Thus began the great friendship between these two, which was to last them all their days. Robin was glad enough of it; but the doubtful fate of the palmer still troubled him sorely. If he had known then that bitter truth which he was to learn very shortly he would have ridden back forthwith into Nottingham town, there to end this story at once. Life had, however, many years and queer twists in it yet for Robin Hood of Barnesdale.



CHAPTER XXIV

The time of Nottingham Fair had come round once more, and again the Sheriff would give a prize. Monceux determined to make the prize a good one, such as might tempt any archer. He hoped thus that Robin might be lured into Nottingham.

He smiled to himself in grim satisfaction, and rubbed his hands softly together. To tell truth, he had been expecting Robin any moment during these last ten days, and had wondered why he had not come. The palmer should have proved a bait in himself, so the Sheriff imagined.

But Robin only learned on the eve of the Fair the whole truth about that holy man.

It was in this way. For ten nights had Robin waited at the trysting place for sight of Marian; and had waited in vain.

At last doubt grew into suspicion, and suspicion into fierce terror. Had Marian been abducted by Monceux, and did the Squire fear to tell him?

On the night before the Fair he took courage and marched up to the castle entrance, then wound his horn for the bridge to be lowered. Now, if Monceux could but have known, Robin would have been easy prey.

He rushed across the bridge soon as it had fallen, clangingly, upon the buttresses. The same old servant met him at the gates, holding it open just a little way so that he might peer forth. Robin pulled his cloak about himself.

"I would see Master Montfichet, and at once," he began.

"My master is in London," replied the man, eyeing him.

"Did he journey alone? Did not Mistress Fitzwalter go with him? When did they go?"

Robin's questions came all of a rush. "My master hath been gone near two weeks. He went alone from here. But tell me who you are, clamoring so noisily with your questioning?"

"I am Robin Hood," said Robin, in desperation, "and now, for the love of Heaven, give me news of Mistress Fitzwalter."

"She left here on the day after my lord's departure."

"Hath left Gamewell?" Robin gasped. "How? In what way?"

The man sniggered. "To tell truth, excellence, she did leave us in strange guise. I have pondered more than ever upon the ways of women since the day. Mistress would have our maids make her a monk's gown, and I was bid to fashion her a staff such as these palmers carry in their hands. Then with sandalled feet——"

"Did she go forth from here upon the day of the rioting in Nottingham, when Stuteley and the others escaped?"

"It was upon the morning of that day," the man replied; "and I promise you, we have not seen her since."

Robin turned abruptly from him. Next minute he was running blindly under the night towards the city gates.

* * * * *

The Sheriff's prize had been announced far and wide. For the best archer there was an Arab horse, coal-black and worth a bag of gold, and with the horse there would be a saddle of silver and fine leather. Also a silk purse, worked by the demoiselle Marie, containing a hundred pieces.

There were other rewards for the quarter-staff and single-stick, but this year there would be no tourney.

It was a fete-day, and folk crowded into Nottingham by all gates. These had been lowered hospitably and were to remain down all day. The stages had been erected for quarter-staff.

There was a fellow, one Nat of Nottingham, who was believed to be the finest player at the game for many miles around. Several had tried their skill with Nat, but he had soon knocked every man of them off the stage rudely to the ground. He began boasting then of his prowess, and called them all cowardly and the like.

A lame beggar who had pushed himself well to the front of the ring about the stage came in for a share of Nat's abuse. This was a strange-looking fellow, with very dirty ragged clothes upon him, and a black patch over one eye. He wore a beard, pointed and untrimmed, and he listened very calmly to the other's noisy chattering.

"Come up here, you dirty villain; and I'll dust your rags for you," cried Nat, flourishing his staff.

"If you will use a shorter staff than this, Master Wind-bag," said the beggar, quietly, and showing his stick, "I'll take all the beating you can give me."

With scornful laughter Nat accepted this challenge.

The beggar took off his ragged coat and limped painfully on to the stage.



They fenced for an opening, both playing well. The beggar, for all his limp and one eye, had a pretty notion of the sport, but he had the queerest gait upon him; and as he hobbled round and round the stage under Nat's blows the people laughed continuously.

Nat caught him smartly upon the right arm a sounding thwack. The beggar made as if to drop his staff forthright, and Nat lifted himself for another and crushing blow.

But the one-eyed man recovered his guard, sprang suddenly on one side, and, as Nat's staff was descending vainly, the beggar dealt his foe a back-thrust so neatly, so heartily, and so swiftly that Nat was swept off the stage into the crowd as a fly off a table.

The beggar waited the full time for him to return; and then claimed the prize.

The victory of this queer unknown was popular. Nat was a great bully and braggart, and many of them had suffered insult at his hands. Therefore, when the beggar went to fetch his prize from the Sheriff's own hands, there was great cheering and applause. He found Monceux seated in a handsome booth, with his daughter and her maids, near by the archery rings. Here the shooting was in progress.

The Sheriff narrowly watched each competitor, and glanced often towards Mistress Monceux. The demoiselle Marie had one of her women sitting near her feet, so that every movement she made might be observed. The Sheriff's daughter signalled "No," and "No" again to her father as the various bowmen took their places.

The beggar paused to watch the contest. It seemed to amuse him exceedingly.

Master Patch was thus for some minutes close to the Sheriff's tent. His patched eye was turned towards it, and he seemed to be blissfully unaware of the great man's near presence. But he had taken due note, nevertheless, of Master Monceux and his cold daughter, and the maid sitting so forlornly upon the hard ground at the latter's feet.

One of the Nottingham men, a tanner by trade, had so far been most successful, and, like Nat, he began to be disdainful of the rest, and to swagger it somewhat each time his turn to shoot came round. "The prize will surely be thine, Arthur-a-Bland," cried Monceux, loudly clapping his hands together after this fellow had made a fair shot.

"Indeed, I do not think that Master Hood himself would beat me to-day," admitted Arthur-a-Bland, conceitedly.

The beggar heard both remark and answer. "Thou speakest well, gossip," he said, "here in Nottingham town; yet I would venture to advise thee, were this pretty place in Sherwood and the bold Robin within earshot."

The archer turned towards him. "What do you know, old Patch-and-Rags, of Robin Hood?" he sneered, angrily.

"I know too much of him," answered the beggar. "Once, like you, gossip, I boasted of my skill with the bow—'twas in Sherwood, whilst I was walking with a stranger who had met me very civilly upon the road. Says he: 'If you can hit yon mark I'll know you a better archer than Robin Hood.' So I flew my shaft arrogantly, and 'twas a tidy shot, near two hundred paces. My arrow struck the mark fairly. 'What say you, stranger?' says I. He made for reply such a bowshot as never I have seen before; for, having stepped back a score of yards, he yet was able to speed his arrow so cleverly as to split mine own from end to end. 'Thou art Robin Hood,' I said then, and I had fear upon me."

"What then?" asked Arthur-a-Bland, composedly.

"For my boasting he gave me a drubbing," the beggar went on, "and for my archery five silver crowns."

"Then thou canst bend the bow?" said Arthur. "Will you not attempt my lord Sheriff's prize, old Patch-and-Rags?"

"Marry, I would most willingly," cried the beggar, "but for my lame leg and blind eye."

"One does not need a leg to shoot arrows, nor yet two eyes. Take aim, gossip, and show us how you played the sport in Sherwood on that day."

The archer's tone was mocking; but the beggar only replied that he had already won a prize and was content.

Just then one of the Sheriff's guards approached him.

"My master would have speech with you, friend," said he.

"And so you have met bold Robin Hood?" asked Monceux, so soon as the beggar stood before him.

"Well do I know it," the beggar answered, writhing his eye in fiery glance about the Sheriff's tent. "My body is full sore yet from the beating he gave me."

"Are you sure 'twas Robin Hood?"

"That am I. He is a slim, slight man with long hair, and small, fair beard."

"If you could lead me to him, friend, I would reward you well," said the Sheriff, in malicious tones.

"I will show the place where we met soon as you will, excellence," replied the beggar.

Monceux nodded, and made a sign of dismissal. "I will speak further with you later, friend," he said.

The beggar went back to the archer and said that now he would take a shot with him. "I may as well win two prizes as one," he continued, affably, "for the horse will help me carry my pieces."

Arthur-a-Bland was greatly incensed at this speech, and took aim with hands that trembled with anger. However, he made a pretty shot, and a round of cheering met his effort.

The beggar took the bow which one of the archers held out to him, and fitted his arrow to it with a great show of care. When at last he released the arrow all got ready to laugh and jeer at him.

He contrived, however, to surprise them once again, for his arrow was found to be a full inch nearer the middle of the mark than all the others.

They shot again and again, and at length Arthur-a-Bland lodged his shaft in the center of the target. "Now mend that shot, Master Patch, an you can," cried he.

"Nay, I fear that I must now yield the prize to you, gossip," declared the beggar. "Yet I will even do my best."

He aimed with every circumstance of effort, and flew his shaft with a loud sigh. It rose up high in the air as though it must fly altogether wide of the target, and folk had already opened their mouths to laugh, when suddenly it dropped in a graceful curve towards the mark, the steel point struck exactly on the point of the other's arrow, just where it had lodged loosely in the bull, and Master Bland's arrow came tumbling to the ground, leaving the beggar's shaft shaking in the very hole its opponent's arrow had made.

This wondrous feat of archery evoked the loudest applause, and had not the Sheriff been so foolish a man, must have awakened suspicion in his breast. But, no—Master Monceux pompously gave over the Arab horse with its saddle, and the purse of gold to the victorious beggar; and then turned to leave the sports.

He bade Master Carfax to see that the beggar did not go far away. The Sheriff did not mean to lose his gifts so easily. But the beggar was very willing to keep near to the Sheriff, and asked very humbly that he might be given a place in Monceux's household, instead of taking this horse, which was of small use to one of his trade.

"I will accept your offer," said Monceux, "on the understanding that you will take the captaincy of my archers."

With such a fellow as this in his household Monceux felt that he would soon lay Robin Hood by the heels. So he strutted to his horse, and was lifted thereon in fine self-satisfaction. His daughter mounted her palfrey, and Carfax led the beast gently, whilst the maids had to hurry over the rough stones as best they might.

The beggar gripped his staff and limped along beside the women. His roving eye implored a glance from the grey-blue eyes of the maid who had sat so uncomfortably at her mistress's knee. She moved, with downcast looks, after the rest, and only dared once peep at this strange ragged fellow.

His lips moved, making her a signal, then were shut resolutely.

* * * * *

That night Monceux kept open house and grew noisy in his cups. He swore that Robin Hood was both coward and villain not to have come into Nottingham to take his chance of winning the horse and purse.

Even as he spoke an arrow came flying in through one of the narrow windows of the Sheriff's hall, and, curving, fell with a rattle upon the table in front of the startled Monceux. Attached to it was an empty purse, Monceux's own—that one indeed which had that morn held the hundred pieces so comfortably! "Where is that rascal beggar?" cried the Sheriff, suddenly having his doubts.

"Where is my maid?" shrilled the demoiselle Marie, rushing in upon her father.

"I did not send for her," shouted Monceux, seeing it all. "Haste thee, Simeon, pursue them. They cannot be far away."

"Excellence, the Arab steed hath been stolen, and by thy beggar guest," cried one of the servants, running in at the other door. "Even now he has gained the bridge, carrying your new maid a-pillion, mistress. None may hope to catch them on that fleet horse."

"They cannot win through the gates. After them, Simeon, as you love me. I never will look on you again if you do not capture Robin Hood and this girl."

Mistress Monceux was quite beside herself with fury.

"Alas, mistress," said the servant, "the gates of Nottingham stand wide; did not my master order it so but this very morn?"

"Silence!" roared Monceux; and, unable to control his rage, he struck the fellow to the ground. "After them, Simeon, and take what men you will."

Master Carfax had other duty before him, however, for his gentle lady had relapsed into a screaming hysteria. They slapped her hands and poured wine between her lips, and finally her maids had to cut her laces and put her to bed.



CHAPTER XXV

Days passed into weeks and weeks into months, and Robin Hood was still to seek. The Sheriff waged an intermittent warfare with him, scoring a few minor successes; then Robin moved himself and his men farther afield. Many of the Nottingham apprentices and other roving spirits joined when they might with Robin and his band.

Arthur-a-Bland, the tanner, who had so nearly won the Sheriff's prize, had often in these days envious thoughts for the outlaws in their free life. Anything was better, to his mind, than oak-bark and ditch-water and the smell of half-tanned hides. Also he was ambitious to beat Robin at his own game. By dint of perseverance Arthur had once come very nigh to emulating that masterly feat of archery by which Robin had wrested the purse of gold and the Arab horse from him. Vastly elated at this promise of success, the tanner had flung down his trade and had marched off towards Barnesdale, armed with his bow and a long pike-staff. He strode across the close turf, browning now under an August sun, and was soon far away from the highroad and the small protection it afforded. He espied a herd of deer, and prepared himself to shoot one of them. Just as his bow was bent Robin came out of the bushes on his left hand; and, not noticing the tanner, the young outlaw began to move stealthily round to the windward side of the beasts in order that they might make a fairer mark for his arrows.

"What makes you here so like a thief, gossip?" enquired Arthur-a-Bland, arrogantly. "I am a keeper in this forest, and it is my duty to stay you."

"Have you any assistants, friend?" Robin asked, scarcely glancing towards him. "For it is not one man alone who will stop me."

"Truly, gossip," cried Arthur, "I have no better assistant than this good oak-graff; but he will do all that I want. For your sword and your arrows I care not one straw—if I can get but a knock at your poll you will ask me no further question."

Robin unbuckled his belt at this; and, flinging his bow upon the ground, tore down a young sapling that was growing near by. With his dagger he quickly lopped it into shape; and then strode up to the tanner.

"Eight foot and a half, and 'twill knock down a calf," sang Arthur, flourishing his staff still more, "and I hope it will knock down you."

Robin sparred with him for a little, and then, making a sudden feint, bestowed such a blow on Master Bland that the blood ran down his cheek from his broken pate.

But the tanner did not accept this favor without making some return, and soon was giving Robin as good as he gave. The wood rang with the noise of their blows, and the tanner laid on his strokes as if he were beating hides.

"Hold your hand," cried Robin, at last. "You have done enough, and I will make you free of these woods."

"Why, God-a-mercy," said Arthur, "I may thank my staff for that, good fellow; not you."

"Well, well, gossip, let that be as it may. But ere we continue, tell me your name and trade, at the least. I fain would know who 'tis who hath beaten me so well."

"I am a tanner, gossip," replied Arthur, jovially now, "and by my soul, if you will come to my pits I will tan your hide for naught."

"In sooth you have already done me that service," said Robin, ruefully. "But, harkee, if you will leave your tanpots and come with me, as sure as my name is Robin Hood, you shall not want gold or fee."

"If you be Robin Hood," said Arthur, "then I am Arthur-a-Bland; and I have come to live with you and my cousin Little John, in the free woods of Barnesdale. That is, if you will have me."

"I have already given you freedom of the woods, and you shall see what welcome Little John can offer," answered Robin. "But tell me, friend, are you not that archer who so nearly won the Sheriff's horse from me in Nottingham town?"

The tanner acknowledged himself to be the man, and since Robin put it so handsomely to him he forgot all his hard thoughts about the defeat. They joined hands in friendship and went together to find Little John, who seemed right glad to find his cousin ready to join the band.

The day was spent in the usual free and happy manner. And when time for supper came round with the dusk Robin asked Little John for the name and style of their guest at supper this night. "For," said Robin, "you must have got me at least a bishop, a baron, or a knight, or some squire from the north country, to meet our new comrade to-night."

"We have no guest, master," answered Little John, regretfully.

"Then have I no stomach for my supper," Robin cried. "Go you at once, Little John, and you, Stuteley, and you also, Much, and find us such a guest, worthy of our company, and well able to pay for the pleasure of it."

"Where may they find so desirable a man?" asked the little ferret Midge, eagerly.

"Go into Watling Street," Robin told them. "At this time o' th' year there are many people passing that way."

"May Heaven send us a guest speedily," said Arthur-a-Bland, "for I am growing wondrous hungry."

The three outlaws started off at once and in high spirits, the adventure being one much to their liking. They had scarcely watched the great highroad known to all as Watling Street (and which runs from Dover in Kent to Chester town) for many minutes, when they espied a knight riding by in a very forlorn and careless manner. One foot was in the stirrups, the other out; his visor was raised above his eyes, and his face was pinched and woebegone.

Little John approached the stranger and bade him stay; for who can judge of a man's wealth by his looks? The outlaw saluted the knight courteously and informed him that his master was fasting, having waited supper for him a full three hours.

The knight reined in his sorry steed, and glanced toward his questioner with lack-lustre eye. Little John repeated his speech.

"And who is your master?" asked the knight then.

"None other than Robin Hood, of Barnesdale," Little John returned, laying his great hand on the knight's bridle. "He bids us speed you to the feast."

Seeing the other two, the knight shrugged his shoulders.

"'Tis clear that this is an invitation which will brook no refusal," he said. "So I will go with you, friends."

When they were returned to Barnesdale, Robin saluted the knight very magnificently; and his horse having been cared for, all sat down to a plentiful supper of venison, pheasants, and various small birds.

After partaking liberally of the good cheer, the knight brightened up considerably and declared that he had not enjoyed so good a meal for nigh three weeks; and he vowed that if ever Robin and his comrades should come to his country he would entertain them with an equally worthy and honorable repast.

This was not, however, the exact payment which Robin had intended. He thanked the knight, therefore, and reminded him that a yeoman like himself might hardly offer such a supper to a knight as a gift of charity.

"I have no money, Master Hood, nevertheless," answered the knight, frankly. "I have so little of this world's goods in sooth that I should be ashamed to offer that which I have."

"Money, however little, always finds a welcome from us," said Robin, smiling. "Will you deem me too impertinent, Sir Knight, if I ask what moneys you have?"

"I have, of my own, ten silver pennies," said the knight. "Here they are, and I wish they were a hundred times as many." He handed Little John his pouch; and the big fellow soon had knowledge of its contents. It was as the knight said, no more nor less.

Robin filled his guest a bumper of wine, and made a sign for Little John to hand back the pouch.

"Pledge me, Sir Knight," cried the merry outlaw, "and pledge me heartily, for these be sorry times. I see that your armor is bent and that your clothes are worn. Tell me now, were you a yeoman and made a knight by force? Or have you been bad steward to yourself and wasted your property in lawsuits and the like? Be not bashful with me, we shall not betray your secrets."

"I am a Norman knight in my own right; and I have always lived a sober and quiet life," the sorrowful knight replied. "My father, and his father, and his father's father were all knights of the King; but, as is often the case, friend Robin, rich men sometimes find their riches fly away from them. Until within this last year I have contrived by dint of care and labor, to live on the few hundreds of rent and the like which fall to me year by year; but now I have only these ten pennies of silver and my wife and children three."

Robin asked how his moneys had gone from him.

"I lost them through misfortune and naught else," the knight declared, sighing. "I have a son—a good youth—who, when he was but twenty years of age, could play prettily in jousts and tournaments and other knightly games. He had the ill luck to push his sports too far; and did kill a knight of Lancashire in a battle a outrance. To save my boy I had to sell my lands and mortgage my estates; and this not being enough, in the end I have had to borrow money from my lord of Hereford."

"A most worthy Bishop," said Robin, ironically; "I know him well."

"He seemeth to be a hard man in law," said the knight; "and since I cannot pay him the four hundred pieces he has promised to foreclose his mortgage on our home."

"Have you not any friends who would become a surety for you, Sir Knight?" queried Robin, thoughtfully.

"None. My friends have fallen away from me in mine adversity as leaves from an autumn tree."

"Fill your goblet again, Sir Knight," Robin commanded; and he turned to whisper a word in Marian's ear. She nodded, and beckoned Little John and Much the Miller to her side.

"Here is health and prosperity to you, gallant Robin," the knight said, tilting his goblet, "and my best thanks for your cheer. Would that I might make better recompense."

The two outlaws, with Mistress Marian, had now consulted the others, and all seemed to be agreed. Warrenton, as treasurer to the band, was sent into one of the inner caves, and presently returned, bearing a bag of gold. He counted it out before the knight; and there were four times one hundred golden pieces.

"Take this loan from us, Sir Knight, and pay your debt to the Bishop," Robin told him. "Nay, no thanks; you are but exchanging creditors. Mayhap we shall not be so hard on you as was the Christian Bishop; yet again, we may be harder. Who can say, where human nature is concerned?"

Much now appeared, dragging a bale of cloth. "The knight should have a suit worthy of his rank, master, do you not think?"

"Measure him twenty ells of it," Robin ordered.

"Give him your Arab horse also," whispered Marian; "it is a gift which will come back to you fourfold, for this is a worthy man. My father doth know him well."

So the horse was given also, and Robin bade Arthur-a-Bland ride as esquire to the knight; to be good use and to fulfil his first duty as one of the band.

The knight was sorrowful no longer. He could scarcely voice his thanks to them; and was nigh overcome when time for his departure came round on the following morning.

"God save you, comrades," said he, with deep feeling in his tones, "and give me a grateful heart."

"We shall wait for you twelve months from to-day, here in this place," said Robin, smiling cheerfully. "And then you will repay us for the loan of the gold."

"I shall return it to you within a year," replied the knight, firmly. "So sure as I am Sir Richard of the Lee, the money shall be returned, with interest beside. Look for me in the early days of March, friends, for then I expect to have good news of my son."

"Then, or later, Sir Knight, as you will," said Robin.



CHAPTER XXVI

The Sheriff having failed to ensnare Robin Hood, and Master Simeon having done so little better, it became clear that a more wise person than either must attempt the business. The demoiselle Marie had recovered from her fit of anger, and announced her intention of showing them both how such an affair should be approached. To this end she employed herself in archery and won some accomplishment in the sport; then she caused Master Fitzwalter's house to be searched thoroughly and any writings of his to be brought to her.

Mistress Monceux engaged her fingers next in a pretty schooling, teaching them to hold a pen as awkwardly as might Master Fitzwalter himself. So she produced at last a writing purporting to come from him to Maid Marian, his daughter. She wrote it simply and in few words:—

* * * * *

"This to my dear child Marian, from her affectionate father, Henry Fitzwalter, now in the Court of St. James, in London town. I send you all greetings, and am well both in mind and spirit. I pray God that He has kept you as jealously in my long absence from home. This is to tell you, dear heart, that, after all, I shall return to Nottingham, mayhap very soon, and that you are to provide accordingly. I have had tidings of you given to me by my lord Bishop of Hereford, and now send you this by the hand of his man, who returns to Nottingham on other business of my lord's. I pray you to remain closely in Nottingham during my absence.

"(Signed) FITZWALTER, Warden of the City Gates. "The twenty-fifth day of August, 1188."



The demoiselle Marie had made several attempts before she had succeeded in producing a letter so entirely to her satisfaction; and when she had sealed the above with the Fitzwalter arms and had addressed it, she felt such a glow of pride in it that she could scarce bring herself to part with the missive.

At length she bade one of her maids fetch Master Simeon to her. When, all delighted, he stood before her, his love handed him the note.

"Take this, dear fool," said she, kindly, "and bring it to the hand of the maid Fitzwalter. She is with the outlaws in Barnesdale, hidden in one of their deeps, no doubt. I care not how you give it to her so long as you are speedy."

"I will send it by the hand of Roger, your father's cook. He is well acquainted with their hiding-places."

"That would be to spoil my plot at its outset," Marie answered, cuttingly. "Gather your wandering wits, and bethink you of some more likely messenger. Have you not someone in this town who can be trusted?"

"I have the very man for it," suddenly cried Carfax. "There is a young knight, one who hath been exiled by the King for plotting with Prince John. He is the only son of our fiery neighbor Montfichet. He hath done secret work for the Prince, and will do it again if he believes that he hath need for it."

"You are for ever employed in doubtful business," said Marie, crossly. "I do not like your fiddling with Prince John. You may be sure that Richard will succeed to the throne; and then we shall see where your plottings have brought you."

"Richard hath already succeeded," said Carfax, whisperingly. "I had the news but an hour since. Old Henry of Angevin is King no more—he is dead. And Richard, Coeur de Lion, as the commoners do call him, hath gone to Palestine, all unknowing that he is King!"

"So you think that John may seize the throne?" sneered Marie Monceux, unconvinced. "Let it be, I tell you, Simeon. In any case we must destroy these outlaws of Sherwood or they will destroy us. If they be not exterminated by the end of this year my father will cease to be Sheriff."

"May the Lord forbid!" cried Carfax, startled.

"Ay, and we shall be poor folk, Simeon, unworthy of you, no doubt. But that is not yet. Take this note, and send it how you will so long as it comes to this girl's hands within two days."

Carfax accepted the charge; and went into the lodgings of one who had entered the town within the last few hours—none other, indeed, than Geoffrey de Montfichet, who had brought Master Simeon the startling news of the King's sudden death.

Geoffrey perceived that he might openly show himself now if the Sheriff would but ignore the dead King's decree of exile passed upon him. He was sounding Carfax in the matter, and the wily go-between was temporizing in his usual way—trying to make some gain to himself out of one or the other of them.

"If you will but carry this letter to Mistress Fitzwalter, who is with thy cousin Robin Fitzooth in Barnesdale, Sir Knight," said Simeon, plausibly, "you will win the gratitude of the Sheriff's daughter, at the least; and she doth rule the roost here, as I can tell you. 'Tis but a letter from Master Fitzwalter to his child."

"I know the woods and will take the note," Geoffrey said. "See to it that Monceux does not move against me."

"His girl will tie his hands, if need be," grinned Carfax. "Ay, she can drive us all. God speed you, Sir Knight."

* * * * *

It fell out that whilst Robin was walking alone near the highroad to York, close to that very bridge whereon he had fought with Little John, he perceived a smart stranger dressed in scarlet and silk. Just as Robin espied this gay gentleman and was marvelling at his daring in walking these woods so coolly, unattended by squire or guard, the knight deftly fitted an arrow to his bow, and with a clever shot brought down a fine stag.

"Well hit," cried Robin, who could never abstain from admiration of a good bowman. "You have used your bow full well, Sir Knight."

The scarlet knight turned towards Robin, and, taking him for some husbandman or hind, called out in high tones, asking how he dared to speak to his betters in that insolent way.

"How is one to know one's betters, Sir Knight?" queried Robin, cheerfully. "A noble is not always known by his dress, but rather by his manners and his deeds."

"Your insolence shall be well paid for," returned the other, putting by his bow and drawing his sword. Without further argument he approached Robin angrily, and struck at him with meaning.

Robin was too quick for him, however, and caught the blow upon the edge of his own trusty blade. After a few passes Robin feinted, and, catching the other unawares, dealt him a thwack with the flat of his blade. The scarlet stranger reeled under the blow.

"I find you are not so mean a person as I had thought," observed he, in a series of gasps. "Yet, even now, 'tis not amiss that you should have a lesson."

With that the two engaged heartily, and fought for nigh an hour, without either side gaining an advantage.

At length he succeeded in pricking Robin on the cheek.

"Hast enough, fellow?"

"A rest would be welcome," admitted Robin, with a laugh.

They called a truce and sat down side by side beneath a tree. The stranger eyed Robin thoughtfully; and Robin glanced back at him, with his suspicions slowly growing to certainty. Presently:

"You are he whom they call Robin Hood, I take it," said the stranger, "although I do not know you by such a strange name."

"It is my own name," replied the outlaw, "and I am proud of it. Are you not Geoffrey of Gamewell?"

"That was my name, cousin, even as yours was once Robin Fitzooth, but now I call myself Will Scarlett. 'Tis a whimsey; but since Geoffrey Montfichet has a bigger price on his head than I can afford to pay, why, I have buried him under a prettier name! But tell me why you are dressed so plainly. On my life, I did not know you when first we met."

"A man should have clothes to suit his work, cousin," argued Robin. "And 'tis a wonder to me that you should have been able to kill yon stag with such a wild color upon you. Howbeit, thy arrow was shrewd enough, and I'll say no more than to tell how well pleased I am to have fallen in with you again. Here's my hand in all true affection, cousin Scarlett."

"And mine, cousin Hood."

They carried the stag between them to Barnesdale; and Robin learned that his cousin had a letter with him for Marian. When Robin heard who had given it to Will Scarlett his suspicions were immediately awakened.

"However, let us give Marian the letter, and see what she may think upon it," he observed. "There cannot be much harm in that."

Thus did Mistress Monceux succeed admirably in the first part of her scheme.

* * * * *

Soon as Marian had had her letter she was all agog to go back into Nottingham. She showed the scroll to Robin, and though his heart misgave him he could hardly say her nay. No doubt as to the genuineness of the letter occurred to Marian: she knew her father's peculiarly awkward handwriting too well. Certainly the phrasing of it seemed a little too easy for so plain a man, yet since he had been so long in London he had, of course, acquired Court ways.

On the third week in September Marian determined to return to her old home, and take the risk of any treachery.

"Allan-a-Dale and Fennel shall go with you, dear heart," said Robin. "Why not? They can appear as your father's guests, and the two maids will help you keep house. Also Warrenton shall go as Allan's man. I can be sure that these faithful ones will guard my pretty love from all harm."

"Am I indeed your pretty love?" asked Marian, in foolish happiness; "are you sure that you would not have some other maid—to wit, the demoiselle Marie? She hath an eye for you, as I know—for all she seemeth so much our enemy. Trust a woman for finding out another woman's secret!"

Mistress Fennel was not loth to leave the greenwood. In the summer months the life was none too bad a one, but now that September mists and rains were upon Barnesdale, the young wife shivered and complained. "Hereford is the only one we need fear, after all," Allan admitted; "your old baron would never look for us in Nottingham."

"And the Bishop is in London," said Marian, showing her letter. "See what my father saith."

Therefore Robin and his men were left to their own devices in the matter of cooking and kitchen work soon as September's third week had come and gone. Allan-a-Dale, Warrenton, the two girls and their two maids, all travelled into Nottingham on the best horses that the outlaws could provide, under escort so far as Gamewell. They were secretly watched into the town, that Robin might be sure no one attempted any treachery.

It was arranged that Allan should come himself to Gamewell, and seek the Squire's friendship on some near occasion. Then he might tell the old man about Marian and how she had left his roof.

Montfichet would not be vexed with her, Marian felt. If he were, she would come herself, and coax him. Also either Allan or Warrenton would find means to send Robin news of the household, and tell him whether Fitzwalter returned as the latter promised.

So all safeguards that wit could devise were taken, and Robin, having kissed her little fingers very tenderly, left Marian with her cortege, upon the road by Gamewell, and having satisfied himself that all had gained safe entrance to Nottingham, journeyed back to the caves at Barnesdale with quiet mien. His heart told him to suspect some evil plot—yet where could he find one? Scarlett, his own cousin, had brought the letter, and Marian had recognized the writing.

Oh, how dull the caves and the woods seemed without her! Tuck and the miller had employed themselves in cooking them all a royal dinner; and Stuteley tried his best to lighten the gloom. Robin laughed with them, and sought to hide his grief, feeling it to be unmanly.

But never had he enjoyed a feast so little in the free woods as this one. Good food and good company he had, but not that salt with which to savor them—a merry heart.



CHAPTER XXVII

The autumn ripened into winter. Allan found means to send Robin news of them often: Master Fitzwalter had not returned; but had sent another letter saying that he would do so ere long. They all were happy and unmolested in the city. Of the Sheriff and his daughter they had seen nothing. That Warrenton was well, and that they had gotten them a man-cook and other servants.

Marian wrote little crabbed messages to him. Brief and ill-spelt as they were, they became Robin's chiefest treasures. Marian forebore making any attempt to see her love, for fear that she might be watched and followed, and so bring about Robin's capture. She fretted sorely at this restraint placed upon her by Allan's more prudent hands.

The demoiselle Marie had made a miscalculation. She knew that presently Robin would seek Marian, even in the lion's mouth. Then would come the day of the Sheriff's triumph.

The little house of the Fitzwalters was spied upon from within. No one bethought them of this new cook. Had Little John once espied him there would have been a different tale to tell, however.

He had offered his services to Warrenton at a small premium, saying that he had lost his last place with being too fond of his bed.

He said his name was Roger de Burgh, and that he came of good family. The wages he asked were so small, and he seemed so willing, and had been so frank as to his failing, that Marian bade him take up his quarters forthwith in her father's house.

Life passed uneventfully for them in the Fitzwalter household. It was neither happy nor unhappy. Mistress Fennel found it vastly more amusing than the draughty caves of Barnesdale; but then Mistress Fennel had her dear—and Marian had not. She was vaguely disturbed at her father's lengthened absence. Surely he should by now have determined where he would live—Nottingham or London.

The months crawled on and Christmas came and went.

Marian was still tied to Nottingham streets and Robin to Barnesdale woods. This state of inactivity had told much upon the greenwood men—upon Little John most of all.

At last the big fellow fell out with Friar Tuck, and began to grumble at everyone in turn. Robin, in despair, bade him go into Nottingham, to see how the land lay there. "If you must be breaking someone's head, Little John, let it be one of our enemies who shall suffer. But have a care, for your tongue is as long as your body. Choose a cunning disguise therefor."

"I will go as a beggar," said Little John, brightening up at the prospect of adventure. "For a beggar may chatter as much as he will—'tis part of his trade."

So clad all in rags, and bent double as though with age, Little John went forth from their caves upon a February morning. He supported himself with a stout oak staff, and carried two great bags upon his shoulders. One held his food, and the other was to be refuge for anything of note that he might find left about—such as Sheriff's plate, to wit, or a Bishop's valuables.

He encountered four fellows of the like profession near by Nottingham north gate. One was dumb, another blind, the other two halt and lame. "Give you good morrow, brothers," said he, in a gruff voice. "It's my fortune that brings me to you, for I am in sore need of company. What is there a-doing in Nottingham since the bells be ringing a-merrily? Are they hanging a man, or skinning a beggar?"

"Neither one nor the other, you crooked churl," replied one of the crippled beggars. "The Sheriff is returned from London with his daughter, and the folk are giving him a welcome, such as you will never have from the city! Stand back, for there is no room for you there. Four of us as it is are too many, and we have come here to settle who shall go on and who turn back."

"And how will you settle such a knotty point, gossip?"

"Marry, with our sticks," retorted the beggar, threateningly. "But first we will dispose of you;" and he made a fierce blow at Little John.

"If it be a fight that your stomachs are yearning for—why, I am the man for you all," Little John said at once, "and I will beat the four of you heartily, whether you be friends or enemies." Then he began to twirl his staff right merrily, and gave the dumb fellow such a crack upon his crown that he began to roar lustily.

"Why, I am a doctor, then, since I can cure dumbness," cried the outlaw. "Now let me see whether I can mend your broken leg, gossip," and he cut the first cripple so suddenly across the shins that he dropped his staff and commenced to dance with pain. "Now for your eyes, friend."

But the blind one did not wait for the cure. He took to his heels forthwith, running surprisingly straight. The other lame one ran after him full as fast.

Little John caught them after a short chase, and dusted their rags thoroughly.

"Give you good day, brothers," said he, then, well satisfied. "Now I am going to welcome the Sheriff, and, as you say Nottingham is too small a place for us all, therefore speed you towards Lincoln; 'tis a pretty town and none too far for such strong legs."

His flourishing stick spoke even more eloquently. The four of them shuffled away speedily, sore in their minds and bodies.

Nottingham was gay indeed. The Sheriff had returned from London, where he had been in order to gain more time for the capture of Robin Hood and his men. His daughter had complete faith in her scheme—it was bound in the end to be successful.

"Be patient, and all will be well," she told her father. But Christmas was the end of the time which Prince John had allowed Monceux for Robin's capture. Therefore, both the Sheriff and his daughter had journeyed to Court to see what instructions had been left, and whether they might not get the time extended.

They contrived by spending much money in bribes, and in giving grand entertainments, to achieve their ends. King Richard was away in the Holy Land. Prince John was well employed in stirring up the barons to espouse him as King while there was such an opening. There was thus no actual monarch, and none in the Court to care much about the Sheriff or Robin. Those high in authority accepted the Sheriff's bribes, and bade him take till Doomsday.

Squire Montfichet, who was, as we know, a staunch supporter of the old order of things, would recognize no other King than Richard. As a matter of fact, the old man had no great love for him, but he was, after all, the true King, and Montfichet threw all his weight into the scale against John. The Saxon nobles were also active, feeling that now was their chance to recover power.

So Monceux and the demoiselle saw for themselves that they had nothing to fear from the Court, at any rate. They had stayed and enjoyed themselves in the city, and the Sheriff was able to make himself presently very useful.

The Princess of Aragon, one of the Court beauties, had need of an escort to York. She was going there to be married (much against her royal will) to one of the great Saxon notables. This was an arrangement made by the Richard party, in the hopes of winning the Saxons to themselves, as against John, who had already Salisbury, De Bray, and the cunning Fitzurse upon his side.

The Sheriff had arrived with his train in great state, just as Little John entered Nottingham. The outlaw came in by the north gate, as Monceux, proud of escorting the pretty Princess, entered by the south. Nottingham was gay with bunting and flags, and the bells were ringing noisily.

It was a royal procession, and soon as Little John was able to join with it his bag began to swell rapidly. Many a pocket did his sharp knife slice away from the side of unsuspecting wealthy citizens.

Sports were held in the fields, and the beggar had a merry time of it. Towards nightfall his bags were both filled, and he began to think it about time to attend to the commissions which Robin had laid upon him. This was to convey a letter to Marian, and to discover how Allan-a-Dale and his little wife were faring.

Little John shuffled with his bags along the narrow streets until he came to the house. He began to cry his wares, calling out that he was ready to change new goods for old ones, that he would buy old clothes and give good money for them.

Marian and the rest had, however, gone to see the sights, for there were to be illuminations. Only Roger the cook had been left in charge, and he, having glanced once at the noisy beggar, angrily bade him begone.

Little John only shouted the louder, and the cook furiously flung to the casement windows. The beggar passed by the house slowly, still calling "old clothes," as if he had not even noticed the angry cook.

Yet Roger's few angry words had awoke sharp recognition in Little John. "By my rags and bags," muttered he, amazed, "this rascal needeth much killing!" The scene in the Sheriff's kitchen arose before him. "This time I will fling you into the river, Master Roger—be sure of it. I wonder what evil hath brought you to this house of all others! If by chance you have harmed any one of them vengeance shall fall upon you swift and deadly."

A thin rain had commenced to fall, and so the beggar turned back.

The house was dark and silent. The beggar stopped in front of it uncertainly, grumbling under his breath at the driving rain. Just as he was about to move towards the door, the click of its latch warned him to jump back into the shadows of the next house.

A white face looked out of the Fitzwalter home, stealthily peering right and left. Little John crept farther into the shadows.

The cook came out into the wet road. He seemed to be scared and troubled. After a moment's pause he returned to the house, entered it silently, and Little John heard the latch click once more.

"Now, what mischief is in the air?" thought Little John. "Some knavish business doubtless, or my friend Roger would not be in it. By my faith, I do mistrust that man."

He went back into the middle of the road with his sacks, and commenced crying his wares afresh. Almost at once Roger opened the door again. "A murrain upon you, noisy rascal," he called; "can you not be still?"

"Ay, truly, an it pay me," answered Little John, lurching towards him, as though he were tipsy. "Can I strike a bargain with you, gossip?"

"What have you in the sacks, beggar?"

"Everything in the world, brother. I have gifts for the rich, presents for the poor."

"Have you anything fit for a cook?" asked Roger.

"I have a basting spoon and a spit."

"I will give you meat and bread—much as you can carry—if you have such a spoon as my kitchen lacks," whispered Roger.

Little John dived his hand into a sack, and brought out a silver ladle, which he had stolen from a shop that day. Roger took it eagerly, and his fingers were icy cold.

"Put your sacks down by the door, dear gossip," said Roger, after a moment's pause. "Here they will be out of the rain. I must go within to examine this ladle."

"Have you not a tankard of ale to give me?" begged Little John, "I am worn with the day."

"Enter, friend," Roger said then. "Tread lightly, for fear we disturb my folk." He took Little John into the dark passage. "I'll bring your sacks in for you, whilst you are here," continued Roger, very obligingly; and before the other could say him yea or nay, he had pulled the sacks into the house and had closed the door tightly.

It was very dark, and Little John thought it only prudent to keep his fingers on his knife. He heard the cook rustling about near to him, and presently came a faint sound as if one of the sacks had bulged forward and shifted its contents. "Hasten with the ale, good friend," whispered Little John, hoarsely. "I feel mighty drowsy in this close place; soon I shall be asleep."

Roger's voice answered him then softly from the end of the narrow hall, and almost at once the cook appeared with a lantern. He came creakingly over the boards, and handed Little John a mug of beer. "Your ladle is of the right sort, dear gossip," he announced, "and I will give you a penny for it."

"Twenty silver pennies is my price for the spoon," answered Little John, tossing off the ale at a draught. "Give it to me, brother, or return me my spoon. I do not find your ale to my taste," he added, wiping his mouth.

Roger opened the door roughly. "Then begone, ungrateful churl," he cried, forgetting his caution. He tried to push Little John roughly out into the night. "What! would you try to steal my bags?" roared Little John, suddenly snatching hold of Roger by the scruff of his neck. "You villain—you rascally wretch—you withered apple!"

He tossed and shook Roger like a rat, and finally flung him into the center of the muddy road. "Help! help!" screamed the cook, at the full pitch of his voice. "Help! a thief, a thief! Help! murder! help!"

His cries at once attracted notice. The dull, dead street became instantly alive. With an angry exclamation Little John dashed into the passage, seized up his bags, and fled, stepping upon the writhing body of the cook as he ran.

Little John turned the first corner at top speed. Three men rushed at him with drawn swords. He swung his bags right and left and felled two of them. The third he butted with his head, and the man asked no more.

Under the wet driving night Little John ran. The bags sadly impeded him, but he would not let them go. He darted down a little court to avoid a dozen clutching hands, and fancied he had now safety.

He paused, drawing in his breath with a sob. The race had tried him terribly. The court was all dark, and his pursuers had overshot it; next instant, however, they recovered the scent and were upon him full cry.

Little John, snatching his bags, dashed up to the end of the alley. There was a door, which yielded to him.

Next instant he had plunged into the open lighted space before Nottingham Castle, into the midst of a shouting throng. The illuminations had not been a success, owing to the rain, but they gave enough light to achieve Little John's undoing. The beggar was seized and his bags were torn from him, just as those other pursuers sprang out through the alley.

"He hath robbed a house, and killed a man," shouted the foremost. "Hold him fast and sure."

"Nay—I have killed no one," cried the giant, struggling hopelessly and desperately. "Take my bags an you will; I was but bearing them to my master."

"Pretty goods to be carrying, indeed," said a voice, as someone turned one bag upside down. On to the hard wet stones rolled a number of things collected by this industrious outlaw—pockets, daggers, purses, knives, pieces of gold, and pennies of silver, a motley company of valuables.

"They are my master's," panted Little John, furiously. "Let them be."

"See what he hath in the other sack," cried another. "He seemeth to have robbed our butchers also." The sack was opened, and the contents laid bare.

A sudden silence fell upon the crowd, a silence of horror and hate. Then a thousand tongues spoke at once, and Little John, frozen cold with loathing, saw under the flickering lamps a dreadful thing.

Out of the second sack had fallen the limbless trunk of a dead man, cold and appalling even in this uncertain light. A head, severed through the jugular arteries, rolled at his feet, grinning and ghastly.

"'Tis Master Fitzwalter," whispered one, in a lull. "Dead and dishonored——"

The clamor became deafening, and Little John felt his senses failing fast. He was beaten and struck at by them all; they tore at him, and cursed him.

Their blows and their rage were as nothing beside the thought of that awful thing upon the ground. The crowd and the lamps reeled and swam before the outlaw's eyes and became blurred.

But the grim vision of that dreadful body became plainer and plainer to him. It assumed terrible proportions, shutting out all else.



CHAPTER XXVIII

As the days sped on and nothing was heard of Little John, Robin began to grow more and more anxious. He made up his mind to go himself into Nottingham and there see Marian, and discover and (if need be) rescue his faithful herdsman.

All the greenwood men were against him in this, however, and for once had their own way. "Let me go, Master," begged Stuteley; "for my life is of little account compared with yours."

"I will go," said Scarlett. "There is no such animus in the Sheriff's mind against me as he hath against the rest of you. I can ask for Master Carfax and he will perforce treat me fairly."

"I am not so sure of it," said Robin, significantly; "I would not trust Master Simeon further than a rope would hold him. Still, what you say is fair enough, cousin, and if you will go into the city for us we shall all be grateful. For my part, I would dearly like to accompany you."

"Your duty is here," answered Scarlett. "Rely on me. I will find out what hath chanced to Little John, and will also attend Mistress Fitzwalter."

Will Scarlett started at once, and bore himself so well that he made sight of Gamewell within two hours. He paused for a moment without his father's house, regarding the old place with half scornful eyes. Then, "What is to be, must be," said Will, to hearten himself.

He walked on toward Nottingham meditatively. If he could have met old Gamewell then and there he would have stopped him and asked his forgiveness. 'Twas in the morning, the sweet fresh morn, in the happy woods, wherein birds fluttered and sang tenderly, and the peaceful deer fed placidly on the close grass of the glades.

This sylvan picture was disturbed rudely for him. A stag, wild and furious, dashed out suddenly from amongst the trees, scattering the does in terrified alarm. The vicious beast eyed Will in his bright dress, and, lowering its head, charged at him furiously. Will nimbly sprang aside, and having gained shelter of an oak, scrambled hurriedly into its branches.

The stag turned about and dashed itself at the tree.

"Now am I right glad not to be in your path, gentle friend," murmured Scarlett, trying to fix himself on the branches so that he might be able to draw an arrow. "Sorry indeed would be anyone's plight who should encounter you in this black humor."

Scarcely had he spoken when he saw the stag suddenly startle and fix its glances rigidly on the bushes to the left of it. These were parted by a delicate hand, and through the opening appeared the figure of a young girl. She advanced, unconscious alike of Will's horrified gaze and the evil fury of the stag.

She saw the beast, standing as if irresolute, there, and held out her hand to it with a pretty gesture, making a little sound with her lips as if to call it to her side. "For the love of God, dear lady——" cried Will.

And then the words died on his throat. With a savage snort of rage the beast had rushed at this easy victim, and with a side blow of its antlers had stretched her upon the ground. It now lowered its head, preparing to gore her to death.

Already its cruel horns had brushed across her once. A piteous cry rang through the woods. Will set his teeth, and swung himself to the ground noiselessly.

Then he quickly dropped to his knee, and was aiming his shaft whilst the stag was making ready for a more deadly effort. Will's arrow struck it with terrific force full in the center of its forehead. The stag fell dead across the body of the fainting maid.

Will Scarlett had soon dragged the beast from off the girl, and had picked her up in his strong arms. He bore her swiftly to the side of one of the many brooks in the vale.

He dashed cool water upon her face, roughly almost, in his agony of fear that she was already dead, and he could have shed tears of joy to see those poor closed eyelids tremble. He redoubled his efforts; and presently she gave a little gasp: "Where am I, what is't?"

"You are here, dear maid, in the forest of Sherwood, and are safe."

She opened her eyes then, and sat up. "Methinks that there was danger about me, and death," she said, wonderingly. Then recognition shone in her face, and she incontinently began to bind her fallen hair and tidy her disordered dress. "Is it you, indeed, Master Scarlett?" she asked.

"Ay, 'tis I. And, thank Heaven, in time to do you a service." Will's tones were deep and full of feeling.

"I am always in your debt, Master Will," she said, pouting, "and now you have me at grievous disadvantage. Tell me where you have been, and why you did leave cousin Richard and France?"

"Once I had no safety there," replied Will, with meaning, "neither for myself nor for my heart. As for my leaving Richard's Court, why, foolishly, I would be always where you are."

"So you have followed me, then; is that what I am to believe?" The maid smiled. "I will confess, I did know that you were come to London, and I was glad, Will, for I had not too many friends in England, nor have them now, it would seem. But why was there no safety for you in London? And where have you hidden yourself of late?"

"There is a price upon my head. I am in exile. You know me as Will Scarlett, but in sooth my name is not so Saxon."

"I hate the Saxons," said the maid, pettishly. She had risen to her feet, but still was troubled about her tumbled hair. "I am to be married to one, and so have run away. That is why I am wandering in this stupid wood."

"Call it not stupid, it hath brought you to me once more," whispered Will, taking her hands; "and so you do not love this man after all? Is it so? Had I but known!"

"Didst leave London because of that?" asked she, lightly. "Ay, but men know how to cozen us! I'll not believe a foolish thing, not if you were to tell it me a thousand times."

"I'll tell it to you once, sweetheart. I did leave London because I learned that you were to be married to another. Life had no more to teach me than that one thing, and it was enough. For what was left for me to learn? I had loved you and loved you so well, and had loved you in vain."

"Had loved, Will? Is thy love so small, then, that it burns out like a candle, within an hour? I had believed——"

But Master Scarlett suddenly took this wilful maid to his heart. "I do love you, oh, my dear, with all my body and my life—till the end of ends, in waking and sleeping. And so I pledge my troth."

She struggled out of his arms. "I am encumbered with wild beasts at each step," cried she, all rosy and breathless. "One would kill me for blind rage, the other for love. Oh, I do not know which to fear the most. There, you may kiss my hand, Will, and I will take you for my man, since it seems that I am to be married whether I will or no. But you must carry the tidings to my Saxon in York, and, beshrew me, I hope he will not take it too hardly, for your sake."

"And yours also." Scarlett was holding her again.

"I like you well enough to be sorry if he should hurt you," said this teasing little Princess. She looked up at him, and then dropped her lashes. "Do you truly love me, Will? For truly do I love you."

And so the Princess of Aragon elected to marry Geoffrey of Montfichet, notwithstanding the politic choice of husband made for her by the wise old men in London town.

They walked on together towards Nottingham, quietly, and in deep content with the world.

They encountered a stately little cavalcade near by the gates of the city, and knew themselves observed ere they could hope to avoid them. Putting a bold face on it, the lovers stood on one side, to permit this company to pass them.

An old man, richly dressed, came first, followed at a respectful distance by six horsemen.

The Princess watched them in happy indifference. Her frank glance roved from one to the other of the would-be steadfast faces before her. She turned her head to gaze again at the absorbed old man who led the company.

Then she checked herself in a little exclamation; and hastily averted her face. It was too late, the old fellow had been roused from his apathy. He reined in his grey horse, and asked over his shoulder: "Who are these, Jacquelaine?"

The esquire so addressed at once rode forward, but before he could speak his master had discovered an answer for himself. He had fixed fierce eyes upon Master Scarlett, and made a scornful gesture. "So 'tis you, Geoffrey, daring death now for the sake of some country wench? Ay, but you will end upon the gallows, for sure."

"I shall not ask you to pray at my bedside," retorted Scarlett, bitterly.

The Princess suddenly whipped round. "Who are you, Sir Churl, to talk of gallows and the like to us? Hast come from a hanging thyself? There is one a foot in Nottingham, I mind me."

It was now the turn of the old knight to exclaim. "Princess, you?" gasped he, in sheer amaze. He tumbled from his horse to the ground, and with old-fashioned courtesy knelt before her. She put out her hand for him to kiss.

"Rise, Master Montfichet, I pray you, 'tis not your place to kneel to me," she said, with her little Court smile.

The other horsemen had dismounted and now stood apart from the trio. The Princess was the first to speak, so soon as the old Squire had risen. "Master Montfichet and Will Scarlett, pray let me make you known to each other," she said, prettily. "This is Squire George of Gamewell, a good friend and honest adviser to me, although I do not always listen to him as I should," she laughed, easily. "This is Master Will Scarlett, whom I have known both in France and now again in England. He hath but now saved me from a dreadful death."

She paused; then added quickly and a little nervously: "My life is his, in short, Master Montfichet, and so—and so I have given it to him. We are to be married, and live in the greenwood. Therefore, you are not to speak slightingly of Master Scarlett in my presence."

Consternation, astonishment and gratification struggled together mightily in the Squire's breast. "Geoffrey, you!" he said again. "But this is beyond belief."

"Therefore believe it," spoke the Princess, lightly; "for that will show you to be no common man."

"Sir," said Geoffrey, kneeling before his father, "I pray you forgive both my rash words just now and all my seeming ingratitude. I am very fain to be friends again with you, and I do swear to be more dutiful in the years to come. Will you take my hand?"

"Ay, freely as it is offered. God save us; but who am I to be stubborn of will, in the face of these miracles?"

"Do the miracles work happiness for you, Master Montfichet?" enquired the maid, archly.

"Ay, marry. But the King will never consent to this business, be sure of it. You marrying my son—a commoner!"

"Your son?" It was now the Princess's turn to be amazed. But soon the matter was explained to her. "So, Will, you have begun by deceiving me; a bad beginning."

"I was trying to tell you, dear heart, when we made this encounter. Was I not saying that my father lived near by here? Did I not tell you that he was a Norman——"

"There, there, do not fret your dear self. I will marry you, whether you be Will Scarlett or Geoffrey of Montfichet. It is yourself I need, after all."

"Take my steed and ride with us to Gamewell. There, at least, I must keep thee, Princess, until the King hath given his sanction to this marriage. You to rule over Gamewell? In sooth I will be a joyful man upon that day."

"And I," murmured Master Scarlett.

So they turned back towards Gamewell, and only when they were in sight of it did Scarlett remember poor Little John. Then he stopped short, reining in the horse which one of the knights had lent to him. The Princess had accepted loan of the esquire Jacquelaine's palfrey.

Will soon had told them this errand which he had come so near to forgetting altogether. "If this be the man they call John Little Nailor," said the Princess, sorrowfully, "why, he is in perilous plight. You have but just ridden through Nottingham, I take it, Master Montfichet, and have some of its news?"

"They do not seem yet to know of your adventurings, Princess."

"No, surely; for what is a woman, missing or to hand, when there is red murder abroad? This poor fellow, whom I do believe to be innocent, was accused of theft by a rascally cook, and was pursued. 'Twas the night of our return. They chased him from pillar to post, and presently caught him close to the castle. He had two bags with him."

"'Tis Little John, then," cried Scarlett; "I saw him go out with the sacks across his back."

"In one of them they found many things that other folk had strangely lost," said the Princess, with a little grimace. "In the other there was the dead, dishonored body of a good citizen foully done to death."

Her listeners stared in their amazement. "It is a Master Fitzwalter who hath been so cruelly murdered," continued the Princess, her color coming and going. "This Little John swears that the cook did kill his master; and whilst he, Little John, was resting in Fitzwalter's house this rascal fellow must have changed the sacks."

"Fitzwalter, the warden of the gates? I knew him well. Why, he left us but three weeks since to travel to Nottingham. It seems that he had sent a messenger to his girl there that she was to follow him, but either his letter miscarried or the maid would not. So poor Fitzwalter, busy as he was, must needs return to meet his death."

"Who is this cook?" asked Scarlett.

"An evil character, he hath altogether. Once he was of an outlaw robber band, headed here in these very woods under one Will of Cloudesley."

"Tell me, is he called Roger de Burgh?" asked Will.

"That is his name," answered the Princess, surprised; "do you know aught of him?"

"I know much evil of him," replied her lover; and then he told them how this very Roger had planned to take his (Will's) life, and how Robin had saved him.

The Squire nodded. "I remember," said he, slowly.

"Ay, Robin was always a good lad. This news of yours will stagger him, for he is betrothed to Mistress Fitzwalter, daughter of him who hath so dreadfully met his end."

"The two of them were arraigned, I must tell you," went on the Princess, "and both were to be racked. But they did not put it too hardly upon Master Roger, as I have reason to know, wherefore he was able to maintain his innocence; whilst the other, in his bitter anguish, made confession of a crime which he did never commit."

"And they are hanging him whilst I stand idly here," cried Scarlett, turning to horse. "I must leave you, sweet; forgive me. Here is a man's life in the balance."

"What would you, Will?" she asked, fearfully. "The hanging is fixed for the Thursday in next week."

"Before then he shall be free," said Will Scarlett, firmly. "Farewell, dear heart. Wait for me here at Gamewell; my father will be good host to you, I know."

"The maid Fitzwalter was lodging with us when I was called to London," the Squire began.

"She is now in Nottingham, sir. It is a story which I will tell you later. Now give me farewell, and your blessing."

"God's blessing be in you, Geoffrey, my son," said the Squire. It was the first time for many years that he had called Geoffrey by that name.

"And take all my heart with you, Will." The voice of this little Princess was husky; and a sob sounded in her throat. "Be cautious, and return soon to me."

She watched his swift retreating figure as he sped towards Nottingham, there to argue it with Master Carfax.



CHAPTER XXIX

The day after Scarlett's departure found Robin in frantic mood. Two emissaries had he sent out to gain news of Marian, and neither had returned. He had had now no direct tidings of her for nigh on three months. Little John's silence, too, disturbed him.

Robin determined that he would see Marian, at least, this day, or die in the attempt. So, notwithstanding all that the rest could urge, their leader started away on foot towards the city.

He walked quickly, and his mind was so filled with dreadful thoughts that he exercised little of his usual care. Emerging suddenly upon the high road, he plunged almost into the arms of his enemy, the Lord Bishop of Hereford.

It was too late for Robin to retreat, and he was too far away for him to wind his horn in the hope of rousing his men. The Bishop rode at the head of a goodly company and had already espied him.

About a mile away, near by the roadside, was a little tumble-down cottage. Robin remembered it and saw his only chance of safety. At once he doubled back through the underwood, much to the surprise of the Bishop, who thought he had truly disappeared by magic. In a few minutes Robin had come to the little cottage. The owner of the place, a little crabbed old woman, rose up with a cry of alarm.

"'Tis I, Robin Hood; where are your three sons?"

"They are with you, Robin. Well do you know that. Do they not owe life to you?"

"Help now repay the debt," said Robin, in a breath. "The Bishop will soon be without, and he has many men."

"I will save you, Robin," cried the old woman, bustlingly. "We will change raiment, and you shall go forth as the poor lone woman of this cot. Go without and strip yourself speedily; and throw me your clothes through the doorway."

Robin was in the garden and had slipped out of his Lincoln green in a moment. He clad himself with equal celerity in the old woman's rags, as she flung them out to him one by one.

The Bishop perceived an old decrepit woman hobbling across the road, as he with his company came hastening down it. He bade one of his fellows to stay her, and ask if she had seen such and such a man. The soldier gave her a full and vivid description of Robin Hood. The old woman, thus rudely prevented from gathering her sticks—already she had a little handful of them—answered that there was a man within her cottage; and that she would be right glad if my lord Bishop would cause him to be driven out of it. "In sooth, my good gentlemen, he is none other than that vagabond Robin Hood," piped she.

"Enough!" cried the Bishop, triumphantly. "Enter the cottage, men; beat down the door, if need be. A purse of gold pieces is already offered for the capture of Robin Hood, and I will give a hundred beside!"

The old woman was released, and went on gathering twigs for her fire. Little by little she edged towards the forest, and while the Bishop's men were beating down her cottage door she vanished between the trees.

Then she began to run, with surprising quickness, towards Barnesdale.

Stuteley encountered her presently, and was at first prepared to treat her in rough fashion. "Hold your hand, sweet Will," cried Robin, "it is I, your master. Summon our fellows, and return with me speedily. My lord of Hereford is come again to Sherwood."

When Will had done laughing he blew his horn. "Why, mistress," said he, turning his grinning face to Robin as though seized with a notion, "is not this the day when the knight Sir Richard of the Lee—he to whom you gave Arthur-a-Bland—swore he would return to pay us our moneys?"

"'Tis near the time, in sooth," admitted Robin.

"Then surely he hath sent the Bishop to us, not being able to come himself?" argued Will. "We will see if the Bishop is carrying four hundred gold pennies with him. If it be so, then I am right, indeed."

* * * * *

The Bishop, for all his bold words, had not yet nerved himself to give the necessary command of death against the person of Robin Hood. Since he would not come out of the cottage, the door must be beaten down.

When this had been done the Bishop's men had peeped in. "He is here, hiding," they cried, exultingly. "Shall we slay him with our pikes?"

"Nay, keep watch upon and guard this cottage against all comers. Go, one of you, to Nottingham, with all speed, and bring the Sheriff to us, with many men. Say that I bid him here to settle matters with Robin Hood."

The good Bishop of Hereford did not intend to give this villain a single chance. Were he brought out into the open, he might, by some magic, contrive an escape. Lying in this hut under the pikes of the Bishop's men he was safe, and if the worst came to the worst might readily be slain.

The messenger detached from his escort had not carried the Bishop's message to the Sheriff very far ere his master would have wished to change it. In a moment, whilst my lord of Hereford was complacently gloating over his capture—whilst indeed he was himself peering into the dark cottage in order to catechise his prisoner—there appeared on the high road the shabby figure of that very old woman who had innocently helped to set the trap.

She called out in a strident voice to the soldiers about her dwelling. "Stand by, lazy rascals," cried she, "stand away from my gates. What are you doing on my ground?"

"Madam," answered the Bishop, turning round to her, "these are my men, and I have given them the order to guard this cottage."

"God-a-mercy!" swore the beldame, harshly. "Things have come to a pass in sooth when our homes may be treated like common jails. Take away this robber and your fellows from my house on the instant, or I will curse you all in eating and drinking and sleeping."

"Not so fast, mother," argued the Bishop, smiling easily at her simulated rage. "All this has been done by my orders, and is therefore in law."

The old woman clapped her hands impatiently. At the signal the greenwood men sprang out on all sides of the cottage. The Bishop saw himself and his men-at-arms trapped; but he determined to make a fight for it. "If one of you but stir an inch towards me, rascals," he cried, spitefully, "it shall be to sound the death of your master Robin Hood. My men have him here under their pikes, and I will command them to kill him forthwith. Further, he shall be killed an you do not at once disperse."

Then Robin stepped out before his men. He flung off the old crone's cap which he had worn so cleverly. "Come, kill me, then, lord," he called, cheerfully. "Here am I, waiting for your pikes and their pokes. Hasten to make sure business of it, for I am in no gentle humor."

The old woman, who, in the garb of Robin Hood, had been lying silent and still so long within the cottage, jumped up then quite nimbly. In all the bald absurdity of her disguise she came to the door of the cottage and looked forth. "Give you good-den, my lord Bishop," piped she; "and what make you at so humble a door as this? Do you come to bless me and give me alms?"

"Ay, marry, that does he!" said Stuteley, coming forward. "To you, mother, and to us also. You must know that my lord bears with him a bag of four hundred pieces from Sir Richard of the Lee, who did borrow this money from us to lend it to my lord."

"Now, by all the saints——" began the Bishop.

"They are watching you, brother," said Stuteley, impudently, "so be wary in your speech. Give into my hand the four hundred pieces which you took from the knight I have named. You cannot deny that you did take them from him in the June of last year?"

"The knight owed them to me, villain," said the Bishop, furiously. He saw that his men were outnumbered, and that all the outlaws had drawn bows aimed against them and him. A word not to the liking of these desperate fellows would loosen fifty horrid shafts upon him. "Sir Richard did owe them to me," he repeated, omitting the epithet.

"Hark now to that!" said Robin, still in his disguise. "Listen to it, friends, for ye all were witnesses that Sir Richard swore to me that the Bishop had robbed him, and sought to rob him more. Did not you, in honest truth, lend the knight four hundred pieces, my lord?"

"I did not lend him that precise amount," admitted the Bishop. "Four hundred pieces included also the interest of the sum I gave."

"Ho! you gave?" Robin snapped up the word. "You gave it, my lord?"

"I will not bandy words with you, you false villain," shouted the Bishop, suddenly losing control of himself. "Why do you not charge them, men? Take the word from me, and hew these fellows down as they stand."

"They will be well advised to remain as they are," spoke Robin. "See now how we command you all!" He took a bow and arrow out of Much's hands, and sped a shaft so truly towards the purpling Bishop that his mitred cap was sent spinning from off his bald head.

My lord turned green and yellow. He had thought himself dead almost. "Take my money, rascals," he quavered, feebly; and Stuteley approached him, cap in hand.

"Tied to the saddle of my palfrey you will find my all," murmured the Bishop, sighing deeply.

Stuteley took a well-filled bag from under my lord's empty saddle. He spread his cloak upon the road and counted out four hundred pieces into it. "The interest, master?" asked Will, twinkling to Robin.

"Pay that to this old woman who hath befriended and saved me; and give her, further, two hundred of the pieces on thy cloak," commanded Robin. "We will share with her, even as she hath already shared with me this day."

The outlaws then withdrew, taking with them the old woman and the Bishop's gold. They left him in no great humor; but forebore to provoke him further.

This adventure had, however, banished all hope of Robin making his projected journey into Nottingham. He had perforce to return to the caves at Barnesdale, to get changed again into a more befitting dress. The day was old when he was ready to go out once more; and at Stuteley's entreaty Robin consented to wait until the morning.

The Bishop lost no time in making Nottingham. He and his men were so ashamed of having been overcome so easily by the greenwood men that they had perforce to magnify Robin's band and its prowess twenty-fold.

Amongst the many knights who had followed, hopelessly, in the Princess's train was one whose attentions had ever been very noxious to her. This was a coarse, over-fed, over-confident Norman, brutally skilful in the games at tourneys and ruthless in battles a outrance. His name was Guy of Gisborne, and he hailed from the borders of Lancashire. To him had fallen the rich fat acres of Broadweald, that place for which poor Hugh Fitzooth had wrestled vainly for so long.

He had persecuted her unavailingly—'twas through a scene with him that Scarlett had come so much into the maid's favor. Sir Guy had followed her to Nottingham, meaning to steal her from the Sheriff at first chance. "No Saxon churl shall hope to carry off this prize from me," thought Sir Guy. "Her beauty pleaseth me, and her fortune will help mine own. Therefore, I will follow her meekly until we come nearer to my own land. Then, perhaps, one night pompous Monceux may find her flown. He will be blamed; and none need know whither the little bird has gone and by whom she hath been trapped."

Sir Guy of Gisborne found another in the field with him; the Princess had not waited for him to steal her. The little bird had flown ere Sir Guy's trap had been set.

So the Bishop of Hereford found both the Sheriff and Sir Guy in evil humor. My lord told his story, raging against Robin; the Sheriff had his complaint—directed against the Princess in general and no man in particular.

"Depend on it, Monceux, this rascal hath stolen away your charge," said the Bishop, in order to stir the Sheriff to greater lengths against Robin. "How can you sit here so idly, first losing your gold plate to him and then your gold? Now, with one blow goeth this Princess who was most solemnly committed to your charge, and with her your good name. For, without doubt, this matter will cost you your office."

Monceux was overcome with terror; his eyes started out from his head. "I did hear them speak of some girl betwixt themselves, now that I think on it," continued the Bishop, artfully, noting the effect he had made. "'This woman shall share with us'—ay, those were Robin's very words. The Princess hath been stolen by him."

"She last was seen walking towards the woods, 'tis true," murmured the unhappy Sheriff. "But, truly, I am not to blame in this plaguey business."

"I will encounter the villain for you, Sheriff," said Sir Guy, with a cunning glance. "And if I do rid you of him, will you swear to stand by me in another matter?"

"Surely, surely."

"Your word on it, then—here in my lord's holy presence," Sir Guy went on. "This girl hath been told by a council of wiseacres that she must marry some Saxon noble. But her heart is given to another—to myself, in short. Swear that you both will help me to win her, and I will take her from your merry Robin and kill him afterward."

They both promised readily that they would do all that he could ask—if only he would kill Robin Hood outright. The Bishop had great influence at Court, and Sir Guy intended that he should smooth matters for him after the abduction of the Princess. The Sheriff was to hold fast to any story that might be necessary, and to swear to the little Princess that Sir Guy of Gisborne was the very Saxon whom she had been ordered to marry.

"All this is settled between us," observed the knight, comfortably. "Give me a number of men, all of them good archers, and put them at my sole command. I will go forth to-morrow in a disguise such as will deceive even your wonderful Robin."

"We will hold over the hanging and flaying of the other rascal until his master can dance beside him," cried the Sheriff, conceiving Robin to be already caught.



CHAPTER XXX

Robin started out early in the day towards the city. This time nothing should stay him from entering it—and finding Marian. The demoiselle Marie's plan would surely have succeeded on this day, for Robin was careless of all things but the hope of seeing his dear.

Sir Guy of Gisborne was there, however, as Robin's good angel, as we are to see, although Sir Guy had, in truth, no very merciful feelings towards the outlaw.

Robin perceived upon the highroad a very strange figure coming towards him. It seemed to be a three-legged monster at first sight, but on coming nearer one might see that 'twas really a poorly clad man, who for a freak had covered up his rags with a capul-hide, nothing more nor less than the sun-dried skin of a horse, complete with head and tail and mane.

The skin of the horse's head made a helmet for the man; and the tail gave him the three-legged appearance.

"Good morrow, gossip," said Robin, cheerily; "by my bow and by my arrows, I could believe you to be a good archer—you have the shape of one."

The man took no offence at this greeting, but told Robin that he had lost his way and was anxious to find it again.

"By my faith, I could have believed that you had lost your wits," thought Robin, laughing quietly to himself. "What is your business, friend?" he asked, aloud; "you are dressed in strange clothes and yet seem by your speech to be of gentle blood."

"And who are you, forester, to ask me who I am?"

"I am one of the King's rangers," replied Robin; "and 'tis my part to look after the King's deer and save them from the wicked arrows of Robin Hood."

"Do you know Robin Hood?" asked the man, shrewdly eyeing him.

"That do I; and last night I heard that he would be coming alone in a certain part of this wood to meet a maid."

"Is that so indeed?" cried the man, eagerly.

"'Tis very truth," answered Robin. "And I, knowing this, am going to take him, and carry off both the girl and the reward upon his head."

"Tell me, friend, is this girl a little creature, royal looking and very beautiful?"

"Marry, she appeared to me a very Princess," cried Robin, with enthusiasm.

"We are well met," remarked the yeoman, presently, and speaking as if come to a decision. "Now I will tell you, friend, that I am in search of Robin Hood myself, and will help you to take him. I am Sir Guy of Gisborne, and can make your fortune for you."

"And I am Robin Hood, so, prithee, make it quickly for me!" cried Robin, imprudently.

Sir Guy was not taken so much aback as Robin had hoped. Quickly he drew his sword from underneath the capul-hide, and he smote at Robin full and foul.

Robin parried the thrust with his own true blade, and soon they were at a fierce contest. They fought by the wayside for a long while in a deadly anger, only the sharp clashing of their blades breaking the silence.

Then Robin stumbled over the projecting root of a tree; and Sir Guy, who was quick and heavy with his weapon, wounded Robin in his side.

The outlaw recovered himself adroitly; and, full of sudden rage, stabbed at the knight under and across his guard. The capul-hide hindered Sir Guy in his attempt at a parry—the horse head fell across his eyes.

Next instant Sir Guy of Gisborne went staggering backward with a deep groan, Robin's sword through his throat.

"You did bring this upon yourself," muttered Robin, eyeing the body of the knight in vain regret. "Yet you did fall bravely, and in fair fight. You shall be buried honorably."

He dragged the body into the bushes; and, having taken off the horse hide, slipped it upon himself. He then perceived that, hanging from the dead man's belt, there was a little silver whistle. "What may this be?" thought Robin.

Sir Guy, clothed in old and ragged dress, looked to be a plain yeoman, slain in defence of his life, or mayhap a forester. Pulling the hide well over himself Robin put the little whistle to his lips and blew it shrilly.

Instantly, far off to the right of him, sounded an answering note, and again from behind him there was reply. In about four or five minutes twenty of the Sheriff's best archers came running through the wood to Robin's side.

"Didst signal for us, lording?" asked the leader of them, approaching Robin.

"Ay, see him! I have encountered and slain one of your robber fellows for ye," answered Robin, simulating Sir Guy's voice and manner. "I would have you take up his body upon your shoulders and bear him along this little path, wherefrom he sprang upon me."

The archers obeyed him immediately, "Do you follow us, lording?" they asked.

"I will lead ye," cried Robin, waving his red sword truculently, "Follow me speedily."

Thus he led them after him through the secret paths into Barnesdale, and there blew his horn so suddenly that Stuteley and his fellows were upon the Sheriff's men ere they might drop Sir Guy's dead body to the earth.

Robin bade his men disarm the archers, and tie such of them as would not prove amenable.

Thus the Sheriff was robbed of his best archers; for these fellows, finding the greenwood men to be of such friendly mind, soon joined in with them.

"This is well done, in sooth," said Robin, gently, to himself. "A good day's work; and Monceux will have cause to regret his share in it. Yet am I no nearer Nottingham after all, tho' I have twice sworn that naught should stay me. Stuteley," added he, aloud, calling his squire to his side, "see you that this dead knight be buried with all respect; he fought me well and fairly."

"It shall be done, master," answered Will Stuteley; "you may be easy about it. But I would have you listen to the talk of these archers—they have grave news of our comrade Little John. It seems that the Sheriff hath seized him for the killing of thy maid's father, and will presently have him dreadfully hanged and burned."

Robin uttered an exclamation of horror. Soon the terrible story was told him, and his brain reeled under the shock of it. All that night he paced the woods until the dawn, then fell incontinently into a deep and heavy slumber.

"Disturb him not nor let him take action until I do return," said the comfortable Friar Tuck, in business-like manner. "I know how his distemper will play upon him, and how he will bring us all to grief if he attempts the city again. Now I may go in and out as I will, being a curtal friar and not now remembered in these parts. I will visit the Sheriff and ask for leave to confess Master Little John. Then I will come back to you with the best news I may."

* * * * *

Geoffrey of Montfichet had ridden into Nottingham on the day before Sir Guy had left it. Carfax had known where the Princess might be found all the while his master, with the Bishop, was busy persuading the Knight of Gisborne that the maid was with Robin. One might be sure, however, that neither Monceux nor Carfax gave out any hint of this knowledge, for to do that would have stayed Sir Guy in his praiseworthy attempt upon the bold outlaw.

Geoffrey—Master Scarlett—had found difficult work before him, but he intended to save Little John. He was convinced that the cook had slain Fitzwalter, most likely at the command of some other person interested in the death.

Who might this be? Who had profited by the death of so unassuming a man as the late city warden?

Carfax treated Scarlett with scant ceremony. The lean-faced fellow devoured the item that the Princess of Aragon was safe at Gamewell, but gave nothing in return. Scarlett had been left to cool his heels in the great hall of Nottingham Castle for near an hour afterward, whilst Simeon Carfax was closeted with the Sheriff.

They were having a tidying of the rooms in honor of the Bishop's visit. Whilst Scarlett impatiently waited the good pleasure of Master Carfax the maids were busy carrying many things to and fro; fresh rushes to strew my lord's rooms, candles and tapers, silks and cloths, and brown ewers of water. All the rubbish and sweepings of the floors were borne out in great baskets to the courtyard.

One of the maids, a plump, roguish, lazy wench, would only carry her basket so far as the hearth of the hall. A fire was there, why not use it? Also she could ogle and throw sidelong looks at Master Scarlett, who, for his beard and thirty-five grave years, was none so bad a man.

This girl was throwing into the open hearth a lot of ends of silk and combings from her mistress's room. She tossed the rubbish on the fire, at the same time eyeing Master Scarlett. Then, finding that he would not notice her, she poutingly returned with her basket upon a fresh journey.

Scarlett came over to the fire to pick up some of the burning scraps. They were drifting over the hearth into the room dangerously, thanks to the maid's carelessness.

He found in his hand a half-burned piece of parchment, which still fizzled and crackled in quaint malicious fashion.

Upon the parchment was an awkward writing, and some of the words showed up very black under the heat. Half idly, Scarlett tried to make sense of them:

"This ... dear child Marian, ... her affectionate father ... Court of ... in London town."

So far did Master Scarlett read before suddenly the beginnings of the truth flashed upon him. This was the very letter which he had borne to Marian.

How had it come into the castle? By what strange magic? Could Marian have carried it here herself?

He remembered that she had given it to Robin, and that he had put it into his bosom.

"Mistress, you seem indeed to be very busy this day," said Master Scarlett, affably, to the girl next time she appeared. "Do you prepare me a chamber, for it seems that I am to wait here for a week at least."

"I am tidying my mistress's room, and have had hard work I promise you," replied the girl, impudently. "Mayhap you will give me a help whilst you wait, Sir Taciturn? This is the fifth basket of rubbish I have borne from the demoiselle Marie's little cupboard."

"I will readily help you if you will help me," said Scarlett, pleasantly. "Canst tell me who wrote this little paper? The writing seemeth familiar to mine eyes."

"'Tis a piece of my lady's jesting," said the girl, after a glance at the parchment. "'Twas written in imitation of Master Fitzwalter's hand after we had searched his house last year. Ah, poor man, who would have then imagined so hard a fate for him?" She sighed prodigiously, and rolled her eyes.

"Tell me the story of this murder, mistress, I pray you."

She was not loth to fall a-chattering, and she told Scarlett all she knew of it. From the rambling history he discovered another strange fact, that Roger de Burgh had been cook in the Sheriff's household before he had gone to the Fitzwalter house. Slowly he began to see that the letter he had so blithely put into Marian's hand was a forgery, done by the clever fingers of the demoiselle Marie.

"So," thought he, swiftly, "Mistress Fitzwalter was persuaded to return to this place in order that Robin Hood might visit her secretly. The house was watched by a spy from the Sheriff's own kitchen. Soon as Robin came, this spy was to give warning; or, if matters pressed, kill him. But after many months of waiting, Fitzwalter came instead."

His quick mind, used to the intrigues and plots of a capricious Court, had unravelled the mystery. Yet how could he act upon this knowledge in the midst of the enemy's camp? If the Sheriff could stoop already to such foul business as this, to what further lengths would he not go? Dismissing himself through the girl, Scarlett strode out of the castle. The air seemed fresher and more wholesome without. He enquired and found his way to the house of grief, and there asked audience with its little heart-broken mistress.

* * * * *

Whilst Scarlett was plotting and inventing a hundred schemes to save Little John, a poor wandering priest appeared one evening before the gates of Nottingham Castle. Most humbly he begged a little bread and a drink of water; and, having received these, he blessed the place and all within it.

"You should not bless all within this castle, Sir Priest," the Sheriff told him. Monceux had pompously administered to the man's simple wants with his own hands. "There is a villain in our cells who hath done wicked murder."

The ragged friar asked who that might be; and when he had heard, said that at the least he would confess this poor misguided fellow and so deliver his soul from everlasting punishment.

The Sheriff was rather doubtful, but seeing that the priest had no weapon upon him, he gave a sign that he should be admitted to Little John's cell.

There the friar found the big outlaw very dejected. "Give you good cheer, brother," said the friar, gently; "I have come to pray with you."

"What assistance can your prayers be to me?" asked Little John, sharply; "I am to be hanged to-morrow morn, and all your prayers will scarce alter that."

"Anger is a great sin," replied the priest.

"I have no sins against God," said Little John; "I have always endeavored to live easily and justly." Then the friar came up close to him, and whispered something in his ear. The outlaw's expression altered at once. "By the Sheriff's rope," muttered he, quite in his old manner, "but I swear that if thou canst get me a weapon——"

"Here is a little dagger," said Friar Tuck, pulling it out from under his gown. "'Tis small, but to-morrow it may be of use. I can do no more now; but be ready for us to-morrow, when the last moments are come. Robin Hood will not easily let you die, be sure of it."

The friar, after he had left the prison, ran all the way to Barnesdale, under the stars.



CHAPTER XXXI

It was hardly dawn when a strong guard of soldiers was drawn up without Nottingham Castle, and the prisoner was dragged forth from his cell. Monceux had wisely come to the conclusion that Sir Guy of Gisborne had also failed, and he saw no reason to delay Little John's execution.

Early as was the hour, yet both the Sheriff and the Bishop of Hereford were present. The space before the castle was thronged with people. Beside the prisoner walked the castle chaplain.

The crowd swayed and roared, and a small disturbance broke out on the right of the Sheriff. At once the soldiers hurried to quell it.

As the prisoner neared the gallows, the crowd so bore upon the cart in which he stood upright that progress for a few minutes was out of all question.

Another disturbance broke out in the rear of the procession. Next instant the prisoner was seen to have free hands. He stooped and sliced the cords about his feet, and, releasing himself, all at once he sprang out of the cart.

Then was an uproar indeed. The soldiers had strict orders that the episode of Stuteley's escape was not to be repeated. But whilst they exerted themselves desperately a sudden hail of arrows fell upon them from the sky, as it were. Robin Hood's horn was heard blowing merrily, and the Sheriff saw the huge mob of people break up into billows of contending portions under his very eyes.