MELISSA: And hast thou loved, Robin?

ROBIN: Ever and always, and none but Robin!

MELISSA: And none more worthy, Robin?

ROBIN: And none more, as I am worthy Robin.

MELISSA: Lovest thou not Love, Robin?

ROBIN: Love, love not I.

MELISSA: Then Love canst thou know not.

ROBIN: Then if I love Love for Love's sake, must Love then love me, therefore?

MELISSA: If thy love for Love be true love, so shall Love love thee true.

ROBIN: Then if Love should love me for my sake, then would I love Love for Love's sake; but since Love ne'er hath sought me for my sake, ne'er will I seek Love for Love's sake for my sake, since Love, though plaguy sweet, is a sweet plague, I judge and, so judging, will by my judgment stand.

MELISBA: And how think you, Sir Fool?

JOCELYN: I think if Love find Robin and Robin, so found of Love, shall learn to love Love for Love's sake, Love shall teach Robin how, hi loving Love—Love, if a plague, doth but plague him lovingly to his better judgment of Love, till, being on this wise, wise—he shall judge of Love lovingly, loving Love at last for Love's own lovely sake, rather than for his own selfish self. For as there is the passion of love, the which is a love selfish, so there is the true Spirit of Love, the which forgetteth self in Love's self, thus, self-forgotten, Love is crowned by Love's true self.

MELISSA: How think ye of this, Robin?

ROBIN: By Cupid, we are so deep in love that we are like to drown of love and we be not wary. Here hath my lovely jowlopped-crested brother so beset poor Robin with Love and self and Robin, that Robin kens not which is Love, Love's self or himself.

MELISSA: And yet I do think 'tis very plain! Yet an thou canst express this plainer, prithee do, Sir Fool.

"Blithely, sweet lady, here will I frame my meaning in a rhyme, thus:

"Who loveth Love himself above, With Love base self transcending Love, Love shall teach how Love may reach The Love that hath no ending.

"'Tis thus Love-true, Love shall renew, Love's love thus waning never, So love each morn of Love new-born, Love shall live loving ever."

ROBIN: Aye, verily, there's Love and yet such a love as no man may find methinks, brother.

JOCELYN: Never, Robin, until it find him. For true love, like friendship, cometh unsought, like all other good things.

ROBIN: 'Las! then needs must I be no good thing since I am sought e'en now of old Mopsa the Witch yonder!

And he pointed where the old creature hobbled towards them bent on her crooked staff. Up rose Robin and, hasting to meet her, louted full low, since she was held in great respect of all men by reason of her potent spells. Chuckling evilly, she drew down Robin's tall head to whisper in his ear, whereupon he laughed, clapped hand to brawny thigh, and taking old Mopsa's feeble arm, hastened away with her. But Melissa, reclining 'neath the willow-shade, gazed down into the murmurous waters of the brook with eyes of dream whiles Jocelyn struck soft, sweet chords upon his lute. And presently she turned to view him thoughtfully—his strange, marred face; his eyes so quick and keen 'neath battered cock's-comb; his high, proud bearing despite his frayed and motley habit; and ever her wonder grew until, at last, she must needs question him:

"Fools, Sir Fool, have I seen a-many, both in the motley and out, but thou art rare among all fools, I do think."

JOCELYN: Gramercy, lady! Truly fool am I of all fools singular.

MELISSA: Thou'rt he I heard, upon a day, sing strange, sweet songs, within the marketplace of Canalise!

JOCELYN: The same, lady.

MELISSA: That soused my lord Gui head over ears in a lily-pool?

JOCELYN: Verily, lady.

MELISSA: O! Would one might do as much for Sir Agramore of Biename!

JOCELYN: One doubtless will, lady.

MELISSA: Thyself?

JOCELYN: Nay—one that loveth the disputatious bickering of sharp steel better than I—one had rather fight than eat, and rather fight three men than one—

"Three men?" cried Melissa, starting.

"Aye, lady—and six men than three!"

"There was such an one, Fool, in truth a very brave man, did fight three of my Lord Agramore's foresters on my behalf. Dost know of such an one, Fool?"

"Methinks he is my comrade, Lady."

"Thy comrade—in truth? Then, pray you, speak me what seeming hath he."

"Ill, lady."

"How so, Fool?"

"A great, fierce rogue is he, unlovely of look, bleak of eye, harsh of tongue, hooked of nose, flinty of soul, stony of heart, of aspect grim and manners rude!"

"Then, verily, thy comrade have I never seen!" quoth Melissa, flushing and with head up-flung. "He that saved me is nothing the like of this."

"And yet," said Jocelyn slyly, "'tis thus he hath been named ere now!"

"Nay, Fool, indeed he that saved me was tall and seemly man, very fierce and strong in fight, but to me wondrous gentle—in truth, something timorous, and, 'spite rusty mail, spake and looked like a noble knight."

"Then forsooth, lady, thy champion is no comrade of mine, for he is but a poor rogue, ill-beseen, ill-kempt, ill-spoken, ill-mannered and altogether ill, save only that he is my friend—"

"And thou speakest ill of thy ill friend, the which is ill in thee—ill Fool!" and the fair Melissa rose.

"And pray, lady, didst learn thy preserver's name?"

"Indeed, for I asked him."

"And it was—?"

"Pertinax!" she sighed.

"Pertinax!" said Jocelyn, both in the same moment; the dark-browed Melissa sat down again.

"So thy comrade and—he are one, Fool?"

"Indeed, lady. Yet here we have him, on the one hand, a man noble and seemly, and, on the other, a poor rogue, hook-nosed, ill-beseen, ill—"

"'Tis thou hast miscalled him, Fool!" said she, frowning.

"Not I, lady."

"Who, then?"

"A maid—"

"Ah!" said Melissa, frowning blacker than ever. "A maid, Fool? What maid?"

"A wandering gipsy o' the wood, lady—a dark-eyed damsel with long, black curling hair and 'voice of sweet allure'—'tis so he named her—"

"This was belike some wicked witch!" said Melissa, clenching white fist.

"Aye, belike it was, lady, for she bestowed on him a strange jewel, a heart in heart of crystal, that wrought for us in Canalise marvels great as our wondrous Witch herself."

Now here the lovely Melissa's frown vanished, and her red lips curved to sudden smile.

"Belike this was no witch after all!" said she gently.

"Howbeit, lady," quoth Jocelyn slyly, "my poor comrade is surely bewitched by her none the less. She hath wrought on him spell so potent that he groweth mopish and talketh of her eyes, her hair, her sweet and gentle voice, her little foot, forsooth."

"And doth he so, indeed?" said Melissa softly, and, twiddling one of her own pretty feet, she smiled at it. "Doth he sigh o'er much?" she questioned.

"Consumedly! By the minute!"

"Poor soldier!" she murmured.

"Aye, poor rogue!" said Jocelyn; whereupon she frowned again, and turned her back upon him.

"And he is thy comrade."

"Even so—poor knave!"

"And destitute—even as thou?"

"Aye, a sorry clapper-claw—even as I, lady."

"Then, pray thee, why doth he wear gold chain about his neck?"

"Chain, lady—?"

"Such as only knights do wear!"

"Belike he stole it, lady—"

"Aye—belike he did!" said she, rising; then she sighed and laughed, and so turned and left him.

And in a while Jocelyn rose also, and went on beside the brook; but as he walked deep in thought, there met him Robin, he full of mirth and laughter.

"Oho, brother, good brother!" cried he joyfully, clapping hand on Jocelyn's broad shoulder, "come away, now, and see what the good wind hath blown hither—come thy ways and see!"

So came they where rose a great tree of huge girth, whose gnarled branches spread far and wide, a veryforest of leaves, beneath whose shade were many of the outlaws grouped about one who crouched miserably on his knees, his arms fast bound and a halter about his neck; and, as obedient to Robin's words the fierce company fell back, Jocelyn saw this torn and pallid captive was none other than Ranulph the Hangman.

"Woe's me, my masters!" quoth he 'twixt chattering teeth. "'Tis pity poor Ranulph must die before his time, for ne'er shall be found hangman, headsman or torturer the like o' Ranulph—so dainty i' the nice adjustment o' noose! So clean and delicate wi' the axe! So tender and thoughtful wi' pincers, thumbscrew, rack or red-hot iron! A hangman so kindly o' soul, so merry o' heart, alack, so free, so gay, so merry—forsooth a very wanton, waggish, jovial bawcock-lad—"

"Why, then, good, merry wag," laughed Robin, "now shalt thou cut us an antic aloft in air, shalt caper and dance in noose to our joyance! Up with him, bully lads, and gently, that he may dance the longer!"

But as Ranulph was dragged, shivering, to his feet, Jocelyn stepped forward.

"Stay!" he cried. "Look, now, here's hangman did but hang since hang he must; must he hang therefore?"

ROBIN: Aye, marry, since hanging shall his hanging end!

JOCELYN: But if to hang his duty is, must he for duty hang? Moreover, if ye hang this hangman, unhanged hangmen shall hang still, and since ye may not all hangmen hang, wherefore should this hangman hang?

ROBIN: Brother, an this hangman hang, fewer hangmen shall there be to hang, forsooth.

JOCELYN: Not so, Robin, for hangman dead begetteth hangman new; this hangman hanged, hangman in his place shall hang men after him. Shall this hangman hang for hanging as in duty bound, whiles other hangmen, unhanged, hang still? Here, methinks, is small wisdom, little reason, and less of justice, Robin.

ROBIN: Beshrew me, brother—but here's so much of hanging hanging on hanging plaguy hangman that hang me if I get the hang on't—

JOCELYN: Plainly, Robin—wilt hang a man for doing his duty?

ROBIN: Plainly, brother—no. But—

JOCELYN: Then canst not hang this hangman, since hanging his duty is—

ROBIN: Yet 'tis base, vile duty—

JOCELYN: Yet duty it is—wherefore, an there be any justice in the good greenwood, this hangman unhanged must go.

Now here Robin scowled, and his brawny fellows scowled likewise, and began to mutter and murmur against Jocelyn, who, leaning back to tree, strummed his lute and sang:

"O, Life is sweet, but Life is fleet, O'er quick to go, alack! And once 'tis spilt, try as thou wilt, Thou canst not call it back!

"So bethink thee, bold Robin, and, as thou 'rt king o' the wild-wood, be thou just king and merciful—"

"Now out upon thee, brother!" cried Robin, forgetting to scowl. "Out on thee with thy honied phrases, thy quipsome lilting rhymes! Here go I to do a thing I ha' no lust to do—and all by reason o' thee! Off—off wi' the halter, lads—loose the hangman-claws of him! Hereafter, since he can pay no ransom, he shall be our serf; to have a hangman fetch and carry shall be rare, methinks!"

Quoth JOCELYN: How much should hangman's flesh be worth i' the greenwood, Robin?

"Why, brother, 'tis poor, sad and dismal knave; five gold pieces shall buy him, aye—halter and all, and 'tis fair, good halter, look you!"

"Why, then," said Jocelyn, opening his wallet, "behold the monies, so do I buy him of thee—"

"Now, by Saint Nick!" cried Robin, amazed. "Nay, brother, an thou'lt buy so sorry a thing, give thy money to the merry lads; I'll none on't. And now," said he, the money duly paid, "what wilt do wi' thy hangman?"

"Sir Fool," cried Ranulph, falling on his knees at Jocelyn's feet, "fain would I serve thee—e'en to the peril o' the life thou hast saved. Bid me labour for thee and in labour shall be my joy, bid me fight for thee and I will fight whiles life is in me; bid me follow thee and I will follow even unto—"

"Nay, hangman," said Jocelyn, "I bid thee rise and sing for us, and so be gone wheresoever thou wilt."

Then Ranulph arose and glancing round upon the fierce company, from the noose at his feet to Jocelyn's scarred face, he drew a great breath; quoth he:

"Sir Fool, since 'tis thy will fain would I give thee song blithe and joyful since joy is in my heart, but alack, though my songs begin in merry vein they do grow mournful anon; howbeit, for thy joy now will I sing my cheeriest;" whereupon Ranulph brake into song thus:

"I am forsooth a merry soul, Hey deny down, ho ho! I love a merry song to troll, I love to quaff a cheery bowl, And yet thinks I, alas! Such things too soon do pass, And proudest flesh is grass. Alack-a-day and woe, Alack it should be so!

"A goodly lover I might be, Merrily, ho ho! But pretty maids in terror flee, When this my hangman's head they see. But woe it is, thinks I, All fair, sweet dames must die, And pale, sad corpses lie. Alack-a-day and woe, Alack it should be so!

"Fairest beauty is but dust, Shining armour soon will rust, All good things soon perish must, Look around, thinks I, and see All that, one day, dead must be, King and slave and you and me. Alack-a-day and woe, Alack it must be so!"

"Out!" cried Robin. "Here forsooth is dolorous doleful dirge—out on thee for sad and sorry snuffler!"

"Aye, verily," sighed Ranulph, "'tis my curse. I begin with laugh and end in groan. I did mean this for merry song, yet it turned of itself sad song despite poor I, and there's the pity on't—"

"Enough!" growled Robin, "away with him. Brand, do you hoodwink him in his 'kerchief and give him safe conduct to beyond the ford, and so set Master Hangman Grimglum-grief on his road—"

"Sir Fool," cried Ranulph, "God den t'ye and gramercy. Should it be e'er thy fate to die o' the gallows, may I have thy despatching—I will contrive it so sweetly shalt know nought of it—oho! 'twould be my joy."

"Off!" cried Robin. "Off, thou pestiferous fungus lest I tread on thee—hence, away!"

So the outlaws blindfolded Ranulph and led him off at speed.

"Away," quoth Jocelyn, nodding, "so now in faith must I, Robin—"

"What, is't indeed farewell, brother?"

"Aye, Robin."

"Why, then, what may I give thee in way o' love and friendship?"

"Thy hand."

"Behold it, brother! And what beside? Here is purse o' good pieces—ha?"

"Nay, Robin, prithee keep them for those whose need is greater."

"Can I nought bestow—dost lack for nothing, brother?"

"What thou, methinks, may not supply—"

"And that?"

"Horse and armour!" Now at this, Robin laughed and clapped hand to thigh; quoth he:

"Come with Robin, brother!" So he brought Jocelyn into a cave beneath the steep and, lighting a torch from fire that burned there, led him on through other caves and winding passages rough-hewn in the rock, and so at last to a vasty cavern.

And here was great store of merchandise of every sort,—velvets, silks, and rich carpets from the Orient; vases of gold and silver, and coffers strong-clamped with many iron bands. And here also, hanging against the rocky walls, were many and divers suits of armour with helms and shields set up in gallant array; beholding all of which Jocelyn paused to eye merry Robin askance; quoth he soberly:

"Sir Rogue, how came ye by all this goodly furniture?"

"By purest chance, brolher," laughed Robin, "for hark 'ee—

"Chance is a wind to outlaws kind, And many fair things blows us, It—merchants, priors, lords, knights and squires, And like good things bestows us—"

"Aye," said Jocelyn, "but what of all those knights and squires whose armour hangeth here?"

"Here or there, brother, they come and they go. Ha, yonder soundeth Ralfwyn's horn—three blasts which do signify some right fair windfall. Come, let us see what this jolly wind hath blown us this time!" So saying, Robin laughed and led the way out into the sunny green. And here, surrounded by a ring of merry forest rogues, they beheld a knight right gallantly mounted and equipped, his armour blazing in the sun, his gaudy bannerole a-flutter from long lance, his shield gaudy and brave with new paint; beholding which, Robin chuckled gleefully; quoth he:

"Oho! On a field vert three falcons gules, proper, charged with heart ensanguined—aha, here's good booty, methinks!"

Now, as this splendid knight rode nearer, contemptuous of his brawny captors, Robin stared to see that on his helmet he wore a wreath of flowers, while lance and sword, mace and battle-axe were wreathed in blooming roses.

"Ho, Jenkyn, Cuthbert!" cried Robin, "what Sir Daintiness have ye here?" But ere his grinning captors could make reply, the knight himself spake thus:

"Behold a very gentle knight, Sir Palamon of Tong, A gentle knight in sorry plight, That loveth love and hateth fight, A knight than fight had rather write, And strophes to fair dames indite, Or sing a sighful song.

"By divers braggarts I'm abused, 'Tis so as I've heard tell, Because, since I'm to fight unused, I many a fight have bold refused, And, thereby, saved my bones unbruised, Which pleaseth me right well.

"No joy have I in steed that prances, True gentle man am I To tread to lutes slow, stately dances. 'Stead of your brutish swords and lances, I love love's lureful looks and glances, When hand to hand, unseen, advances, And eye caresseth eye."

"And how a plague, Sir Gentleness," questioned Robin, "may eye caress eye?"

"E'en as lips voiceless may wooing speak, Sir Roguery, and tongue unwagging tell tales o' love, Sir Ferocity."

ROBIN: Then had I the trick o' voiceless speech, now would I, with silly tongue, tell thee thou art our prisoner to ransom, Sir Silken Softness.

SIR PALAMON: And I joy therefore, Sir Forest Fiend.

ROBIN: And wherefore therefore?

SIR PALAMON: For that therefore I need not to the joust, to that bone-shattering sport of boastful, brutal braggadocios, but here, lapped soft in the gentle green, woo the fair Yolande—

JOCELYN: How, knight, the fair lady Yolande, say'st thou?

SIR PALAMON: Even she.

JOCELYN: But here she is not and thou art, how then may one that is, woo one is not?

SIR PALAMON: Gross mountebank, by thought—I woo in thought, breathe my thought upon the balmy air and air beareth it to her feet.

ROBIN: And she treadeth on't, so there's an end o' thy love! But pray you, Sir Downy Daintiness, how come ye that are so gentle so ungently dight? Discourse, Sir Dove!

SIR PALAMON: In two words then, thou lewd lurcher o' the thickets; I ride thus in steely panoply—the which doth irk me sore—by reason of the tongue of my mother (good soul!) the which doth irk me more. For she (worthy lady!) full-fed o' fatuous fantasies and fables fond, fuddled i' faith o' faddling fictions as—gestes of jongleurs, tales told by tramping troubadours, ballades of babbling braggarts, romances of roysterous rhymers, she (good gossip!) as I say, having hearkened to and perused the works of such-like pelting, paltry prosers and poets wherein sweep of sword and lunge o' lance is accompted of worthier repute than the penning of dainty distich and pretty poesies pleasingly passionate. She, I say—my mother (God rest her!), e'en she with tongue most harsh, most bitter and most unwearying, hath enforced me, her son (whom Venus bless!)—e'en I that am soul most transcendental—I that am a very wing-ed Mercury—me, I say she hath, by torrential tongueful tumult (gentle lady!), constrained to don the habit of a base, brawling, beefy and most material Mars! Wherefore at my mother's behest (gracious dame!) I ride nothing joyful to be bruised and battered by any base, brutal braggart that hath the mind to try a tilt with me. Moreover—

ROBIN: Hold! Take breath, gentle sir, for thine own sweet sake draw thy wind.

SIR PALAMON: 'Tis done, fellow, 'tis done! And now in three words will I—

ROBIN: Cry ye mercy, sir, thy two words do yet halloo "Buzz-buzz" in mine ears.

SIR PALAMON: Faith, robber-rogue, since I a tongue possess—

ROBIN: Therein thou art very son o' thy mother (whom St. Anthony cherish!).

SIR PALAMON: With this rare difference, outlaw—for whereas her tongue (honoured relict!) is tipped with gall, wormwood, henbane, hemlock, bitter-aloes and verjuice, and stingeth like the adder, the asp, the toad, the newt, the wasp, and snaky-haired head of Medusa, mine—

ROBIN: Buzzeth, buzz, O buzz!

SIR PALAMON: Mine, thou paltry knave, I say mine—

ROBIN: Buzz—ha—buzz!

JOCELYN: I pray you, Sir Knight, doth the Red Gui tilt at to-morrow's joust?

SIR PALAMON: Base mime, he doth! My Lord Gui of Ells, Lord Seneschal of Raddemore, is myfriend, a very mirror of knightly prowess, the sure might of whose lance none may abide. He is, in very truth, the doughtiest champion in all this fair country, matchless at any and every weapon, a- horse or a-foot, in sooth a very Ajax, Achilles, Hector, Roland and Oliver together and at once, one and indivisible, aye—by Cupid a very paladin!

"'Tis so I've heard," said Jocelyn thoughtfully.

SIR PALAMON: Two knights only there are might cope with him, and one Sir Agramore and one Jocelyn of the Helm, Duke of Brocelaunde. The fame of which last rumour hath so puffed up that thrice my Lord Gui hath sent his cartel of defiance, but the said Duke, intent on paltry battles beyond his marches, hath thrice refused, and wisely—so 'tis said.

"Aye me, messire," quoth Jocelyn, strumming his lute, "and so bloweth the wind. Yet mayhap these twain shall meet one day."

ROBIN: And heaven send me there to see! Now as to thee, Sir Softly Sweet, fair Lord of Tong, thy goodly horse and armour are mine henceforth, first because thy need of them is nothing, secondly because thou art my prisoner—

SIR PALAMON: And thirdly, Sir Riotous Roughness, I do freely on thee bestow them, hide and hair, bolt and rivet.

ROBIN: Now as to thy ransom, Sir Mildly-Meek, at what price dost rate thy value, spiritual and corporeal?

SIR PALAMON: Fellow, though youthful, well-favoured and poet esteemed, I am yet marvellous modest! 'Tis true I am knight of lineage lofty, of patrimony proud, of manors many—

ROBIN: Even as of thy words, Sir Emptiness.

SIR PALAMON: 'Tis also true, thou ignorant atomy, I, like Demosthenes, am blessed with a wonder o' words and glory o' sweet phrase, and yet, and here's the enduring wonder—I am still but man, though man blessed with so much profundity, fecundity, and redundity of thought and expression, and therefore a facile scribe or speaker, able to create, relate, formulate or postulate any truth, axiomatic, sophistry subtle, or, in other words, I can narrate—

ROBIN: Verily Sir Windbag thou dost, to narrate, thyself with wind inflate, and, being thus thyself inflate of air, thou dost thyself deflate of airy sounds which be words o' wind, and windy words is emptiness—thus by thy inflatings and deflatings cometh nought but wind bred o' wind, and nought is nothing, so nought is thy relation or narration; whereof make now a cessation, so will I, in due form, formulate, postulate and deliberate. Thus, with my good rogues' approbation and acclamation, I will of thy just valuation make tabulation, and give demonstration in relation to thy liberation from this thy situation, as namely, viz. and to-wit: First thou art a poet; in this is thy marketable value to us nought, for poets do go empty of aught but thought of sort when wrought, unbought; thus go they short which doth import they're empty, purse and belly. Second, upon thy testimony thou'rt a man. Go to! Here we be out again, for on the score of manliness thou art not. Yet thou art flesh and blood— good! for here we deal in such. Not that we yearn for thy flesh and blood, but, being thine, they are to thee dear, perchance, and thou would'st fain keep them alive a little longer; wherefore thou shalt for thy loved flesh and blood pay—purchasing the same of us. And, as flesh varies, so do our prices vary; we do sell a man his own flesh and blood at certain rateable values. Thus unto a hangman we did of late sell a hangman, in fair good halter, and he a hangman brawny, for no more than five gold pieces, the which was cheap, methinks, considering the goodly halter, and he a lusty, manly rogue to boot. Now as for thee, thou'rt soft and of a manlihood indifferent, so would I rate thee at one gold piece.

SIR PALAMON: Ignorant grub! Am I less than base hangman—I, a knight—

ROBIN: True, Sir Knight, thou'rt a knight for no reason but that thou art knight born and thus, by nought but being born, hath won to thyself nobility, riches and honours such as no man may win either by courage, skill, or learning, since highborn fool and noble rogue do rank high 'bove such. So thou art knight, Sir Knight, and for thy knighthood, thy lineage lofty, thy manors many, mulcted thou shalt be in noble fashion. For thy manhood I assess thee at one gold piece, but, since thou'rt son o' thy dam (whom the Saints pity!) we do fine thee five thousand gold pieces—thy body ours until the purchase made. Away with him, lads; cherish him kindly, unarm him gently, and set him a-grinding corn till his ransom be paid—away!

Now here was mighty roar of laughter and acclaim from all who heard, only Sir Palamon scowled, and, for once mute and tongue-tied, was led incontinent away to his labours.

"And now, brother," quoth Robin, turning where Jocelyn stood smiling and merry-eyed, "what o' this armour dost seek, and wherefore?"

"Art a lovely robber, Robin," said he; "a very various rogue, yet no rogue born, methinks!"

"I was not always outlaw, brother—howbeit, what would a Fool with horse and knightly arms?"

Now Jocelyn, bending close, whispered somewhatin Robin's ear, whereon he clapped hand to thigh, and laughed and laughed until the air rang again.

"Oho, a jape—a jape indeed!" he roared. "O lovely brother, to see proud knight unhorsed by prancing motley Fool! Hey, how my heart doth jump for gladness! An thou wilt a-tilting ride, I will squire thee—a Fool of a knight tended by Rogue of a squire. O, rare—aha! oho! Come thy ways, sweet brother, and let us set about this joyous jape forthwith!"

And thus it was that, as evening fell, there rode, through bowery bracken and grassy glade, two horsemen full blithe and merry, and the setting sun flashed back in glory from their glittering armour.



FYTTE 10

How Red Gui sore smitten was in fight By motley Fool in borrowed armour dight.

* * * * *

Now shrill tucket and clarion, trumpet and horn With their cheery summons saluted the morn, Where the sun, in his splendour but newly put on, Still more splendid made pennon and brave gonfalon That with banners and pennoncelles fluttered and flew High o'er tent and pavilion of every hue. For the lists were placed here, for the tournament set, Where already a bustling concourse was met; Here were poor folk and rich folk, lord, lady and squire, Clad in leather, in cloth and in silken attire; Here folk pushed and folk jostled, as people still do When the sitters be many, the seats scant and few; Here was babble of voices and merry uproar, For while some folk laughed loud, some lost tempers and swore. Until on a sudden this tumult and riot Was hushed to a murmur that sank into quiet As forth into the lists, stern of air, grave of face, Five fine heralds, with tabard and trumpet, did pace With their Lion-at-arms, or Chief Herald, before; And a look most portentous this Chief Herald wore, And, though portly his shape and a little too round, Sure a haughtier Chief Herald could nowhere be found. So aloof was his look and so grave his demeanour, Humble folk grew abashed, and mean folk felt the meaner; When once more the loud clarions had all echoes woke This Chief Herald in voice deep and sonorous spoke:

"Good people all, Both great and small, Oyez! Ye noble dames of high degree Your pretty ears now lend to me, And much I will declare to ye. Oyez! Oyez! Ye dainty lords of might and fame, Ye potent gentles, do the same, Ye puissant peers of noble name, Now unto ye I do proclaim: Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"

Here pealed the trumpets, ringing loud and clear, That deafened folk who chanced to stand too near. In special one—a bent and hag-like dame, Who bent o'er crooked staff as she were lame; Her long, sharp nose—but no, her nose none saw, Since it was hidden 'neath the hood she wore But from this hood she watched with glittering eye Four lusty men-at-arms who lolled hard by, Who, 'bove their armour, bore on back and breast A bloody hand—Lord Gui's well-hated crest, And who, unwitting of the hooded hag, On sundry matters let their lewd tongues wag:

THE FIRST SOLDIER: Why, she scorned him, 'tis well beknown!

THE SECOND SOLDIER: Aye, and it doth not do to scorn the Red Gui, look 'ee!

THE THIBD SOLDIER: She'll lie snug in his arms yet, her pride humbled, her proud spirit broke, I'll warrant me!

THE FOURTH SOLDIER: She rideth hence in her litter, d'ye see; and with but scant few light-armed knaves attendant.

THE FIRST SOLDIER: Aye, and our signal my lord's hunting-horn thrice winded—

Thus did they talk, with laughter loud and deep, While nearer yet the hooded hag did creep; But:— Now blew the brazen clarions might and main, Which done, the portly Herald spake again:

"Good people, all ye lords and ladies fair, Oyez! Now unto ye forthwith I do declare The charms of two fair dames beyond compare. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! The first, our Duchess—Benedicta hight, That late from Tissingors, her town, took flight, To-day, returning here, doth bless our sight, And view the prowess of each valiant knight; Each champ-i-on, in shining armour dight, With blunted weapons gallantly shall fight. And, watched by eyes of ladies beamy-bright, Inspired and strengthened by this sweet eye-light, Shall quit themselves with very main and might; The second:—in her beauty Beauty's peer, Yolande the Fair, unto our Duchess dear, For whose sweet charms hath splintered many a spear, Throned with our lovely Duchess, sitteth here With her bright charms all gallant hearts to cheer. Now, ye brave knights, that nought but Cupid fear, To these sweet dames give eye, to me give ear! Oyez! 'Tis now declared—"

My daughter GILLIAN expostulateth:

GILL: O, father, now You must allow That your herald is rather a bore. He talks such a lot, And it seems frightful rot—

MYSELF: I hate slang, miss! I told you before! If my herald says much, Yet he only says such As by heralds was said in those days; Though their trumpets they blew, It is none the less true That they blew them in other folks' praise. If my herald verbose is And gives us large doses Of high-sounding rodomontade, You'll find they spoke so In the long, long ago, So blame not—O, blame not the bard. But while we are prating Our herald stands waiting In a perfectly terrible fume, So, my dear, here and now, The poor chap we'll allow His long-winded speech to resume:

"'Tis here declared by order of the Ten, Fair Benedicta's guardians—worthy men! Thus they decree—ye lovers all rejoice! She shall by their command, this day make choice Of him—O, him! O blest, thrice blessed he Who must anon her lord and husband be. 'Tis so pronounced by her grave guardians ten, By them made law—and they right reverend men! And this the law—our lady, be it said, This day shall choose the husband she must wed; And he who wins our Duchess for his own Crowned by her love shall mount to ducal throne, So let each knight, by valiant prowess, prove Himself most worthy to our lady's love. Now make I here an end, and ending, pray Ye quit you all like val'rous knights this day."

Thus spake the Chief Herald and so paced solemnly down the lists while the long clarions filled the air with gallant music. But the lovely Benedicta, throned beneath silken canopy, knit her black brows and clenched slender hands and stamped dainty foot, yet laughed thereafter, whereupon Yolande, leaning to kiss her flushed cheek, questioned her, wondering:

"How say'st thou to this, my loved Benedicta?"

Quoth the DUCHESS:

"I say, my sweeting, 'tis quite plain That I must run away again!

Howbeit I care not one rush for their laws! Marry forsooth—a fig! Let them make laws an they will, these reverend, right troublesome grey-beards of mine, they shall never wed me but to such a man as Love shall choose me, and loving him—him only will I wed, be he great or lowly, rich or poor, worthy or unworthy, so I do love him, as is the sweet and wondrous way of love."

"Ah, Benedicta! what is love?"

"A joy that cometh but of itself, all unsought! This wisdom had I of a Fool i' the forest. Go learn you of this same Fool and sigh not, dear wench."

"Nay, but," sighed Yolande, lovely cheeks a-flush, "what of Sir Agramore—hath he not sworn to wed thee?"

"I do fear Sir Agramore no longer, Yolande, since I have found me one may cope with him perchance—even as did a Fool with my Lord Gui of Ells upon a tune. Art sighing again, sweet maid?"

"Nay, indeed—and wherefore should I sigh?"

"At mention of a Fool, belike."

"Ah, no, no, 'twere shame in me, Benedicta! A Fool forsooth!"

"Yet Fool of all fools singular, Yolande. And for all his motley a very man, methinks, and of a proud, high bearing."

Here Yolande's soft cheek grew rosy again:

"Yet is he but motley Fool—and his face—marred hatefully—"

"Hast seen him smile, Yolande, for then—how, dost sigh again, my sweet?"

"Nay, indeed; but talk we of other matters—thy so sudden flight—tell me all that chanced thee, dearest Benedicta."

"Why first—in thine ear, Yolande—my jewel is not—see!"

"How—how, alas! O most sweet lady—hast lost it? Thy royal amulet?"

"Bestowed it, Yolande."

"Benedicta! On whom?"

"A poor soldier. One that saved me i' the forest from many of Sir Agramore's verderers—a man very tall and strong and brave, but dight in ragged cloak and rusty mail—"

"Ragged? A thief—"

"Mayhap!"

"An outlaw—"

"Mayhap!"

"A wolf's-head—a wild man and fierce."

"True he is very wild and very fierce, but very, very gentle—"

"And didst give to such thy jewel? O Benedicta! The Heart-in-heart?"

"Freely—gladly! He begged it of me very humbly and all unknowing what it signified—"

"O my loved Benedicta, alas!"

"O my sweet Yolande, joy!"

"But if he should claim thee, and he so poor and wild and ragged—"

"If he should, Yolande, if he should—

'He that taketh Heart-in-heart, Taketh all and every part.'

O, if he should, Yolande, then I—must fulfil the prophecy. Nay, dear my friend, stare not so great and sadly-eyed, he knoweth not the virtue of the jewel nor have I seen him these many days."

"And must thou sigh therefore, Benedicta?"

But now the trumpets blew a fanfare, and forth rode divers gallant knights, who, spurring rearing steeds, charged amain to gore, to smite and batter each other with right good will while the concourse shouted, caps waved and scarves and ribands fluttered.

But here, methinks, it booteth not to tell Of every fierce encounter that befell; How knight 'gainst knight drove fierce with pointless spear And met with shock that echoed far and near; Or how, though they with blunted swords did smite, Sore battered was full many a luckless wight. But as the day advanced and sun rose high Full often rose the shout: "A Gui—A Gui!" For many a proud (though bruised and breathless) lord, Red Gui's tough lance smote reeling on the sward; And ever as these plaudits shook the air, Through vizored casque at Yolande he would stare.

And beholding all the beauty of her he smiled evilly and muttered to himself, glancing from her to certain lusty men-at-arms who, lolling 'gainst the barriers, bore at back and breast his badge of the bloody hand.

But the fair Yolande heeded him none at all, sitting with eyes a-dream and sighing ever and anon; insomuch that the Duchess, watching her slyly, sighed amain also and presently spake:

"Indeed, and O verily, Yolande, meseemeth we do sigh and for ever sigh, thou and I, like two poor, love-sick maids. How think'st thou?"

"Nay, O Benedicta, hearken! See, who rideth yonder?"

Now even as thus fair Yolanda spoke, A horn's shrill note on all men's hearing broke, And all eyes turned where rode a gallant knight, In burnished armour sumptuously bedight. His scarlet plumes 'bove gleaming helm a-dance, His bannerole a-flutter from long lance, His gaudy shield with new-popped blazon glowed: Three stooping falcons that on field vert showed; But close-shut vizor hid from all his face As thus he rode at easy, ambling pace.

"Now as I live!" cried Benedicta. "By his device yon should be that foolish knight Sir Palamon of Tong!"

"Aye, truly!" sighed Yolande. "Though he wear no motley hither rideth indeed a very fool. And look, Benedicta—look! O, sure never rode knight in like array—see how the very populace groweth dumb in its amaze!"

For now the crowd in wonderment grew mute, To see this knight before him bare a lute, While blooming roses his great helmet crowned, They wreathed his sword, his mighty lance around. Thus decked rode he in rosy pageantry, And up the lists he ambled leisurely; Till, all at once, from the astonied crowd There brake a hum that swelled to laughter loud; But on he rode, nor seemed to reck or heed, Till 'neath the balcony he checked his steed. Then, handing lance unto his tall esquire, He sudden struck sweet chord upon his lyre, And thus, serene, his lute he plucked until The laughter died and all stood hushed and still; Then, hollow in his helm, a clear voice rang, As, through his lowered vizor, thus he sang:

"A gentle knight behold in me, (Unless my blazon lie!) For on my shield behold and see, Upon field vert, gules falcons three, Surcharged with heart ensanguiney, To prove to one and all of ye, A love-lorn knight am I."

But now cometh (and almost in haste) the haughty and right dignified Chief Herald with pursuivants attendant, which latter having trumpeted amain, the Herald challenged thus:

"Messire, by the device upon thy shield, We know my Lord of Tong is in the field; But pray thee now declare, pronounce, expound, Why thus ye ride with foolish roses crowned?"

Whereto the Knight maketh answer forthwith:

"If foolish be these flowers I bear, Then fool am I, I trow. Yet, in my folly, fool doth swear, These flowers to fool an emblem rare Of one, to fool, more sweet, more fair, E'en she that is beyond compare, A flower perchance for fool to wear, Who shall his foolish love declare Till she, mayhap, fool's life may share, Nor shall this fool of love despair, Till foolish hie shall go.

"For life were empty, life were vain, If true love come not nigh, Though honours, fortune, all I gain, Yet poorer I than poor remain, If true-love from me fly; So here I pray, If that thou may, Ah—never pass me by!"

Here the Chief Herald frowned, puffing his cheeks, and waved his ebony staff authoritatively.

Quoth he: "Enough, Sir Knight! Here is no place for love! For inasmuch as we—"

THE KNIGHT: Gentle Herald, I being here, here is Love, since I am lover, therefore love-full, thus where I go goeth Love—

The Herald: Apprehend me, Sir Knight! For whereas love hath no part in—

The Knight: Noble Herald, Love hath every part within me and without, thus I, from Love apart, have no part, and my love no part apart from my every part; wherefore, for my part, and on my part, ne'er will I with Love part for thy part and this to thee do I impart—

"Sweet Saints aid us!" The Chief Herald clasped his massy brow and gazed with eye distraught. "Sir Knight—messire—my very good and noble Lord of Tong—I grope! Here is that which hath a seeming ... thy so many parts portend somewhat ... and yet ... I excogitate ... yet grope I still ... impart, part ... thy part and its part ... so many parts ... and roses ... and songs o' love ... a lute! O, thundering Mars, I ... Sound, trumpets!"

But the Duchess up-starting, silenced Herald and trumpeters with imperious hand.

"Sir Knight of Tong," said she, "'tis told thou'rt of nimble tongue and a maker of songs, so we bid thee sing if thy song be of Love—for Love is a thing little known and seldom understood these days. Here be very many noble knights wondrous learned in the smiting of buffets, but little else; here be noble dames very apt at the play of eyes, the twining of fingers, the languishment of sighs, that, seeking True-love, find but its shadow; and here also grey beards that have forgot the very name of Love. So we bid thee sing us of Love—True-love, what it is. Our ears attend thee!"

"Gracious lady," answered the Knight, "gladly do I obey. But Love is mighty and I lowly, and may speak of Love but from mine own humility. And though much might be said of Love since Love's empire is the universe and Love immortal, yet will I strive to portray this mighty thing that is True-love in few, poor words."

Then, plucking sweet melody from his lute, the Knight sang as here followeth:

"What is Love? 'Tis this, I say, Flower that springeth in a day Ne'er to die or fade away Since True-love dieth never.

"Though youth, alas! too soon shall wane, Though friend prove false and effort vain, True-love all changeless doth remain The same to-day and ever."

Now while the clarions rang out proclaiming Sir Palamon's defiance, Benedicta looked on Yolande and Yolande on Benedicta:

"O, wonderful!" cried the Duchess. "My Lord of Tong hath found him manhood and therewith a wisdom beyond most and singeth such love as methought only angels knew and maids might vision in their dreams. Ah, Yolande—that such a love could be ... e'en though he went ragged and poor in all but love...."

"Benedicta," sighed Yolande, hands clasped on swelling bosom, "O Benedicta, here is no foolish Lord of Tong ... and yet ... O, I am mad!"

"Why, then, 'tis sweet madness! So, my Yolande, let us be mad awhile together ... thou—a Fool ... and I—a beggar-rogue!"

"Nay—alas, dear Benedicta! This were shame—"

"And forsooth is it shame doth swell thy heart, Yolande, light the glamour in thine eyes and set thee a-tremble—e'en as I? Nay indeed, thou'rt a-thrill with Folly ... and I, with Roguery. Loved Folly! Sweet Roguery! O Yolande, let us fly from empty state, from this mockery of life and learn the sweet joys of ... of beggary, and, crowned with poverty, clasp life—"

MYSELF, myself interrupting: By the way, my dear, you'll understand, Though this is very fine, Still, her Grace's counsel to Yolande Must not be in your line! Not that I'd have you wed for wealth, Or many a beggar-man by stealth, But I would have you, if you can—

GILL: Marry some strong, stern, silent man, Named Mark, and with hair slightly gray by the ears! Now he's just the sort who would bore me to tears. If I for a husband feel ever inclined, I shall choose quite an ordin'ry husband—the kind With plenty of money and nothing to do, With a nice, comfy house, and a motor or two—

MYSELF: That's all very fine, miss, but what would you do If he, by some ill-chance, quite penniless grew?

GILL: Oh, why then—why, of course, I should get a divorce—

MYSELF: A divorce? Gracious heaven! For goodness' sake—

GILL: 'Twould be the most dignified action to take!

MYSELF: Pray, what in the world of such things do you know?

GILL: Well, father, like you—each day older I grow. But, instead of discussing poor me, I think you would much nicer be To get on with our Geste.

MYSELF: I obey your behest!

Said Yolande to the duchess, said she:

"Nay, my Benedicta, these be only dreams, but life is real and dreams a very emptiness!"

"And is 't so, forsooth?" exclaimed the Duchess. "Then am I nought but a duchess and lonely, thou a maid fearful of her own heart, and yon singer of love only a very futile knight, Sir Palamon of Tong, nothing esteemed by thee for wit or valour and little by his peers—see how his challengers do throng. How think you?" But the lady Yolande sat very still and silent, only she stared, great-eyed, where danced the scarlet plume.

And indeed many and divers were the knights who, beholding the blazon of Tong, sent the bearer their defiance, eager to cope with him; and each and every challenge Sir Palamon accepted by mouth of his tall esquire who (vizor closed, even as his lord's) spake the Chief Herald in loud, merry voice, thus:

"Sir Herald, whereas and forinasmuch as this, my Lord of Tong himself, himself declaring fool, is so himself-like as to meet in combat each and every of his challengers—themselves ten, my lord that is fool, himself himself so declaring, now declareth by me that am no fool but only humble esquire—messire, I say, doth his esquire require that I, the said esquire, should on his part impart as followeth, namely and to wit: That these ten gentle knights, the said challengers, shall forthwith of themselves choose of themselves, themselves among themselves thereto agreeing, which of themselves, among themselves of themselves so chosen, shall first in combat adventure himself against my Lord of Tong himself. And moreover, should Fortune my lord bless with victory, the nine remaining shall among themselves choose, themselves agreeing, which of themselves shall next, thus chosen of themselves, themselves represent in single combat with this very noble, fool-like Lord of Tong, my master. Furthermore, whereas and notwithstanding—"

"Hold, sir!" cried the Chief Herald, fingering harassed brow. "Pray thee 'bate—O, abate thy speechful fervour. Here forsooth and of truth is notable saying—O, most infallibly—and yet perchance something discursive and mayhap a little involved."

"Nay, Sir Herald," quoth the esquire, "if involved 'twill be resolved if revolved, thus: Here be ten lords would fight one, and one—that is my lord who is but one—ten fight one by one. But that ten, fighting one, may as one fight, let it be agreed that of these ten one be chosen one to fight, so shall one fight one and every one be satisfied—every one of these ten fighting one, one by one. Thus shall ten be one, and one ten fight one by one till one be discomfited. Shall we accord the matter simply, thus?"

"Sir," quoth the Chief Herald, gasping a little, "Amen!"

"O!" cried the Duchess, clapping her hands, "O Yolande, hark to this rare esquire! Surely, I have heard yon cunning tongue ere this?"

But Yolande gazed ever where Sir Palamon, having taken his station, set himself in array. For now, the ten knights having chosen one to represent them, forth rode their champion resplendent in shining mail and green surcoat with heralds before to proclaim his name and rank.

"Yolande," quoth the Duchess softly, "pray—pray this Lord of Tong may tilt as bravely as he doth sing, for Sir Thomas of Thornydyke is a notable jouster."

The trumpets blew a fanfare and, levelling their pointless lances, both knights gave spur, their great horses reared, broke into a gallop and thundered towards each other.

But hard midway upon the green surcoat, Sir Palamon's stout lance so truly smote, That, 'neath the shock, the bold Sir Thomas reeled And, losing stirrups, saddle, lance and shield, Down, down upon the ling outstretched he fell And, losing all, lost breath and speech as well. Thus, silent all, the bold Sir Thomas lay, Though much, and many things, he yearned to say, Which things his squires and pages might surmise From the expression of his fish-like eyes E'en as they bore him from that doleful place; While, near and far, from all the populace, Rose shout on shout that echoed loud and long: "Sir Palamon! Sir Palamon of Tong!" So came these ten good knights, but, one by one, They fell before this bold Sir Palamon, Whose lance unerring smote now helm, now shield, That many an one lay rolling on the field. But each and all themselves did vanquished yield; And loud and louder did the plaudits grow, That one knight should so many overthrow. Even Sir Gui, within his silken tent Scowled black in ever-growing wonderment.

But the Knight of Tong, his gaudy shield a little battered, his fine surcoat frayed and torn, leaped from his wearied steed and forthwith mounted one held by his tall esquire, a mighty charger that tossed proud head and champed his bit, pawing impatient hoof.

"Aha!" quoth the esquire, pointing to ten fair steeds held by ten fair pages. "Oho, good brother, most puissant Knight of Tong, here is good and rich booty—let us begone!"

"Nay," answered the Knight, tossing aside his blunt tilting-spear, "here is an end to sportful dalliance—reach me my lance!"

"Ha, is't now the Red Gui's turn, brother? The Saints aid thee, in especial two, that, being women, are yet no saints yet awhile—see how they watch thee, sweet, gentle dames! Their prayers go with thee, methinks, brother, and mine also, for the Red Gui is forsooth a valiant rogue!"

And now, mounted on the great black war-horse, the Knight of Tong rode up the lists:

His scarlet plume 'bove shining helm a-dance, His bannerole a-flutter from long lance, Till he was come where, plain for all to spy, Was hung the shield and blazon of Sir Gui, With bends and bars in all their painted glory, Surcharged with hand ensanguined—gules or gory.

Full upon this bloody hand smote the sharp point of Sir Palamon's lance; whereupon the watching crowd surged and swayed and hummed expectant, since here was to be no play with blunted weapons but a deadly encounter.

Up started Sir Gui and strode forth of his tent, grim-smiling and confident. Quoth he:

"Ha, my Lord of Tong, thou'rt grown presumptuous and over-venturesome, methinks. But since life thou dost hold so cheap prepare ye for death forthright!"

So spake the Lord of Ells and, beckoning to his esquires, did on his great tilting-helm and rode into the lists, whereon was mighty roar of welcome, for, though much hated, he was esteemed mighty at arms, and the accepted champion of the Duchy. So while the people thundered their acclaim the two knights galloped to their stations and, reining about, faced each other from either end of the lists,

And halted thus, their deadly spears they couched, With helms stooped low, behind their shields they crouched; Now rang the clarions; goading spurs struck deep, The mighty chargers reared with furious leap And, like two whirlwinds, met in full career, To backward reel 'neath shock of splintering spear: But, all unshaken, every eye might see The bloody hand, the scarred gules falcons three. Thrice thus they met, but at the fourth essay, Rose sudden shout of wonder and dismay, For, smitten sore through riven shield, Sir Gui Thudded to earth there motionless to lie.

Thus Sir Gui, Lord of Ells and Seneschal of Raddemore, wounded and utterly discomfited, was borne raging to his pavilion while the air rang with the blare of trumpet and clarion in honour of the victor. Thereafter, since no other knight thought it prudent to challenge him, Sir Palamon of Tong was declared champion of the tournament, and was summoned by the Chief Herald to receive the victor's crown. But even as he rode towards the silk-curtained balcony, a distant trumpet shrilled defiance, and into the lists galloped a solitary knight.

Well-armed was he in proud and war-like trim, Of stature tall and wondrous long of limb; 'Neath red surcoat black was the mail he wore; His glitt'ring shield a rampant leopard bore, Beholding which the crowd cried in acclaim, "Ho for Sir Agramore of Biename!"

But from rosy-red to pale, from pale to rosy-red flushed the Duchess Benedicta, and clenching white teeth, she frowned upon Sir Agramore's fierce and warlike figure. Quoth she:

"Oh, sure there is no man so vile or so unworthy in all Christendom as this vile Lord of Biename!"

"Unless," said Yolande, frowning also, "unless it be my Lord Gui of Ells!"

"True, my Yolanda! Now, as thou dost hate Sir Gui so hate I Sir Agramore, therefore pray we sweet maid, petition we the good Saints our valiant singer shall serve my hated Sir Agramore as he did thy hated Sir Gui—may he be bruised, may he be battered, may—"

"Oho, 'tis done, my sweeting! A-hee—a-hi, 'tis done!" croaked a voice, and starting about, the Duchess beheld a bent and hag-like creature,

With long, sharp nose that showed beneath her hood, A nose that curved as every witch's should, And glittering eye, before whose baleful light, The fair Yolande shrank back in sudden fright.

"Nay, my Yolande," cried the Duchess, "hast forgot old Mopsa, my foster- mother, that, being a wise-woman, fools decry as witch, and my ten grave and learned guardians have banished therefor? Hast forgot my loved and faithful Mopsa that is truly the dearest, gentlest, wisest witch that e'er witched rogue or fool? But O Mopsa, wise mother—would'st thou might plague and bewitch in very truth yon base caitiff knight, Sir Agramore of Biename!"

"'Tis done, loved daughter, 'tis done!" chuckled the Witch.

"He groaneth, He moaneth, He aileth, He waileth, Lying sighing, Nigh to dying, Oho, I know 'Tis so. With bones right sore, Both 'hind and fore, Sir Agramore Doth ache all o'er.

"He aileth sore yet waileth more—oho! I know, I have seen—in the chalk, in the ink, in the smoke—I looked and saw

"Sir Agramore, By bold outlaw, Bethwacked most sore As told before—"

"Nay, but, good Mopsa, how may this be? Sir Agramore rideth armed yonder, plain to my sight."

"Child, I have told thee sooth," croaked the Witch. "Have patience, watch and be silent, and shalt grow wise as old Mopsa—mayhap—in time.

"For, 'tis written in the chalk, Sore is he and may not walk. O, sing heart merrily! I have seen within the smoke Bones bethwacked by lusty stroke, Within the ink I looked and saw, Swathed in clouts, Sir Agramore; Dread of him for thee is o'er, By reason of a bold outlaw. Sing, heart, and joyful be!"

"Go to, Mopsa, thou'rt mad!" quoth the Duchess. "For yonder is this hated lord very strong and hale, and in well-being whiles thou dost rave! Truly thou'rt run mad, methinks!"

But the old Witch only mumbled and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones as is the custom of witches.

Meantime, Sir Agramore, checking his fiery charger and brandishing heavy lance fiercely aloft, roared loud defiance:

"What ho! Ye knights, lords, esquires, and lovers of lusty blows, hither come I with intent, sincere and hearty, to bicker with, fight, combat and withstand all that will—each and every, a-horse or a-foot, with sword, battleaxe or lance. Now all ye that love good blows—have at ye!"

Here ensued great clamour and a mighty blowing of trumpets that waxed yet louder when it was proclaimed that Sir Palamon, as champion of the day, had accepted Sir Agramore's haughty challenge.

And now all was hushed as these two doughty knights faced each other and, as the trumpets brayed, charged furiously to meet with thunderous shock of breaking lances and reeling horses that, rearing backwards, fell crashing upon the torn and trampled grass. But their riders, leaping clear of lashing hooves, drew their swords and, wasting no breath in words, beset each other forthwith, smiting with right good will.

Sir Agramore's leopard shield was riven in twain by a single stroke, Sir Palamon's scarlet plume was shorn away, but they fought only the fiercer as, all untiring, the long blades whirled and flashed until their armour rang, sparks flew, and the populace rocked and swayed and roared for very joy. Once Sir Agramore was beaten to his knees, but rising, grasped his sword in two hands and smote a mighty swashing blow, a direful stroke that burst the lacing of Sir Palamon's great helm and sent it rolling on the sward. But, beholding thus his adversary's face, Sir Agramore, crying in sudden amaze, sprang back; for men all might see a visage framed in long, black-curled hair, grey-eyed, but a face so direly scarred that none, having seen it but once, might well forget.

"Par Dex!" panted Sir Agramore, lifting his vizor.

"Pertinax!" gasped Duke Jocelyn. "O Pertinax—thou loved and lovely smiter—ne'er have I been so sore battered ere now!"

Hereupon all folk stared in hugeous wonderment to behold these two champions drop their swords and leap to clasp and hug each other in mighty arms, to pat each other's mailed shoulders and grasp each other's mailed hands. Quoth Sir Pertinax:

"Lord, how came ye in this guise?"

"My Pertinax, whence stole ye that goodly armour?"

"Lord, oath made I to requite one Sir Agramore of Biename for certain felon blow. Him sought I latterly therefore, and this day met him journeying hither, and so, after some disputation, I left him lying by the way, nor shall he need armour awhile, methinks—wherefore I took it and rode hither seeking what might befall—"

But here, Sir Gui, all heedless of his wound, started up from his couch, raising great outcry:

"Ha—roguery, roguery! Ho, there, seize me yon knave that beareth the cognizance of Tong. Ha—treason, treason!" At this, others took up the cry and divers among the throng, beholding Duke Jocelyn's scarred features, made loud tumults: "The Fool! The Fool! 'Tis the Singing Motley! 'Tis the rogue-Fool that broke prison—seize him! Seize him!" And many, together with the soldiery, came running.

"Lord," quoth Sir Pertinax, catching up his sword, "here now is like to be a notable, sweet affray!" But even as these twain turned to meet their many assailants was thunder of hoofs, a loud, merry voice reached them, and they saw Robin hard by who held two trampling chargers.

"Mount, brothers—mount!" he cried. "Mount, then spur we for the barriers!" So they sprang to saddle and, spurring the rearing horses, galloped for the barriers, all three, nor was there any who dare stay them or abide the sweep of those long swords. Thus, leaping the barriers, they galloped away and left behind roaring tumult and dire confusion.

And amid all this, hid by the silken curtains of her balcony, the Duchess Benedicta uttered a joyous cry and, clasping Yolande in her arms, kissed her rapturously.

"Yolande!" she cried, "O dear my friend, thou didst see—even as did I—a sorry fool and a poor rogue-soldier at hand-strokes with each other—O wise Fool! O knightly Rogue! Come, let us fly, Yolande, let us to the wild-wood and, lost therein, love, True-love, methinks, shall find us. Nay—ask me nothing, only hear this. Be thou to thine own heart true, be thou brave and Shame shall fly thee since True-love out-faceth Shame! How say'st thou, Mopsa, thou wise witch-mother?"

"Ah, sweet children!" croaked the Witch, touching each with claw-like hand yet hand wondrous gentle. "True-love shall indeed find ye, hide where ye will. For True-love, though blind, they say, hath eyes to see all that is good and sweet and true. A poor man-at-arms in rusty mail may yet be true man and a fool, for all his motley, wise. To love such seemeth great folly, yet to the old, love is but folly. Nath'less, being old I do love ye, and being wise I charge ye:

"Follow Folly and be wise, In such folly wisdom lies; Love's blind, they say, but Love hath eyes, So follow Folly—follow!"

My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:

GILL: "Stop! Your tournament, father, seems too long drawn out, With quite too much combating and knocking about.

MYSELF: I hope you're wrong, my dear, although Who knows? Perhaps, it may be so.

GILL: And such scrappy bits of love-making you write; You seem to prefer much describing a fight. All authors should write what their readers like best; But authors are selfish, yes—even the best And you are an author!

MYSELF: Alack, that is true, And, among other things, I'm the author of you.

GILL: Then, being my author, it's plain as can be That you are to blame if I'm naughty—not me. But, father, our Geste, though quite corking in places, Has too many fights and too little embraces. You've made all our lovers so frightfully slow, You ought to have married them pages ago. The books that are nicest are always the sort That, when you have read them, seem always too short! If you make all your readers impatient like me, They'll buy none of your books—and then where shall we be? All people like reading of love when they can, So write them a lot, father, that is the plan. Go on to the love, then, for every one's sake, And end with a wedding—

MYSELF: Your counsel I 'll take. I can woo them and wed them in less than no time, I can do it in prose, in blank verse, or in rhyme; But since, my dear, you are for speed, To end our Geste I will proceed. In many ways it may be done, As I have told you—here is one:

A short two years have elapsed and we find our hero Jocelyn tenderly playing with a golden-haired prattler, his beloved son and heir, while his beautiful spouse Yolande busied with her needle, smiles through happy tears.

GILL: O, hush, father! Of course, that is simply absurd! Such terrible piffle—

MYSELF: I object to that word!

GILL: Well, then, please try a little verse.

MYSELF: With pleasure:

"My own at last!" Duke Joc'lyn fondly cried, And kissed Yolande, his blooming, blushing bride. "My own!" he sighed. "My own—my very own!" "Thine, love!" she murmured. "Thine and thine alone, Thy very own for days and months and years—"

GILL: O, stop! I think that's even worse!

MYSELF: Beyond measure.

Then here's a style may be admired Since brevity is so desired:

So he married her and she married him, and everybody married each other and lived happy ever after.

Or again, and thus, my daughter, Versified it may be shorter:

So all was marriage, joy and laughter, And each lived happy ever after.

Or: If for High Romance you sigh, Here's Romance that's over high:

Shy summer swooned to autumn's sun-burned arms, Swoon, summer, swoon! While roses bloomed and blushing sighed their pain, Blush, roses, blush!

Filling the world with perfume languorous, Sighing forth their souls in fragrant amorousness; And fair Yolande, amid these bloomful languors, Blushing as they, as languorous, as sweet, Sighed in the arms that passioned her around: O Jocelyn, O lord of my delight, See how—

GILL: Stop, father, stop, I beg of you. Such awful stuff will never do, I suppose you must finish it in your own way—

MYSELF: I suppose that I shall, child, that is—if I may.

GILL: But father, wait—I must insist Whatever else you do It's time that somebody was kissed It doesn't matter who— I mean either Yolande the Fair Or else the Duchess—I don't care.

MYSELF: In these next two Fyttes both shall kiss And be well kissed, I promise this. Two Fyttes of kisses I will make One after t' other, for your sake. Two Fyttes of love I will invent And make them both quite different, Which is a trying matter rather And difficult for any father— But then, as well you know, my Gillian, You have a father in a million; And Oh, methinks 'tis very plain You ne'er shall meet his like again.



FYTTE 11

How Pertinax fell out with Robin and with Friar, Yet, in that very hour, came by his heart's desire.

The sinking sun had set the West aflame, When our three riders to the wild-wood came, Where a small wind 'mid sun-kissed branches played, And deep'ning shadows a soft twilight made; Where, save for leafy stirrings, all was still, Lulled by the murmur of a bubbling rill That flowed o'ershadowed by a mighty oak, Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke. Here Robin checked his steed. "Good friends," quoth he,

My daughter Gillian suggesteth:

Gill: That's rather good, But, still, I should In prose prefer the rest; For if this fytte Has love in it, Prose is for love the best. All ord'nary lovers, as every one knows, Make love to each other much better in prose. If, at last, our Sir Pertinax means to propose, Why then—just to please me, Father, prose let it be.

Myself: Very well, I agree!

Then said Robin, quoth he: "Good friends, here are we safe!" And, checking his steed within this pleasant shade, he dismounted.

"Safe, quotha?" said Sir Pertinax, scowling back over shoulder. "Not so! Surely we are close pursued—hark! Yonder be horsemen riding at speed—ha, we are beset!"

"Content you, sir!" answered Robin. "Think you I would leave behind good booty? Yonder come ten noble coursers laden with ten goodly armours the same won a-jousting to-day by this right wondrous Fool, my good gossip—"

"Thy gossip, forsooth!" snorted Sir Pertinax. "But tell me, presumptuous fellow, how shall these ten steeds come a-galloping hither!"

"Marry, on this wise, Sir Simple Innocence—these steeds do gallop for sufficient reason, namely—they are to gallop bidden being ridden, bestridden and chidden by whip and spur applied by certain trusty men o' my company, which men go habited, decked, dressed, clad, guised and disguised as smug, sleek citizens, Sir Innocent Simplicity—"

"Par Dex!" exclaimed Sir Pertinax, scowling. "And who 'rt thou, sirrah, with men at thy beck and call?"

"Behold!" said Robin, unhelming. "Behold the king of all masterless rogues, and thy fellow gallow's-bird, Sir High Mightiness!"

"Ha, is 't thou?" cried Sir Pertinax. "Now a plague on thy kingdom and thee for an unhanged, thieving rogue—"

"E'en as thyself," nodded Robin, "thou that flaunted thy unlovely carcass in stolen armour."

"Ha!" roared Sir Pertinax, clapping hand on sword. "A pest—a murrain! This to me, thou dog's-meat? Malediction! Now will I crack thy numbskull for a pestilent malapert—"

"Nay, Sir Grim-and-gory," laughed Robin, "rather will I now use thee as thou would'st ha' served me on a day but for this generous and kindly Fool, my good comrade!" And speaking, Robin sprang nimbly to the great oak tree and thrusting long arm within the jagged fissure that gaped therein drew forth a hunting-horn and winded it loud and shrill. And presently was a stir, a rustle amid the surrounding brushwood and all about them were outlaws, wild men and fierce of aspect, and each and every grasped long-bow with arrow on string and every arrow was aimed at scowling Sir Pertinax.

"Per Dex!" quoth he, "and is this death, then?"

"Verily!" nodded Robin, "an I do speak the word."

"So be it—speak!" growled Sir Pertinax. "Come, Death—I fear thee not!" And out flashed his long sword; but even then it was twisted from his grasp and Lobkyn Lollo, tossing the great blade aloft and, catching it very neatly, laughed and spake:

"Five times, five times ten Are we, all lusty men. An hundred twice and fifty deaths are we, So, an Rob speak, dead thou 'lt as often be."

"Nay, hold a while, sweet lads!" laughed Robin, "the surly rogue shall sing for his life and our good pleasaunce."

"Sing?" roared Sir Pertinax. "I sing! I? Ha, dare ye bid me so, base dog? Sing, forsooth? By Og and Gog! By the Seven Champions and all the fiends, rather will I die!" And here, being defenceless, Sir Pertinax clenched mighty fists and swore until he lacked for breath.

Then spake Jocelyn, gentle-voiced.

"Sing, Pertinax," quoth he.

"Ha—never! Not for all the—"

"I do command thee, Pertinax. As Robin once sang for his life, now must thou sing for thine. Song for song, 't is but just! Sing, Pertinax!"

"Nay," groaned the proud knight, "I had rather drink water and chew grass like a rabbit. Moreover I ha' no gift o' song—"

"Do thy best!" quoth Robin.

"I'm harsh o' voice—knave!"

"Then croak—rogue!" quoth Robin.

"No song have I—vermin!"

"Make one—carrion! But sing thou shalt though thy song be no better than hog-song which is grunt. Howbeit sing thou must!"

Hereupon Sir Pertinax gnashed his teeth and glaring balefully on Robin lifted hoarse voice and burst forth into fierce song:

"Thou base outlaw, Vile clapper-claw, Since I must sing a stave, Then, here and now, I do avow Thou art a scurvy knave! Thy hang-dog air Doth plain declare Thou 'rt very scurvy knave.

"Rogues breed apace In each vile place, But this I will avow, Where e'er rogues be No man may see A viler rogue than thou,

Since it were vain To meet again A rogue more vile than thou.

"As rogue thou art, In every part, Then—"

"Hold there—hold!" cried Robin, stopping his ears. "Thy voice is unlovely as thy look and thy song as ill as thy voice, so do we forgive thee the rest. Ha' done thy bellowing and begone—"

"Ha—not so!" quoth Sir Pertinax. "For troth I do sing better than methought possible, and my rhyming is none so ill! So will I rhyme thy every knavish part and sing song till song and rhyme be ended. Have at thee again, base fellow!

Since rogue thou art In every part—part—

Ha, plague on't, hast put me out, rogue! I was about to hang thy every roguish part in rhyme, but my rhymes halt by reason o' thee, rogue."

"Forsooth!" laughed Robin. "Thus stickest thou, for thy part, at my every part, the which is well since I am man of parts. Thus then rhyme thou rhymes upon thyself therefore; thus, thyself rhyming rhymes of thee, thou shalt thyself, rhyming of thyself, thyself pleasure thereby, thou thus rhyming of thee, and thee, thou. Thus thy thee and thou shall be well accorded. How think'st thou?"

But Sir Pertinax, astride his charger that cropped joyously at sweet, cool grass, sat chin on fist, lost in the throes of composition, nothing heeding, even when came the ten steeds with the ten suits of armour.

Now these ten horses bare eleven riders, tall, lusty fellows all, save one shrouded in hood and cloak and whom Jocelyn viewed with quick, keen eyes. And thus he presently whispered Robin who, laughing slyly, made signal to his followers, whereupon, by ones and twos they stole silently away until there none remained save only Sir Pertinax who, wrestling with his muse, stared aloft under knitted brows, all unknowing, and presently brake out singing on this wise:

"All men may see A man in me, A man who feareth no man, Thus, fearless, I No danger fly—"

"Except it be a woman!" sang a soft, sweet voice hard by, in pretty mockery. Hereat Sir Pertinax started so violently that his mail clashed and he stared about him eager-eyed but, finding himself quite alone, sighed and fell to reverie.

"A woman?" said he aloud. "'Except it be a woman—'"

THE VOICE: Aye—a woman, O craven soldier!

SIR PERTINAX: Why here is strange echo methinks and speaketh—with her voice!

THE VOICE: 'O voice so soft and full of sweet allure!'

SIR PERTINAX: O voice beloved that might my dolour cure!

THE VOICE: O craven soldier! O most timid wooer! SIR PERTINAX: Craven am I, yet lover—'t is most sure.

THE VOICE: But thou 'rt a man—at least meseemeth so.

SIR PERTINAX: And, being man, myself unworthy know, Yet must I love and my beloved seek And, finding her, no words of love dare speak. For this my love beyond all words doth reach, And I'm slow-tongued and lack the trick of speech. Nor hope have I that she should stoop to bless, A man so full of all unworthiness. So am I dumb—

THE VOICE: And yet dost speak indeed, Such words, methinks, as any maid might heed.

"Ha, think ye so in verity, sweet voice!" cried Sir Pertinax, and springing lightly to earth, strode forward on eager feet. And lo! from behind a certain tree stepped one who, letting fall shrouding cloak and hood, stood there a maid, dark-haired and darkly bright of eye, very shapely and fair to see in her simple tire. And beholding her thus, the tender curve of scarlet lips, the flutter of slender hands, the languorous bewitchment of her eyes, Sir Pertinax halted.

My daughter GILLIAN interpolateth:

GILL:

What, again? Father, that will never do. Don't make him halt again, I beg of you. Sir Pertinax has halted much too long, To make him do it here would be quite wrong!

MYSELF:

My child, I wish you would not interrupt My halting muse in manner so abrupt—

GILL:

But here 's a chance at last to let them kiss, And now you make him halt!

MYSELF: Exactly, miss!

Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head abashed.

My daughter GILLIAN persisteth:

GILL:

Well, father, while he halts, then tell me, pray, Just what you mean by that line where you say, 'The languorous bewitchment of her eyes'?

MYSELF:

My child, no child should authors catechise, Especially, poor fellow, if, like me, Father and author both at once is he. Wise authors all such questions strictly ban, And never answer—even if they can. If of our good knight's wooing you would hear, Keep stilly tongue and hearken well, my dear.

Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head, abashed by her beauty.

"Melissa!" he whispered, "O Melissa!" and so stood mute.

"O Pertinax!" she sighed. "Art dumb at sight of me? O Pertinax, and wherefore?"

"All have I forgot save only thy loveliness, Melissa!"

"Methinks such—forgetfulness becometh thee well. Say on!"

"Ah, Melissa, I—do love thee."

"Why this I knew when thou didst sit a-fishing!" "But, indeed, then I dreamed not of loving thee or any maid."

"Because thou art but a man."

"Verily, and being man, now came I seeking thee for Love's sweet sake yet, finding thee, know not how to speak thee. Alas, I do fear I am but sorry wooer!"

"Alas, Pertinax, I do fear thou art! Yet thou shalt learn, perchance. How—art dumb again, canst speak me no more?"

"Nought—save only this, thou art beyond all maids fair, Melissa!"

"Why, I do think thou'lt make a wooer some day mayhap, by study diligent. 'T will take long time and yet—I would not have thee learn too soon! And hast thought of me? A little?"

"I have borne thee ever within my heart."

"And wherefore wilt love maid so lowly?"

"For that thou art thyself and thyself—Melissa. And O, I love thy voice!"

"My voice? And what more?"

"Thine eyes. Thy little, pretty feet. Thy scarlet mouth. Thy gentle, small hands. Thy hair. All of thee!"

"O," she murmured a little breathlessly, "if thou dost so love me—woo me—a little!"

"Alas!" he sighed, "I know not how."

"Hast ne'er wooed maid ere this, big soldier?"

"Never!"

"Thou poor Pertinax! How empty—how drear thy life. For this do I pity thee with pity kin to love—"

"Love?" he whispered. "Ah, Melissa, couldst e'en learn to love one so unlovely, so rude, so rough and unmannered as I?"

"Never!" she sighed, "O, never—unless thou teach me?"

"Would indeed I might, Melissa. Ah, teach me how I may teach thee to love one so unworthy as Pertinax!"

Now hearkening to his harsh voice grown soft and tremulous, beholding the truth in his honest eyes, Melissa smiled, wondrous tender, and reaching out took hold upon his two hands.

"Kneel!" she commanded. "Kneel here upon the grass as I do kneel. Now, lay by thy cumbrous helmet. Now fold thy great, strong hands. Now bow thy tall, grim head and say in sweet, soft accents low and reverent: 'Melissa, I do love thee heart and soul, thee only do I love and thee only will I love now and for ever. So aid me, Love, amen!'" Then, closing his eyes, Sir Pertinax bowed reverent head, and, humbly folding his hands, spake as she bade him. Thereafter opening his eyes, he saw her watching him through gathering tears, and leaning near, he reached out eager arms, yet touched her not. Quoth he: "O maid beloved, what is thy sorrow?"

"'Tis joy—joy, and thou—thou art so strong and fierce yet so gentle and simple of heart! O, may I prove worthy thy love—"

"Worthy? Of my love?" he stammered. "But O Melissa, I am but he thou didst name harsh of tongue."

"Aye, I did!" she sobbed.

"Hard of heart, flinty of soul, rude, unmannered and unlovely."

"Aye—I did and—loved thee the while!" she whispered. "So now do I pray that I prove worthy."

"Worthy? Thou? O my sweet maid—thou that art kin to the holy angels, thou so high and far removed 'bove me that I do tremble and—fear to touch thee—".

"Nay, fear me not, Pertinax," she sighed, "for though indeed I am all this, yet maid am I also and by times—very human. So Pertinax, thou great, fearless man-at-arms, lay by thy so great fears a while—I do beseech thee." Then Sir Pertinax, beholding the tender passion of her eyes, forgot his fear in glad wonderment and, reaching out hands that trembled for all their strength, drew her to his close embracement.

And thus, kneeling together upon the sun-dappled sward, they forgot all things in this joyous world save only their love and the glory of it. And when they had kissed each other—

* * * * *

My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:

GILL: But, wait, they haven't yet, you know!

MYSELF: Indeed, they have, I've just said so.

GILL: Then, father, please to tell me this: How can a person say a kiss? And so, since kisses can't be said, Please make them do it now instead.

Thus, cradled in his strong arms, she questioned him tenderly:

"Dost mind how, upon a day, my Pertinax, didst ask of me the amulet I bore within my bosom?"

"Aye," he answered, "and sure 'tis charm of potent magic whose spell brought us out of the dungeon at Canalise—the which is great matter for wonder! But 'tis for thy dear sake I do cherish it—"

"Bear you it yet?"

"Here upon my heart."

"And if I should ask it of thee again—wouldst render it back to me?"

"Never!" quoth he. "Never, until with it I give thee myself also!"

But presently she stirred in his embrace for upon the air was an approaching clamour, voices, laughter and the ring of mail.

"Come away!" whispered Melissa, upspringing to her feet. "Come, let thou and Love and I hide until these disturbers be gone and the sweet world hold but us three again."

Now, as they stood, hand in hand, deep hidden 'mid the green, they beheld six merry woodland rogues who led an ambling ass whereon rode a friar portly and perspiring albeit he had a jovial eye. And as he rode he spake his captors thus in voice full-toned and deep:

"Have a care, gentle rogues and brethren, hurry not this ambulant animal unduly, poor, much-enduring beast. Behold the pensive pendulation of these auriculars so forlornly a-dangle! Here is ass that doth out-patience all asses, both four and two-legged. Here is meek ass of leisured soul loving not haste—a very pensive perambulator. So hurry not the ass, my brothers, for these several and distinct reasons or arguments. Firstly, dearly beloved, because I love haste no more than the ass; secondly, brethren, 't is property of Holy Church which is above all argument; and, thirdly, 't is bestridden by one Friar John, my very self, and I am forsooth weighty argument. Fourthly, beloved, 'tis an ass that—ha! O sweet vision for eyes human or divine! Do I see thee in very truth, thou damsel of disobedience, dear dame of discord, sweet, witching, wilful lady—is it thou in very truth, most loved daughter, or wraith conjured of thy magic and my perfervid imaginations—speak!"

"'T is I myself, Reverend Father!" laughed Melissa. "O my dear, good Friar John, methinks the kind Saints have brought thee to my need."

"Saints, quotha!" exclaimed the Friar, rolling merry eye towards his several captors. "Call ye these—Saints? Long have I sought thee, thou naughty maid, and to-day in my quest these brawny 'saints' beset me with bow and quarterstaff and me constrained hither—but my blessing on them since they have brought me to thee. And now, sweet child and daughter, whiles the news yet runneth hot-foot or, like bird unseen, wingeth from lip to lip, I thy ghostly father have rare good news for thee—"

"Nay, Friar John, I will guess thy tidings: Sir Agramore of Biename lieth sorry and sore of a cudgelling."

"How!" cried the Friar. "Thou dost know—so soon?"

"Verily, Reverend Father, nor have I or my worthy guardians aught to fear of him hereafter. And now have I right wondrous news for thee, news that none may guess. List, dear Friar John, thou the wisest and best loved of all my guardians ten; to-day ye are absolved henceforth all care of your wilful ward since to-day she passeth from the guardianship of ye ten to the keeping of one. Come forth, Pertinax, thou only one beloved of me for no reason but that thou art thou and I am I—as is ever the sweet, mad way of True-love—come forth, my dear-loved, poor soldier!" Out from the trees strode Pertinax but, beholding his face, Friar John scowled and, viewing his rich surcoat and goodly armour, fell to perspiring wonder and amaze.

"Now by the sweet Saint Amphibalus!" quoth he. "Surely these be the arms of Sir Agramore, dread Lord of Biename?"

"Most true, dear Friar John," answered Melissa, "and by this same token Sir Agramore lieth sore bruised e'en now."

"Aha!" quoth the Friar, mopping moist brow. "'T is well—'t is very well, so shall these two ears of mine, with eighteen others of lesser account, scathless go and all by reason of this good, tall fellow. Howbeit, I do know this same fellow for fellow of none account, and no fit mate for thee, noble daughter, love or no. A fierce, brawling, tatterdemalion this, that erstwhile tramped in company with long-legged ribald—a froward jesting fellow. Wherefore this fellow, though fellow serviceable, no fellow is for thee and for these sufficing reasons. Firstly—"

"Ha—enough!" quoth Sir Pertinax, chin out-thrust. "'Fellow' me no more, Friar—"

"Firstly," continued Friar John, "because this out-at-elbows fellow is a rogue."

"'Rogue,' in thy teeth, Churchman!" growled Sir Pertinax.

"Secondly," continued Friar John, nothing abashed, "because this rogue-fellow is a runagate roysterer, a nameless knave, a highway-haunter, a filching flick-o'-the-gibbet and a—"

"Friar," snorted Sir Pertinax, "thou 'rt but a very fat man scant o' breath, moreover thou 'rt a friar, so needs must I leave thee alive to make pestilent the air yet a little until thou chokest of an epithet. Meantime perform now one gracious act in thy so graceless life and wed me with this forest maiden."

"Forest maiden, forsooth!" cried Friar John. "O Saints! O Martyrs! Forest maid, quotha! And wed her—and unto thee, presumptuous malapert! Ho, begone, thy base blood and nameless rank forbid—"

"Hold there, shaveling!" quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. "Now mark me this! Though I, being very man, do know myself all unworthy maid so sweet and peerless, yet, and she stoop to wed me, then will I make her lady proud and dame of divers goodly manors and castles, of village and hamlet, pit and gallows, sac and soc, with powers the high, the middle and the low and with ten-score lances in her train. For though in humble guise I went, no nameless rogue am I, but Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene—"

"How!" cried Melissa, pouting rosy lip and frowning a little. "O Pertinax, art indeed a great lord?"

"Why, sooth—forsooth and indeed," he stammered, "I do fear I am."

"Then thou 'rt no poor, distressful, ragged, outlaw-soldier?"

"Alack—no!" he groaned, regardful of her frown.

"Then basely hast thou tricked me—O cruel!"

"Nay, Melissa—hear me!" he cried, and, forgetful of friar and gaping outlaws, he clasped her fast 'prisoned 'gainst his heart. "Thee do I love, dear maid, 'bove rank, or fame, or riches, or aught this world may offer. So, an thou wouldst have me ragged and destitute and outlaw, all this will I be for thy sweet sake since life were nought without thee, O maid I do so love—how say'st thou?"

"I say to thee, Pertinax, that thy so great love hath loosed thy tongue at last, Love hath touched thy lips with eloquence beyond all artifice since now, methinks, it is thy very soul doth speak me. And who shall resist such wooing? Surely not I that do—love thee beyond telling. So take me, my lord, thy right hand in mine, the talisman in thy left—so! Now, my Pertinax, speak thy heart's wish."

"Friar," quoth Sir Pertinax, holding aloft the Crystal Heart, "as her love is mine and mine hers, wed and unite us in our love—by the magic of this jewel I do command thee!"

Here, beholding the talisman, Friar John gasped and stared round-eyed and incredulous.

"By Holy Rood!" he whispered, "'t is indeed the Crystal Heart!"

"And O!" sighed Melissa, "O Friar John, thou dost mind the saying:

"'He that taketh Crystal Heart, Taketh all and every part!'"

"Aye, truly—truly!" nodded the Friar.

"'And by night, or eke by day, The Crystal Heart all must obey!'"

So saying he got him down from the ass and, for all his corpulence, louted full low.

"Sir Knight of Shene," quoth he, "by reason of this jewel potential thou dost bear, now must I perforce obey thy behest and wed thee unto this our gracious lady Benedicta, Duchess of Ambremont, Canalise, Tissingors, Fordyngstoke and divers other towns, villages and—"

"Duchess—a duchess?" exclaimed Sir Pertinax. "Duchess say'st thou—this, the Duchess Benedicta! O Melissa—thou—thou—a duchess!"

"Sooth and forsooth," sighed she in pretty mockery, "I do fear I am!"

"Then thou 'rt no humble maid, distressful and forlorn, Melissa?"

"Yea, Pertinax—all this am I indeed unless thou love me, and loving me, wed me, and wedding me love me the better therefor, and loving me ever the better, thou may'st learn a little some day how a woman may love a man."

"Par Dex!" mumbled Sir Pertinax, kissing her rosy finger-tips, "be thou duchess or witch-maid o' the wood, I do love thee heart and soul, body and mind, now and for ever, Melissa."

Then Friar John, beholding the radiant joy of their faces, reached forth his hands in blessing.

"Kneel ye, my children!" he sighed. "For here methinks is true-love such as brighteneth this world all too seldom. So here, within the forest, the which is surely God's cathedral, this your love shall be sanctified unto you and the world be the better therefor! Kneel ye, my children!"

And thus, kneeling upon the flower-sprent turf hand in hand and with heads reverently bowed, they were wed, while the six outlaws stared in silent awe and the meek ass cropped the grass busily.

"O Pertinax," sighed the Duchess as they rose, "so greatly happy am I that I will others shall be happy likewise; let us make this indeed a day of gladness. I pray thee sound the bugle that hangeth within the great oak, yonder."

So Sir Pertinax took the horn and sounded thereon a mighty blast, loud and long and joyous. And presently came the outlaws, thronging in from all directions, until the sunny glade was full of their wild company, while in the green beyond pike-head twinkled and sword-blades glittered; and foremost was Robin with Lobkyn Lollo beside him.

"Robin," said the Duchess, beckoning him near with white, imperious finger, "Robin a' Green, thou whose tongue is quick and ready as thy hand, hast ever been gentle to the weak and helpless as I do know, in especial to two women that sought thy protection of late."

"Why, verily, lady, I mind them well," nodded Robin, "and one was a maid passing fair and one an ancient dame exceeding wise. To aid such is ever a man's joy—or should be."

"Knew ye who and what this maid was, Robin?"

"Aye, lady, I knew her then as now for that proud and noble lady the Duchess Benedicta."

"And yet, Robin, knowing this and having me in thy power didst suffer me to go without let or hindrance or single penny of ransom?"

"My lady Duchess," answered Robin, glancing round upon his wild company, "we be outlaws, 't is true, and rogues—mayhap, yet are we men and thou a lady passing fair, wherefore—though I knew thee for the Duchess Benedicta, thou wert safe with us since we war not with women and harm no maids be they of high or low degree!"

"Spoke like a very knight!" exclaimed the Duchess. "How think'st thou, my lord?"

"Par Dex!" quoth Sir Pertinax. "Aye, by Our Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood I swear it—thou 'rt a man, Robin! So now do I sue pardon of thee for my song o' rogues since no rogue art thou. And thou didst aid and shield her—this my wife that is the very eyes of me! So, by my troth, my good friend art thou henceforth, Rob o' the Green!"

"Nay, my lord," answered Robin slyly, "for I am but Robin, and outlaw, and thou art the Duke!"

"Forsooth—and so I am!" exclaimed Sir Pertinax. "Ha—yet am I still a man, and therefore—"

"Wait, my lord!" said Benedicta. "Robin, give me thy sword!" So she took the weapon and motioning Robin to his knees, set the blade across his shoulder. "Robin a' Green," said she, "since thou art knightly of word and deed, knight shalt thou be in very truth. Sir Robin a' Forest I make thee and warden over this our forest country. Rise up, Sir Robert." Then up sprang Robin, bright-eyed and flushed of cheek.

"Dear my lady," cried he, "since knight hast made me, thy knight will I be henceforth in life or in death—" But here his voice was lost in the joyous acclamations of his followers who shouted amain until the Duchess quelled them with lifted hand.

"Ye men of the wild-wood," said she, looking round upon them gentle-eyed, "all ye that be homeless and desolate, lying without the law, this day joy hath found me, for this is my wedding-morn. And as I am happy I would see ye happy also. Therefore upon this glad day do we make proclamation, my Lord Duke and I—this day we lift from you each and every, the ban of outlawry—free men are ye to go and come as ye list—free men one and all and good citizens henceforth I pray!" Now here was silence awhile, then a hoarse murmur, swelling to a jubilant shout until the sunny woodland rang with the joy of it, near and far.

"And now, Sir Robert," laughed the Duchess, "pray you where is this noble Fool, this gentle Motley, this most rare singer of songs and breaker of lances? Bid him to us."

"Ha—the Fool!" exclaimed Sir Pertinax, starting.

"My lady," answered Robin, "true, he was here, but when I sought him, a while since, there was Sir Palamon's armour he had worn, but himself gone —"

"Gone—gone say'st thou?" cried Sir Pertinax, glancing about. "Then needs must I go seek him—"

"And wherefore, my lord?" cried the Duchess.

"'T is my—my duty, Melissa!" stammered Sir Pertinax. "He is my—my friend and—sworn brother-in-arms!"

"And am I not thy wife, Pertinax?"

"Aye, most dearly loved, and I, thy husband—and yet—needs must I seek this Fool, Melissa."

"O Pertinax—wilt leave me?"

"Leave thee?" groaned Sir Pertinax. "Aye—for a while! Leave thee? Aye—though it break my heart needs must I! He, my—brother-in-arms. My duty calleth—"

"And what of thy duty to me?"

Now as Sir Pertinax wrung his hands in an agony of indecision, rose a whisper of sweet sound, the murmur of softly-plucked lute-strings, and into the glade, cock's-comb aflaunt and ass's ears a-dangle Duke Jocelyn strode and sang as he came a song he had made on a time, a familiar air:

"Good Pertinax, why griev'st thou so? Free of all duty thou dost go, Save that which thou to Love dost owe, My noble Pertinax."

"And love from heaven hath stooped thus low To me!" quoth Pertinax.

But here came Robin with certain of his men leading a snow-white palfrey richly caparisoned.

"Right noble lady," said he, "behold here a goodly, fair jennet to thy gracious acceptance."

"And indeed—'t is rare, pretty beast!" exclaimed Benedicta. "But Robin, Robin, O Sir Robert, whence had you this?"

"Lady, upon a time I was an outlaw and lived as outlaws may, taking such things as Fate bestowed, and, lady:

"Fate is a wind To outlaws kind:

But now since we be free-men all, I and my fellows, fain would we march hence in thy train to thy honour and our joyance. Wilt grant us this boon, lady?"

"Freely, for 'tis rare good thought, Robin! Surely never rode duke and duchess so attended. How the townsfolk shall throng and stare to see our wild following, and my worthy guardians gape and pluck their beards for very amaze! How think you, good Friar John?"

"Why, verily, daughter, I, that am chiefest of thy wardens ten, do think it wise measure; as for thy other guardians let them pluck and gape until they choke.

"In especial Greg'ry Bax, Who both beard and wisdom lacks.

I say 'tis wise, good measure, for these that were outlaws be sturdy fellows with many friends in town and village, so shall this thy day of union be for them re-union, and they joy with thee."

Now being mounted the Duchess rode where stood Jocelyn, and looked down on him merry-eyed.

"Sir Fool," said she, "who thou art I know not, but I have hunted in Brocelaunde ere now, and I have eyes. And as thou 'rt friend to my dear lord, friend art thou of mine, so do we give thee joyous welcome to our duchy. And, being thy friend, I pray thou may'st find that wonder of wonders the which hideth but to be found, and once found, shall make wise Fool wiser."

"Sweet friend and lady," answered Jocelyn, "surely man so unlovely as I may not know this wonder for his very own until it first seek him. Is 't not so? Let now thy woman's heart counsel me."

"How, Sir Wise Folly, have I not heard thee preach boldness in love ere now?"

"Aye—for others!" sighed Jocelyn. "But for myself—I fear—behold this motley! This scarred face!"

"Why as to thy motley it becometh thee well—"

"Aye, but my face? O, 't is a hideous face!"

"O Fool!" sighed Benedicta, "know'st thou not that True-love's eyes possess a magic whereby all loved things become fair and beauteous. So take courage, noble Motley, and may thy desires be crowned—even as our own."

"Gramercy, thou sweet and gentle lady. Happiness companion thee alway and Love sing ever within thee. Now for ye twain is love's springtime, a season of sweet promise, may each promise find fulfilment and so farewell."

"Why then, Sir Fool, an thou wilt tarry here in the good greenwood a while, may Love guide thee. Now here is my counsel: Follow where thy heart commandeth and—fear not! And now, Sir Robert a' Forest, form thy company, and since this is a day of gladness let them sing as they march."

"In sooth, dear my lady, that will we!" cried Robin. "There is song o' spring and gladness I made that hath oft been our solace, and moreover it beginneth and endeth with jolly chorus well beknown to all. Ho, pikes to van and rear! Bows to the flanks—fall in! Now trusty friends o' the greenwood, free-men all, henceforth—now march we back to hearth and home and love, so sing ye—sing!"

Hereupon from the ragged, close-ordered ranks burst a shout that swelled to rolling chorus; and these the words:

The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily—hey! And cheerily let us sing, While youth is youth then youth is gay And youth shall have his fling.

Robin: The merry merle on leafy spray, The lark on fluttering wing Do pipe a joyous roundelay, To greet the blithesome spring.

Hence, hence cold Age, black Care—away! Cold Age black Care doth bring; When back is bowed and head is grey, Black Care doth clasp and cling.

Black Care doth rosy Pleasure stay, Age ageth everything; 'T is farewell sport and holiday, On flowery mead and ling.

If Death must come, then come he may, And wed with death-cold ring, Yet ere our youth and strength decay, Blithe Joy shall be our king. The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily—hey! And cheerily we will sing.

So they marched blithely away, a right joyous company, flashing back the sunset glory from bright headpiece and sword-blade, while Jocelyn stood watching wistful-eyed until they were lost amid the green, until all sounds of their going grew to a hush mingling with the whisper of leaves and murmurous gurgle of the brook; and ever the shadows deepened about him, a purple solitude of misty trees and tangled thickets, depth on depth, fading to a glimmering mystery.

Suddenly amid these glooming shadows a shadow moved, and forth into the darkling glade, mighty club on mighty shoulder, stepped Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, and his eyes were pensive and he sighed gustily.

"Alack!" quoth he:

"So here's an end of outlawry, And all along o' lady, Yet still an outlaw I will be Shut in o' shaws so shady. And yet it is great shame, I trow, That our good friends should freemen go And leave us lonely to our woe, And all along o' lady.

"And plague upon this love, I say, For stealing thus thy friend away, And since fast caught and wed is he Thy friend henceforth is lost to thee, And thou, poor Fool, dost mope and sigh, And so a plague on love! say I."

"Nay, good Lobkyn, what know you of love?" Answered LOBKYN:

"Marry, enough o' love know I To steal away if love be nigh.

"For love's an ill as light as air, Yet heavy as a stone; O, love is joy and love is care, A song and eke a groan.

"Love is a sickness, I surmise, Taketh a man first by the eyes, And stealing thence into his heart, There gripeth him with bitter smart. Alas, poor soul, What bitter dole, Doth plague his every part!

"From heart to liver next it goes, And fills him full o' windy woes, And, being full o' gusty pain, He groaneth oft, and sighs amain, Poor soul is he In verity, And for his freedom sighs in vain."

"Miscall not love, Lobkyn, for sure True-love is every man's birthright."

Quoth LOBKYN:

"Why then, methinks there's many a wight That cheated is of his birthright, As, item first, here's Lobkyn Lollo To prove thine argument quite hollow. Dare I at maid to cast mine eye, She mocketh me, and off doth fly,

And all because I'm humped o' back, And something to my stature lack. Thus, though I'm stronger man than three, No maid may love the likes o' me. Next, there's thyself—a Fool, I swear, At fight or song beyond compare. But—thou 'rt unlovely o' thy look, And this no maid will ever brook. So thou and I, for weal or woe, To our lives' end unloved must go. But think ye that I grieve or sigh? Not so! A plague on love, say I!"

Now here Jocelyn sighed amain and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to sad and wistful thinking.

"Aye, verily," he repeated, "I am 'unlovely of my look.'"

Quoth Lobkyn heartily:

"In very sooth, Fool, that's the truth!"

"Alas!" sighed Jocelyn, "'And this no maid will ever brook!'"

Answered Lobkyn:

"And there dost speak, wise Fool, again, A truth right manifest and plain, Since fairest maids have bat-like eyes, And see no more than outward lies. And seeing thus, they nothing see Of worthiness in you or me. And so, since love doth pass us by, The plague o' plagues on love, say I!"

"Nath'less," cried the Duke, leaping to his feet. "I will put Love to the test—aye, this very hour!"

Lobkyn: Wilt go, good Motley? Pray thee where?

Jocelyn: To one beyond all ladies fair.

Lobkyn: Then dost thou need a friend about thee To cheer and comfort when she flout thee. So, an thou wilt a-wooing wend, I'll follow thee like trusty friend. In love or fight thou shalt not lack A sturdy arm to 'fend thy back. I'll follow thee in light or dark, Through good or ill—Saints shield us! Hark!

And Lobkyn started about, club poised for swift action, for, out-stealing from the shadows crept strange and dismal sound, a thin wail that sank to awful groaning rumble, and so died away.

"O!" whispered Lobkyn:

"Pray, Fool, pray with all thy might, Here's goblin foul or woodland sprite Come for to steal our souls away, So on thy knees quick, Fool, and pray!"

But, as these dismal sounds brake forth again, Jocelyn stole forward, quarter-staff gripped in ready hand; thus, coming nigh the great oak, he espied a dim, huddled form thereby and, creeping nearer, stared in wonder to behold Mopsa, the old witch, striving might and main to wind the great hunting-horn.