At this, and very suddenly, the Knight loosed mace from saddle-bow, and therewith smote Sir Pertinax on rusty bascinet, and tumbled him backward among the bracken. Which done, Sir Agramore laughed full loud and, spurring his charger, galloped furiously away. And after some while Sir Pertinax arose, albeit unsteadily, but finding his legs weak, sat him down again; thereafter with fumbling hands he did off dinted bascinet and viewed it thoughtfully, felt his head tenderly and, crawling to the stream, bathed it solicitously; then, being greatly heartened, he arose and drawing sword, set it upright in the ling and, kneeling, clasped his hands and spake as follows:

"Here and now, upon my good cross-hilt I swear I will with joy and zeal unremitting, seek me out one Sir Agramore of Biename. Then will I incontinent with any, all, or whatsoever weapon he chooseth fall upon him and, for this felon stroke, for his ungentle dealing with the maid, I will forthwith gore, rend, tear, pierce, batter, bruise and otherwise use the body of the said Sir Agramore until, growing aweary of its vile tenement, his viler soul shall flee hence to consume evermore with such unholy knaves as he. And this is the oath of me, Sir Pertinax,

Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene, to the which oath may the Saints bend gracious ear, in especial Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood—Amen!"

Having registered the which most solemn oath, Sir Pertinax arose, sheathed his sword, and strode blithely towards the fair and prosperous town of Canalise. But, being come within the gate, he was aware of much riot and confusion in the square and streets beyond, and hasting forward, beheld a wild concourse, a pushing, jostling throng of people making great clamour and outcry, above which hubbub ever and anon rose such shouts, as: "Murderer! Thief! Away with him! Death to him!"

By dint of sharp elbow and brawny shoulder our good knight forced himself a way until—surrounded by men-at-arms, his limbs fast bound, his motley torn and bloody, his battered fool's-cap all awry—he beheld Duke Jocelyn haled and dragged along by fierce hands. For a moment Sir Pertinax stood dumb with horror and amaze, then, roaring, clapped hand to sword. Now, hearing this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and lost in the fierce, jostling throng.

My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:

GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thought It was a poem of a sort.

MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed?

GILL: Of course—the sort folks love to read. But in the last part we have heard Of poetry there's scarce a word.

MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read, You'll find that, oft as not, indeed, The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped, Into plain prose quite often jumped.

GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to me All prose—as prosy as can be—

MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggest Our Geste for you lacks interest?

GILL: Not for a moment, father, though Sir Pertinax was much too slow. When fair Melissa "laughing stood," He should have kissed—you know he should—Because, of course, she wished him to.

MYSELF: Hum! Girl, I wonder if that's true?

GILL: O father, yes! Of course I'm right, And you're as slow as your slow knight. Were you as slow when you were young?

MYSELF: Hush, madam! Hold that saucy tongue. You may be sure, in my young days, I was most dutiful always. Grown up, I was, it seems to me, No slower than I ought to be. And now, miss, since you pine for verse, Rhyme with my prose I'll intersperse; And, like a doting father, I To hold your interest will try.



FYTTE 5

Which of Duke Joc'lyn's woeful plight doth tell, And all that chanced him pent in dungeon cell.

* * * * *

In gloomy dungeon, scant of air and light, Duke Joc'lyn lay in sad and woeful plight; His hands and feet with massy fetters bound, That clashed, whene'er he moved, with dismal sound; His back against the clammy wall did rest, His heavy head was bowed upon his breast, But, 'neath drawn brows, he watched with wary eye Three ragged 'wights who, shackled, lay hard by, Three brawny rogues who, scowling, fiercely eyed him, And with lewd gibes and mocking gestures plied him. But Joc'lyn, huddled thus against the wall, Seemed verily to heed them none at all, Wherefore a red-haired rogue who thought he slept With full intent upon him furtive crept. But, ere he knew, right suddenly he felt Duke Joc'lyn's battered shoe beneath his belt; And falling back with sudden strangled cry, Flat on his back awhile did breathless lie, Whereat to rage his comrades did begin, And clashed their fetters with such doleful din That from a corner dim a fourth man sprang, And laughed and laughed, until their prison rang. "Well kicked, Sir Fool! Forsooth, well done!" laughed he, "Ne'er saw I, Fool, a fool the like o' thee!"

Now beholding this tall fellow, Jocelyn knew him for that same forest-rogue had wrestled with him in the green, and sung for his life the "Song of Roguery." Wherefore he smiled on the fellow and the fellow on him:

Quoth JOCELYN: I grieve to see A man like thee In such a woeful plight—

Quoth the ROGUE: A Fool in fetters, Like his betters, Is yet a rarer sight.

"Ha i' the clout, good fellow, for Folly in fetters is Folly in need, and Folly in need is Folly indeed! But, leaving folly awhile, who art thou and what thy name?"

Saith the ROGUE: Robin I'm named, Sir Fool, Rob by the few, Which few are right, methinks, for so I do.

"Then, Rob, if dost rob thou'rt a robber, and being robber thou'rt perchance in bonds for robbing, Robin?"

"Aye, Fool, I, Rob, do rob and have robbed greater robbers that I might by robbery live to rob like robbers again, as thou, by thy foolish folly, fooleries make, befooling fools lesser than thou, that thou, Fool, by such fool-like fooleries may live to fool like fools again!"

Quoth JOCELYN: Thou robber Rob, By Hob and Gob, Though robber-rogue, I swear That 't is great pity Rogue so pretty Must dance upon thin air.

Quoth ROBIN: Since I must die On gallows high And wriggle in a noose, I'll none repine Nor weep nor whine, For where would be the use? Yet sad am I That I must die With rogues so base and small, Sly coney-catchers, Poor girdle-snatchers, That do in kennel crawl.

"And yet," said Jocelyn, "thou thyself art rogue and thief confessed. How then art better than these thy fellows?"

"By degree, Sir Fool. Even as thou'rt Fool o' folly uncommon, so am I no ordinary rogue, being rogue o' rare parts with power of rogues i' the wild wood, while these be but puny rogues of no parts soever."

"No rogues are we!" the three did loudly cry,

"But sad, poor souls, that perishing do lie!"

"In me," quoth one, "behold a man of worth, By trade a dyer and yclepen Gurth; In all this world no man, howe'er he try, Could live a life so innocent as I!"

The second spake: "I am the ploughman Rick, That ne'er harmed man or woman, maid or chick! But here in direful dungeon doomed be I, Yet cannot tell the wherefore nor the why."

Then spake Red-head, albeit gasping still: "An honest tanner I, my name is Will; 'T was me thou kickedst, Fool, in such ill manner, Of crimes unjust accused—and I, a tanner!" Here Joc'lyn smiled. "Most saintly rogues," said he; "The Saints, methinks, were rogues compared with ye, And one must needs in prison come who'd find The noblest, worthiest, best of all mankind. Poor, ill-used knaves, to lie in dungeon pent, Rogues sin-less quite, and eke so innocent, What though your looks another tale do tell, Since I'm your fellow, fellows let us dwell, For if ye're rogues that thus in bonds do lie, So I'm a rogue since here in bonds am I, Thus I, a rogue, do hail ye each a brother, Like brethren, then, we 'll comfort one another."

Thus spake Jocelyn, whereafter these "saintly rogues" all three grew mightily peevish and, withal, gloomy, while Robin laughed and laughed at them, nodding head and wagging finger.

"Prithee, good Motley," he questioned, "what should bring so rare a Fool to lie in dungeon fettered and gyved along of innocent rogues and roguish robber?"

Whereto Duke Jocelyn answered on this wise: "Hast heard, belike, of Gui the Red?" (Here went there up a howl) "A mighty lord of whom't is said, That few do love and many dread." (Here went there up a growl)

"This potent lord I chanced to view, Behaving as no lord should do, And thereupon, this lord I threw In pretty, plashing pool!

"Whereon this dreadful lord did get Exceeding wroth and very wet; Wherefore in dungeon here I'm set, For fierce and froward Fool."

Here went there up a shout of glee. Cried Robin: "O sweet Fool, I would I had been there to see This haughty lord of high degree In pretty, plashing pool."

Here shout of glee became a roar, That made the dungeon ring; They laughed, they rolled upon the floor, Till suddenly the massy door On creaking hinge did swing; And to them the head jailer now appeared, A sombre man who sighed through tangled beard.

"How now, rogue-lads," said he, "grow ye merry in sooth by reason o' this Fool! Aye me, all men do grow merry save only I, Ranulph, Chief Torturer, Ranulph o' the Keys, o' the Gibbet, o' the City Axe—poor Ranulph the Headsman. Good lack! I've cut off the head o' many a man merrier than I— aye, that have I, and more's the pity! And now, ye that are to die so soon can wax joyous along o' this motley Fool! Why, 't is a manifest good Fool, and rare singer o' songs, 't is said, though malapert, with no respect for his betters and over-quick at dagger-play. So 't is a Fool must die and sing no more, and there's the pity on't for I do love a song, I—being a companionable soul and jovial withal, aye, a very bawcock of a boy, I. To-morrow Red Gui doth hale ye to his Castle o' the Rock, there to die all five for his good pleasure, as is very fitting and proper, so be merry whiles ye may. Meantime, behold here another rogue, a youngling imp. So is five become six, and six may laugh louder than five, methinks, so laugh your best."

Then Ranulph o' the Keys sighed, closed the great door and went his way, leaving the new captive to their mercies. Fair he was and slender, and of a timid seeming, for now he crouched against the wall, his face hid 'neath the hood of ragged mantle; wherefore the "saintly" three incontinent scowled upon him, roared at him and made a horrid clashing with their fetters:

"Ha, blood and bones!" cried Rick the Ploughman. "What murderous babe art thou to go unshackled in presence o' thy betters?"

"Aye, forsooth," growled Will the Tanner, "who 'rt thou to come hither distressing the last hours o' we poor, perishing mortals? Discourse, lest I bite the heart o' thee!"

"Pronounce, imp!" roared Gurth the Dyer, "lest I tear thy liver!"

"Sit ye, here beside me, youth," said Jocelyn, "and presently thou shalt know these tearers of livers and biters of hearts for lambs of innocence and doves of gentleness—by their own confessions. For, remark now, gentle boy, all we are prisoners and therefore guiltless of every offence—indeed, where is the prisoner, but who, according to himself, is not more sinned against than sinner, and where the convicted rogue but, with his tongue, shall disprove all men's testimony? So here sit three guileless men, spotless of soul and beyond all thought innocent of every sin soever. Yonder is Rob, a robber, and here sit I, a Fool."

"Ha!" cried Rick. "Yet murderous Fool art thou and apt to dagger-play! Belike hast slain a man this day in way o' folly—ha?"

"Two!" answered Jocelyn, nodding. "These two had been more but that my dagger brake."

Here was silence awhile what time Jocelyn hummed the line of a song and his companions eyed him with looks askance.

"Why then, good Folly," said Rick at last, "'t is for a little spilling o' blood art here, a little, pretty business o' murder—ha?"

"'T is so they name it," answered Jocelyn.

"Bones o' me!" growled Will, "I do begin to love this Fool."

"And didst pronounce thyself our brother, Fool?" questioned Gurth.

"Aye, verily!"

"Then brethren let us be henceforth, and comrades to boot!" cried Rick. "Jolly Clerks o' Saint Nicholas to share and share alike—ha? So then 't is accorded. And now what o' yon lily-livered imp? 'T is a sickly youth and I love him not. But he hath a cloak, look'ee—a cloak forsooth and poor Rick's a-cold! Ho, lad—throw me thy cloak!"

"Beshrew me!" roared Gurth. "But he beareth belt and wallet! Ha, boy, give thy wallet and girdle—bestow!"

"And by sweet Saint Nick," growled Will, "the dainty youngling disporteth himself to mine eyes in a gold finger-ring! Aha, boy! Give now thy trinket unto an honest tanner."

Hereupon and with one accord up started the three, fierce-eyed; but Jocelyn, laughing, rose up also.

"Back, corpses!" quoth he, swinging the heavy fetters to and fro between shackled wrists. "Stand, good Masters Dry-bones; of what avail cloak, or wallet, or ring to ye that are dead men? Now, since corpses ye are insomuch as concerneth this world, be ye reasonable and kindly corpses. Sit ye then, Masters Dust-and-Ashes, and I will incontinent sing ye, chant or intone ye a little song of organs and graves and the gallows-tree whereon we must dance anon; as, hearken:

"Sing a song of corpses three That ere long shall dancing be, On the merry gallows-tree— High and low, To and fro, Leaping, skipping, Turning, tripping, Wriggling, whirling, Twisting, twirling: Sing hey for the gallows-tree."

"Stint—stint thy beastly song now!" cried Will, pale of cheek. But Jocelyn sang the louder:

"Sing a song of dying groans, Sing a song of cries and moans, Sing a song of dead men's bones, That shall rest, All unblest, To rot and rot, Remembered not, For dogs to gnaw And battle for, Sing hey for the dead rogue's bones."

"Abate—ha—abate thy fiendish rant!" cried Rick, glancing fearfully over shoulder.

"Aye, Fool—beseech thee! Fair flesh may not abide it!" cried Gurth, shivering, while Robin grinned no more and the fearful youth leaned wide-eyed to behold the singer, this strange, scarred face beneath its battered cock's-comb, these joyous eyes, these smiling lips as Jocelyn continued:

"Now ends my song with ghosts forlorn, Three gibbering ghosts that mope and mourn, Then shrieking, flee at breath of dawn, Where creatures fell In torment dwell, Blind things and foul, That creep and howl, That rend and bite And claw and fight. Where fires red-hot Consume them not, And they in anguish Writhe and languish And groan in pain For night again. Sing hey for pale ghosts forlorn."

Now when the song was ended, the three looked dismally on one another and, bethinking them of their cruel end, they groaned and sighed lamentably:

My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:

GILL: Father, I like that song, it's fine; But let me ask about this line: "Blind things and foul, That creep and howl." Now tell me, please, if you don't mind, Why were the little horrors blind?

MYSELF: The beastly things, as I surmise, Had scratched out one another's eyes.

GILL: I suppose this place where creatures fell In torments dwell is meant for—

MYSELF: Well, I think, my Gill, the place you've guessed, So let me get on with our Geste.

... they groaned and sighed lamentably—

My daughter GILLIAN interjecteth:

GILL: Father—now don't get in a huff— But don't you think they've groaned enough?

MYSELF: My Gillian—no! Leave well alone; This is the place for them to groan.

Lamentably they did together moan, And uttered each full many a hollow groan.

My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:

GILL: But, father, groans are so distressing, And groans in verse are most depressing—

MYSELF: Then peace, child, and in common prose I'll let the poor rogues vent their woes:

... they groaned and they sighed lamentably—

My daughter GILLIAN interrupteth:

GILL: What, father, are they groaning still?

MYSELF: Of course they are, and so they will, And so shall I; so, girl, take heed, And cease their groaning to impede. Is it agreed?

GILL: Oh, yes, indeed!

MYSELF: Then with our Geste I will proceed.

... they groaned and sighed lamentably.

"Alack!" cried Gurth, "I had not greatly minded till now, but this vile- tongued Fool hath stirred Fear to wakefulness within me. Here's me, scarce thirty turned, hale and hearty, yet must die woefully and with a maid as do love me grievously!"

"And me!" groaned Rick. "No more than twenty and five, I—a very lad—and with two maids as do languish for me fain and fond!"

"Ha, and what o' me?" mourned dismal, redheaded Will. "A lusty, proper fellow I be and wi' maids a score as do sigh continual. And me to die—O woe! And I a tanner!"

"Content ye, brothers!" said Jocelyn. "Look now, here's Gurth hath lived but thirty years, and now must die—good: so shall he die weighted with less of sin than had he lived thirty more. Be ye comforted in this, distressful rogues, the shorter our life the less we sin, the which is a fair, good thing. As for these shackles, though our bodies be 'prisoned our souls go free, thus, while we languish here, our souls astride a sunbeam may mount aloft, 'bove all pains and tribulations soever. Thus if we must dance together in noose, our souls, I say, escaping these fleshy bonds, shall wing away to freedom everlasting. Bethink ye of this, grievous knaves, and take heart. Regarding the which same truths I will, for thy greater comforting, incontinent make ye a song—hearken!

"Let Folly sing a song to cheer All poor rogues that languish here, Doomed in dismal dungeon drear, Doomed in dungeon dim.

"Though flesh full soon beneath the sod Doth perish and decay, Though cherished body is but clod, Yet in his soul man is a God, To do and live alway. So hence with gloom and banish fear, Come Mirth and Jollity, Since, though we pine in dungeon drear, Though these, our bodies, languish here, We in our minds go free."

Thus cheerily sang Jocelyn until, chancing to see how the youth leaned forward great-eyed, watching as he sung, he broke off to question him blithely:

"How now, good youth, hast a leaning to Folly e'en though Folly go fettered, and thyself in dungeon?"

"Fool," answered the youth, soft-voiced, "me-thinks 't is strange Folly can sing thus in chains! Hast thou no fear of death?"

"Why truly I love it no more than my fellow-fools. But I, being fool uncommon, am wise enough to know that Death, howsoe'er he come, may come but once—and there's a comfortable thought!"

So saying, Jocelyn seated himself beside the youth and watched him keen-eyed.

"And thou canst sing of Freedom, Fool, to the jangle of thy fetters?"

"Truly, youth, 't is but my baser part lieth shackled, thus while body pineth here, soul walketh i' the kindly sun—aye, e'en now as I do gaze on thee, I, in my thought, do stand in a fair garden—beside a lily-pool, where she I love cometh shy-footed to meet me, tall and gracious and sweet, as her flowers. A dream, belike, yet in this dream she looketh on me with eyes of love and love is on her lips and in her heart—so is my dream very precious."

At this, the youth shrank beneath his cloak while in an adjacent corner the three rolled dice with Robin and quarrelled hoarse and loud.

"Youth," said Jocelyn, "I pray thee, tell me thy name."

Without lifting head the youth answered:

"Hugo!"

"Look up, Hugo!" But Hugo bowed his head the lower.

"Hast wondrous hair, Hugo—red gold 'neath thy hood!"

Here came a slim, white hand to order the rebellious tress but, finding none, trembled and hid itself. Then very suddenly Jocelyn leaned near and caught this hand, clasping it fast yet with fingers very gentle, and spake quick and eager:

"Hugo—alas, Hugo! What bringeth thee in this evil place? Art in danger? Speak, speak!"

"Nay, here is no harm for me, Joconde. And I am hither come for sake of a poor Fool that is braver than the bravest—one did jeopardise his foolish life for sake of a maid, wherefore I, Hugo, do give him life. Take now this wallet, within is good store of gold and better—a potent charm to close all watchful eyes. Hist, Joconde, and mark me well! Ranulph o' the Axe is a mighty drinker—to-night, drawn by fame of thy wit, he cometh with his fellows. This money shall buy them wine, in the wine cast this powder so shall they sleep and thou go free."

"Aye!" said Jocelyn, "and then?"

"There will meet thee a dwarf shall free thee of thy fetters, and by secret ways set thee without the city—then, tarry not, but flee for thy life—"

"Now by the Holy Rood!" quoth Jocelyn softly, "never in all this world was there prisoner so happy as this poor Fool! But, Hugo, an I win free by reason of a brave and noble lady, so long as she bide in Canalise, so long must I—"

My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:

GILL: O, father, now I understand— Of course, this Hugo is Yolande!

MYSELF: Exactly, miss, the fact is clear; But how on earth did she get here? I don't want her here—

GILL: Why not?

MYSELF: Because, being here, she spoils my plot, Which would drive any author frantic—

GILL: I think it's fine, and most romantic. Besides, you know, you wrote her there—

MYSELF: She came—before I was aware—

GILL: She couldn't, father, for just think, You've made her all of pen and ink. So you, of course, can make her do Exactly as you want her to.

MYSELF: Dear innocent! You little know The trials poor authors undergo. How heroines, when they break loose, Are apt to play the very deuce, Dragging their authors to and fro, And where he wills—they will not go.

GILL: Well, since she's here, please let her be, She wants to set Duke Joc'lyn free.

MYSELF: Enough—enough, my plans are made, I'll set him free without her aid, And in a manner, I apprise you, As will, I fancy, quite surprise you. Besides, a dungeon no fit place is For a dainty lady's graces. So, since she's in, 't is very plain I now must get her out again. "To bide in Canalise,'t is folly!" cried Hugo. "O,'t were a madness fond!"

"Aye," sighed Jocelyn, "some do call love a madness—thus mad am I, forsooth!"

"Hush!" whispered Hugo, as from without came the tramp of heavy feet. "Fare-thee-well and—ah, be not mad, Joconde!"

The door creaked open, and six soldiers entered bringing a prisoner, chained and fettered, and therewith fast bound and gagged, whom they set ungently upon the stone floor; then straightway seizing upon Robin, they haled him to his feet.

"Come, rogue," said one, "thou art to hang at cockcrow!" "Is't so, good fellows?" quoth Robin,

"Then cock be curst That croweth first!

As for thee, good Motley, peradventure when, by hangman's noose, our souls enfranchised go, they shall company together, thine and mine! Till then —farewell, Folly!"

So Robin was led forth of the dungeon and the heavy door crashed shut; but when Jocelyn looked for Hugo—lo! he was gone also.

Evening was come and the light began to fail, therefore Jocelyn crouched beneath the narrow loophole and taking from his bosom the wallet, found therein good store of money together with the charm or philtre: and bowing his head above this little wallet, he fell to profound meditation.

But presently, roused by hoarse laughter, he glanced up to find the three plaguing the helpless prisoner with sundry kicks and buffets; so Jocelyn crossed the dungeon, and putting the tormentors aside, stood amazed to behold in this latest captive none other than Sir Pertinax. Straightway he loosed off the gag, whereupon the good knight incontinent swore a gasping oath and prayed his limbs might be loosed also; the which done, he forthwith sprang up, and falling on the astonished three, he beat and clouted them with fist and manacles, and drave them to and fro about the dungeon.

"Ha, dogs! Wilt spurn me with they vile feet, buffet me with thy beastly hands, forsooth!" roared he and kicked and cuffed them so that they, thinking him mad, cried aloud in fear until Sir Pertinax, growing a-weary, seated himself against the wall, and folding his arms, scowled indignant upon Jocelyn who greeted him merrily:

"Hail and greeting to thee, my Pertinax; thy gloomy visage is a joy!"

Sir Pertinax snorted, but spake not; wherefore the Duke questioned him full blithe: "What fair, good wind hath blown thee dungeon-wards, sweet soul?"

"Ha!" quoth the knight. "Fetters, see'st thou, a dungeon, and these foul knaves for company—the which cometh of thy fool's folly, messire! So prithee ha' done with it!"

"Stay, gentle gossip, thou'rt foolish, methinks; thou frettest 'gainst fate, thou kickest unwisely 'gainst the pricks, thou ragest pitifully 'gainst circumstance—in fine, thou'rt a very Pertinax, my Pertinax!"

"Aye troth, that am I and no dog to lie thus chained in noisome pit, par Dex! So let us out, messire, and that incontinent!"

"Why here is a bright thought, sweet lad, let us out forthwith—but how?"

"Summon the town-reeve, messire, the burgesses, the council, declare thy rank, so shall we go free—none shall dare hold thus a prince of thy exalted state and potent might! Declare thyself, lord."

"This were simple matter, Pertinax, but shall they believe us other than we seem, think ye?"

Quoth Pertinax: "We can try!"

"Verily," said Jocelyn, "this very moment!" So saying, he turned to the three who sat in a corner muttering together.

"Good brothers, gentle rogues," said he, "behold and regard well this sturdy cut-throat fellow that sitteth beside me, big of body, unseemly of habit, fierce and unlovely of look—one to yield the wall unto, see ye! And yet—now heed me well, this fellow, ragged and unkempt, this ill-looking haunter of bye-ways, this furtive snatcher of purses (hold thy peace, Pertinax!). I say this unsavoury-seeming clapper-claw is yet neither one nor other, but a goodly knight, famous in battle, joust and tourney, a potent lord of noble heritage, known to the world as Sir Pertinax of Shene Castle and divers rich manors and demesnes. Furthermore, I that do seem a sorry jesting-fellow, I that in antic habit go, that cut ye capers with ass's ears a-dangle and languish here your fellow in bonds, am yet no antic, no poor, motley Fool, but a duke and lord of many fair towns and rich cities beyond Morfeville and the Southward March. How say ye, brothers?"

"That thou'rt a fool!" quoth Rick.

"True!" nodded Jocelyn.

"Most true!" sighed Sir Pertinax.

"And a liar!" growled Gurth.

"And a murderous rogue!" cried Will, "and shall hang, along of us—as I'm a tanner!"

"Alack, Sir Knight," smiled Jocelyn, "of what avail rank or fame or both 'gainst a motley habit and a ragged mantle. Thus, Pertinax, thou art no more than what thou seemest, to wit—a poor, fierce rogue, and I, a beggarly stroller."

"And like to have our necks stretched, lord, by reason of a fond and foolish whim!"

"Unless, Pertinax, having naught to depend on but our native wit we, by our wit, win free. Other poor rogues in like case have broke prison ere now, and 'tis pity and shame in us if thou, a knight so potent and high-born, and I, a prince, may not do the like."

"Messire, unlearned am I in the breaking o' prisons so when my time cometh to die in a noose I can but die as knight should—though I had rather 't were in honest fight."

"Spoken like the very fool of a knight!" quoth Jocelyn. "So now will I show thee how by the wit of a brave and noble lady we may yet 'scape the hangman. Hearken in thine ear!"

But, when Jocelyn had told him all and shown money and sleeping-charm, Sir Pertinax grew thoughtful, sighing deep and oft, yet speaking not, wherefore the Duke questioned him.

"Good gossip, gasp not!" quoth he. "How think'st thou of prison-breaking now—expound!"

"Why, sir, I think when all do charmed and spellbound snore, Then will we shrewdly choke them that they wake no more!"

"Nay, Pertinax, here shall be no need of choking, forsooth!" Sir Pertinax bowed chin on fist and sighed again.

"Pertinax, prithee puff not! Yet, an puff ye will, pronounce me then the why and wherefore of thy puffing."

"Lord, here is neither gasp nor puff, here is honest sighing. I can sigh as well as another."

"Since when hast learned this so tender art, my Pertinax?"

"And I do sigh by reason of memory."

"As what, Pertinax?"

"Eyes, lord—her eyes so darkly bright and, as I do think—black!"

"Nay, blue, Pertinax—blue as heaven!"

"Black, messire, black as—as black!"

"Blue, boy, blue!"

"Lord, they are black!"

"Speak'st thou of Yolande?"

"Messire, of one I speak, but whom, I know not. She came to me i' the greenwood as I sat a-fishing. Her hair long and black—ay, black and curled, her eyes dark, and for beauty ne'er saw I her like."

"And yet hast seen my Lady Yolande oft!"

"Her voice, messire, her voice soft and sweet as the murmur of waters, and very full of allure."

"Why, how now!" cried Jocelyn. "Art thou—thou, my Pertinax, become at last one of Cupid's humble following? All joy to thee, my lovely lover—here in truth is added bond betwixt us! For since thou dost love a maid, even as I do love a maid, so being lovers twain needs must we love each other the better therefore."

"Nay, out alack, my lord!" sighed Sir Pertinax. "For though I do love her, she, by reason o' my ill-favoured looks, the which, woe's me, I may not alter, loveth not me, as I do judge."

"How judge ye this?"

"Lord, she giveth me hard names. She, all in a breath, hath pictured me thus: 'Hooked of nose, fierce-eyed, of aspect grim—ungentle, unlovely, harsh o' tongue, dour o' visage, hard o' heart, flinty o' soul and of manners rude.'"

"Good! But was this all, my Pertinax?"

"Nay, lord, and with a wannion—there was more to like purpose."

"Excellent, my lovely knight—let hope sing in thee. For look now, if she named thee hooked of nose, fierce-eyed and of aspect grim—she speaketh very truth, for so thou art, my Pertinax. Now truth is a fair virtue in man or maid, so is she both virtuous and fair! Nay, puff not, sighful Pertinax, but for thy comforting mark this—she hath viewed and heeded thy outward man narrowly—so shall she not forget thee soon; she with woman's eye hath marked the great heart of thee through sorry habit and rusty mail, and found therein the love thy harsh tongue might not utter; and thus, methinks, she hath thee in mind—aye, even now, mayhap. Lastly, good, lovely blunderbore—mark this! 'Tis better to win a maid's anger than she should heed thee none at all. Let love carol i' thy heart and be ye worthy, so, when ye shall meet again, 'tis like enough, despite thy hooked nose, she shall find thine eyes gentle, thy unloveliness lovely, thy harsh tongue wondrous tender and thy flinty soul the soul of a man."

"Why, faith, lord," quoth Pertinax, his grim lips softening to a smile, "despite her words, she spake in voice full sweet, and her eyes—ah, messire, her eyes were wondrous kind—gentle eyes—aye, her eyes were—"

"Eyes, my Pertinax—black eyes!"

"And gentle! By which same token, lord, she did give to me this token—this most strange trinket."

But all at once, was the creak of hinges, and the ponderous door opening, Ranulph o' the Axe appeared, followed by divers of the warders bearing torches.

"Oho!" sighed Ranulph, doleful of visage. "Aha, good bawcocks, here come I, and these my fellows, for love o' thee, good Fool, thy quips, thy quirks, thy songs and antics capersome. For troth I'm a merry dog, I—a wanton wag, a bully boy and jovial, though woeful o' look!"

"Wherefore woeful!"

"For that I am not joyous, good Motley. Look 'ee—here's me born with a rare, merry heart, but sad and sober of head! Here's a heart bubbling with kindliness and soft and tender as sucking lamb, wedded to head and face full o' gloom! Here's laughter within me and woe without me, so am I ever at odds with myself—and there's my sorrow. Regarding the which same I will now chaunt ye song I made on myself; 'twas meant for merry song and blithe, but of itself turned mournful song anon as ye shall hear."

So saying, Ranulph o' the Axe threw back grim head and sang gruff, albeit plaintive, thus:

"O! merry I am and right merry I'll be, Ho-ho for block, gibbet and rack—oho! To hang or behead ye there's none like to me, For I'm headsman, tormentor, and hangman, all three, And never for work do I lack—oho!

"I live but to torture since torment's my trade, But my torment well meant is, I trow; If I hang or behead ye, it can't be gainsaid, Though my head for the head of a headsman was made, Still I'm all loving-kindness below.

"But if ever I strive merry story to tell, Full of japeful and humorsome graces, 'T is as though I were tolling a funeral bell As if dismally, dolefully tolling a knell, So solemn and sad grow all faces.

"I hang, burn and torture the best that I may, Ho pincers and thumbscrews and rack—oho! And all heads I cut off in a headsmanlike way; So I'll hang, burn and torment 'till cometh the day That my kind heart within me shall crack—oho! Well-a-wey! Well-a-wey! Woe is me for the day That my poor heart inside me shall crack! Oho!

"So there's my song! 'T is dull song and, striving to be merry song, is sad song, yet might be worse song, for I have heard a worse song, ere now—but 't is poor song. So come, Fool, do thou sing us merry song to cheer us 'gainst my sad song."

"Why truly, Sir Headsman," said Jocelyn, "here be songs a-many, yet if thou 'rt for songs, songs will we sing thee, each and every of us. But first, behold here is money shall buy us wine in plenty that we may grow merry withal in very sooth."

"Oho!" cried Ranulph. "Spoken like a noble Motley, a fair, sweet Fool! Go thou, Bertram, obey this lord-like Fool—bring wine, good wine and much, and haste thee, for night draweth on and at cock-crow I must away."

"Aye," nodded Jocelyn, "in the matter of one—Robin?"

"Verily, Fool. A cheery soul is Robin, though an outlaw, and well beloved in Canalise. So is he to hang at cock-crow lest folk make disturbance."

"Where lieth he now?"

"Where but in the watch-house beside the gallows 'neath Black Lewin's charge. But come, good Motley, sing—a pretty song, a merry ditty, ha!"

So forthwith Jocelyn took his lute and sang:

"With dainty ditty Quaint and pretty I will fit ye, So heed and mark me well, And who we be That here ye see Now unto ye Explicit I will tell:

"Then here first behold one Gurth, a worthy, dying Dyer, Since he by dyeing liveth, so to dye is his desire: For being thus a very Dyer, he liveth but to dye, And dyeing daily he doth all his daily wants supply. Full often hath he dyed ere now to earn his daily bread, Thus, dyeing not, this worthy Dyer must soon, alas! be dead.

"Here's Rick—a saintly ploughman, he Hath guided plough so well, That here, with rogues the like of me, He pines in dungeon cell.

"Here's Red-haired Will—O fie! That Will should fettered lie In such base, cruel manner! For though his hair be red, Brave Will, when all is said, Is—hark 'ee—Will's a tanner!"

"Enough, Fool!" cried Will. "An thou must sing, sing of thyself, for thyself, to thyself, and I will sing of myself an' need be!"

Laughed JOCELYN:

Why then, brave Will, Come, sing thy fill.

Whereupon Will cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and rumbling a note or so to fix the key, burst into songful roar:

"A tanner I, a lusty man, A tanner men call Will, And being tanner true, I tan, Would I were tanning still; Ho derry, derry down, Hey derry down, Would I were tanning still."

"Aye, verily!" growled Sir Pertinax. "And choked in thy vile tan-pit, for scurvier song was never heard, par Dex!"

"Why 'tis heard, forsooth," said Jocelyn, "and might be heard a mile hence! Chant on, brave Will."

The Tanner, nothing loth, wiped his mouth, clenched his fists and standing square and rigid, continued:

"How gaily I a-tanning went, No tanner blithe as I, No tanner e'er so innocent, Though here in chains I lie. Ho derry down, Hey derry down, In grievous chains I lie.

"No more, alack, poor Will will tan, Since Will will, all unwilling, Though tanner he and proper man, A gloomy grave be filling. Hey derry down, Ho derry down, A gloomy grave be filling."

"Now out upon thee, Tanner!" sighed Ranulph. "Here's sad song, a song o' graves, and therefore most unlovely, a song I—Saints and Angels!" he gasped:

And pointed where Sir Pertinax did stand, The Heart of Crystal shining in his hand. "The Heart-in-Heart! The Crystal Heart!" cried he, And crying thus, sank down on bended knee, While jailers all and scurvy knaves, pell-mell, Betook them to their marrow-bones as well; Whereat Sir Pertinax oped wond'ring eyes, And questioned him 'twixt anger and surprise. Then answered Ranulph, "Sir, though chained ye go, Yet to thee we do all obedience owe By reason of that sacred amulet, That crystal heart in heart of crystal set:

'For he that holdeth Crystal Heart Holdeth all and every part, And by night or eke by day The Heart-in-Heart all must obey!"'

"Obey?" quoth Pertinax. "Ha! Let us see If in thy vaunt there aught of virtue be: For by this Heart of Crystal that I bear, I charge ye loose the chains the Fool doth wear, Then off with these accursed gyves of mine, Or—"

Ranulph to the warders gave a sign, And they to work did go with such good speed, That Joc'lyn soon with Pertinax stood freed, "Now by my halidome!" quoth Pertinax, "This talisman methinks no magic lacks, So knaves, I bid ye—by this magic Heart, Draw bolt and bar that hence we may depart—" But now the scurvy knaves made dismal cry. "Good sir!" they wailed, "Ah, leave us not to die!" "Aye, by Heav'n's light!" fierce quoth Sir Pertinax, "Ye're better dead by gibbet or by axe, Since naught but scurvy, coward rogues are ye, And so be hanged—be hanged to ye, all three!"

"Knight!" Joc'lyn sighed, "'neath Heaven's light somewhere Doth live a dark-eyed maid with black-curled hair— Her voice is soft and full of sweet allure, And thou, perchance, one day may humbly woo her; So these poor rogues now woo their lives of thee, Show mercy then and mercy find of she."

At this Sir Pertinax rubbed chin and frowned, Red grew his cheek, his fierce eyes sought the ground, Then, even as he thus pinched chin and scowled, "Loose, then, the dismal knaves!" at last he growled. But now grim Ranulph tangled beard tore And wrung his hands and sighed and groaned and swore With loud complaints and woeful lamentations, With muttered oaths and murmured objurgations, With curses dire and impious imprecations.

"Beshrew me, masters all!" quoth he. "Now here's ill prank to play a poor hangman, may I ne'er quaff good liquor more, let me languish o' the quartern ague and die o' the doleful dumps if I ever saw the like o' this! For look 'ee now, if I set these three rogues free, how may I hang 'em as hang 'em I must, since I by hanging live to hang again, and if I don't hang 'em whom shall I hang since hang I must, I being hangman? Bethink ye o' this, sirs, and show a little pity to a poor hangman."

"Why then, mark ye this, hangman," said Jocelyn, "since on hanging doth thy hangman's reputation hang, then hang thou must; therefore, an ye lack rogue to hang, go hang thyself, so, hanging, shall thy hanging be done with and thou having lived a hangman, hangman die, thus, hangman hanging hangman, hangman hanging shall be hangman still, and being still, thus hanging, shall hang no more."

"Aye, verily!" quoth Sir Pertinax, "there it is in a nutshell—hangman, be hanged to thee! So off with their fetters, Master Gallows, by Crystal Heart I charge thee!"

Hereupon the scurvy knaves were freed, to their great joy, and following the bold knight, made haste to quit their gloomy dungeon. Reaching the guardroom above, Sir Pertinax called lustily for sword and bascinet, and thereafter chose divers likely weapons for his companions who, with axe and pike and guisarme on shoulder, followed him out into the free air.

Now it was night and very dark, but Gurth, who was a man of the town, brought them by dim and lonely alleys and crooked ways until at last they halted within a certain dark and narrow street.

"Whither now?" questioned Sir Pertinax.

"Verily," said Jocelyn, "where but to the gatehouse—"

"Not so," muttered Gurth, "'tis overly well guarded—"

"Aye," growled Will, "which is true, as I'm a tanner!"

"Howbeit," said Jocelyn, "I'm for the gatehouse!"

"And wherefore?" demanded Sir Pertinax.

"In cause of one Rob, a robber."

"Aye, but," said Gurth, "he is to hang at crow-o'-cock and 'tis nigh cock-crow now."

"The more need for haste," said Jocelyn.

But, even now, as they together spoke, A sullen tramp the sleeping echoes woke, Behind them in the gloom dim forms they saw, While others grimly barred the way before; And so, by reason that they could not fly, They grasped their weapons and prepared to die. Then in the darkness of that narrow street, Broad axe and pike and flashing sword did meet. Duke Jocelyn full many a thrust drave home, Till whirling pike-staff smote him on cock's-comb, And staggering back to an adjacent wall, In deep-sunk doorway groaning he did fall.

My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:

GILL: Now, father, please don't let him die—

MYSELF: No, no, indeed, my Gill, not I, My heroes take a lot of killing—

GILL: Then go on quick, it's very thrilling! I hope he vanquishes his foes, And let him do it, please, in prose.

"O woe!" said a quavering voice. "Alack, and well-a-wey—"

My daughter GILLIAN demurreth:

GILL: No, father—that's not right at all. You'd got to where you'd made him fall.

MYSELF: Well, then, Duke Joc'lyn, from his swoon awaking, Found that his head confoundedly was aching; Found he was bruised all down from top to toe—

GILL: A bruise, father, and he a duke? No, no! Besides, you make A frightful mistake— A hero's head should never ache; And, father, now, whoever knew A hero beaten black and blue? And then a bruise, it seems to me, Is unromantic as can be. He can't be bruised, And shan't be bruised, For, if you bruise him, And ill-use him, I'll refuse him— No reader, I am sure, would choose A hero any one can bruise. So, father, if you want him read, Don't bruise him, please—

MYSELF: Enough is said!

At this, Jocelyn sat up and wondered to find himself in a small chamber dim-lit by a smoking cresset. On one side of him leaned an ancient woman, a very hag-like dame

With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below;

and upon his other side a young damsel of a wondrous dark beauty.

"Lady," said he, "where am I?"

"Hush, poor Motley!" whispered the maid. "Thou didst fall 'gainst the door yonder. But speak low, they that seek thy life may yet be nigh."

"Nay, then," quoth Jocelyn, reaching for his sword, "I must out and aid my comrades."

"Alack!" sighed the old woman. "Thy comrades do without lie all slain save one that groaneth—hearken!"

"O, woe!" mourned a quavering voice beyond the door. "O, woe, sore hurted I be, and like to die—and I a tanner!"

Very heedfully, Jocelyn unbarred the door, and peering into the narrow street, found it deserted and empty save for certain outstretched forms that stirred not; looking down on these dim shapes he knew one for Rick the Ploughman, whose ploughing days were sped and, huddled in a corner hard by, he found Will the Tanner, who groaned fitfully; but of Sir Pertinax and Gurth he saw nothing. So Jocelyn made shift to bear the Tanner within the house, and here Will, finding his hurts of small account, sat up, and while the wise old woman bandaged his wound, answered Jocelyn's eager questions, and told how Sir Pertinax and Gurth the Dyer had broken through their assailants and made good their escape.

Now, when the old woman had thus cherished their hurts, Jocelyn would fain have given her money, but she mumbled and mowed and cracked her finger-joints and shook grey head.

"Not so, good Fool!" she croaked, "for I do know thee for that same gentle Motley did save me from Black Lewin—a murrain seize him! So now will I save thee—behold!" So saying she set bony hand to wall; and lo! in the wall yawned a square opening narrow and dark, whence issued a cold wind. "Begone, thou brave merryman!" quoth she. "Yonder safety lieth; this darksome way shall carry thee out beneath the city wall!"

"Gramercy, thou kindly Witch!" said Jocelyn. "Yet first must I to the watch-house beside the gate for one Robin that lieth 'prisoned there."

"How, Fool, dost mean Robin-a-Green that is to hang?"

"In truth!"

"But Rob o' the Green is outlawed, banned o' Church, a very rogue!"

"But a man, wherefore I would save him alive."

"Nay, Fool, o' thy folly be wise and seek ye safety instead. Would'st peril thy body for a thief?"

"Verily, dame, even as I did for a Witch."

Now, here the old woman scowled and mumbled and cracked her finger-bones angrily. But the beauteous young maid viewed Jocelyn with bright, approving eyes:

"But, Fool," cried she, "O wondrous Fool, wilt adventure thyself in cause so desperate?"

"Blithely, fair lady!"

"But, alas! the guards be many and thou but one—"

"Nay!" cried a voice:

"For thou may'st see That two are we!"

And forth of the dark opening in the wall strode Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, his great, spiked club on brawny shoulder. Jocelyn viewed the monstrous little man in awed wonder; but beholding his mighty girth and determined aspect, wonder changed to kindliness; quoth he:

"Fair greeting, comrade! If thou'rt for a little bickering and disputation with that goodly club o' thine, come thy ways for methinks I do smell the dawn."

"Aha, thou naughty little one!" cried the Witch, shaking bony fist. "Art for fighting for rogue's life along of a Fool, then?"

Quoth LOBKYN:

Aye, grannam, though ye slap me, still, Fight and aid this Fool I will—

"And talking o' Will," quoth Will, "what o' me, for though I'm a tanner I'm a man, aye, verily, as I'm a tanner."

"And methinks a better man than tanner!" said Jocelyn. "So here we stand three goodly wights and well armed. Let's away—"

"Nay, then, wild Madcap," croaked the Witch, "an my Lobkyn go I go, and, though I be old and feeble, shalt find my craft more potent than sword or club—wait!"

Here the old woman, opening a dingy cupboard, took thence a small crock over which she muttered spells and incantations with look and gesture so evil that Lobkyn eyed her askance, Will the Tanner cowered and whispered fragments of prayers, and even Jocelyn crossed himself.

"Come!" croaked the Witch. "Now do I go to save rogue from gallows for sake of thee, tall Fool. Come ye, come and do as I bid ye in all things—come!"



FYTTE 6

Tells how for Robin a good fight was fought And our old Witch a spell mysterious wrought.

* * * * *

Phoebus, the young and gladsome god of day, His fiery steeds had yoked to flaming car (By which, my Gill, you may surmise The sun was just about to rise) And that be-feathered, crook-billed harbinger, The rosy-wattled herald of the dawn, Red comb aflaunt, bold-eyed and spurred for strife, Brave Chanticleer, his strident summons raised (By which fine phrase I'd have you know, The cock had just begun to crow) And gentle Zephyr, child of Boreas, Stole soft the hush of dewy leaves, And passing kissed the flowers to wakefulness. Thus, laden with their sweetness, Zephyr came O'er hill and dale, o'er battlement and wall, Into the sleeping town of Canalise, Through open lattice and through prison-bars, To kiss the cheek of sleeping Innocence And fevered brows of prisoners forlorn, Who, stirring 'neath sweet Zephyr's soft caress, Dreamed themselves young, with all their sins unwrought. So, gentle Zephyr, messenger of dawn, Fresh as the day-spring, of earth redolent, Through narrow loophole into dungeon stole, Where Robin the bold outlaw fettered lay, Who, sighing, woke to feel her fragrant kiss,

And, breathing in this perfume-laden air, He seemed to smell those thousand woodland scents He oft had known, yet, knowing, never heeded: Of lofty bracken, golden in the sun, Of dewy violets shy that bloomed dim-seen Beside some merry-laughing, woodland brook Which, bubbling, with soft music filled the air; The fragrant reek of smouldering camp-fire Aglow beside some dark, sequestered pool Whose placid waters a dim mirror made To hold the glister of some lonely star; He seemed to see again in sunny glade The silky coats of yellow-dappled deer, With branching antlers gallantly upborne; To hear the twang of bow, the whizz of shaft, And cheery sound of distant-winded horn. Of this and more than this, bold Robin thought, And, in his dungeon's gloomy solitude, He groaned full deep and, since no eye could see, Shed bitter tears.

My daughter GILLIAN supplicateth:

GILL: Poor Robin! Father, promise me To save him from the gallows-tree. He's much too nice a man to kill; So save him, father; say you will!

MYSELF: But think of poor Ranulph with no one to hang!

GILL: Ranulph's song was top-hole, but—

MYSELF: You know I hate slang—

GILL: Yes, father—but then I hate Ranulph much more, With his nasty great beard that in tangles he wore. So, father, if you must have some one to slay, Instead of poor Robin, hang Ranulph—

MYSELF: Why, pray?

GILL: In nice books the nasty folks only should die; Those are the kind of books nice people buy. I like a book that makes me glad, And loathe a book that makes me sad; So, as this Geste is made for me, Make it as happy as can be.

MYSELF: And is it, so far, as you'd wish?

GILL: Well, father, though it's rather swish, I think it needs a deal more love—

MYSELF: Swish? How—what's this? Great heavens above! Will you, pray, miss, explain to me How any story "swish" may be? And why, my daughter, you must choose A frightful word like "swish" to use? What hideous language are you talking?

GILL: Sorrow, father! "Swish" means "corking." I think our Geste is "out of sight," Except that, to please me, you might Put in more love—

MYSELF: Now, how can Joc'lyn go love-making When his head is sore and aching? Besides, this is no place to woo; He'll love-make when I want him to.

GILL: But, father, think—in all this time, In all this blank-verse, prose and rhyme, The fair Yolande he's never kissed, And you've done nothing to assist; And, as I'm sure they're both inclined, I think your treatment most unkind.

MYSELF: This Geste I'll write in my own way, That is, sweet Prattler, if I may; When I'm ready for them to kiss, Then kiss they shall; I promise this. Now I'll to Rob return, if you, My Gillian, will permit me to!

Thus in his prison pent, poor woeful Rob, Since none might see or hear, scorned not to sob, And mightily, in stricken heart, did grieve That he so soon so fair a world must leave. And all because the morning wind had brought Earth's dewy fragrance with sweet mem'ries fraught. So Robin wept nor sought his grief to stay, Yearning amain for joys of yesterday; Till, hearing nigh the warder's heavy tread, He sobbed no more but strove to sing instead.

"A bow for me, a bow for me, All underneath the greenwood tree, Where slaves are men, and men are free; Give me a bow!

"Give me a bow, a bow of yew, Good hempen cord and arrows true, When foes be thick and friends be few, Give me a bow!"

Thus cheerily sang Robin the while he dried his bitter tears, as the door of his prison was flung wide and Black Lewin strode in and with him men-at-arms bearing torches.

"What ho, rogue Robin!" cried he. "The cock hath crowed. Ha! Will ye sing, knave, will ye sing, in faith?"

"In faith, that will I!" laughed Robin.

"Here come we to bring ye to the gallows, Robin—how say ye?"

"The more reason for singing since my singing must soon be done!" So, with pikemen before him and behind, bold Robin marched forth to die, yet sang full blithely as he went:

"So lay my bones 'neath good yew-tree, Thus Rob and yew soon one shall be, Where all true men may find o' we A trusty bow!"

"Ha' done!" growled Black Lewin, shivering in the chilly air of dawn. "Quit—quit thy singing, rogue, or by the foul fiend I—"

"Who dareth name the fiend?" croaked an awful voice, whereat Black Lewin halted, gaped and stood a-tremble, while beneath steel cap and bascinet all men's hair stirred and rose with horror; for before them was a ghastly shape, a shape that crouched in the gloom with dreadful face aflame with smouldering green fire.

"Woe!" cried the voice. "Woe unto thee, Lewin the Black, that calleth on fiend o' the pit!"

And now came a fiery hand that, hovering in the air, pointed lambent finger at gaping Lewin and at each of the shivering pike-men in turn.

"Woe—sorrow and woe to one and all, ye men of blood, plague and pest, pain o' flesh, and grief of soul seize ye, be accursed and so—begone! Hence ho—away!

"Rommani hi! Avaunt, I say, Prendraxon! Thus direst curse on ye I lay Shall make flesh shrink and bone decay, To rot and rot by night and day Till flesh and bone do fall away, Mud unto mud and clay to clay. A spell I cast, Shall all men blast. Hark ye, Mark ye, Rommani hi—prendraxon!"

Down fell pike and guisarme from nerveless fingers and, gasping with fear, Black Lewin and his fellows turned and fled nor stayed for one look behind; only Robin stood there (since he might not run away by reason of his bonds) babbling prayers between chattering teeth and with all his fingers crossed.

"Oho, Fool, aha!" cried the voice. "Thus have I, a poor, feeble old woman, wrought better than all thy valiance or Lobkyn's strength. So, by potency of my spells and magic are we quits, thou and I. Bring, then, thy rogue outlaw and haste ye!"

So saying the old Witch muffled her awful, fiery face in ragged mantle and turned away; and in that moment Robin was aware of three forms about him in the grey dawn-light, felt his bonds loosed off by quick, strong hands and drew a great, joyous breath.

"How, Fool, thou brave and noble Motley," quoth he, "is it thou again? And I to live?"

"Aye, marry, Robin! But come apace, the day breaketh and the city is astir—hark to yon shouts! Follow!"

So with the Tanner on one side and Lobkyn on the other, Robin ran, hard on Jocelyn's heels; and ever the dawn brightened until up came the sun chasing away sullen shadow and filling street and alley with his glory.

But now, and just as they reached that narrow street where safety lay, they heard a shout, a scream, a rush of feet and roar of fierce voices and beheld, amid a surge of armed men, the old woman struggling in the cruel grip of Black Lewin who (like many others I wot of, my Gill) was brave enough by daylight. Vainly the old creature strove, screaming for mercy as Black Lewin whirled aloft his sword; but his blade clashed upon another as Jocelyn sprang, and for a while the air rang with the sound of fierce- smiting steel until, throwing up his arms, Black Lewin fell and lay there. But, roaring vengeance, the soldiery closed about Jocelyn who, beset by blows on every side, sank in turn, yet, even as he fell, two short though mighty legs bestrode his prostrate form and Lobkyn Lollo, whirling huge club, smote down the foremost assailant and, ever as he smote, he versified and chanted—thus:

"I'm Lollo hight, Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I, I'm Lollo hight, 'Tis my delight By day or night In honest fight With main and might Good blows to smite, And where they light 'Tis sorry plight For that poor wight, Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.

"Bows, swords and staves, Come, lusty knaves, And fit for graves Brave Lobkyn soon will make ye; So fight, say I, Nor turn and fly, Or, when ye die, Then may old Horny take ye."

Fierce raged the conflict, but in that narrow street they made good play against their many assailants, the valiant Dwarf's mighty club, backed by the Tanner's darting pike and Robin's flashing sword, which he had snatched from a loosened grasp. But Jocelyn lay prone upon his face, between Lobkyn's firm-planted feet, and stirred not. So club whirled, sword flashed and pike darted while, high above the tumult, rose Lobkyn's fierce chant:

"Hot blood I quaff, At death I laugh, Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I. Come all that may, And all I'll slay, And teach ye how to die."

"Lob—Lobkyn!" screamed the Witch. "Thou that drinkest nought but milk—talk not of blood, thou naughty poppet. Back now—stand back, I do command thee!"

Lobkyn smote a man to earth and, sighing regretful, stepped aside.

"Back!" screamed the Witch. "Stand back, I say, all three, And leave this wicked rabblement to me. Now shall they learn the terror of my curse, Black magic shall they feel—and something worse!"

Then uttered she a sudden, hideous cry, And, leaping, whirled her bony hands on high, And lo! a choking dust-cloud filled the air; That wreathed in whirling eddies here and there.

"Perendewix!" she cried. "Oh Radzywin— Thraxa! Behold, my witchcraft doth begin!" Back shrank their foes, back reeled they one and all, They choked, they gasped, they let their weapons fall; And some did groan, and some did fiercely sneeze, And some fell prone, some writhed upon their knees; Some strove to wipe the tears from blinded eyes, But one and all gave voice to awful cries.

"Come!" cried the Witch, "to the door—the door. Lobkyn, bear ye the brave Fool—and tenderly! Haste, naughty bantling, haste—I hear the tread of more soldiers!"

So Lobkyn stooped and, lifting Jocelyn's inanimate form, tucked it beneath one arm, and with Robin and Will the Tanner, followed the old Witch into the house.

My daughter GILLIAN commandeth:

GILL: Go on, father, do; why will you keep stopping? I think the old Witch is just perfectly topping. And what frightful words she uses for curses!

MYSELF: Very frightful, indeed, though your slang still much worse is, With your "topping," "top-holing," your "swishing" and "clipping,"

GILL: Well, I merely intended to say it was ripping; But, if you object to my praises—

MYSELF: I only object to your phrases, For there's no author but will own He "liveth not by bread alone." As for myself, if what I write Doth please—then praise with all your might.

GILL: Well, then, the Witch is splendid, though I'm very curious to know Just how her face all fiery grew, And what the stuff was that she threw— The stuff that made the soldiers sneeze And brought them choking to their knees It sounds as though it might be snuff.

MYSELF: My dear, they'd not found out such stuff. But grisly witches long ago Did many strange devices know. Indeed, my Gill, they knew much more Than wise folk gave them credit for.

GILL: Well, what was it? You haven't said.

MYSELF: I'll get on with our Geste instead.



FYTTE 7

That telleth to the patient reader nought, Save how the Duke was to the wild-wood brought.

* * * * *

With sleepy eyes Duke Jocelyn watched afar, In deep, blue void a solitary star, That, like some bright and wakeful eye, did seem To watch him where he lay 'twixt sleep and dream. And, as he viewed it winking high above, He needs must think of Yolande and his love, And how, while he this twinkling star did view, She, wakeful lying, might behold it too, Whereas she lay a spotless maid and fair, Clothed in the red-gold glory of her hair; And, thinking thus, needs must he fondly sigh, Then frowned to hear a lusty snore hard by—

—and looking whence came this sound, the Duke sat up and his wonder grew; for by light of a fire that glowed in a blackened fissure of rock he beheld himself couched on a bed of bracken within a roomy cave. Beside the fire leaned a mighty, iron-shod club, and beyond this, curled up like a dog, snored Lobkyn Lollo, the Dwarf. Hereupon Jocelyn reached out and shook Lob to wakefulness, who grunted sleepily, rubbed his eyes drowsily and yawned mightily:

Quoth JOCELYN: Good Dwarf, where am I?

Answered LOBKYN: Safe, Fool, safe art thou, I trow, Where none but Lob and friends do know.

JOCELYN: But how am I hither?

LOBKYN: Why, truly thou art hither, Fool, Because thou art not thither, Fool! In these two arms, thy life to save, I bore thee to this goodly cave.

JOCELYN: How may one of thy inches bear man of mine so far?

LOBKYN: Why, Fool, though I of inches lack, I'm mighty strong, both arm and back, Thou that art longer man than me, Yet I am stronger man than thee, Though, lusty Fool, big fool you be, I'd bear thee, Fool, if thou wert three. And mark, Fool, if my grammar seemeth weak, Pray license it since I in verse must speak.

JOCELYN: And pray why must thou speak in verse?

LOBKYN: Nature hath on me laid this curse, And, though to speak plain prose I yearn, My prose to verse doth ever turn. Therefore I grieve, as well I might, Because of my poetic plight— Though bards and rhymers all I scorn, Alack! I was a rhymer born.

JOCELYN: Alack! poor Dwarf, as thou must versify, By way of courtesy, then, so will I.

LOBKYN: How, Fool, then canst thou rhyme?

JOCELYN: Aye, Dwarf, at any time! In dark, in light, By day, by night, Standing, sitting, As be fitting, Verses witty, Quaint or pretty, Incontinent I'll find. Verses glad, Dwarf, Verses sad, Dwarf, Every sort, Lob, Long or short, Lob Or verses ill, Yet verses still Which might be worse, I can rehearse When I'm for verse inclined. So, Lob, first speak me what became Of our old Witch, that potent dame.

LOBKYN: Why, Fool, in faith she wrought so well With direful curse and blasting spell That every howling soldier-knave, Every rogue and base-born slave That by chance I did not slay, From my grand-dam ran away.

JOCELYN: A noble Witch! Now, Lobkyn, tell What hap'd when in the fight I fell, And how alive I chance to be.

LOBKYN: Fool, I was there to succour thee. I smote those pike-men hip and thigh, That they did mangled pike-men lie; Their arms, their legs, their skulls I broke, Two, three, and four at every stroke. I drave them here, I smote them there, I smote, I slew, I none did spare, I laughed, I sang, I—

"Ha, Lob!" growled a sleepy voice. "Now, as I'm a tanner, here's a-many I's! By Saint Crispin, meseemeth thou'rt all I's—for as thou fought I fought, or thought I fought, forsooth!"

LOBKYN: True, Will, did'st fight in goodly manner, Though fightedst, Will, like any tanner; But I did fight, or I'm forsworn, Like one unto the manner born. I fought, forsooth, with such good will, 'Tis marvel I'm not fighting still. And so I should be, by my fay, An I had any left to slay; But since I slew them all—

"Hold there!" cried the Tanner. "I slew one or two, Lob, and Robin likewise. Thou'rt a lusty fighter, but what o' me and Robin—ha, what o' we?"

LOBKYN: In faith, ye're proper men and tall, And I'm squat man, my stature small, Nath'less, though small and squat I be, I am the best man of the three.

"Why, as to that," quoth the Tanner, "'tis but you says so! As to me I think what I will, and I do think—"

But here Lobkyn started up and seized the great club; quoth he:

"Hark and mark, Heard ye nought there i' the dark?"

"Not I!" answered Will.

"Methought I heard an owl hoot," said Jocelyn.

"Aye," nodded Lobkyn:

"Aye, Fool, and yet this owl I 'll swear, Hath ne'er a feather anywhere. This owl hath ne'er a wing to fly, But goes afoot like thou and I. Now mark, And hark!"

Hereupon the Dwarf laid finger to lip and uttered an owl-cry so dismal, so tremulous and withal so true to nature that it was wonder to hear. Instantly, from the dimness beyond the cavern-mouth, the cry was repeated, and presently was heard a panting and 'plaining, a snuffling and a shuffling, and into the light of the fire hobbled the old Witch. Beholding Jocelyn sitting cross-legged on his couch of fern, she paused and, leaning on her crooked stick, viewed him with her wise, old eyes.

"Aha, Motley!" she croaked. "Oho, thou flaunting jackanapes, didst peril thy foolish flesh for me that am poor and old and feeble, and cursed by all for witchcraft! So have I with my potions ministered to thee in thy sickness, and behold thou'rt alive, hale and strong again. Give me thy hand! Aha, here's cool, unfevered blood! Show me thy tongue. Oho! Aha! A little sup o' my black decoction—roots gathered at full o' moon—a little sup and shall be thyself by to-morrow's dawn. But—as for thee, thou good-for-naught, thou wicked elf—aha! would'st dare leave thy poor old grannam weak and 'fenceless? Give me thy rogue-ear!" Obediently, the mighty Dwarf arose and sighfully suffered the old woman to grasp him by the ear and to tweak and wring and twist it as she would.

"What dost thou here i' the wild-wood, thou imp, thou poppet o' plagues, thou naughty wap-de-staldees?"

To which Lobkyn, writhing and watering at the eyes, answered thus:

"Stay, prithee grannam, loose thy hold! I would but be an outlaw bold, An outlaw fierce that men shall fear— Beseech thee, grand-dam, loose mine ear!"

"An outlaw, naughty one!" screeched the Witch, tweaking ear the harder. "Dare ye tell me so, elf?"

LOBKIN: Aye, grand-dam—cuff me an ye will, Nath'less an outlaw I'll be still, And many a wicked rogue I'll kill— O grand-dam, loose mine ear! And day and night I'll slay until All rogues my name do fear.

For grand-dam, I'm a fighter—O, Beseech thee, let my ear go! And bones shall crack and blood shall flow, If any dare resist me. And all the world my name shall know, Pray by the ear don't twist me!

All men before my club shall fly, All on their knees shall "mercy" cry, Or mangled in their gore shall lie— Ah, grand-dam, pray don't clout me! Don't beat me, grannam dear, but try To do awhile without me—

"Without thee, thou piece o' naughtiness?" screamed the old woman. "Now will I lay my stick about thee—hold still, Rogue!"

Saying which, she proceeded to belabour the poor Dwarf with her knotted stick, clutching him fast by his ear the while. Thus she be-thwacked him soundly until he roared for mercy.

"Why, how now—how now?" cried a merry voice, and Robin strode into the firelight. "Gentle Witch, sweet dame," quoth he, "what do ye with poor Lob?"

"Thwack him shrewdly!"

"Which is, Witch, that which none but witch the like o' thee might do, for lustier fighter and mightier dwarf never was. Thus, but for thy witch-like witcheries, the which, Witch, witch do prove thee, but for this and the power and potency of thy spells, now might he crack out thy life 'twixt finger and thumb—"

"Ha, forest-rogue, 'tis a bad brat, a very naughty elf would run off into the wild to be rogue like thee—an outlaw, forsooth!"

"Forsooth, Witch," laughed Robin, "outlaw is he in very truth, in sooth and by my troth! Outlaw is Lob, banned by Church and Council of Ten, and so proclaimed i' the market square of Canalise this very morn by sound o' trumpet and—"

"How? How?" cried the old woman, wringing her trembling hands. "My Lobkyn outlawed? My babe, my lovely brat, my pretty bantling, woe and alas! My dear ugly one an outlaw?"

"Aye, marry is he, Witch, outlaw proclaimed, acclaimed, announced, pronounced and denounced; as such described, ascribed and proscribed by Master Gregory Bax, the port-reeve, for the late slaying and maiming of divers of the city guard. So outlaw is Lobkyn, his life henceforth forfeit even as mine."

"My Lobkyn an hairy outlaw i' the wild-wood! Out alas! And what of his poor old grannam? What o' me—?"

"Content thee, sweet hag, since thou'rt outlawed along with him and, as witch, doomed to die unpleasantly by fire and flame and faggot, if thou'rt caught."

"Alack! Wala-wa! Woe 's me!" groaned the Witch, cracking her finger-bones. "And all this by reason o' the Fool yonder."

"Why, the Fool is dubbed outlaw likewise, Witch," quoth Robin. "Outlaw is he along o' thee and Tanner Will."

"And all by reason that this Fool must needs peril our lives for sake of rogue-outlaw, of forest-robber, of knavish woodland-lurker—"

"Hight Robin!" laughed Robin, leaning on his long bow-stave. "Now, this brave Fool having saved Robin his life, Witch, the which, Witch, was good thing for Robin, our Fool next saved thee, Witch, which was nought to Robin, in the which, Witch, Robin did not joy; for thou, old Witch, being witch, art therefore full o' witcheries which be apt to be-devil a man and fright his reason, for the which reason, being reasonable man, I reason, for this reason, that, so reasoning, I love thee not. But thou art old, Witch, which is good reason to reasonably reason thou art wise, Witch, and, being wise, I on this wise would seek counsel of thy wisdom, Witch. Imprimis, then—"

"Hold!" commanded the Witch; "here's a whirl o' windy wind! Hast more of such-like, forester?"

"Some little, Witch, which I will now, Witch—"

"Nay, then, Robin-a-Green, suffer me to rest my old bones whiles thy mill clacks." Hereupon the old Witch seated herself beside the fire, with bony knees up-drawn to bony chin. "Speak, outlaw Robin," she croaked, blinking her red eyes, "and speak ye plain."

"Why, then, wise Witch, look 'ee: since we be outlaws each and every, with all men's hands against us, with none to succour, and death watchful for us, 'tis plain, and very plain, we, for our harbourage and defence, must in the wild-wood bide—"

"Ho!" cried Lobkyn:

"It soundeth good, The brave wild-wood, Where flowers do spring And birds do sing. To slay the deer And make good cheer, With mead and beer, The livelong year, And—"

"Roar not, toad!" cried the Witch. "Say on—Rogue-Robin!"

"Why, mark me, good Witch, here's where buskin chafeth! Not long since I ruled i' the wild-wood, a very king, with ten-score lusty outlaw-rogues to do my will. To-day is there never an one, and for this reasonable reason—to wit, I am hanged, and, being hanged, am dead, and, being dead, am not, and thus Robin is nobody; and yet again, perceive me, Witch, being Robin, I am therefore somebody; thus is nobody somebody, and yet somebody that nobody will believe anybody. The which, Witch, is a parlous case, methinks, for here am I, somebody, nobody and Robin altogether and at the same time; therefore, Witch, o' thy witchful wisdom—who am I, what and which, Witch?"

Here the Witch blinked and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones one after another. Quoth she:

"For thy first, thou'rt thyself; for the second, a rogue; and for the third, a wind-bag. I would thy second might tie up thy first in thy third."

"So should Robin choke Robin with Robin. But hark 'ee again, good, patient dame. It seemeth that Ranulph the executioner betaketh him at cock-crow to hang poor me; but, finding me not, made great outcry, insomuch that the city guard, such as mighty Lob and Will had left alive, sought counsel together; and taking one of their slain fellows, Ranulph hanged him in my stead, and there he hangeth now, above the city gate, his face so marred that he might be me or any other."

"Ha, Robin—well?"

"This day, at sunset, came I unto the trysting-oak, and by blast of horn summoned me my outlaw company. They came apace and in great wonderment, for, seeing me, they fell to great awe and dread, thinking me dead, since many had seen my body a-dangle on the gallows; wherefore, seeing me manifestly alive, they took me for ghoulish ghost 'stead o' good flesh and blood, and fled from me amain. So, by reason of my dead body, that is no body o' mine, yet that nobody will believe is no body o' mine, they believe that this my body is yet no body, but a phantom; the which is out of reason; yet thus unreasonably do the rogues reason by reason of the body that hangeth in place of my body above the city gate. Wherefore I reason there is yet reason in their unreason, seeing this body was somebody, yet no body o' mine, but which nobody among them can swear to. Which, Witch, is a matter which none but wise witch may counsel me in. How say'st thou, Witch?"

But for a while the old Witch scowled on the fire, bony chin on bony knees, and dreamily cracked her finger-joints.

"Oho!" she cried suddenly. "Aha—a body that nobody's is, yet body that everybody knoweth for body o' thine—aha! So must nobody know that nobody's body is not thy body. Dost see my meaning, Robin-a-Green?"

"No whit, Witch! Thou growest involved, thy talk diffuse, abstruse and altogether beyond one so obtuse as simple Rob—"

"Then hark 'ee again, Addlepate! Everybodymust believe nobody's body thy body, so by dead body will I make thy live body of so great account to everybody that nobody henceforth shall doubt dead body made live body, by my witchcraft, and thou be feared, therefore, of everybody. Dost follow me now, numskull?"

"Aye, truly, mother! And truly 'tis a rare subtlety, a notable wile, and thou a right cunning witch and wise. But how wilt achieve this wonder?"

"Since dead thou art, I to life will bring thee. Oho, I will summon thee through fire and flame; aha, I will make thee more dreaded than heretofore; thy fame shall fill the wild-wood and beyond. Know'st thou the Haunted Wood, hard by Thraxby Waste?"

Now here Robin's merry smile languished, and he rubbed nose with dubious finger.

"Aye, I do," quoth he sombrely; "an ill place and—demon-rid, they say—"

"Come ye there to-morrow at midnight."

"Alone?" says Robin, starting.

"Alone!"

"Nay, good Witch, most gentle, potent dame, I—though phantom accounted, I love not phantoms, and Thraxby Waste—"

"Come ye there—at midnight!"

"Why, then, good Witch, an come I must, suffer that I bring the valiant Fool and mighty Lob—prithee, now!"

At this the old Witch scowled and mumbled and crackled her finger-bones louder than ever.

"Oho!" cried she at last, "thou great child, afraid-o'-the-dark, bring these an ye will—but none other!"

"Good mother, I thank thee!"

"Tchak!" cried the Witch, and, struggling to her feet, hobbled to Jocelyn and laid bony finger on wrist and brow, nodded, mumbled, and so, bent on her staff, hobbled away; but, reaching the cave-mouth, she paused, and smote stick to earth fiercely.

"To-morrow!" she croaked. "Midnight! Re—member!"



FYTTE 8

Tells how the Witch, with incantations dire, In life to life brought Robin through the fire.

* * * * *

The wind was cold—indeed 'twas plaguy chill— That furtive crept and crept, like something ill Stealing with dreadful purpose in the dark, With scarce a sound its stealthy course to mark; While pallid moon did seem to swoon, as though It ghastly things beheld on earth below; And Robin gripped the good sword by his side, And Joc'lyn looked about him watchful-eyed; While Lobkyn Lollo felt and looked the bolder By reason of the club across his shoulder.

"Here," whispered Robin, peering through the gloom, "Is dismal place, I've heard, of death and doom. Here do be ghosts and goblins, so 'tis said, Demons, phantoms, spectres of the dead—" "Aye, verily," quoth Lob, "and what is worse, 'Tis here my grand-dam oft doth come to curse, And haunteth it with spiteful toads and bats, With serpents fell, with ewts and clawful cats. Here doth she revel hold o' moony nights, With grave-rank ghouls and moaning spectral sprites; And ... Saints! what's that? A hook-winged bat? Not so; perchance, within its hairy body fell Is man or maid transformed by magic spell. O, brothers, heedful be, and careful tread Lest magic gin should catch and strike us dead! O would my grannam might go with us here. Since, being witch, she doth no witchcraft fear."

So came the three at last to Haunted Wood, Where mighty trees in gloomy grandeur stood, Their wide-flung boughs so closely interweaving Scarce space between for ghostly moonbeams leaving; But, snake-like, round each other closely twined, In shuddering wind did mournful voices find, And, groaning, writhed together to and fro Like souls that did the fiery torment know. Thus, in the wood, 'twas dark and cold and dank, And breathed an air of things long dead and rank; While shapes, dim-seen, did creep and flit and fly With sudden squeak, and bodeful, wailing cry.

At last they reached a clearing in the wood, Where, all at once, as 'mid the leaves they stood, From Lobkyn's lips, loud, tremulous, and high, There rose and swelled the owlet's shuddering cry. Scarce on the air this dismal sound had died, When they the Witch's hobbling form espied. Beholding Robin, by the arm she caught him, And to a place of rocks in haste she brought him; And here, where bosky thickets burgeoned round, She pointed to a chasm in the ground.

"Go down!" she hissed. "Go down, thou thing of clay, Thou that art dead—into thy grave I say. Since thou 'rt hanged, a dead man shalt thou be Till from thy grave my spells shall summon thee—" "My grave?" gasped Robin, blenching from her frown. "Aye, Rogue!" she croaked. "Behold thy grave! Go down!" So shiv'ring Robin, in most woeful plight, Crept into gloom and vanished from their sight. "O, Robin, Robin!" the old Witch softly cried, "Alack, I'm here!" faint voice, below, replied. "Thou dead," croaked she, "thou ghostly shade forlorn, From charnel-vault sound now thy spectral horn, Sound now thy rallying-note, then silent be Till from thy mouldering tomb I summon thee!"

Now, on the stillness rose the ghostly sound Of Robin's hunting horn that through the ground Rang thin and high, unearthly-shrill and clear, That thrilled the shivering woodland far and near, And shuddering to silence, left behind A whisper as of leaves in stealthy wind. A rustling 'mid the underbrush they heard Where, in the gloom about them, dim things stirred— Vague, stealing shapes that softly nearer drew, Till from the tree-gloom crept a ragged crew, Wild men and fierce, a threatening, grimly herd, Who stood like shadows, speaking not a word; And the pale moon in fitful flashes played On sword and headpiece, pike and broad axe-blade. While the old hag, o'er witch-fire crouching low, Puffed at the charcoal till it was aglow; Then hobbling round and round her crackling fire, She thus began her incantations dire:

"Come ye long-dead, Ye spirits dread,

Ye things of quaking fear, Ye poor, lost souls, Ye ghosts, ye ghouls, Haxwiggin bids ye here! By one by two, by two by three, Spirits of Night, I summon ye, By three by four, by four by five, Come ye now dead that were alive, Come now I bid ye From grave-clods rid ye, Come! From South and North, I bid ye forth, From East, from West, At my behest— Come! Come great, come small, Come one, come all, Heed ye my call, List to my call, I say, From pitchy gloom Of mouldered tomb Here find ye room For sport and holiday. Come grisly ghosts and goblins pale, Come spirits black and grey, Ye shrouded spectres—Hail, O Hail! Ho! 'tis your holiday. Come wriggling snakes From thorny brakes, Hail! Come grimly things With horny wings, That flit, that fly, That croak, that cry, Hail!

"Come ghouls, come demons one and all, Here revel whiles ye may; Ye noisome things that creep and crawl, Come, sport and round me play. Ho, claw and wing and hoof and horn, Here revel till the clammy dawn.

"Peeping, creeping, Flying, crying, Fighting, biting, Groaning, moaning, Ailing, wailing, Spirits fell, Come to my spell, Ho! 'tis your holiday! So, are ye there, High up in air, The moonbeams riding 'Mid shadows hiding?

"Now gather round, ye spectral crew, This night have we brave work to do— Bold Robin o' the Green, 'tis said, On gallows hangeth cold and dead Beneath the sky On gibbet high, They in a noose did swing him. Go, goblins, go, And ere they know, Unto me hither bring him."

Here paused the Witch to mend her glowing fire, While each man to his neighbour shuffled nigher, As witch-flame leapt and ever brighter grew, Till, to their horror, sudden it burned blue; Whereat each silent, fearful beholder Felt in the gloom to touch his fellow's shoulder, Yet, in that moment, knew an added dread To see the fire from blue turn ghastly red; Then, as the Witch did o'er it crooning lean, Behold! it changed again to baleful green. Whereat the Witch flung bony arms on high, As though with claw-like hands she 'd rend the sky; And while the lurid flames leapt ever higher, She thus invoked the Spirit of the Fire.

"As fire doth change, yet, changed, unchanged doth burn, By fiery spell shall dead to life return!

"Ho, goblins yonder—'neath the moon, Have ye brought me the dead so soon? Ha! is it Bxibin that ye bring, That pale, that stiff, that clammy thing? Now work we spell with might and main, Shall make it live and breathe again.

"Now in and out, And round about, Ye wriggling rout, With hoof and claw and wing; Now high, now low, Now fast, now slow, Now to and fro Tread we a magic ring.

"Thus, while the frighted moon doth peep, We 'll wake this cold, dead thing from sleep, Till Robin back to life shall leap. And when he from the fire shall spring, Ye outlaws hail him for your King.

"For on that wight Who, day or night, Shall Robin disobey With purpose fell I'll cast a spell Shall wither him away.

"Ho, Robin! Ope thy death-cold eyes, Ho, Robin! From thy grave arise, Ho, Robin! Robin, ho! Robin that doth bide so near me, Robin, Robin, wake and hear me, Ho, Robin! Robin, ho!

"Back to life I summon thee, Through the fire thy path must be, Through the fire that shall not harm thee, Through flame that back to life shall charm thee, Shall warm thy body all a-cold, And make grim Death loose clammy hold. Ho, Robin-a-Green, Ho, Robin-a-Green, Leap back to life by all men seen!"

Through curling smoke-wreaths and through writhing flame, With mighty bound, bold Robin leaping came, And by the Witch did in the fire-light stand, Sword by his side and bugle-horn in hand, And laughed full blithe as he was wont to do, And, joyous, hailed his wild and ragged crew:

"What lads, are ye there forsooth? Is't Myles I see with lusty Watt and John and Hal o' the Quarterstaff? God den t' ye, friends, and merry hunting to one and all, for by oak and ash and thorn here stand I to live with thee, aye, good lads, and to die with ye here in the good greenwood—"

But now and all at once from that grim and silent company a mighty shout went up:

"'Tis Robin—'tis Robin, 'tis bold Robin-a-Green! 'Tis our Robin himself come back to us!"

And fearful no longer, they hasted to him and clasped him in brawny arms, hugging him mightily and making great rejoicing over him.



FYTTE 9

That tells almost as fully as it should, The joys of living in the good greenwood.

* * * * *

Deep-hidden in the trackless wild the outlaws had made them a haven of refuge, a camp remote and well sequestered. Here were mossy, fern-clad rocks that soared aloft, and here green lawns where ran a blithesome brook; it was indeed a very pleasant place shut in by mighty trees. Within this leafy boskage stood huts of wattle, cunningly wrought; beneath the steep were many caves carpeted with dried fern and fragrant mosses, while everywhere, above and around, the trees spread mighty boughs, through which the sun darted golden beams be-dappling the sward, and in whose leafy mysteries the birds made joyous carolling.

And here beneath bending willows arched over this merry brook, one sun-bright morning riotous with song of birds, sat Jocelyn with Robin a-sprawl beside him.

"O brother," says Robin, "O brother, 't is a fair place the greenwood, a fair, sweet place to live—aye, or to die in methinks, this good greenwood, whereof I have made a song—hark 'ee!"

"Oho, it is a right good thing When trees do bud and flowers do spring All in the wood, the fair, green wood, To hear the birds so blithely sing, Adown, adown, hey derry down, All in the good, green wood.

"Who cometh here leaves grief behind, Here broken man hath welcome kind, All in the wood, the fair, green wood. The hopeless here new hope may find, Adown, adown, hey derry down, All in the kind, green wood.

"Ho, friend, 'tis pleasant life we lead, No laws have we, no laws we need Here i' the good, green wood. For every man's a man indeed, Adown, adown, hey derry down, Here i' the good, green wood.

"All travellers that come this way Must something in fair tribute pay Unto the wood, the fair, green wood. Or here in bonds is like to stay, Adown, adown, hey derry down, Lost in the good, green wood.

"Full many a lord, in boastful pride, This tribute, scornful, hath denied Unto the wood, the fair, green wood. And thereupon hath sudden died, Adown, adown, hey derry down, All in the fair, green wood.

"And when our time shall come to die Methinks we here may softly lie Deep in the fair, green wood. With birds to sing us lullaby, Adown, adown, hey derry down, All in the good, green wood."

"So there it is, brother—and life and death in a nutshell, as 'twere. Now, wherefore wilt not join us and turn outlaw, good Fool?"

"For that I am a fool belike, Robin. Howbeit, I'm better Fool than outlaw."

"Say, rather, greater fool, Fool, for foresters' life is better than life o' folly, and payeth better to boot, what with booty—ha! Moreover, I do love thee, since, Fool, though fool, art wise in counsel and valiant beyond thought—so 'tis I would not lose thee. Stay, therefore, and live my comrade and brother, equal with me in all things. How say'st thou?"

"Why, Robin, I say this: True friendship is a goodly thing and a rare in this world, and, therefore, to be treasured; 'tis thing no man may buy or seek, since itself is seeker and cometh of itself; 'tis a prop—a staff in stony ways, a shield 'gainst foes, a light i' the dark. So do I love friendship, Robin, and thou'rt my friend, yet must leave thee, though friendship shall abide."

Quoth ROBIN: How abide an we be parted?

"In heart and mind and memory, Robin. Moreover, though I go, yet will I return anon, an life be mine."

"And wherefore go ye, brother?"

"First to seek my comrade."

"Thy comrade—ha! I mind him, a fierce great fellow with hawk's beak and a fighting eye. And whither trend ye?"

"To Canalise."

"Art crazed, brother? 'Tis there death waiteth thee!"

"Yet must I go, Robin, since there my heart waiteth me."

"A maid, brother?"

"A maid, Robin."

"Heigho! So wilt thou go, come joy, come pain, come life or death, since a maid is made to make man saint or devil, some days glad and some days sad, but ever and always a fool. And thou art Fool by profession, and, being lover professed and confessed, art doubly a fool; and since, good Folly, love's but folly and thou, a Fool, art deep in folly, so is thy state most melancholy."

"And dost think love so great folly, Robin?" said a soft voice, and, looking round, they beheld the lovely, dark-tressed Melissa, who viewed them bright-eyed and pouted red mouth, frowning a little.

"Aye, verily, lady," laughed Robin, as she sank on the grass beside them. "Forsooth, 'tis a madness fond. For see, now, a man being in love is out of all else."

"As how, Sir Outlaw?"

"Marry, on this wise—when man's in love he mopeth apart and is ill company, so is he out o' friends; he hangeth humble head abashed, so is he out o' countenance; he uttereth frequent, windy, sighful suspirations, so is he out o' breath; he lavisheth lucre on his love, so is he out o' pocket; he forsweareth food, despiseth drink, scorneth sleep, so is he out o' health—in fine, he is out of all things, so is he out of himself; therefore he is mad, and so may go hang himself!"