil the rope."

"I had brought it," said the minstrel, "so that I might hang myself to some old oak, and thus fittingly end the wretched, misfortunate life of Allan-a-Dale."

Robin perceived that there was a story to follow. "Walk with me, gossip, and ease your heart in confidence," he said, cheerfully. "I can likely help you. To-day is my lucky day."

"Know then, happy stranger, that I have lost my dear, and through no fault of mine own," said Allan-a-Dale, as they walked together. "A wealthy baron has taken my love from me, and will marry her this very day; so I have come into these quiet woods that I may kill myself, for never can I live without my Fennel."

"Is that her name? 'Tis very quaint."

"'Tis a fitting name, gossip. Fennel means 'Worthy of all praise,' and she is the most worthy of all maids."

"Perchance you do not know many maids, friend," said Robin. "Tell me, is she dark-haired, and are her eyes sweet as violets?"

"In sooth, her eyes are blue enough, gossip," said Allan; "but her hair is like finespun gold. And she has a little straight nose, and such a tender smile. Marry, when I think upon her many perfections my heart doth leap, to sink again when I mind me that I have lost her."

"And why have you lost her, Allan-a-Dale?"

"Look you, 'tis this way. The Normans overrun us, and are in such favor that none may say them nay. This baron coveted the land wherein my love dwells; so her brother, who was lord of it, was one day found still and stark—killed whilst hunting, folks say. Thus the maid became heir-at-law, and the baron wooed her, thrusting me aside."

"Nay, but surely——" began Robin.

"Hear me out, gossip," Allan said. "You think I am light overborne, no doubt; but never should this Norman dog have triumphed had it been man to man. But who can deal with a snake in th' grass? The wretch has poisoned my Fennel against me, and 'tis she who has cast me into despair, while she is to be wedded with mine enemy."

"Does she love you, Allan?"

"Once she loved me right well. Here is the little ring which she gave me when we were betrothed."

"Enough," said Robin, "this wedding shall not be. Can you keep your own counsel? Follow me then; and on your love for Fennel, see nothing of the way in which I lead you. Hasten."

He brought the minstrel into Barnesdale woods and to their most secret haunt. Then he summoned the greenwood men and told them first of the Sheriff's plans and then gave out the grievous story of Allan-a Dale.

"Where is this marriage to be held?" asked Little John.

"In Plympton church," sighed the minstrel.

"Then to Plympton we will go, by my beard!" cried the giant, "and Monceux may meanwhile scour Barnesdale for us in vain! Thus virtue is plainly its own reward."

"Well planned, indeed, Little John. Fill quivers, friends, and let us go. This shall be a strange marriage-day for your baron, Allan—if the lady be not stubborn. You must move her, if she be cross with you. We will do all other duties."

They travelled through one of their many secret ways towards Plympton. The sun shone high in the heavens ere they had come within sight of the small square church.

Without the building they espied a guard of ten archers liveried in scarlet and gold. Robin bade the rest to approach under cover of the hedgerows. He then borrowed Allan's cloak and harp, and stepped out boldly towards the church.

A few villagers were gathered about the archers; and Robin mingled with these, asking many quaint questions, and giving odd answers to any who asked in turn of him. Hearing the laughter and chattering, the Bishop who was to perform the marriage came to the church door all in his fine robes and looked severely forth.

"What is the meaning of this unseemliness?" asked he, in well-known tones.

Robin saw that here was my lord of Hereford again! He answered, modestly: "I am a harper, good my lord. Shall I not make a song to fit this happy day?"

"Welcome, minstrel, if such you are," said the Bishop. "Music pleases me right well, and you shall sing to us."

"I must not tune my harp nor pluck the strings in melody until the bride and bridegroom have come," Robin answered, wisely; "such a thing would bring ill-fortune on us, and on them."

"You will not have long to wait," cried the Bishop, "for here they come. Stand on one side, worthy people."

He busied himself in welcome of the bridegroom—a grave old man, dressed up very fine. The bride was clothed in white samite, and her hair shone like the sun. Her pretty eyes were dark with weeping; but she walked with a proud air, as women will who feel that they are martyring themselves for their love's sake. She had but two maids with her, roguish girls both. One held up her mistress's gown from the ground; the other carried flowers in plenty.

"Now by all the songs I have ever sung, surely never have marriage bells rung for so strange a pair!" cried Robin, boldly. He had stopped them as they were passing into the church. "Lady," he asked, "do you love this man? For if you do not then you are on your way to commit sacrilege."

"Stand aside, fool," cried the bridegroom, wrathfully.

"Do you love this man?" persisted Robin. "Speak now or never. I am a minstrel, and I know maids' hearts. Many songs have I made in their honor, and never have I found worse things in them than pride or vanity."

"I give my hand to him, minstrel, and that is enough," the girl answered at last. She made a movement towards the aisle.

"And Allan?" whispered Robin, looking straight into her eyes.

At this she gave a little gasp of fear and love, then glanced irresolutely towards the shrivelled baron. "I will not marry you!" she cried, suddenly.

Robin laughed and, dropping the harp, clapped his horn to his lips. Even as the archers sprang upon him, the greenwood men appeared.

"Mercy me!" called out the Bishop, seeking to escape, "here are those rascal fellows who did maltreat me so in Sherwood."

The archers were prisoners everyone, and the baron too, ere my lord of Hereford had done exclaiming. Stuteley and Much pushed Allan-a-Dale forward. "This is the man, good my lord, to whom you shall marry the maid," cried Robin, flourishing his bow, "if she is willing."

"Will you marry me, dear heart?" pleaded Allan-a-Dale. "I am your true love, and the stories they told to you were all false."

"Own to it, baron!" roared Little John, shaking up the unfortunate old man. "Tell her that you did lie in your straggling beard when you said that Allan was untrue."

"Ay, ay, I spoke falsely; ay, I own to it. Have done with me, villain."

"Spare him, Little John, for the nonce. Now, my lord, marry them for us, for I am ready to sing you my song."

"They must be called in church three times by their names; such is the law," the Bishop protested.

Robin impatiently plucked the Bishop's loose gown from off his back and threw it over Little John's shoulders. The big fellow thrust himself firmly into it and stood with arms akimbo. "By the faith o' my body," cried Robin, "this cloth makes you a man!"

Little John went to the church door, and all began to laugh consumedly at him. Even the maid Fennel forgot her vexations. Seeing that she smiled, Allan opened his arms to her, and she found her way into them.

Little John called their names seven times, in case three should not be enough. Then Robin turned to the Bishop and swore that he should marry these two forthwith. The gown was given back to him, and my lord of Hereford commenced the service. He thought it more polite to obey, remembering his last experience with this madcap outlaw.

"Who gives this maid in marriage?" asked the Bishop, in due season.

"I do," said Robin, "I give her heartily to my good friend, Allan-a-Dale, and he who takes her from him shall buy her dearly."



CHAPTER XXI

They betook themselves to Barnesdale after the wedding, leaving my lord of Hereford gownless and fuming in the organ-loft of the little church at Plympton. His guard was variously disposed about the sacred edifice: two of the bowmen being locked up in the tiny crypt; three in the belfry, "to ring us a wedding peal," as Robin said, and the others in the vestry or under the choir seats in the chancel. The old baron had been forced to climb a high tree, and had been left in the branches of it feebly railing at them.

Then they all came back into Barnesdale, there to make a proper wedding-feast, after which Allan carried off his bride and her maids to his own home in the north, promising stoutly to return to them in due season.

The days came and went, and Monceux began to hope fondly that the outlaws had gone out of Sherwood. On the third morning after Allan's marriage the Bishop of Hereford came bursting into Nottingham with the old baron and the humiliated guard. The Sheriff's hopes were shattered under the furious indignation of the baron and my lord of Hereford.

It appeared that they had been released from their various positions of confinement during the evening of the marriage-day, and had forthwith hurried to the baron's castle. Thence they had set out for Allan's home in the east of the county, near to Southwell, a pretty place.

Arrived there, they had demanded reparation and the maid Fennel, and in order to be able to declare the marriage false, the Bishop had sent in a petition to the Pope whereto Mistress Fennel was led to place her hand in writing. Allan's answer was to tear the petition into little pieces and fling it at the feet of the messenger who had brought it.

Whereupon the Bishop had withdrawn and the baron had commenced an attack upon the place. After an hour or so of vain storming, Allan, at the head of a small band of retainers, had issued forth and mightily discomfited the baron and his men, beating them heartily out of the neighborhood of Southwell.

These matters, instigated and brought about by one Master Robin o' th' Hood, cried aloud for summary vengeance.

The Sheriff doubled and trebled the reward offered for his head, mentioning him above all others who were known to aid and abet him. Little John ranked next in point of infamous merit in the Sheriff's reckoning, for Monceux remembered his golden plate.

The people of Nottingham, hearing continually of this pother, fell a-chattering between themselves, and ere a week was out Monceux's reward of a hundred golden pieces for the head of Robin Hood was the one theme of conversation in the city.

No one identified him with Robin of Locksley—that brave misguided youth being so entirely dead to their minds—and he was variously named as Hood, Robin Hood, Captain Hood, and Master Robin.

A travelling tinker came at length upon the talk of the town. He had been sitting on the bench without the "Sign of the Sixteen Does," dozing and drinking, and at last seeking to do both at once.

Mine host stood near by, discussing the eternal Robin.

"Folk do say that Master Monceux has sent into Lincoln for more men-at-arms and horses, and that when he has these to hand he will soon scourge Captain Hood from our forest."

"Of whom speak you?" asked the tinker, suddenly waking up.

"Of this Robin of the Greenwood," said the innkeeper, "but you will never earn the Sheriff's hundred pieces!"

Then the tinker arose upon his dignity, and eyed the innkeeper reproachfully.

"And why will I not earn the hundred pieces, gossip?" said he, with a deadly calm in his manner.

"Where our Sheriff has failed, and a Bishop also, it is not likely that a mere tinker will succeed," mine host answered. "Pay me for your ale, gossip, and go on your way."

The tinker approached and laid a heavy hand upon the innkeeper's fat shoulder. "Friend," he said, impressively, "I am one not noted either for dullness or lack of courage. I do perpend that to earn these pieces of which you speak one must perform some worthy business. Tell it to me, and you and Nottingham shall see then what Middle the Tinker thinks on it."

At this a great clacking began, so that Master Middle only came to the gist of it in an hour. He valiantly proclaimed his intention, so soon as he did understand, of taking Robin Hood single-handed. "Why send into Lincoln and the shires when Middle the Tinker will do this business for you, gossips? I will go into your Sherwood this very day. Give me the warrant, and I'll read it to Robin to purpose, I promise you!"

They pushed him, laughing and jesting between themselves, towards Nottingham Castle, and there thrust him into the hall.

"Here is a champion come to take your pieces, Master Monceux," someone called out. "Here is Middle, the pot-valiant," cried another.

Master Middle asked for the warrant, and obtained it. Then he sallied forth, accompanied by the customers from the "Sign of the Sixteen Does" as far as the gates of the city. There he made them a long speech and left them.

They watched him making determinedly along the white road towards Barnesdale; then returned to their tankards and their talk.

Master Middle reached Gamewell without mishap; and the brisk air having revived him much, he gradually came into a placid frame of mind.

In this happy condition he encountered presently a comely youth, with a little beard and a friendly tongue.

"Give you good-den, gossip," cried the youth. "I hear there is sad news abroad. I fear all is not well with the world."

"Since I live in Banbury, good friend," the tinker replied, "I cannot speak for the world. But Banbury is always willing to listen, and learn."

"Harkee, then—this is the news I have heard: that in Nottingham town they have put two tinkers in the stocks for drinking too much ale and beer!"

"If that is all," said Middle, contemptuously, "your news is not worth a groat; while as for drinking good ale, 'tis not you who would willingly lose your part of it."

"By my faith, gossip, you are right!" laughed the youth. "But now give me your news, since mine is worth so little. You who go from town to town, must come by many strange items."

"All that I have heard," the tinker said, thinking of the Sheriff's pieces, "is very good. I am in search of an outlaw whom men call Robin Hood. In my wallet I have a warrant to take him wherever I can; and if you can tell me where he is I will make a man of you, friend."

"Let me see the warrant," said Robin, for 'twas he, "and if I find it to be right I will take you to him this very day."

"That I will not do," cried Middle, readily, "I will trust no man with my warrant; and if you will not help me, gossip, why, pass on and good riddance to you."

He began to stride along the road again, and until Robin had called him thrice would not turn about. "If you will come with me to a certain inn on Watling Street, good friend," called Robin, encouragingly, "I'll e'en show you Robin o' th' Hood!"

At this, Middle turned his head, and then came back to Robin. "Lead the way, gossip," said he, at length. "I'll walk behind you. I have my stick."

Robin made no reply, but started at a good pace. He led the tinker through the forest by many devious ways until they had arrived at a little inn on Watling Street. It was styled the "Falcon," and mine host came willingly to serve these guests.

The tinker asked for ale, Robin for wine. They sat at talk for near an hour, Robin explaining much about this Robin o' th' Hood. The tinker drank his ale and listened; then pronounced his plan for taking the outlaw. This made a lengthy history, and was so dry withal that Master Middle must needs fill and empty his tankard many times.

In the end he fell asleep. Robin deftly opened his pouch then, took out the warrant, read it, and put it into his own wallet. He called mine host, and, telling him that the tinker would pay the reckoning so soon as he awoke, Robin left the "Falcon" and Master Middle together.

Having leisure for the whimsey, Robin bethought him to stay awhile and see what Middle might do, for in a way he had taken Robin's fancy.

So Robin hid and waited events.

Presently the tinker awoke and called for the landlord. "Gossip," said he to mine host, "I have a grave charge to lay upon you. In this house, whilst I did rest in the thought that you were an honest man and one loving the King, my pouch has been opened and many matters of importance taken from it. I had in it, item, a warrant, granted under the hand and seal of my lord the Sheriff of Nottingham, authorizing the arrest of a notorious rascal, one Robin Hood of Barnesdale. Item, a crust of bread. Item, six single keys, useful withal. Item, twelve silver pennies, the which I have earned this week in fair labor——"

"I wonder to hear you speak so of Robin Hood, friend," answered the landlord. "Was he not with you just now? And did he not clink glasses with you in all amity?"

"Was Robin o' th' Hood that little bag of bones?" cried Middle, in great vexation. "God-a-mercy, but now I see it all. He has taken my warrant and my pennies! Let me go after him, gossip; be sure that I will bring him back right soon."

"There is first the reckoning to be paid, good friend," said the landlord.

"Why, I would pay you with all pleasure, had I the means," the tinker replied. "At this moment I have but my stick and my bag of tools. I will leave them with you as hostages."

"Give me your leathern coat as well," said mine host, sharply; "the hammer and tools are as naught to me."

"It would seem that I am fallen from one thief to another," snapped Middle. "If you will walk with me to the green I'll give you such a crack as shall drive some honesty into your thick skull."

"You are wasting your breath and my leisure," the other retorted, contemptuously. "Get you gone after your quarry."

Middle thought this to be good advice, and he strode forth from the "Falcon" in a black mood.

Ere he had gone half a mile upon the road he perceived Robin demurely walking under the trees a little in front of him. "Ho there! you villain!" shouted Middle. "Stay your steps. I am most desperately in need of you this day!"

Robin turned about with a surprised face. "Well met again, tinker," cried he. "Have you found Robin Hood?"

"Marry, that have I!" roared Middle, plunging at him.

Robin had his sword at his side and tried to draw it; but the tinker was too speedy for him. Middle laid on his blows with so much vigor that for a while he had Robin at his mercy.

The greenwood rang with the noise of the fight, for now Robin had plucked out his sword. 'Twas steel against oak; brute force matched against skill. Indignation gave Middle the advantage, and he fought with such fury that Robin's sides began to ache.

"Hold your hand, tinker," called Robin, at last. "I cry a boon of you."

"I would rather hang you upon this tree ere granting it to you," said Middle, commencing afresh.

But Robin had had time to blow his horn in urgent summons of Stuteley and Little John.

In a brief space they appeared, with most of the greenwood men at their heels, and Master Middle was seized and disarmed rudely enough.

"This rascal tinker had made my bones quite sore," said Robin, ruefully.

"Is that your trouble?" said Little John. "Let me discover now if I may not do the like for him."

"Not so, Little John," Robin said then. "This was my own quarrel, and I deserved all that this rogue has bestowed on me. He had a warrant for my arrest, which I have stolen from him."

"With twelve silver pennies, a crust of bread, and six little keys," remarked Middle, with emphasis.

"Here are the keys and the crust, gossip," answered Robin, smilingly. "And here the pennies, turned by me into gold. Here also, if you will, is my hand."

"I take it heartily, with the pence!" cried Middle, seizing the slim, frank hand of the outlaw. "By my leathern coat, by my pots and pans, I swear I like you, friend Hood, and will serve you and your men honestly! Do you want a tinker? Nay; but I'll swear you do—who else can mend and grind your swords and patch your pannikins? Will you take me, little man, who can fight so well, and who knows how to play a bold game?"

"Marry, I will take you, tinker—if the rest be willing, and you will swear the oath. But it rests not with me, for this is a band of freemen, without a leader."

"Not so, Robin," cried Little John, glancing up from close perusal of the Sheriff's warrant. "We have a leader, and you are the man! Master Monceux of Nottingham has ordained it. Herein you are described as Robin o' th' Hood, leader and captain of that band of evil robbers infesting Barnesdale and our forest of Sherwood! The Bishop of Hereford has put his blessing on the Sheriff's choice by excommunicating you. Shall we not accept Monceux's word for it, comrades all?" he added turning round. "He has named a leader for us whom we can trust."

It was carried with acclamation, and Robin found himself leader of the greenwood men willy-nilly, for good and all. Warrenton was hugely delighted; and the tinker seemed pleased that he had helped in bringing about so excellent an arrangement. Master Middle swore the oath of allegiance in good set terms, and they all repaired to Barnesdale to call a full council and ratify their choice of captain.



CHAPTER XXII

Within the next few days came Allan-a-Dale into Barnesdale with his lady and her two maids. Allan had the story to tell of the Bishop's encounter with him and the baron's onslaught upon his house in Southwell. Allan explained that, although he had triumphed over his enemies for the present, tidings had been brought to him that the Bishop was plotting fresh mischief against them at Southwell, and had already excommunicated both Allan-a-Dale and his pretty wife.

"In that case you must take up your life with us," said Robin. "The greenwood is the abode of liberty and justice; 'tis our commonwealth, in truth, and a happy enough place to live in even in winter-time. We will find you a cave."

"There's Fennel," explained Allan, dubiously; "I do not think that she will like to live in a cave."

This presented a difficulty. So Allan went over to where Fennel stood waiting with her maids, and explained things to her. "So long as I am with you, dear heart," answered Fennel, laughing, "I do not care if I live under a tree or in a house. Do that which you think best for us."

Therefore, they came into the greenwood, and were found a cave opening from one of the larger passages—a dry and excellent home in these long summer months.

In the meantime little Midge had fallen sick, and Much the Miller wept loudly over him as he lay, pale and languid, on a rude couch of dry leaves. All the company sorrowed over this small Lincoln fellow, for he had been a merry companion, and Robin himself sought to bring him back to health with such simple remedies as he knew.

"Captain," said Much, with a woebegone countenance, "'tis all useless, our doctoring—I am about to lose the best friend that ever I have known. Can you get a priest to pray beside Midge's bed?"

"I did know of a right worthy priest," Robin answered, sorrowfully, "but he has gone from these parts. He would have been just the one to cheer us all."

"I have heard tell of a jovial fellow who has but lately come to our parish," said Middle the Tinker. "You must know, comrades, that I was born near to Fountain's Abbey, in York, and that once a year at least I visit my old mother there. Now, I promise you, that never such a frolicsome priest did you know as this one who has come to our priory. He can bend a bow with any man, and sing you a good song."

"I would dearly love such a man to minister to me," pleaded poor Midge. "I believe on my soul that he could cast out the fever from my bones. Bring him to me, Much, as you love me."

This settled matters forthwith. "I will go to the world's end for you, if there be need," sobbed the honest miller. "Give me leave, captain, to go in search of this worthy friar."

"I will go with you, Much, and Little John shall come also," began Robin; but now a fresh difficulty arose. All of them wished to go wherever Robin went; he was their captain, they said, and so must be protected.

In the end it was arranged that Stuteley should remain with two score of men in Barnesdale, to guard their caves and keep the Sheriff at bay if occasion arose. (In truth, however, Master Monceux had full hands just now with affairs of state, although the greenwood men did not know of this. The King was grievously ill; and Monceux had gone to London, with the Bishop of Hereford and many of the neighboring barons, under Royal command.)

Robin asked Mistress Fennel to give the sick man such nursing as she would to Allan himself; and she sweetly promised that Midge should suffer in no way by his captain's absence. Then Robin, with the rest of the band—fifteen in all—set off for York.

It so happened that Master Simeon Carfax was departing from the old town at nigh the same moment, with his face set nodding homewards.

Warrenton, Little John, Much the Miller, and Master Middle were of Robin's company. Also there was John Berry, the forester, and that one called Hal, who had been so much at the right hand of poor Will o' th' Green in other days.

This little company travelled speedily, and within three days they had brought themselves over the borders into the county of York.

Another two days brought them within a league of Fountain's Abbey or Dale, as some folk call it.

As they neared the Abbey Robin walked on in front of the rest and held his bow free in his hand.

Presently he came to a stream, and heard sounds of a jovial song floating towards him. He hid under a bush and watched alertly. At length, approaching the far bank, Robin espied a knight, clad in chain armor and very merry.

He sang, in a lusty voice, a hearty woodland song. "Now by my bones!" thought Robin, puzzled, "but I have heard this song before."

He peeped forth again, and saw that the knight filled up the spaces of his song with bites from a great pasty which he held in his hand. His face was turned from Robin.

Robin called out suddenly upon him, fitting an arrow to his bow as he did so. "I pray you, Sir Knight, to carry me across this stream," said Robin, covering the stranger with his weapon.

"Put down your bow, forester," shouted the knight, "and I will safely carry you across the brook. 'Tis our duty in life to help each other, and I do see that you are a man worthy of some attention."

His voice troubled Robin as his song had done; but whilst he was searching his memory to fit a name to this courteous knight the latter had waded across to him. "Jump upon my back, forester, and I'll bring you to shore." He spoke through the bars of his closed visor.

Robin had cast down his bow; and now, without thinking, jumped upon the knight's shoulders. The knight carried him safely over the brook.

"Now, gossip, you shall carry me over this stream," said the knight, serenely; "one good turn deserves another, as you know."

"Nay, but I shall wet my feet," Robin commenced.

"No more than I have wetted mine," retorted the other. "Besides, yonder is your bow, and small use are your arrows without it."

Robin perceived then that he had been too hasty. He considered for a moment. "Leave your sword behind as I do my bow, Sir Knight," he said, presently, "and I will carry you across the river."

The knight laughed and agreed, and Robin took him upon his back. It was all that Robin could do to bring himself and his load to the bank; but at last he managed it. He set the knight down, then seized his bow. "Now, friend, yonder is your sword. I'll e'en crave that you shall carry me on your shoulders once more!"

The knight eyed Robin solemnly. "'Tis written in the Scriptures, forester, that we should not be weary in well-doing," he observed, "so for this reason I will do your behest. Get upon my back once more."

This time Robin carried his bow and smiled within himself. He found, however, that the knight was holding him very lightly. Just as he had opened his mouth in expostulation, the knight suddenly released his hold of Robin's legs, and shook him into the running water. Then, laughing heartily, he regained the other bank and his broadsword.

Robin, with wet skin and spoiled bow, struggled back to the bank wherefrom he had first started out. He began to revile the knight in set terms, and challenged him to fight.

"'Tis only fair, forester, that we should go half-way to each other," answered the knight, unconcernedly, "if so be we are able to fight. I will come to the middle of the stream, and if I do not find you there, I shall know you to be afraid."

Robin waded out to him with drawn sword; and there in the center of the stream they fought together valiantly for near a quarter of an hour. "I crave a boon of you, Sir Knight," cried Robin, then feeling himself in danger of being drowned.

"'Tis yours, forester," spluttered the knight, still holding fast to his manner of courtesy.

Forthwith Robin found his horn, and blew it somehow, all wet as it was.

"I too claim a boon," cried the knight.

"'Tis yours," answered Robin, hearing joyfully the approach of his men.

The knight produced a whistle and caused a shrill note to issue forth from it. Even as Warrenton and the rest came leaping to Robin's rescue on one hand, twenty and five great dogs sprang out of the bushes on the opposite bank.

Warrenton and his fellows immediately sped a volley of arrows at the yelping beasts; but, jumping and leaping they caught the arrows in their mouths, even as they flew!

"I never have seen the like of this in my days!" cried Little John, amazed. "'Tis rank sorcery and witchcraft."

"Take off your dogs, friar," cried Middle, who was the least surprised of them all, "else ill will befall both them and you."

"He calls you friar," said Robin, astounded; "are you not a knight, in sooth?"

"I am but a poor anchorite, a curtal friar," replied the other, pushing out for his side of the river. "By name Friar Tuck of Fountain's Dale. Are these your men, forester?"

"This is Robin Hood, come in all amity and peace from Nottingham to bring you to a sick-bedside," the tinker told him. "'Tis a sorry welcome that you accord to him!"

"I am Robin Fitzooth," said Robin, having in his turn regained the river-bank. "And surely your name is not Tuck, as you say."

The knight then lifted his visor, and Robin gave a cry of joy. It was the merry face of the Clerk of Copmanhurst that beamed upon him from under the mailed cap. "God save you, dear friend, why did you not say 'twas you?"

"To tell truth, Robin," answered the clerk, comically, "you scarce gave me pause to eat my pie, let alone announce myself. Do I see Master Hal, and my good friend Warrenton? Wait until I have chained my dogs, and I will give you all such welcome as this place does know."

* * * * *

They stayed with the worthy friar of Fountain's Dale long enough for them to be all refreshed and rested; then started upon the return journey into Barnesdale with good speed. Friar Tuck—for so we must know him now—said he would go with them gladly, and bring his dogs also, for a year had been sufficient for his liking of Fountain's Abbey. The place was too quiet and deadly; and although he had succeeded to these dumb and faithful friends, he had employed much time in the training of them.

Robin bethought him of poor Midge waiting patiently their return, and so allowed no pause.

They came back to Barnesdale within three days, having encountered and levied toll upon some rich merchants—penitents bound with presents for the Priory of York.

Midge was found to be vastly recovered from his sickness, thanks to the nursing of Mistress Fennel and her maids. He welcomed the friar in his own droll way, begging to be forgiven by Master Tuck for not giving him reason to perform prayers for an outlaw's soul, and offering to be shrived, notwithstanding, if the priest felt aggrieved.

Little John, remembering his own words of many days afore, said: "'Tis a pity indeed that the good friar should have made this grievous long journey—all for naught! By my faith, but here is a notion for the use of him and for yourself, Robin. Your name is not your own until Mother Church has put it properly upon you. So therefore let us have a christening, since by good fortune we may not have a burying."

"I am the man to fix your new name upon you right bravely," cried Tuck, whistling to his dogs. "Come, we will have such a christening as these woods have ne'er dreamed of. Get me a basin of water and a book."

"Nay," said Robin, laughing, "I think that you baptized me heartily enough in the river by Fountain's Dale! 'Twill be fitting, to my mind, if now we have the feast which follows upon all christenings. Bring out of our best, comrades, and let good cheer and the right wine fill our bodies. Afterward we can hold carnival, and the friar shall show how he can use the bow."

"Ay, marry, friend," laughed the fat clerk, "and I have learned other things in this year beside that. You are wondering to see me so changed, doubtless, but I must tell you that the life at Fountain's Dale has not been an easy one. I have had to hold mine own against the earls and squires of the borders, who have sought to rob me often enough, thinking that every son of Mother Church must needs be wealthy. So I have learned to use the broadsword and quarter-staff as well as the bow."

"Father," exclaimed Hal, "you knew how to play all these very prettily when you were Clerk of Copmanhurst, though then you chose to have folks believe that naught but holiness was in you."

"A man should not boast of all there is in him," answered the friar. "But now, since I am found out, you know me for what I am."

"I am well content with you, anyway," Robin told him.

The worthy friar would not stay altogether with them in Barnesdale. He left his dogs there—save three—and returned to Copmanhurst, when the little hermitage knew him again as master. Each day he would come into Barnesdale, howbeit, to give news to Robin and hear the items that the greenwood men had for him. 'Twas from Friar Tuck that the outlaws learned much as to travellers through Sherwood ere inquiring of them whether they were rich, whether worthy, or whether they were poor and deserving of help rather than taxing.



CHAPTER XXIII

Master Carfax had by this time arrived in Nottingham, all eager to marry his cold bride. He found, however, that this was a happiness not yet to be, for matters were in a grievous state in the Sheriff's household.

My lord of Hereford was very wrath with them all, and had sent Monceux back to his native city with much to think upon. The Bishop had taken the opportunity of laying formal complaint at Court before the King; and his Majesty had told Master Monceux that when he went back to Nottingham it must be to keep the Royal forest free of all evil-doers. Otherwise a new Sheriff would be found for Nottingham, and that right soon.

Henry, the King, was near to his own end, and had become very irritable in consequence of his illness. His sons tried his scanty patience sorely with their waywardness and their ingratitude. So Monceux had none too pleasant a reception at Court, and returned therefrom with a heavy heart.

Simeon Carfax was therefore despatched into Sherwood to find the tinker, so that Middle might be whipped and put into the stocks for having failed; also Carfax was to secure Robin and the ringleaders at all hazard. To this end Master Simeon was given command of the Sheriff's own men-at-arms, and a great body of citizens from the town wards, each man having the promise of a large reward and freedom thenceforth from all taxes.

The news soon came to Robin, and he and his men retired at once into the innermost parts of Barnesdale, and secured their caves by covering the mouths of them with barricades artfully concealed behind green boughs and the like.

So Carfax and his fellows searched without avail for near three weeks, only occasionally having evidence of the greenwood men by finding the feet and antlers of the King's deer lying here and there in the forest. The Sheriff's men laid many traps for Robin, but all in vain.

Stuteley, being of venturesome mind, must needs attempt all manner of tricks upon this motley company of soldiers. He would dig a pit with Little John and Much, and hide it up with branches and earth, so that Master Carfax might stray into it and haply break his neck.

At last Carfax bethought him of a good plot. He had nigh fallen into one of Will Stuteley's pits, but suddenly stayed his men from demolishing it. He planned instead to pretend to be trapped in the pit that very night; and, having hidden his fellows all round about, he walked out boldly at dusk with but three of them, and fell a-talking loudly of his schemes for capturing Robin Hood.

He walked carelessly up to the hidden pit and with great outcry fell into it, the others with him running off then as if in deadly alarm. Then Master Carfax began a loud lament, and made such a noise that Stuteley must hear it.

Young Will came bounding joyfully to the pit's edge, and, spying Carfax therein, fell into an ecstasy of delight. He railed at Simeon very pleasantly, and made merry at the other's supposed mishap. But presently Carfax blew his horn, and shortly Stuteley found the position reversed. After a desperate struggle he was overpowered and carried off, although not without being seen by another of Robin's men. This man brought Robin the bad news within an hour of Will Stuteley's capture.

The greenwood men flung prudence to the winds and sallied forth. They pursued and came up with the rear-guard of the enemy, and a terrible battle was fought. Thirteen of Robin's brave fellows were wounded, five of them so grievously as to die soon afterward of their wounds, and as many of the Nottingham soldiery also were slain.

Carfax returned to Nottingham, however—this time in some triumph. His men had beaten back the outlaws, and he had secured the lieutenant of the band, a "desperate villain, next to Robin Hood himself in deeds of violence and disorder."

So all agreed; and by dint and hard swearing soon wove a noose to fit Will Stuteley's thin neck. Monceux, in grave satisfaction, ordered that their prisoner should be hanged and quartered, within a week, in the streets of Nottingham, as a warning and example to all wrong-doers.

The Sheriff gave a feast to all the soldiery and doubled the reward upon Robin's head. Until he was caught Monceux could but remain uneasy, for Henry of England was a man of his word.

Robin was sorely grieved at the loss of Stuteley, and swore that he would save his little squire or die. He went, therefore, to Gamewell to discover from Marian precisely how they had arranged for the hanging of Stuteley, for she was able to go into Nottingham in her page's dress.

Marian had learned it all. "First, he will be tortured to tell the secret of your hiding-place, dear heart," she told Robin, in bated breath. "Then he will suffer the full penalty, and will be hanged from a gallows with three other poor wretches. Last of all he is to be quartered, and his body flung to the people."

She burst into weeping, and sobbed so grievously that Robin was hard put to it to keep back his own tears. "Did you learn who these others might be?" he asked her, to change her thoughts and to satisfy himself that no other friend was with little Will.

"They are the three sons of a poor widow, who lives in the forest. They found the body of one of the deer, and, being very hungry, were carrying it from the forest to their little home. Someone, passing by, accused them of having first killed it, and this quarrel came to the Sheriff's ears. Master Carfax then affected to recognize them as being three greenwood men; and they have been tried summarily and found guilty, and will be hanged together with Will."

"I swear that this shall not be," cried Robin, in heat, "since no doubt I am to blame for leaving the slain deer in their way."

"It was, I believe, the very stag that I did kill," said Marian, in a troubled voice. "They have been in prison for near a month; and the beast was found without part of the woods," said Marian. "Shall I not go and give myself up in their place? Since I have had this dreadful guilty thought in my mind I have known no moment's peace; but, cowardlike, I do not dare to be honest with myself."

"Be of good courage, dear maid," said Robin. "We have killed many of the King's deer since the day I first did meet with Master Gilbert of Blois. For we are hungry every day, prithee, and the beasts are many. Also in this season they are very wild and ferocious—'tis like this one was killed in a battle royal between itself and another stag. But to make all sure, we will rescue the widow's three sons with my Stuteley from the Sheriff's foul clutches."

"Go not into danger, dear heart, for my sake," Marian pleaded, and she held him close to her as though she never would let him depart again.

* * * * *

Robin went back to his men, and they made their plans. Little John was given the second place of command, and it was agreed that upon the morning on which Stuteley and the others were to be hanged the greenwood men should risk all by marching into Nottingham to the rescue.

The dawn of this eventful morning broke bright and sunny. Robin was clothed in a gay scarlet dress and his men wore their mantles of Lincoln-green cloth. They were armed with broadswords, and each carried a full quiver of new arrows, fashioned for them during the past winter by the cunning hands of Warrenton.

They marched boldly towards Nottingham, leaving Allan-a-Dale with his little dame and six of the outlaws to keep house for them, as it were. When they were within a mile of Nottingham gates, Robin called a halt, and said: "I hold it good, comrades, that we stay here in hiding, and send forth someone to hear the news. There comes upon the road a palmer—see you him near by the gates? Who will go forth and engage him in talk?"

"I will," said Midge, at once; "for I am used to deal with holy men."

So Midge went out from them, whilst they all hid themselves and waited. When he was close to the palmer, Midge said, amiably: "I pray you, old palmer, tell me if you know where and when these robbers are to die? Doubtless you have passed the very spot?"

"That have I, indeed," answered the palmer, sadly, "and 'tis a sorry sight to see. By the Sheriff's castle, out upon the roadway, they have built an angled gallows-tree to bear the four of them at once. They are to die at noon, after the torturing is done. I could not bear the sight; and so have turned my back upon it."

The palmer spoke in a muffled voice; and as his hood had been pulled well over his head, Midge could not see what manner of man he might exactly be. He carried his long stick with its little cross at the top; and had sandalled feet, like any monk. Midge noticed idly how small his feet were for a man of his size, but gave no second thought to the matter.

"Who will shrive these poor fellows, then, if you have turned your back upon them?" asked Midge, reproachfully. This seemed to present itself as a new idea to the palmer.

"Do you think, friend," he enquired, in a troubled way, "that I should undertake the office?"

"By Saint Peter and Saint Mary, I do indeed," cried Midge, roundly. "Would you leave them to the empty prayers which the Sheriff's chaplain will pour coldly over them? Nay, in sooth, if your heart be turned to sympathy, surely you are the man to administer this last consolation to these poor fellows."

"If it might be permitted I would dearly love to shrive them," said the palmer, still hesitating. "But I am only a poor palmer."

"Keep close to me," Midge told him, valiantly, "and you shall shrive these good fellows an it become necessary. That I promise you."

He returned to Robin and told him that the execution had been fixed to take place outside Nottingham Castle at noon. "We must hasten then," said Robin. "Go you first, Little John; and we will tread close upon your heels."

Little John swam the moat, and sprang upon the warder of the city gates suddenly, whilst he was craning his neck to get a view of the Sheriff's procession of death. The big outlaw seized his victim from behind, and clapped his great hand over his mouth. Very soon the warder was prisoner in the round tower by the gate; and Little John had slipped himself into his uniform.

Little John then lowered the bridge quietly, and passed the rest of them into Nottingham. Midge and the palmer came last of all. "Now spread yourselves about into groups of twos and threes," said Robin, "and have your swords ready when you hear my horn. Little John, prithee draw the bridge again, so that none may suspect us; but leave the winch loose, for we may have to use it hastily. Go you first, and Heaven speed thee."

Will Stuteley at length came out of the castle surrounded by the Sheriff's guards; and behind him walked dejectedly the widow's three sons. Poor Will looked ghastly pale, and marks of the torturings showed upon his skin. His face was drawn and lined with anguish.

Monceux was there, dressed out in his best; and was blowing out his fat cheeks in vast self-importance. Beside the Sheriff was Master Carfax, lean-faced as ever. They were mounted on white horses; and behind them were two score of archers and pikemen.

Stuteley, seeing that no help appeared at hand, asked, in a weak voice, that he might have words with the Sheriff.

Monceux went up to him and bade him speak out.

Stuteley said, in a sad tone: "Sheriff, seeing that I must die to-day, grant me this one boon, that I may not be hanged upon a gallows-tree, but rather that I die with my sword in my hand, fighting you and all your men to the last."

The Sheriff laughed coarsely: "Not so, my man; you shall die instead a shameful death, and after you your master, Robin Hood, that false butcher, so soon as I have him fast."

"That you will never do," answered Stuteley, with prophecy, in his weak voice. "But unbind my hands, Sheriff, for your soul's sake, and let me meet my end valiantly."

"To the gallows with him!" roared Monceux, giving the sign to the executioner; and Stuteley was hustled into the rude cart which was to bear him under the gallows until his neck had been leashed. Then it would be drawn roughly away and the unhappy man would swing out over the tail of it into another world.

Two fellows had great knives with them ready to cut him down, and quarter his body whilst life was in it, as the cruel sentence had ordained.

"Let me, at the least, shrive this man's soul ere it be hurled into eternity," said the palmer, stepping forward.

Monceux's face grew black with rage; and yet he scarcely liked to refuse, for fear it should injure him too much in the eyes of the people. "Perform the duty quickly then, Sir Priest," he snarled; and then rode back to Carfax. "Watch the palmer narrowly," he told him, "and do you secure him afterwards. Methinks he is some ally of these rascal outlaws; and, in any case, we shall do no harm in questioning him."

The palmer had hardly begun to string his beads when Little John commenced to elbow a path for himself through the crowd. He roughly thrust the soldiers aside as if they had been so many children, and came up to the edge of the cart. "I pray you, Will, take leave of your true friend here before you die," cried Little John.

The palmer had fallen back at his approach; and stood in some hesitancy. In a moment Monceux saw what happened. "Seize that man!" he shouted to his pikemen. "He is that villain who did rob us of our gold plate, who nearly slew Roger, our cook. He is of the band—seize him; and he too shall hang!"

"Not so fast, gossip," Little John answered, with an ugly look; "I must needs borrow my friend of you for a while."

He had cut Stuteley's bands with two quick strokes of his dagger, and having wrenched a pike from out of one of the soldiers' hands, flung it to little Will. "Now, by my freedom, here's your prayer answered, comrade," cried Little John. "I have found you a weapon—do your best with it!"

The soldiers had recovered from their temporary surprise and flung themselves upon the prisoner and his would-be rescuer. Robin, from the back of the Sheriff's bowmen, sounded his horn, and instantly all became confusion and riot. In the melee the palmer sought to slip away unnoticed, but was detected by the keen eyes of Carfax. Master Simeon rode round with six of his fellows and caused them to seize the holy man, and bind him fast with leathern thongs.

But this small success was more than outweighed by the reverse suffered by Monceux and his men. Taken in assault at the rear, they had no chance with the greenwood men. Robin himself had released the widow's three sons, and they had not been slow in arming themselves. Some of those in the crowd, having secret sympathy with the outlaws and hating the Sheriff heartily for many small injustices, also flung themselves into the fray.

The greenwood men cleared the green square before the Sheriff's home by repeated rushes and desperate chargings. Broken heads and cut knees there were in plenty; and lucky the man who escaped with so little as these. Carfax won a place of safety for Master Monceux, and fell back slowly, with him the unwilling palmer, until shelter of the castle gates had been attained. Then the soldiers and pikemen grew very valiant, and shot out clouds of arrows, through the loopholes in the castle towers, upon townsmen and rioters alike.

Half a score of men were killed ere this day was ended, amongst them being that very apprentice who had wrestled on the day of Nottingham Fair with little Stuteley, the tumbler, for Squire o' th' Hall's purse. Robin had an arrow through his hand, and nigh broke the shaft in pulling it out.

The greenwood men, well satisfied with the day's work, commenced an orderly retreat. Little John lowered the bridge for them, when they reached the city gates, and all fell back into Sherwood in good style. Stuteley had been rescued, and walked joyfully by the side of his master. Next to him was Little John, and near him the widow's three sons. They had already asked for and obtained permission to take up a free life in the woods of Sherwood.

Two of the band had been killed by the murderous arrows of the Sheriff's fellows, and most of the outlaws bore wounds of some sort. Yet they were not cast down. Sorrow sat upon them for the loss of those two brave hearts, but for their own hurts they cared naught. The bodies of their comrades were being carried with them into the free and happy woods, and there should find rest.

"Tell me, Midge," said Robin, presently, and looking round for him, "what did become of the palmer who was so wishing to be of service to our Stuteley? He seemed a likeable old man, and I would not that we should seem ungrateful."

"I much fear me that Monceux's fellows did capture him, the same who bore off thee, Will," said Midge. "But they will scarcely do him hurt, being a holy man."

"I have no trust in either of them," Robin answered, vexed, "and I am grievously angry with you, Midge, for keeping this news to yourself. The palmer must be recovered from Monceux, and at once. I will bethink me upon some plan to this end."

They walked on in silence. After a while, "I ne'er thought, master," said Stuteley, brokenly, "that I should see these woods again—nor meet Little John, either in quarrel or in friendship, nor see any of your dear faces again."

"By my crown, which is the hardest part of me," Little John cried, "I swear that in future you shall meet me how you will, gossip. Here's my hand on it."