The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood Howard Pyle 54722 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Merry Adventures of Robin
Hood
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.
You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project
Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org.
If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of
the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

Author: Howard Pyle

Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10148]
Most recently updated: August 13, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10148

Credits: Produced by David Widger, Ted Garvin and PG Distributed
Proofreaders

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY
ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD ***

THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF

ROBIN HOOD

by Howard Pyle

PREFACE
FROM THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself
up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy;
you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm
no one; these pages are not for you. Clap to the leaves and go no farther than
this, for I tell you plainly that if you go farther you will be scandalized by
seeing good, sober folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors and
motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to them. Here
is a stout, lusty fellow with a quick temper, yet none so ill for all that, who goes
by the name of Henry II. Here is a fair, gentle lady before whom all the others
bow and call her Queen Eleanor. Here is a fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in
rich robes of a clerical kind, that all the good folk call my Lord Bishop of
Hereford. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and a grim look—the
worshipful, the Sheriff of Nottingham. And here, above all, is a great, tall,
merry fellow that roams the greenwood and joins in homely sports, and sits
beside the Sheriff at merry feast, which same beareth the name of the proudest
of the Plantagenets—Richard of the Lion's Heart. Beside these are a whole host
of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies, lasses, landlords,
beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all
bound by nothing but a few odd strands of certain old ballads (snipped and
clipped and tied together again in a score of knots) which draw these jocund
fellows here and there, singing as they go.
Here you will find a hundred dull, sober, jogging places, all tricked out with
flowers and what not, till no one would know them in their fanciful dress. And
here is a country bearing a well-known name, wherein no chill mists press
upon our spirits, and no rain falls but what rolls off our backs like April
showers off the backs of sleek drakes; where flowers bloom forever and birds
are always singing; where every fellow hath a merry catch as he travels the
roads, and ale and beer and wine (such as muddle no wits) flow like water in a
brook.
This country is not Fairyland. What is it? 'Tis the land of Fancy, and is of
that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it—whisk!—you clap the leaves of this

book together and 'tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm
done.
And now I lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man's-land. Will
you come with me, sweet Reader? I thank you. Give me your hand.

Contents

PREFACE
How Robin Hood Came to Be an
Outlaw
Robin Hood and the Tinker
The Shooting Match at Nottingham
Town
Will Stutely Rescued by His
Companions
Robin Hood Turns Butcher
Little John Goes to Nottingham Fair
How Little John Lived at the Sheriff's
Little John and the Tanner of Blyth
Robin Hood and Will Scarlet
The Adventure with Midge the
Miller's Son
Robin Hood and Allan a Dale
Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal Friar
Robin Hood Compasses a Marriage
Robin Hood Aids a Sorrowful Knight
How Sir Richard of the Lea Paid His
Debts
Little John Turns Barefoot Friar

Robin Hood Turns Beggar
Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen
Eleanor
The Chase of Robin Hood
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbourne
King Richard Comes to Sherwood
Forest
Epilogue

PROLOGUE
Giving an account of Robin Hood and his adventure with the King's
Foresters. Also telling how his band gathered around him, and of the merry
adventure that gained him his good right hand man, the famous Little John.

How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw
IN MERRY ENGLAND in the time of old, when good King Henry the
Second ruled the land, there lived within the green glades of Sherwood Forest,
near Nottingham Town, a famous outlaw whose name was Robin Hood. No
archer ever lived that could speed a gray goose shaft with such skill and
cunning as his, nor were there ever such yeomen as the sevenscore merry men
that roamed with him through the greenwood shades. Right merrily they
dwelled within the depths of Sherwood Forest, suffering neither care nor want,
but passing the time in merry games of archery or bouts of cudgel play, living
upon the King's venison, washed down with draughts of ale of October
brewing.
Not only Robin himself but all the band were outlaws and dwelled apart
from other men, yet they were beloved by the country people round about, for
no one ever came to jolly Robin for help in time of need and went away again
with an empty fist.
And now I will tell how it came about that Robin Hood fell afoul of the law.
When Robin was a youth of eighteen, stout of sinew and bold of heart, the
Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a shooting match and offered a prize of a
butt of ale to whosoever should shoot the best shaft in Nottinghamshire.
"Now," quoth Robin, "will I go too, for fain would I draw a string for the bright
eyes of my lass and a butt of good October brewing." So up he got and took his
good stout yew bow and a score or more of broad clothyard arrows, and started
off from Locksley Town through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham.
It was at the dawn of day in the merry Maytime, when hedgerows are green
and flowers bedeck the meadows; daisies pied and yellow cuckoo buds and fair
primroses all along the briery hedges; when apple buds blossom and sweet
birds sing, the lark at dawn of day, the throstle cock and cuckoo; when lads and
lasses look upon each other with sweet thoughts; when busy housewives spread
their linen to bleach upon the bright green grass. Sweet was the greenwood as
he walked along its paths, and bright the green and rustling leaves, amid which
the little birds sang with might and main: and blithely Robin whistled as he

trudged along, thinking of Maid Marian and her bright eyes, for at such times a
youth's thoughts are wont to turn pleasantly upon the lass that he loves the best.
As thus he walked along with a brisk step and a merry whistle, he came
suddenly upon some foresters seated beneath a great oak tree. Fifteen there
were in all, making themselves merry with feasting and drinking as they sat
around a huge pasty, to which each man helped himself, thrusting his hands
into the pie, and washing down that which they ate with great horns of ale
which they drew all foaming from a barrel that stood nigh. Each man was clad
in Lincoln green, and a fine show they made, seated upon the sward beneath
that fair, spreading tree. Then one of them, with his mouth full, called out to
Robin, "Hulloa, where goest thou, little lad, with thy one-penny bow and thy
farthing shafts?"
Then Robin grew angry, for no stripling likes to be taunted with his green
years.
"Now," quoth he, "my bow and eke mine arrows are as good as shine; and
moreover, I go to the shooting match at Nottingham Town, which same has
been proclaimed by our good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; there I will shoot
with other stout yeomen, for a prize has been offered of a fine butt of ale."
Then one who held a horn of ale in his hand said, "Ho! listen to the lad!
Why, boy, thy mother's milk is yet scarce dry upon thy lips, and yet thou pratest
of standing up with good stout men at Nottingham butts, thou who art scarce
able to draw one string of a two-stone bow."
"I'll hold the best of you twenty marks," quoth bold Robin, "that I hit the
clout at threescore rods, by the good help of Our Lady fair."
At this all laughed aloud, and one said, "Well boasted, thou fair infant, well
boasted! And well thou knowest that no target is nigh to make good thy wager."
And another cried, "He will be taking ale with his milk next."
At this Robin grew right mad. "Hark ye," said he, "yonder, at the glade's end,
I see a herd of deer, even more than threescore rods distant. I'll hold you twenty
marks that, by leave of Our Lady, I cause the best hart among them to die."
"Now done!" cried he who had spoken first. "And here are twenty marks. I
wager that thou causest no beast to die, with or without the aid of Our Lady."

Then Robin took his good yew bow in his hand, and placing the tip at his
instep, he strung it right deftly; then he nocked a broad clothyard arrow and,
raising the bow, drew the gray goose feather to his ear; the next moment the
bowstring rang and the arrow sped down the glade as a sparrowhawk skims in
a northern wind. High leaped the noblest hart of all the herd, only to fall dead,
reddening the green path with his heart's blood.
"Ha!" cried Robin, "how likest thou that shot, good fellow? I wot the wager
were mine, an it were three hundred pounds."
Then all the foresters were filled with rage, and he who had spoken the first
and had lost the wager was more angry than all.
"Nay," cried he, "the wager is none of thine, and get thee gone, straightway,
or, by all the saints of heaven, I'll baste thy sides until thou wilt ne'er be able to
walk again." "Knowest thou not," said another, "that thou hast killed the King's
deer, and, by the laws of our gracious lord and sovereign King Harry, thine ears
should be shaven close to thy head?"
"Catch him!" cried a third.
"Nay," said a fourth, "let him e'en go because of his tender years."
Never a word said Robin Hood, but he looked at the foresters with a grim
face; then, turning on his heel, strode away from them down the forest glade.
But his heart was bitterly angry, for his blood was hot and youthful and prone
to boil.
Now, well would it have been for him who had first spoken had he left
Robin Hood alone; but his anger was hot, both because the youth had gotten
the better of him and because of the deep draughts of ale that he had been
quaffing. So, of a sudden, without any warning, he sprang to his feet, and
seized upon his bow and fitted it to a shaft. "Ay," cried he, "and I'll hurry thee
anon." And he sent the arrow whistling after Robin.
It was well for Robin Hood that that same forester's head was spinning with
ale, or else he would never have taken another step. As it was, the arrow
whistled within three inches of his head. Then he turned around and quickly
drew his own bow, and sent an arrow back in return.
"Ye said I was no archer," cried he aloud, "but say so now again!"

The shaft flew straight; the archer fell forward with a cry, and lay on his face
upon the ground, his arrows rattling about him from out of his quiver, the gray
goose shaft wet with his heart's blood. Then, before the others could gather
their wits about them, Robin Hood was gone into the depths of the greenwood.
Some started after him, but not with much heart, for each feared to suffer the
death of his fellow; so presently they all came and lifted the dead man up and
bore him away to Nottingham Town.
Meanwhile Robin Hood ran through the greenwood. Gone was all the joy
and brightness from everything, for his heart was sick within him, and it was
borne in upon his soul that he had slain a man.

"Alas!" cried he, "thou hast found me an archer that will make thy wife to
wring! I would that thou hadst ne'er said one word to me, or that I had never
passed thy way, or e'en that my right forefinger had been stricken off ere that
this had happened! In haste I smote, but grieve I sore at leisure!" And then,
even in his trouble, he remembered the old saw that "What is done is done; and
the egg cracked cannot be cured."
And so he came to dwell in the greenwood that was to be his home for many
a year to come, never again to see the happy days with the lads and lasses of

sweet Locksley Town; for he was outlawed, not only because he had killed a
man, but also because he had poached upon the King's deer, and two hundred
pounds were set upon his head, as a reward for whoever would bring him to the
court of the King.
Now the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would bring this knave
Robin Hood to justice, and for two reasons: first, because he wanted the two
hundred pounds, and next, because the forester that Robin Hood had killed was
of kin to him.
But Robin Hood lay hidden in Sherwood Forest for one year, and in that
time there gathered around him many others like himself, cast out from other
folk for this cause and for that. Some had shot deer in hungry wintertime, when
they could get no other food, and had been seen in the act by the foresters, but
had escaped, thus saving their ears; some had been turned out of their
inheritance, that their farms might be added to the King's lands in Sherwood
Forest; some had been despoiled by a great baron or a rich abbot or a powerful
esquire—all, for one cause or another, had come to Sherwood to escape wrong
and oppression.
So, in all that year, fivescore or more good stout yeomen gathered about
Robin Hood, and chose him to be their leader and chief. Then they vowed that
even as they themselves had been despoiled they would despoil their
oppressors, whether baron, abbot, knight, or squire, and that from each they
would take that which had been wrung from the poor by unjust taxes, or land
rents, or in wrongful fines. But to the poor folk they would give a helping hand
in need and trouble, and would return to them that which had been unjustly
taken from them. Besides this, they swore never to harm a child nor to wrong a
woman, be she maid, wife, or widow; so that, after a while, when the people
began to find that no harm was meant to them, but that money or food came in
time of want to many a poor family, they came to praise Robin and his merry
men, and to tell many tales of him and of his doings in Sherwood Forest, for
they felt him to be one of themselves.
Up rose Robin Hood one merry morn when all the birds were singing
blithely among the leaves, and up rose all his merry men, each fellow washing
his head and hands in the cold brown brook that leaped laughing from stone to
stone. Then said Robin, "For fourteen days have we seen no sport, so now I
will go abroad to seek adventures forthwith. But tarry ye, my merry men all,
here in the greenwood; only see that ye mind well my call. Three blasts upon

the bugle horn I will blow in my hour of need; then come quickly, for I shall
want your aid."
So saying, he strode away through the leafy forest glades until he had come
to the verge of Sherwood. There he wandered for a long time, through highway
and byway, through dingly dell and forest skirts. Now he met a fair buxom lass
in a shady lane, and each gave the other a merry word and passed their way;
now he saw a fair lady upon an ambling pad, to whom he doffed his cap, and
who bowed sedately in return to the fair youth; now he saw a fat monk on a
pannier-laden ass; now a gallant knight, with spear and shield and armor that
flashed brightly in the sunlight; now a page clad in crimson; and now a stout
burgher from good Nottingham Town, pacing along with serious footsteps; all
these sights he saw, but adventure found he none. At last he took a road by the
forest skirts, a bypath that dipped toward a broad, pebbly stream spanned by a
narrow bridge made of a log of wood. As he drew nigh this bridge he saw a tall
stranger coming from the other side. Thereupon Robin quickened his pace, as
did the stranger likewise, each thinking to cross first.
"Now stand thou back," quoth Robin, "and let the better man cross first."
"Nay," answered the stranger, "then stand back shine own self, for the better
man, I wet, am I."
"That will we presently see," quoth Robin, "and meanwhile stand thou where
thou art, or else, by the bright brow of Saint AElfrida, I will show thee right
good Nottingham play with a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs."
"Now," quoth the stranger, "I will tan thy hide till it be as many colors as a
beggar's cloak, if thou darest so much as touch a string of that same bow that
thou holdest in thy hands."
"Thou pratest like an ass," said Robin, "for I could send this shaft clean
through thy proud heart before a curtal friar could say grace over a roast goose
at Michaelmastide."
"And thou pratest like a coward," answered the stranger, "for thou standest
there with a good yew bow to shoot at my heart, while I have nought in my
hand but a plain blackthorn staff wherewith to meet thee."
"Now," quoth Robin, "by the faith of my heart, never have I had a coward's
name in all my life before. I will lay by my trusty bow and eke my arrows, and

if thou darest abide my coming, I will go and cut a cudgel to test thy manhood
withal."
"Ay, marry, that will I abide thy coming, and joyously, too," quoth the
stranger; whereupon he leaned sturdily upon his staff to await Robin.
Then Robin Hood stepped quickly to the coverside and cut a good staff of
ground oak, straight, without new, and six feet in length, and came back
trimming away the tender stems from it, while the stranger waited for him,
leaning upon his staff, and whistling as he gazed round about. Robin observed
him furtively as he trimmed his staff, measuring him from top to toe from out
the corner of his eye, and thought that he had never seen a lustier or a stouter
man. Tall was Robin, but taller was the stranger by a head and a neck, for he
was seven feet in height. Broad was Robin across the shoulders, but broader
was the stranger by twice the breadth of a palm, while he measured at least an
ell around the waist.
"Nevertheless," said Robin to himself, "I will baste thy hide right merrily,
my good fellow"; then, aloud, "Lo, here is my good staff, lusty and tough. Now
wait my coming, an thou darest, and meet me an thou fearest not. Then we will
fight until one or the other of us tumble into the stream by dint of blows."
"Marry, that meeteth my whole heart!" cried the stranger, twirling his staff
above his head, betwixt his fingers and thumb, until it whistled again.
Never did the Knights of Arthur's Round Table meet in a stouter fight than
did these two. In a moment Robin stepped quickly upon the bridge where the
stranger stood; first he made a feint, and then delivered a blow at the stranger's
head that, had it met its mark, would have tumbled him speedily into the water.
But the stranger turned the blow right deftly and in return gave one as stout,
which Robin also turned as the stranger had done. So they stood, each in his
place, neither moving a finger's-breadth back, for one good hour, and many
blows were given and received by each in that time, till here and there were
sore bones and bumps, yet neither thought of crying "Enough," nor seemed
likely to fall from off the bridge. Now and then they stopped to rest, and each
thought that he never had seen in all his life before such a hand at quarterstaff.
At last Robin gave the stranger a blow upon the ribs that made his jacket
smoke like a damp straw thatch in the sun. So shrewd was the stroke that the
stranger came within a hair's-breadth of falling off the bridge, but he regained
himself right quickly and, by a dexterous blow, gave Robin a crack on the

crown that caused the blood to flow. Then Robin grew mad with anger and
smote with all his might at the other. But the stranger warded the blow and
once again thwacked Robin, and this time so fairly that he fell heels over head
into the water, as the queen pin falls in a game of bowls.
"And where art thou now, my good lad?" shouted the stranger, roaring with
laughter.
"Oh, in the flood and floating adown with the tide," cried Robin, nor could
he forbear laughing himself at his sorry plight. Then, gaining his feet, he waded
to the bank, the little fish speeding hither and thither, all frightened at his
splashing.
"Give me thy hand," cried he, when he had reached the bank. "I must needs
own thou art a brave and a sturdy soul and, withal, a good stout stroke with the
cudgels. By this and by that, my head hummeth like to a hive of bees on a hot
June day."
Then he clapped his horn to his lips and winded a blast that went echoing
sweetly down the forest paths. "Ay, marry," quoth he again, "thou art a tall lad,
and eke a brave one, for ne'er, I bow, is there a man betwixt here and
Canterbury Town could do the like to me that thou hast done."
"And thou," quoth the stranger, laughing, "takest thy cudgeling like a brave
heart and a stout yeoman."
But now the distant twigs and branches rustled with the coming of men, and
suddenly a score or two of good stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, burst
from out the covert, with merry Will Stutely at their head.
"Good master," cried Will, "how is this? Truly thou art all wet from head to
foot, and that to the very skin."
"Why, marry," answered jolly Robin, "yon stout fellow hath tumbled me
neck and crop into the water and hath given me a drubbing beside."
"Then shall he not go without a ducking and eke a drubbing himself!" cried
Will Stutely. "Have at him, lads!"
Then Will and a score of yeomen leaped upon the stranger, but though they
sprang quickly they found him ready and felt him strike right and left with his

stout staff, so that, though he went down with press of numbers, some of them
rubbed cracked crowns before he was overcome.
"Nay, forbear!" cried Robin, laughing until his sore sides ached again. "He is
a right good man and true, and no harm shall befall him. Now hark ye, good
youth, wilt thou stay with me and be one of my band? Three suits of Lincoln
green shalt thou have each year, beside forty marks in fee, and share with us
whatsoever good shall befall us. Thou shalt eat sweet venison and quaff the
stoutest ale, and mine own good right-hand man shalt thou be, for never did I
see such a cudgel player in all my life before. Speak! Wilt thou be one of my
good merry men?"
"That know I not," quoth the stranger surlily, for he was angry at being so
tumbled about. "If ye handle yew bow and apple shaft no better than ye do
oaken cudgel, I wot ye are not fit to be called yeomen in my country; but if
there be any man here that can shoot a better shaft than I, then will I bethink
me of joining with you."
"Now by my faith," said Robin, "thou art a right saucy varlet, sirrah; yet I
will stoop to thee as I never stooped to man before. Good Stutely, cut thou a
fair white piece of bark four fingers in breadth, and set it fourscore yards
distant on yonder oak. Now, stranger, hit that fairly with a gray goose shaft and
call thyself an archer."
"Ay, marry, that will I," answered he. "Give me a good stout bow and a fair
broad arrow, and if I hit it not, strip me and beat me blue with bowstrings."
Then he chose the stoutest bow among them all, next to Robin's own, and a
straight gray goose shaft, well-feathered and smooth, and stepping to the mark
—while all the band, sitting or lying upon the greensward, watched to see him
shoot—he drew the arrow to his cheek and loosed the shaft right deftly,
sending it so straight down the path that it clove the mark in the very center.
"Aha!" cried he, "mend thou that if thou canst"; while even the yeomen
clapped their hands at so fair a shot.
"That is a keen shot indeed," quoth Robin. "Mend it I cannot, but mar it I
may, perhaps."
Then taking up his own good stout bow and nocking an arrow with care, he
shot with his very greatest skill. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it lit

fairly upon the stranger's shaft and split it into splinters. Then all the yeomen
leaped to their feet and shouted for joy that their master had shot so well.
"Now by the lusty yew bow of good Saint Withold," cried the stranger, "that
is a shot indeed, and never saw I the like in all my life before! Now truly will I
be thy man henceforth and for aye. Good Adam Bell1 was a fair shot, but never
shot he so!"

1
Adam Bell, Clym o' the Clough,and William of Cloudesly were three
noted north-country bowmen whose names have been celebrated in many
ballads of the olden time.

"Then have I gained a right good man this day," quoth jolly Robin. "What
name goest thou by, good fellow?"
"Men call me John Little whence I came," answered the stranger.
Then Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up. "Nay, fair little
stranger," said he, "I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise.
Little art thou indeed, and small of bone and sinew, therefore shalt thou be
christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather."
Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to
grow angry.
"An thou make a jest of me," quoth he to Will Stutely, "thou wilt have sore
bones and little pay, and that in short season."
"Nay, good friend," said Robin Hood, "bottle thine anger, for the name
fitteth thee well. Little John shall thou be called henceforth, and Little John
shall it be. So come, my merry men, we will prepare a christening feast for this
fair infant."
So turning their backs upon the stream, they plunged into the forest once
more, through which they traced their steps till they reached the spot where
they dwelled in the depths of the woodland. There had they built huts of bark
and branches of trees, and made couches of sweet rushes spread over with
skins of fallow deer. Here stood a great oak tree with branches spreading
broadly around, beneath which was a seat of green moss where Robin Hood
was wont to sit at feast and at merrymaking with his stout men about him. Here

they found the rest of the band, some of whom had come in with a brace of fat
does. Then they all built great fires and after a time roasted the does and
broached a barrel of humming ale. Then when the feast was ready they all sat
down, but Robin placed Little John at his right hand, for he was henceforth to
be the second in the band.
Then when the feast was done Will Stutely spoke up. "It is now time, I ween,
to christen our bonny babe, is it not so, merry boys?" And "Aye! Aye!" cried
all, laughing till the woods echoed with their mirth.
"Then seven sponsors shall we have," quoth Will Stutely, and hunting among
all the band, he chose the seven stoutest men of them all.
"Now by Saint Dunstan," cried Little John, springing to his feet, "more than
one of you shall rue it an you lay finger upon me."
But without a word they all ran upon him at once, seizing him by his legs
and arms and holding him tightly in spite of his struggles, and they bore him
forth while all stood around to see the sport. Then one came forward who had
been chosen to play the priest because he had a bald crown, and in his hand he
carried a brimming pot of ale. "Now, who bringeth this babe?" asked he right
soberly.
"That do I," answered Will Stutely.
"And what name callest thou him?"
"Little John call I him."
"Now Little John," quoth the mock priest, "thou hast not lived heretofore,
but only got thee along through the world, but henceforth thou wilt live indeed.
When thou livedst not thou wast called John Little, but now that thou dost live
indeed, Little John shalt thou be called, so christen I thee." And at these last
words he emptied the pot of ale upon Little John's head.
Then all shouted with laughter as they saw the good brown ale stream over
Little John's beard and trickle from his nose and chin, while his eyes blinked
with the smart of it. At first he was of a mind to be angry but found he could
not, because the others were so merry; so he, too, laughed with the rest. Then
Robin took this sweet, pretty babe, clothed him all anew from top to toe in
Lincoln green, and gave him a good stout bow, and so made him a member of
the merry band.

And thus it was that Robin Hood became outlawed; thus a band of merry
companions gathered about him, and thus he gained his right-hand man, Little
John; and so the prologue ends. And now I will tell how the Sheriff of
Nottingham three times sought to take Robin Hood, and how he failed each
time.

Robin Hood and the Tinker
NOW IT WAS TOLD BEFORE how two hundred pounds were set upon
Robin Hood's head, and how the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself
would seize Robin, both because he would fain have the two hundred pounds
and because the slain man was a kinsman of his own. Now the Sheriff did not
yet know what a force Robin had about him in Sherwood, but thought that he
might serve a warrant for his arrest as he could upon any other man that had
broken the laws; therefore he offered fourscore golden angels to anyone who
would serve this warrant. But men of Nottingham Town knew more of Robin
Hood and his doings than the Sheriff did, and many laughed to think of serving
a warrant upon the bold outlaw, knowing well that all they would get for such
service would be cracked crowns; so that no one came forward to take the
matter in hand. Thus a fortnight passed, in which time none came forward to do
the Sheriff's business. Then said he, "A right good reward have I offered to
whosoever would serve my warrant upon Robin Hood, and I marvel that no
one has come to undertake the task."
Then one of his men who was near him said, "Good master, thou wottest not
the force that Robin Hood has about him and how little he cares for warrant of
king or sheriff. Truly, no one likes to go on this service, for fear of cracked
crowns and broken bones."
"Then I hold all Nottingham men to be cowards," said the Sheriff. "And let
me see the man in all Nottinghamshire that dare disobey the warrant of our
sovereign lord King Harry, for, by the shrine of Saint Edmund, I will hang him
forty cubits high! But if no man in Nottingham dare win fourscore angels, I
will send elsewhere, for there should be men of mettle somewhere in this land."
Then he called up a messenger in whom he placed great trust, and bade him
saddle his horse and make ready to go to Lincoln Town to see whether he could
find anyone there that would do his bidding and win the reward. So that same
morning the messenger started forth upon his errand.
Bright shone the sun upon the dusty highway that led from Nottingham to
Lincoln, stretching away all white over hill and dale. Dusty was the highway
and dusty the throat of the messenger, so that his heart was glad when he saw

before him the Sign of the Blue Boar Inn, when somewhat more than half his
journey was done. The inn looked fair to his eyes, and the shade of the oak
trees that stood around it seemed cool and pleasant, so he alighted from his
horse to rest himself for a time, calling for a pot of ale to refresh his thirsty
throat.
There he saw a party of right jovial fellows seated beneath the spreading oak
that shaded the greensward in front of the door. There was a tinker, two
barefoot friars, and a party of six of the King's foresters all clad in Lincoln
green, and all of them were quaffing humming ale and singing merry ballads of
the good old times. Loud laughed the foresters, as jests were bandied about
between the singing, and louder laughed the friars, for they were lusty men
with beards that curled like the wool of black rams; but loudest of all laughed
the Tinker, and he sang more sweetly than any of the rest. His bag and his
hammer hung upon a twig of the oak tree, and near by leaned his good stout
cudgel, as thick as his wrist and knotted at the end.
"Come," cried one of the foresters to the tired messenger, "come join us for
this shot. Ho, landlord! Bring a fresh pot of ale for each man."
The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were
there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good.
"Now what news bearest thou so fast?" quoth one, "and whither ridest thou
today?"
The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly; besides,
the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in an easy corner of the
inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway and the hostess stood with
her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his budget of news with great
comfort. He told all from the very first: how Robin Hood had slain the forester,
and how he had hidden in the greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived
therein, all against the law, God wot, slaying His Majesty's deer and levying
toll on fat abbot, knight, and esquire, so that none dare travel even on broad
Watling Street or the Fosse Way for fear of him; how that the Sheriff had a
mind to serve the King's warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he
mind warrant of either king or sheriff, for he was far from being a law-abiding
man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham Town to serve
this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones, and how that he, the

messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to find of what mettle the
Lincoln men might be.
"Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town," said the jolly Tinker,
"and no one nigh Nottingham—nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark— can
hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of
Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that
place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of
whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong,
am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of
Nan o' the Mill, and by mine own name and that's Wat o' the Crabstaff, and by
mine own mother's son, and that's myself, will I, even I, Wat o' the Crabstaff,
meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious
sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire,
I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe
again! Hear ye that, bully boys?"
"Now art thou the man for my farthing," cried the messenger. "And back
thou goest with me to Nottingham Town."

"Nay," quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Go I
with no man gin it be not with mine own free will."
"Nay, nay," said the messenger, "no man is there in Nottinghamshire could
make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow."
"Ay, that be I brave," said the Tinker.
"Ay, marry," said the messenger, "thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff
hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the
warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do."

"Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag and hammer, and
my cudgel. Ay, let' me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether
he will not mind the King's warrant." So, after having paid their score, the
messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham
again.
One bright morning soon after this time, Robin Hood started off to
Nottingham Town to find what was a-doing there, walking merrily along the
roadside where the grass was sweet with daisies, his eyes wandering and his
thoughts also. His bugle horn hung at his hip and his bow and arrows at his
back, while in his hand he bore a good stout oaken staff, which he twirled with
his fingers as he strolled along.
As thus he walked down a shady lane he saw a tinker coming, trolling a
merry song as he drew nigh. On his back hung his bag and his hammer, and in
his hand he carried a right stout crabstaff full six feet long, and thus sang he:

"In peascod time, when hound to horn
Gives ear till buck be killed,
And little lads with pipes of corn
Sit keeping beasts afield—"

"Halloa, good friend!" cried Robin.
"I WENT TO GATHER STRAWBERRIES—"
"Halloa!" cried Robin again.
"BY WOODS AND GROVES FULL FAIR—"
"Halloa! Art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!" "And who art thou dost so
boldly check a fair song?" quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. "Halloa,
shine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou
stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be
no good friend it were ill for thee."
"And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?" quoth Robin.
"I come from Banbury," answered the Tinker.
"Alas!" quoth Robin, "I hear there is sad news this merry morn."

"Ha! Is it indeed so?" cried the Tinker eagerly. "Prythee tell it speedily, for I
am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for
news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings."
"Well then," quoth Robin, "list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself up
bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two tinkers are in the
stocks for drinking ale and beer!"
"Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog," quoth the Tinker,
"for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is indeed, gin there be
two stout fellows in the stocks."
"Nay," said Robin, "thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the
wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in the stocks,
for the others do roam the country at large."
"Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan," cried the Tinker, "I have a
good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the
stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part."
Loud laughed Robin and cried, "Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why,
thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art
thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with
me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest
—and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks—I will drench thy throat with as good
homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire."
"Now by my faith," said the Tinker, "thou art a right good fellow in spite of
thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that
same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen."
"Tell me thy news, good friend, I prythee," quoth Robin as they trudged
along together, "for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat."
"Now I love thee as my brother, my bully blade," said the Tinker, "else I
would not tell thee my news; for sly am I, man, and I have in hand a grave
undertaking that doth call for all my wits, for I come to seek a bold outlaw that
men, hereabouts, call Robin Hood. Within my pouch I have a warrant, all fairly
written out on parchment, forsooth, with a great red seal for to make it lawful.
Could I but meet this same Robin Hood I would serve it upon his dainty body,
and if he minded it not I would beat him till every one of his ribs would cry

Amen. But thou livest hereabouts, mayhap thou knowest Robin Hood thyself,
good fellow."
"Ay, marry, that I do somewhat," quoth Robin, "and I have seen him this
very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better
watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch."
"Let him but try!" cried the Tinker. "Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I
would I had him here now, man to man!" And he made his heavy cudgel to spin
again. "But what manner of man is he, lad?
"Much like myself," said Robin, laughing, "and in height and build and age
nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too."
"Nay," quoth the Tinker, "thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a
great bearded man. Nottingham men feared him so."
"Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art," said Robin. "But men do
call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff."
"That may be," said the Tinker right sturdily, "but I am more deft than he, for
did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town?
But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to
him? Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the
warrant upon the knave's body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou
showest me him."
"Ay, that will I," quoth Robin, "but show me thy warrant, man, until I see
whether it be good or no."
"That will I not do, even to mine own brother," answered the Tinker. "No
man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow's own body."
"So be it," quoth Robin. "And thou show it not to me I know not to whom
thou wilt show it. But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and
taste his brown October."
No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue
Boar. None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with
trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such
humming ale; nor, in wintertime, when the north wind howled and snow drifted
around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as

blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar. At such times might be found a
goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth,
bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs[Small sour apples] bobbed in bowls
of ale upon the hearthstone. Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his
band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will
Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was
filled with snow. As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his
head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very
well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band
were the best of customers and paid their scores without having them chalked
up behind the door. So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and
called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or
speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before.
"Bide thou here," quoth Robin to the Tinker, "while I go and see that mine
host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that
brewed by Withold of Tamworth." So saying, he went within and whispered to
the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale;
which the latter did and brought it to them.
"By Our Lady," said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, "yon same
Withold of Tamworth—a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know
—breweth the most humming ale that e'er passed the lips of Wat o' the
Crabstaff."
"Drink, man, drink," cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. "Ho,
landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my
jolly blade."
"Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow," quoth the Tinker, "for I
never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it doth make my head
hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song,
and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do
look upon me the while."
Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called "The
Marriage of Sir Gawaine," which you may some time read yourself, in stout
English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble tale of noble
knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the Tinker came to the last
verse his tongue began to trip and his head to spin, because of the strong waters

mixed with the ale. First his tongue tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then
his head wagged from side to side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never
would waken again.
Then Robin Hood laughed aloud and quickly took the warrant from out the
Tinker's pouch with his deft fingers. "Sly art thou, Tinker," quoth he, "but not
yet, I bow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief Robin Hood."
Then he called the host to him and said, "Here, good man, are ten broad
shillings for the entertainment thou hast given us this day. See that thou takest
good care of thy fair guest there, and when he wakes thou mayst again charge
him ten shillings also, and if he hath it not, thou mayst take his bag and
hammer, and even his coat, in payment. Thus do I punish those that come into
the greenwood to deal dole to me. As for thine own self, never knew I landlord
yet that would not charge twice an he could."
At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw,
"Teach a magpie to suck eggs."
The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows grew
long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up, then he
looked down, then he looked east, then he looked west, for he was gathering
his wits together, like barley straws blown apart by the wind. First he thought
of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he thought of his stout
crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then of his warrant, and of the
fourscore angels he was to gain for serving it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his
hand into his pouch, but not a scrap nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to
his feet in a rage.
"Ho, landlord!" cried he, "whither hath that knave gone that was with me but
now?"
"What knave meaneth Your Worship?" quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker
Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water. "I saw no
knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave
so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with Your Worship, but
I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass
him by and know him not."
"Now, how should I, that ne'er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine
therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?"

"Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin
Hood, which same—"
"Now, by'r Lady!" cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry
bull, "thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and
never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was.
Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave's pate for thee!"
Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would
smite him where he stood.
"Nay," cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, "how
knew I that thou knewest him not?"
"Well and truly thankful mayst thou be," quoth the Tinker, "that I be a patient
man and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne'er cheat customer
again. But as for this same knave Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him,
and if I do not score his knave's pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me
woman." So saying, he gathered himself together to depart.
"Nay," quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms
like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, "thou goest not
till thou hast paid me my score."
"But did not he pay thee?"
"Not so much as one farthing; and ten good shillings' worth of ale have ye
drunk this day. Nay, I say, thou goest not away without paying me, else shall
our good Sheriff know of it."
"But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow," quoth the Tinker.
"'Good fellow' not me," said the landlord. "Good fellow am I not when it
cometh to lose ten shillings! Pay me that thou owest me in broad money, or
else leave thy coat and bag and hammer; yet, I wot they are not worth ten
shillings, and I shall lose thereby. Nay, an thou stirrest, I have a great dog
within and I will loose him upon thee. Maken, open thou the door and let forth
Brian if this fellow stirs one step."
"Nay," quoth the Tinker—for, by roaming the country, he had learned what
dogs were—"take thou what thou wilt have, and let me depart in peace, and
may a murrain go with thee. But oh, landlord! An I catch yon scurvy varlet, I
swear he shall pay full with usury for that he hath had!"

So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the
landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed
when he had fairly gone.
"Robin and I stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly," quoth the landlord.
Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the
forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full
and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout
oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest
path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and
shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply
face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke:
"Halloa, my sweet bird," said he, laughing merrily, "how likest thou thine
ale? Wilt not sing to me another song?"
The Tinker said nothing at first but stood looking at Robin with a grim face.
"Now," quoth he at last, "I am right glad I have met thee, and if I do not rattle
thy bones within thy hide this day, I give thee leave to put thy foot upon my
neck."
"With all my heart," cried merry Robin. "Rattle my bones, an thou canst." So
saying, he gripped his staff and threw himself upon his guard. Then the Tinker
spat upon his hands and, grasping his staff, came straight at the other. He struck
two or three blows, but soon found that he had met his match, for Robin
warded and parried all of them, and, before the Tinker thought, he gave him a
rap upon the ribs in return. At this Robin laughed aloud, and the Tinker grew
more angry than ever, and smote again with all his might and main. Again
Robin warded two of the strokes, but at the third, his staff broke beneath the
mighty blows of the Tinker. "Now, ill betide thee, traitor staff," cried Robin, as
it fell from his hands; "a foul stick art thou to serve me thus in mine hour of
need."
"Now yield thee," quoth the Tinker, "for thou art my captive; and if thou do
not, I will beat thy pate to a pudding."
To this Robin Hood made no answer, but, clapping his horn to his lips, he
blew three blasts, loud and clear.

"Ay," quoth the Tinker, "blow thou mayest, but go thou must with me to
Nottingham Town, for the Sheriff would fain see thee there. Now wilt thou
yield thee, or shall I have to break thy pretty head?"
"An I must drink sour ale, I must," quoth Robin, "but never have I yielded
me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I
bethink me, will I yield now. Ho, my merry men! Come quickly!"
Then from out the forest leaped Little John and six stout yeomen clad in
Lincoln green.
"How now, good master," cried Little John, "what need hast thou that thou
dost wind thy horn so loudly?"
"There stands a tinker," quoth Robin, "that would fain take me to
Nottingham, there to hang upon the gallows tree."
"Then shall he himself hang forthwith," cried Little John, and he and the
others made at the Tinker, to seize him.
"Nay, touch him not," said Robin, "for a right stout man is he. A metal man
he is by trade, and a mettled man by nature; moreover, he doth sing a lovely
ballad. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my merry men all? Three suits of
Lincoln green shalt thou have a year, besides forty marks in fee; thou shalt
share all with us and lead a right merry life in the greenwood; for cares have
we not, and misfortune cometh not upon us within the sweet shades of
Sherwood, where we shoot the dun deer and feed upon venison and sweet
oaten cakes, and curds and honey. Wilt thou come with me?"
"Ay, marry, will I join with you all," quoth the Tinker, "for I love a merry
life, and I love thee, good master, though thou didst thwack my ribs and cheat
me into the bargain. Fain am I to own thou art both a stouter and a slyer man
than I; so I will obey thee and be thine own true servant."
So all turned their steps to the forest depths, where the Tinker was to live
henceforth. For many a day he sang ballads to the band, until the famous Allan
a Dale joined them, before whose sweet voice all others seemed as harsh as a
raven's; but of him we will learn hereafter.

The Shooting Match at Nottingham Town
THEN THE SHERIFF was very wroth because of this failure to take jolly
Robin, for it came to his ears, as ill news always does, that the people laughed
at him and made a jest of his thinking to serve a warrant upon such a one as the
bold outlaw. And a man hates nothing so much as being made a jest of; so he
said: "Our gracious lord and sovereign King himself shall know of this, and
how his laws are perverted and despised by this band of rebel outlaws. As for
yon traitor Tinker, him will I hang, if I catch him, upon the very highest
gallows tree in all Nottinghamshire."
Then he bade all his servants and retainers to make ready to go to London
Town, to see and speak with the King.
At this there was bustling at the Sheriff's castle, and men ran hither and
thither upon this business and upon that, while the forge fires of Nottingham
glowed red far into the night like twinkling stars, for all the smiths of the town
were busy making or mending armor for the Sheriff's troop of escort. For two
days this labor lasted, then, on the third, all was ready for the journey. So forth
they started in the bright sunlight, from Nottingham Town to Fosse Way and
thence to Watling Street; and so they journeyed for two days, until they saw at
last the spires and towers of great London Town; and many folks stopped, as
they journeyed along, and gazed at the show they made riding along the
highways with their flashing armor and gay plumes and trappings.
In London King Henry and his fair Queen Eleanor held their court, gay with
ladies in silks and satins and velvets and cloth of gold, and also brave knights
and gallant courtiers.
Thither came the Sheriff and was shown into the King's presence.
"A boon, a boon," quoth he, as he knelt upon the ground.
"Now what wouldst thou have?" said the King. "Let us hear what may be thy
desires."
"O good my Lord and Sovereign," spake the Sheriff, "in Sherwood Forest in
our own good shire of Nottingham, liveth a bold outlaw whose name is Robin

Hood."
"In good sooth," said the King, "his doings have reached even our own royal
ears. He is a saucy, rebellious varlet, yet, I am fain to own, a right merry soul
withal."
"But hearken, O my most gracious Sovereign," said the Sheriff. "I sent a
warrant to him with thine own royal seal attached, by a right lusty knave, but
he beat the messenger and stole the warrant. And he killeth thy deer and
robbeth thine own liege subjects even upon the great highways."
"Why, how now," quoth the King wrathfully. "What wouldst thou have me
do? Comest thou not to me with a great array of men-at-arms and retainers, and
yet art not able to take a single band of lusty knaves without armor on breast, in
thine own county! What wouldst thou have me do? Art thou not my Sheriff?
Are not my laws in force in Nottinghamshire? Canst thou not take thine own
course against those that break the laws or do any injury to thee or thine? Go,
get thee gone, and think well; devise some plan of thine own, but trouble me no
further. But look well to it, Master Sheriff, for I will have my laws obeyed by
all men within my kingdom, and if thou art not able to enforce them thou art no
sheriff for me. So look well to thyself, I say, or ill may befall thee as well as all
the thieving knaves in Nottinghamshire. When the flood cometh it sweepeth
away grain as well as chaff."
Then the Sheriff turned away with a sore and troubled heart, and sadly he
rued his fine show of retainers, for he saw that the King was angry because he
had so many men about him and yet could not enforce the laws. So, as they all
rode slowly back to Nottingham, the Sheriff was thoughtful and full of care.
Not a word did he speak to anyone, and no one of his men spoke to him, but all
the time he was busy devising some plan to take Robin Hood.
"Aha!" cried he suddenly, smiting his hand upon his thigh "I have it now!
Ride on, my merry men all, and let us get back to Nottingham Town as
speedily as we may. And mark well my words: before a fortnight is passed, that
evil knave Robin Hood will be safely clapped into Nottingham gaol."
But what was the Sheriff's plan?
As a usurer takes each one of a bag of silver angels, feeling each coin to find
whether it be clipped or not, so the Sheriff, as all rode slowly and sadly back
toward Nottingham, took up thought after thought in turn, feeling around the

edges of each but finding in every one some flaw. At last he thought of the
daring soul of jolly Robin and how, as he the Sheriff knew, he often came even
within the walls of Nottingham.
"Now," thought the Sheriff, "could I but persuade Robin nigh to Nottingham
Town so that I could find him, I warrant I would lay hands upon him so stoutly
that he would never get away again." Then of a sudden it came to him like a
flash that were he to proclaim a great shooting match and offer some grand
prize, Robin Hood might be overpersuaded by his spirit to come to the butts;
and it was this thought which caused him to cry "Aha!" and smite his palm
upon his thigh.
So, as soon as he had returned safely to Nottingham, he sent messengers
north and south, and east and west, to proclaim through town, hamlet, and
countryside, this grand shooting match, and everyone was bidden that could
draw a longbow, and the prize was to be an arrow of pure beaten gold.
When Robin Hood first heard the news of this he was in Lincoln Town, and
hastening back to Sherwood Forest he soon called all his merry men about him
and spoke to them thus:
"Now hearken, my merry men all, to the news that I have brought from
Lincoln Town today. Our friend the Sheriff of Nottingham hath proclaimed a
shooting match, and hath sent messengers to tell of it through all the
countryside, and the prize is to be a bright golden arrow. Now I fain would
have one of us win it, both because of the fairness of the prize and because our
sweet friend the Sheriff hath offered it. So we will take our bows and shafts
and go there to shoot, for I know right well that merriment will be a-going.
What say ye, lads?"
Then young David of Doncaster spoke up and said, "Now listen, I pray thee,
good master, unto what I say. I have come straight from our friend Eadom o'
the Blue Boar, and there I heard the full news of this same match. But, master, I
know from him, and he got it from the Sheriff's man Ralph o' the Scar, that this
same knavish Sheriff hath but laid a trap for thee in this shooting match and
wishes nothing so much as to see thee there. So go not, good master, for I know
right well he doth seek to beguile thee, but stay within the greenwood lest we
all meet dole and woe."
"Now," quoth Robin, "thou art a wise lad and keepest thine ears open and thy
mouth shut, as becometh a wise and crafty woodsman. But shall we let it be

said that the Sheriff of Nottingham did cow bold Robin Hood and sevenscore
as fair archers as are in all merry England? Nay, good David, what thou tellest
me maketh me to desire the prize even more than I else should do. But what
sayeth our good gossip Swanthold? Is it not 'A hasty man burneth his mouth,
and the fool that keepeth his eyes shut falleth into the pit'? Thus he says, truly,
therefore we must meet guile with guile. Now some of you clothe yourselves as
curtal friars, and some as rustic peasants, and some as tinkers, or as beggars,
but see that each man taketh a good bow or broadsword, in case need should
arise. As for myself, I will shoot for this same golden arrow, and should I win
it, we will hang it to the branches of our good greenwood tree for the joy of all
the band. How like you the plan, my merry men all?"
Then "Good, good!" cried all the band right heartily.
A fair sight was Nottingham Town on the day of the shooting match. All
along upon the green meadow beneath the town wall stretched a row of
benches, one above the other, which were for knight and lady, squire and dame,
and rich burghers and their wives; for none but those of rank and quality were
to sit there. At the end of the range, near the target, was a raised seat bedecked
with ribbons and scarfs and garlands of flowers, for the Sheriff of Nottingham
and his dame. The range was twoscore paces broad. At one end stood the
target, at the other a tent of striped canvas, from the pole of which fluttered
many-colored flags and streamers. In this booth were casks of ale, free to be
broached by any of the archers who might wish to quench their thirst.
Across the range from where the seats for the better folk were raised was a
railing to keep the poorer people from crowding in front of the target. Already,
while it was early, the benches were beginning to fill with people of quality,
who kept constantly arriving in little carts or upon palfreys that curveted gaily
to the merry tinkle of silver bells at bridle reins. With these came also the
poorer folk, who sat or lay upon the green grass near the railing that kept them
from off the range. In the great tent the archers were gathering by twos and
threes; some talking loudly of the fair shots each man had made in his day;
some looking well to their bows, drawing a string betwixt the fingers to see
that there was no fray upon it, or inspecting arrows, shutting one eye and
peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and true, for
neither bow nor shaft should fail at such a time and for such a prize. And never
was such a company of yeomen as were gathered at Nottingham Town that day,
for the very best archers of merry England had come to this shooting match.
There was Gill o' the Red Cap, the Sheriff's own head archer, and Diccon

Cruikshank of Lincoln Town, and Adam o' the Dell, a man of Tamworth, of
threescore years and more, yet hale and lusty still, who in his time had shot in
the famous match at Woodstock, and had there beaten that renowned archer,
Clym o' the Clough. And many more famous men of the longbow were there,
whose names have been handed down to us in goodly ballads of the olden time.
But now all the benches were filled with guests, lord and lady, burgher and
dame, when at last the Sheriff himself came with his lady, he riding with stately
mien upon his milk-white horse and she upon her brown filly. Upon his head
he wore a purple velvet cap, and purple velvet was his robe, all trimmed about
with rich ermine; his jerkin and hose were of sea-green silk, and his shoes of
black velvet, the pointed toes fastened to his garters with golden chains. A
golden chain hung about his neck, and at his collar was a great carbuncle set in
red gold. His lady was dressed in blue velvet, all trimmed with swan's down.
So they made a gallant sight as they rode along side by side, and all the people
shouted from where they crowded across the space from the gentlefolk; so the
Sheriff and his lady came to their place, where men-at-arms, with hauberk and
spear, stood about, waiting for them.
Then when the Sheriff and his dame had sat down, he bade his herald wind
upon his silver horn; who thereupon sounded three blasts that came echoing
cheerily back from the gray walls of Nottingham. Then the archers stepped
forth to their places, while all the folks shouted with a mighty voice, each man
calling upon his favorite yeoman. "Red Cap!" cried some; "Cruikshank!" cried
others; "Hey for William o' Leslie!" shouted others yet again; while ladies
waved silken scarfs to urge each yeoman to do his best.
Then the herald stood forth and loudly proclaimed the rules of the game as
follows:
"Shoot each man from yon mark, which is sevenscore yards and ten from the
target. One arrow shooteth each man first, and from all the archers shall the ten
that shooteth the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Two arrows
shooteth each man of these ten, then shall the three that shoot the fairest shafts
be chosen for to shoot again. Three arrows shooteth each man of those three,
and to him that shooteth the fairest shafts shall the prize be given."
Then the Sheriff leaned forward, looking keenly among the press of archers
to find whether Robin Hood was among them; but no one was there clad in
Lincoln green, such as was worn by Robin and his band. "Nevertheless," said

the Sheriff to himself, "he may still be there, and I miss him among the crowd
of other men. But let me see when but ten men shoot, for I wot he will be
among the ten, or I know him not."
And now the archers shot, each man in turn, and the good folk never saw
such archery as was done that day. Six arrows were within the clout, four
within the black, and only two smote the outer ring; so that when the last arrow
sped and struck the target, all the people shouted aloud, for it was noble
shooting.
And now but ten men were left of all those that had shot before, and of these
ten, six were famous throughout the land, and most of the folk gathered there
knew them. These six men were Gilbert o' the Red Cap, Adam o' the Dell,
Diccon Cruikshank, William o' Leslie, Hubert o' Cloud, and Swithin o'
Hertford. Two others were yeomen of merry Yorkshire, another was a tall
stranger in blue, who said he came from London Town, and the last was a
tattered stranger in scarlet, who wore a patch over one eye.
"Now," quoth the Sheriff to a man-at-arms who stood near him, "seest thou
Robin Hood among those ten?"
"Nay, that do I not, Your Worship," answered the man. "Six of them I know
right well. Of those Yorkshire yeomen, one is too tall and the other too short for
that bold knave. Robin's beard is as yellow as gold, while yon tattered beggar
in scarlet hath a beard of brown, besides being blind of one eye. As for the
stranger in blue, Robin's shoulders, I ween, are three inches broader than his."
"Then," quoth the Sheriff, smiting his thigh angrily, "yon knave is a coward
as well as a rogue, and dares not show his face among good men and true."
Then, after they had rested a short time, those ten stout men stepped forth to
shoot again. Each man shot two arrows, and as they shot, not a word was
spoken, but all the crowd watched with scarce a breath of sound; but when the
last had shot his arrow another great shout arose, while many cast their caps
aloft for joy of such marvelous shooting.
"Now by our gracious Lady fair," quoth old Sir Amyas o' the Dell, who,
bowed with fourscore years and more, sat near the Sheriff, "ne'er saw I such
archery in all my life before, yet have I seen the best hands at the longbow for
threescore years and more."

And now but three men were left of all those that had shot before. One was
Gill o' the Red Cap, one the tattered stranger in scarlet, and one Adam o' the
Dell of Tamworth Town. Then all the people called aloud, some crying, "Ho for
Gilbert o' the Red Cap!" and some, "Hey for stout Adam o' Tamworth!" But not
a single man in the crowd called upon the stranger in scarlet.
"Now, shoot thou well, Gilbert," cried the Sheriff, "and if thine be the best
shaft, fivescore broad silver pennies will I give to thee beside the prize."
"Truly I will do my best," quoth Gilbert right sturdily. "A man cannot do
aught but his best, but that will I strive to do this day." So saying, he drew forth
a fair smooth arrow with a broad feather and fitted it deftly to the string, then
drawing his bow with care he sped the shaft. Straight flew the arrow and lit
fairly in the clout, a finger's-breadth from the center. "A Gilbert, a Gilbert!"
shouted all the crowd; and, "Now, by my faith," cried the Sheriff, smiting his
hands together, "that is a shrewd shot."
Then the tattered stranger stepped forth, and all the people laughed as they
saw a yellow patch that showed beneath his arm when he raised his elbow to
shoot, and also to see him aim with but one eye. He drew the good yew bow
quickly, and quickly loosed a shaft; so short was the time that no man could
draw a breath betwixt the drawing and the shooting; yet his arrow lodged
nearer the center than the other by twice the length of a barleycorn.
"Now by all the saints in Paradise!" cried the Sheriff, "that is a lovely shaft
in very truth!"
Then Adam o' the Dell shot, carefully and cautiously, and his arrow lodged
close beside the stranger's. Then after a short space they all three shot again,
and once more each arrow lodged within the clout, but this time Adam o' the
Dell's was farthest from the center, and again the tattered stranger's shot was
the best. Then, after another time of rest, they all shot for the third time. This
time Gilbert took great heed to his aim, keenly measuring the distance and
shooting with shrewdest care. Straight flew the arrow, and all shouted till the
very flags that waved in the breeze shook with the sound, and the rooks and
daws flew clamoring about the roofs of the old gray tower, for the shaft had
lodged close beside the spot that marked the very center.
"Well done, Gilbert!" cried the Sheriff right joyously. "Fain am I to believe
the prize is thine, and right fairly won. Now, thou ragged knave, let me see thee
shoot a better shaft than that."

Nought spake the stranger but took his place, while all was hushed, and no
one spoke or even seemed to breathe, so great was the silence for wonder what
he would do. Meanwhile, also, quite still stood the stranger, holding his bow in
his hand, while one could count five; then he drew his trusty yew, holding it
drawn but a moment, then loosed the string. Straight flew the arrow, and so
true that it smote a gray goose feather from off Gilbert's shaft, which fell
fluttering through the sunlit air as the stranger's arrow lodged close beside his
of the Red Cap, and in the very center. No one spoke a word for a while and no
one shouted, but each man looked into his neighbor's face amazedly.
"Nay," quoth old Adam o' the Dell presently, drawing a long breath and
shaking his head as he spoke, "twoscore years and more have I shot shaft, and
maybe not all times bad, but I shoot no more this day, for no man can match
with yon stranger, whosoe'er he may be." Then he thrust his shaft into his
quiver, rattling, and unstrung his bow without another word.
Then the Sheriff came down from his dais and drew near, in all his silks and
velvets, to where the tattered stranger stood leaning upon his stout bow, while
the good folk crowded around to see the man who shot so wondrously well.
"Here, good fellow," quoth the Sheriff, "take thou the prize, and well and fairly
hast thou won it, I bow. What may be thy name, and whence comest thou?"
"Men do call me Jock o' Teviotdale, and thence am I come," said the
stranger.
"Then, by Our Lady, Jock, thou art the fairest archer that e'er mine eyes
beheld, and if thou wilt join my service I will clothe thee with a better coat than
that thou hast upon thy back; thou shalt eat and drink of the best, and at every
Christmastide fourscore marks shall be thy wage. I trow thou drawest better
bow than that same coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face
here this day. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my service?"
"Nay, that will I not," quoth the stranger roughly. "I will be mine own, and
no man in all merry England shall be my master."
"Then get thee gone, and a murrain seize thee!" cried the Sheriff, and his
voice trembled with anger. "And by my faith and troth, I have a good part of a
mind to have thee beaten for thine insolence!" Then he turned upon his heel
and strode away.

It was a right motley company that gathered about the noble greenwood tree
in Sherwood's depths that same day. A score and more of barefoot friars were
there, and some that looked like tinkers, and some that seemed to be sturdy
beggars and rustic hinds; and seated upon a mossy couch was one all clad in
tattered scarlet, with a patch over one eye; and in his hand he held the golden
arrow that was the prize of the great shooting match. Then, amidst a noise of
talking and laughter, he took the patch from off his eye and stripped away the
scarlet rags from off his body and showed himself all clothed in fair Lincoln
green; and quoth he, "Easy come these things away, but walnut stain cometh
not so speedily from yellow hair." Then all laughed louder than before, for it
was Robin Hood himself that had won the prize from the Sheriff's very hands.
Then all sat down to the woodland feast and talked among themselves of the
merry jest that had been played upon the Sheriff, and of the adventures that had
befallen each member of the band in his disguise. But when the feast was done,
Robin Hood took Little John apart and said, "Truly am I vexed in my blood, for
I heard the Sheriff say today, 'Thou shootest better than that coward knave
Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day.' I would fain let him
know who it was who won the golden arrow from out his hand, and also that I
am no coward such as he takes me to be."
Then Little John said, "Good master, take thou me and Will Stutely, and we
will send yon fat Sheriff news of all this by a messenger such as he doth not
expect."
That day the Sheriff sat at meat in the great hall of his house at Nottingham
Town. Long tables stood down the hall, at which sat men-at-arms and
household servants and good stout villains,[Bond-servants.] in all fourscore
and more. There they talked of the day's shooting as they ate their meat and
quaffed their ale. The Sheriff sat at the head of the table upon a raised seat
under a canopy, and beside him sat his dame.
"By my troth," said he, "I did reckon full roundly that that knave Robin
Hood would be at the game today. I did not think that he was such a coward.
But who could that saucy knave be who answered me to my beard so bravely?
I wonder that I did not have him beaten; but there was something about him
that spoke of other things than rags and tatters."
Then, even as he finished speaking, something fell rattling among the dishes
on the table, while those that sat near started up wondering what it might be.

After a while one of the men-at-arms gathered courage enough to pick it up and
bring it to the Sheriff. Then everyone saw that it was a blunted gray goose
shaft, with a fine scroll, about the thickness of a goose quill, tied near to its
head. The Sheriff opened the scroll and glanced at it, while the veins upon his
forehead swelled and his cheeks grew ruddy with rage as he read, for this was
what he saw:

"Now Heaven bless Thy Grace this day
Say all in sweet Sherwood
For thou didst give the prize away
To merry Robin Hood."

"Whence came this?" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice. "Even through the
window, Your Worship," quoth the man who had handed the shaft to him.

Will Stutely Rescued by His Companions
NOW WHEN THE SHERIFF found that neither law nor guile could
overcome Robin Hood, he was much perplexed, and said to himself, "Fool that
I am! Had I not told our King of Robin Hood, I would not have gotten myself
into such a coil; but now I must either take him captive or have wrath visited
upon my head from his most gracious Majesty. I have tried law, and I have
tried guile, and I have failed in both; so I will try what may be done with
might."
Thus communing within himself, he called his constables together and told
them what was in his mind. "Now take ye each four men, all armed in proof,"
said he, "and get ye gone to the forest, at different points, and lie in wait for
this same Robin Hood. But if any constable finds too many men against him,
let him sound a horn, and then let each band within hearing come with all
speed and join the party that calls them. Thus, I think, shall we take this green-
clad knave. Furthermore, to him that first meeteth with Robin Hood shall one
hundred pounds of silver money be given, if he be brought to me dead or alive;
and to him that meeteth with any of his band shall twoscore pounds be given, if
such be brought to me dead or alive. So, be ye bold and be ye crafty."
So thus they went in threescore companies of five to Sherwood Forest, to
take Robin Hood, each constable wishing that he might be the one to find the
bold outlaw, or at least one of his band. For seven days and nights they hunted
through the forest glades, but never saw so much as a single man in Lincoln
green; for tidings of all this had been brought to Robin Hood by trusty Eadom
o' the Blue Boar.
When he first heard the news, Robin said, "If the Sheriff dare send force to
meet force, woe will it be for him and many a better man besides, for blood
will flow and there will be great trouble for all. But fain would I shun blood
and battle, and fain would I not deal sorrow to womenfolk and wives because
good stout yeomen lose their lives. Once I slew a man, and never do I wish to
slay a man again, for it is bitter for the soul to think thereon. So now we will
abide silently in Sherwood Forest, so that it may be well for all, but should we
be forced to defend ourselves, or any of our band, then let each man draw bow
and brand with might and main."

At this speech many of the band shook their heads, and said to themselves,
"Now the Sheriff will think that we are cowards, and folk will scoff throughout
the countryside, saying that we fear to meet these men." But they said nothing
aloud, swallowing their words and doing as Robin bade them.
Thus they hid in the depths of Sherwood Forest for seven days and seven
nights and never showed their faces abroad in all that time; but early in the
morning of the eighth day Robin Hood called the band together and said, "Now
who will go and find what the Sheriff's men are at by this time? For I know
right well they will not bide forever within Sherwood shades."
At this a great shout arose, and each man waved his bow aloft and cried that
he might be the one to go. Then Robin Hood's heart was proud when he looked
around on his stout, brave fellows, and he said, "Brave and true are ye all, my
merry men, and a right stout band of good fellows are ye, but ye cannot all go,
so I will choose one from among you, and it shall be good Will Stutely, for he
is as sly as e'er an old dog fox in Sherwood Forest."
Then Will Stutely leaped high aloft and laughed loudly, clapping his hands
for pure joy that he should have been chosen from among them all. "Now
thanks, good master," quoth he, "and if I bring not news of those knaves to
thee, call me no more thy sly Will Stutely."
Then he clad himself in a friar's gown, and underneath the robe he hung a
good broadsword in such a place that he could easily lay hands upon it. Thus
clad, he set forth upon his quest, until he came to the verge of the forest, and so
to the highway. He saw two bands of the Sheriff's men, yet he turned neither to
the right nor the left, but only drew his cowl the closer over his face, folding
his hands as if in meditation. So at last he came to the Sign of the Blue Boar.
"For," quoth he to himself, "our good friend Eadom will tell me all the news."
At the Sign of the Blue Boar he found a band of the Sheriffs men drinking
right lustily; so, without speaking to anyone, he sat down upon a distant bench,
his staff in his hand, and his head bowed forward as though he were
meditating. Thus he sat waiting until he might see the landlord apart, and
Eadom did not know him, but thought him to be some poor tired friar, so he let
him sit without saying a word to him or molesting him, though he liked not the
cloth. "For," said he to himself, "it is a hard heart that kicks the lame dog from
off the sill." As Stutely sat thus, there came a great house cat and rubbed
against his knee, raising his robe a palm's-breadth high. Stutely pushed his robe

quickly down again, but the constable who commanded the Sheriffs men saw
what had passed, and saw also fair Lincoln green beneath the friar's robe. He
said nothing at the time, but communed within himself in this wise: "Yon is no
friar of orders gray, and also, I wot, no honest yeoman goeth about in priest's
garb, nor doth a thief go so for nought. Now I think in good sooth that is one of
Robin Hood's own men." So, presently, he said aloud, "O holy father, wilt thou
not take a good pot of March beer to slake thy thirsty soul withal?"
But Stutely shook his head silently, for he said to himself, "Maybe there be
those here who know my voice."
Then the constable said again, "Whither goest thou, holy friar, upon this hot
summer's day?"
"I go a pilgrim to Canterbury Town," answered Will Stutely, speaking
gruffly, so that none might know his voice.
Then the constable said, for the third time, "Now tell me, holy father, do
pilgrims to Canterbury wear good Lincoln green beneath their robes? Ha! By
my faith, I take thee to be some lusty thief, and perhaps one of Robin Hood's
own band! Now, by Our Lady's grace, if thou movest hand or foot, I will run
thee through the body with my sword!"
Then he flashed forth his bright sword and leaped upon Will Stutely,
thinking he would take him unaware; but Stutely had his own sword tightly
held in his hand, beneath his robe, so he drew it forth before the constable
came upon him. Then the stout constable struck a mighty blow; but he struck
no more in all that fight, for Stutely, parrying the blow right deftly, smote the
constable back again with all his might. Then he would have escaped, but
could not, for the other, all dizzy with the wound and with the flowing blood,
seized him by the knees with his arms even as he reeled and fell. Then the
others rushed upon him, and Stutely struck again at another of the Sheriff's
men, but the steel cap glanced the blow, and though the blade bit deep, it did
not kill. Meanwhile, the constable, fainting as he was, drew Stutely downward,
and the others, seeing the yeoman hampered so, rushed upon him again, and
one smote him a blow upon the crown so that the blood ran down his face and
blinded him. Then, staggering, he fell, and all sprang upon him, though he
struggled so manfully that they could hardly hold him fast. Then they bound
him with stout hempen cords so that he could not move either hand or foot, and
thus they overcame him.

Robin Hood stood under the greenwood tree, thinking of Will Stutely and
how he might be faring, when suddenly he saw two of his stout yeomen come
running down the forest path, and betwixt them ran buxom Maken of the Blue
Boar. Then Robin's heart fell, for he knew they were the bearers of ill tidings.
"Will Stutely hath been taken," cried they, when they had come to where he
stood.
"And is it thou that hast brought such doleful news?" said Robin to the lass.
"Ay, marry, for I saw it all," cried she, panting as the hare pants when it has
escaped the hounds, "and I fear he is wounded sore, for one smote him main
shrewdly i' the crown. They have bound him and taken him to Nottingham
Town, and ere I left the Blue Boar I heard that he should be hanged tomorrow
day."
"He shall not be hanged tomorrow day," cried Robin; "or, if he be, full many
a one shall gnaw the sod, and many shall have cause to cry Alack-a-day!"
Then he clapped his horn to his lips and blew three blasts right loudly, and
presently his good yeomen came running through the greenwood until
sevenscore bold blades were gathered around him.
"Now hark you all!" cried Robin. "Our dear companion Will Stutely hath
been taken by that vile Sheriff's men, therefore doth it behoove us to take bow
and brand in hand to bring him off again; for I wot that we ought to risk life
and limb for him, as he hath risked life and limb for us. Is it not so, my merry
men all?" Then all cried, "Ay!" with a great voice.
So the next day they all wended their way from Sherwood Forest, but by
different paths, for it behooved them to be very crafty; so the band separated
into parties of twos and threes, which were all to meet again in a tangled dell
that lay near to Nottingham Town. Then, when they had all gathered together at
the place of meeting, Robin spoke to them thus:
"Now we will lie here in ambush until we can get news, for it doth behoove
us to be cunning and wary if we would bring our friend Will Stutely off from
the Sheriff's clutches."
So they lay hidden a long time, until the sun stood high in the sky. The day
was warm and the dusty road was bare of travelers, except an aged palmer who
walked slowly along the highroad that led close beside the gray castle wall of

Nottingham Town. When Robin saw that no other wayfarer was within sight,
he called young David of Doncaster, who was a shrewd man for his years, and
said to him, "Now get thee forth, young David, and speak to yonder palmer that
walks beside the town wall, for he hath come but now from Nottingham Town,
and may tell thee news of good Stutely, perchance."
So David strode forth, and when he came up to the pilgrim, he saluted him
and said, "Good morrow, holy father, and canst thou tell me when Will Stutely
will be hanged upon the gallows tree? I fain would not miss the sight, for I
have come from afar to see so sturdy a rogue hanged."
"Now, out upon thee, young man," cried the Palmer, "that thou shouldst
speak so when a good stout man is to be hanged for nothing but guarding his
own life!" And he struck his staff upon the ground in anger. "Alas, say I, that
this thing should be! For even this day, toward evening, when the sun falleth
low, he shall be hanged, fourscore rods from the great town gate of
Nottingham, where three roads meet; for there the Sheriff sweareth he shall die
as a warning to all outlaws in Nottinghamshire. But yet, I say again, Alas! For,
though Robin Hood and his band may be outlaws, yet he taketh only from the
rich and the strong and the dishonest man, while there is not a poor widow nor
a peasant with many children, nigh to Sherwood, but has barley flour enough
all the year long through him. It grieves my heart to see one as gallant as this
Stutely die, for I have been a good Saxon yeoman in my day, ere I turned
palmer, and well I know a stout hand and one that smiteth shrewdly at a cruel
Norman or a proud abbot with fat moneybags. Had good Stutely's master but
known how his man was compassed about with perils, perchance he might
send succor to bring him out of the hand of his enemies.
"Ay, marry, that is true," cried the young man. "If Robin and his men be nigh
this place, I wot right well they will strive to bring him forth from his peril. But
fare thee well, thou good old man, and believe me, if Will Stutely die, he shall
be right well avenged."
Then he turned and strode rapidly away; but the Palmer looked after him,
muttering, "I wot that youth is no country hind that hath come to see a good
man die. Well, well, perchance Robin Hood is not so far away but that there
will be stout doings this day." So he went upon his way, muttering to himself.
When David of Doncaster told Robin Hood what the Palmer had said to him,
Robin called the band around him and spoke to them thus:

"Now let us get straightway into Nottingham Town and mix ourselves with
the people there; but keep ye one another in sight, pressing as near the prisoner
and his guards as ye can, when they come outside the walls. Strike no man
without need, for I would fain avoid bloodshed, but if ye do strike, strike hard,
and see that there be no need to strike again. Then keep all together until we
come again to Sherwood, and let no man leave his fellows."

The sun was low in the western sky when a bugle note sounded from the
castle wall. Then all was bustle in Nottingham Town and crowds filled the
streets, for all knew that the famous Will Stutely was to be hanged that day.

Presently the castle gates opened wide and a great array of men-at-arms came
forth with noise and clatter, the Sheriff, all clad in shining mail of linked chain,
riding at their head. In the midst of all the guard, in a cart, with a halter about
his neck, rode Will Stutely. His face was pale with his wound and with loss of
blood, like the moon in broad daylight, and his fair hair was clotted in points
upon his forehead, where the blood had hardened. When he came forth from
the castle he looked up and he looked down, but though he saw some faces that
showed pity and some that showed friendliness, he saw none that he knew.
Then his heart sank within him like a plummet of lead, but nevertheless he
spoke up boldly.
"Give a sword into my hand, Sir Sheriff," said he, "and wounded man
though I be, I will fight thee and all thy men till life and strength be gone."
"Nay, thou naughty varlet," quoth the Sheriff, turning his head and looking
right grimly upon Will Stutely, "thou shalt have no sword but shall die a mean
death, as beseemeth a vile thief like thee."
"Then do but untie my hands and I will fight thee and thy men with no
weapon but only my naked fists. I crave no weapon, but let me not be meanly
hanged this day."
Then the Sheriff laughed aloud. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is thy proud
stomach quailing? Shrive thyself, thou vile knave, for I mean that thou shalt
hang this day, and that where three roads meet, so that all men shall see thee
hang, for carrion crows and daws to peck at."
"O thou dastard heart!" cried Will Stutely, gnashing his teeth at the Sheriff.
"Thou coward hind! If ever my good master meet thee thou shalt pay dearly for
this day's work! He doth scorn thee, and so do all brave hearts. Knowest thou
not that thou and thy name are jests upon the lips of every brave yeoman? Such
a one as thou art, thou wretched craven, will never be able to subdue bold
Robin Hood."
"Ha!" cried the Sheriff in a rage, "is it even so? Am I a jest with thy master,
as thou callest him? Now I will make a jest of thee and a sorry jest withal, for I
will quarter thee limb from limb, after thou art hanged." Then he spurred his
horse forward and said no more to Stutely.
At last they came to the great town gate, through which Stutely saw the fair
country beyond, with hills and dales all clothed in verdure, and far away the

dusky line of Sherwood's skirts. Then when he saw the slanting sunlight lying
on field and fallow, shining redly here and there on cot and farmhouse, and
when he heard the sweet birds singing their vespers, and the sheep bleating
upon the hillside, and beheld the swallows flying in the bright air, there came a
great fullness to his heart so that all things blurred to his sight through salt
tears, and he bowed his head lest the folk should think him unmanly when they
saw the tears in his eyes. Thus he kept his head bowed till they had passed
through the gate and were outside the walls of the town. But when he looked
up again he felt his heart leap within him and then stand still for pure joy, for
he saw the face of one of his own dear companions of merry Sherwood; then
glancing quickly around he saw well-known faces upon all sides of him,
crowding closely upon the men-at-arms who were guarding him. Then of a
sudden the blood sprang to his cheeks, for he saw for a moment his own good
master in the press and, seeing him, knew that Robin Hood and all his band
were there. Yet betwixt him and them was a line of men-at-arms.
"Now, stand back!" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice, for the crowd pressed
around on all sides. "What mean ye, varlets, that ye push upon us so? Stand
back, I say!"
Then came a bustle and a noise, and one strove to push between the men-at-
arms so as to reach the cart, and Stutely saw that it was Little John that made
all that stir.
"Now stand thou back!" cried one of the men-at-arms whom Little John
pushed with his elbows.
"Now stand thou back thine own self," quoth Little John, and straightway
smote the man a buffet beside his head that felled him as a butcher fells an ox,
and then he leaped to the cart where Stutely sat.
"I pray thee take leave of thy friends ere thou diest, Will," quoth he, "or
maybe I will die with thee if thou must die, for I could never have better
company." Then with one stroke he cut the bonds that bound the other's arms
and legs, and Stutely leaped straightway from the cart.
"Now as I live," cried the Sheriff, "yon varlet I know right well is a sturdy
rebel! Take him, I bid you all, and let him not go!"
So saying, he spurred his horse upon Little John, and rising in his stirrups
smote with might and main, but Little John ducked quickly underneath the

horse's belly and the blow whistled harmlessly over his head.
"Nay, good Sir Sheriff," cried he, leaping up again when the blow had
passed, "I must e'en borrow thy most worshipful sword." Thereupon he
twitched the weapon deftly from out the Sheriff's hand, "Here, Stutely," he
cried, "the Sheriff hath lent thee his sword! Back to back with me, man, and
defend thyself, for help is nigh!"

"Down with them!" bellowed the Sheriff in a voice like an angry bull; and he
spurred his horse upon the two who now stood back to back, forgetting in his
rage that he had no weapon with which to defend himself.
"Stand back, Sheriff!" cried Little John; and even as he spoke, a bugle horn
sounded shrilly and a clothyard shaft whistled within an inch of the Sheriff's
head. Then came a swaying hither and thither, and oaths, cries, and groans, and
clashing of steel, and swords flashed in the setting sun, and a score of arrows
whistled through the air. And some cried, "Help, help!" and some, "A rescue, a
rescue!"
"Treason!" cried the Sheriff in a loud voice. "Bear back! Bear back! Else we
be all dead men!" Thereupon he reined his horse backward through the thickest
of the crowd.
Now Robin Hood and his band might have slain half of the Sheriff's men had
they desired to do so, but they let them push out of the press and get them
gone, only sending a bunch of arrows after them to hurry them in their flight.

"Oh stay!" shouted Will Stutely after the Sheriff. "Thou wilt never catch
bold Robin Hood if thou dost not stand to meet him face to face." But the
Sheriff, bowing along his horse's back, made no answer but only spurred the
faster.
Then Will Stutely turned to Little John and looked him in the face till the
tears ran down from his eyes and he wept aloud; and kissing his friend's
cheeks, "O Little John!" quoth he, "mine own true friend, and he that I love
better than man or woman in all the world beside! Little did I reckon to see thy
face this day, or to meet thee this side Paradise." Little John could make no
answer, but wept also.
Then Robin Hood gathered his band together in a close rank, with Will
Stutely in the midst, and thus they moved slowly away toward Sherwood, and
were gone, as a storm cloud moves away from the spot where a tempest has
swept the land. But they left ten of the Sheriff's men lying along the ground
wounded—some more, some less—yet no one knew who smote them down.
Thus the Sheriff of Nottingham tried thrice to take Robin Hood and failed
each time; and the last time he was frightened, for he felt how near he had
come to losing his life; so he said, "These men fear neither God nor man, nor
king nor king's officers. I would sooner lose mine office than my life, so I will
trouble them no more." So he kept close within his castle for many a day and
dared not show his face outside of his own household, and all the time he was
gloomy and would speak to no one, for he was ashamed of what had happened
that day.

Robin Hood Turns Butcher
NOW AFTER all these things had happened, and it became known to Robin
Hood how the Sheriff had tried three times to make him captive, he said to
himself, "If I have the chance, I will make our worshipful Sheriff pay right well
for that which he hath done to me. Maybe I may bring him some time into
Sherwood Forest and have him to a right merry feast with us." For when Robin
Hood caught a baron or a squire, or a fat abbot or bishop, he brought them to
the greenwood tree and feasted them before he lightened their purses.
But in the meantime Robin Hood and his band lived quietly in Sherwood
Forest, without showing their faces abroad, for Robin knew that it would not be
wise for him to be seen in the neighborhood of Nottingham, those in authority
being very wroth with him. But though they did not go abroad, they lived a
merry life within the woodlands, spending the days in shooting at garlands
hung upon a willow wand at the end of the glade, the leafy aisles ringing with
merry jests and laughter: for whoever missed the garland was given a sound
buffet, which, if delivered by Little John, never failed to topple over the
unfortunate yeoman. Then they had bouts of wrestling and of cudgel play, so
that every day they gained in skill and strength.
Thus they dwelled for nearly a year, and in that time Robin Hood often
turned over in his mind many means of making an even score with the Sheriff.
At last he began to fret at his confinement; so one day he took up his stout
cudgel and set forth to seek adventure, strolling blithely along until he came to
the edge of Sherwood. There, as he rambled along the sunlit road, he met a
lusty young butcher driving a fine mare and riding in a stout new cart, all hung
about with meat. Merrily whistled the Butcher as he jogged along, for he was
going to the market, and the day was fresh and sweet, making his heart blithe
within him.
"Good morrow to thee, jolly fellow," quoth Robin, "thou seemest happy this
merry morn."
"Ay, that am I," quoth the jolly Butcher, "and why should I not be so? Am I
not hale in wind and limb? Have I not the bonniest lass in all Nottinghamshire?

And lastly, am I not to be married to her on Thursday next in sweet Locksley
Town?"
"Ha," said Robin, "comest thou from Locksley Town? Well do I know that
fair place for miles about, and well do I know each hedgerow and gentle
pebbly stream, and even all the bright little fishes therein, for there I was born
and bred. Now, where goest thou with thy meat, my fair friend?"
"I go to the market at Nottingham Town to sell my beef and my mutton,"
answered the Butcher. "But who art thou that comest from Locksley Town?"
"A yeoman am I, and men do call me Robin Hood."
"Now, by Our Lady's grace," cried the Butcher, "well do I know thy name,
and many a time have I heard thy deeds both sung and spoken of. But Heaven
forbid that thou shouldst take aught of me! An honest man am I, and have
wronged neither man nor maid; so trouble me not, good master, as I have never
troubled thee."
"Nay, Heaven forbid, indeed," quoth Robin, "that I should take from such as
thee, jolly fellow! Not so much as one farthing would I take from thee, for I
love a fair Saxon face like thine right well—more especially when it cometh
from Locksley Town, and most especially when the man that owneth it is to
marry a bonny lass on Thursday next. But come, tell me for what price thou
wilt sell me all of thy meat and thy horse and cart."
"At four marks do I value meat, cart, and mare," quoth the Butcher, "but if I
do not sell all my meat I will not have four marks in value."
Then Robin Hood plucked the purse from his girdle, and quoth he, "Here in
this purse are six marks. Now, I would fain be a butcher for the day and sell my
meat in Nottingham Town. Wilt thou close a bargain with me and take six
marks for thine outfit?"
"Now may the blessings of all the saints fall on thine honest head!" cried the
Butcher right joyfully, as he leaped down from his cart and took the purse that
Robin held out to him.
"Nay," quoth Robin, laughing loudly, "many do like me and wish me well,
but few call me honest. Now get thee gone back to thy lass, and give her a
sweet kiss from me." So saying, he donned the Butcher's apron, and, climbing

into the cart, he took the reins in his hand and drove off through the forest to
Nottingham Town.
When he came to Nottingham, he entered that part of the market where
butchers stood, and took up his inn[Stand for selling] in the best place he could
find. Next, he opened his stall and spread his meat upon the bench, then, taking
his cleaver and steel and clattering them together, he trolled aloud in merry
tones:

"Now come, ye lasses, and eke ye dames,
And buy your meat from me;
For three pennyworths of meat I sell
For the charge of one penny.

"Lamb have I that hath fed upon nought
But the dainty dames pied,
And the violet sweet, and the daffodil
That grow fair streams beside.

"And beef have I from the heathery words,
And mutton from dales all green,
And veal as white as a maiden's brow,
With its mother's milk, I ween.

"Then come, ye lasses, and eke ye dames,
Come, buy your meat from me,
For three pennyworths of meat I sell
For the charge of one penny."

Thus he sang blithely, while all who stood near listened amazedly. Then,
when he had finished, he clattered the steel and cleaver still more loudly,
shouting lustily, "Now, who'll buy? Who'll buy? Four fixed prices have I. Three
pennyworths of meat I sell to a fat friar or priest for sixpence, for I want not
their custom; stout aldermen I charge threepence, for it doth not matter to me
whether they buy or not; to buxom dames I sell three pennyworths of meat for
one penny for I like their custom well; but to the bonny lass that hath a liking
for a good tight butcher I charge nought but one fair kiss, for I like her custom
the best of all."
Then all began to stare and wonder and crowd around, laughing, for never
was such selling heard of in all Nottingham Town; but when they came to buy
they found it as he had said, for he gave goodwife or dame as much meat for
one penny as they could buy elsewhere for three, and when a widow or a poor
woman came to him, he gave her flesh for nothing; but when a merry lass came
and gave him a kiss, he charged not one penny for his meat; and many such
came to his stall, for his eyes were as blue as the skies of June, and he laughed

merrily, giving to each full measure. Thus he sold his meat so fast that no
butcher that stood near him could sell anything.

Then they began to talk among themselves, and some said, "This must be
some thief who has stolen cart, horse, and meat"; but others said, "Nay, when
did ye ever see a thief who parted with his goods so freely and merrily? This
must be some prodigal who hath sold his father's land, and would fain live
merrily while the money lasts." And these latter being the greater number, the
others came round, one by one to their way of thinking.
Then some of the butchers came to him to make his acquaintance. "Come,
brother," quoth one who was the head of them all, "we be all of one trade, so
wilt thou go dine with us? For this day the Sheriff hath asked all the Butcher
Guild to feast with him at the Guild Hall. There will be stout fare and much to
drink, and that thou likest, or I much mistake thee."
"Now, beshrew his heart," quoth jolly Robin, "that would deny a butcher.
And, moreover, I will go dine with you all, my sweet lads, and that as fast as I
can hie." Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he closed his stall and went
with them to the great Guild Hall.
There the Sheriff had already come in state, and with him many butchers.
When Robin and those that were with him came in, all laughing at some merry
jest he had been telling them, those that were near the Sheriff whispered to
him, "Yon is a right mad blade, for he hath sold more meat for one penny this
day than we could sell for three, and to whatsoever merry lass gave him a kiss
he gave meat for nought." And others said, "He is some prodigal that hath sold
his land for silver and gold, and meaneth to spend all right merrily."
Then the Sheriff called Robin to him, not knowing him in his butcher's dress,
and made him sit close to him on his right hand; for he loved a rich young
prodigal—especially when he thought that he might lighten that prodigal's
pockets into his own most worshipful purse. So he made much of Robin, and
laughed and talked with him more than with any of the others.
At last the dinner was ready to be served and the Sheriff bade Robin say
grace, so Robin stood up and said, "Now Heaven bless us all and eke good
meat and good sack within this house, and may all butchers be and remain as
honest men as I am."
At this all laughed, the Sheriff loudest of all, for he said to himself, "Surely
this is indeed some prodigal, and perchance I may empty his purse of some of

the money that the fool throweth about so freely." Then he spake aloud to
Robin, saying, "Thou art a jolly young blade, and I love thee mightily"; and he
smote Robin upon the shoulder.
Then Robin laughed loudly too. "Yea," quoth he, "I know thou dost love a
jolly blade, for didst thou not have jolly Robin Hood at thy shooting match and
didst thou not gladly give him a bright golden arrow for his own?"
At this the Sheriff looked grave and all the guild of butchers too, so that
none laughed but Robin, only some winked slyly at each other.
"Come, fill us some sack!" cried Robin. "Let us e'er be merry while we may,
for man is but dust, and he hath but a span to live here till the worm getteth
him, as our good gossip Swanthold sayeth; so let life be merry while it lasts,
say I. Nay, never look down i' the mouth, Sir Sheriff. Who knowest but that
thou mayest catch Robin Hood yet, if thou drinkest less good sack and
Malmsey, and bringest down the fat about thy paunch and the dust from out thy
brain. Be merry, man."
Then the Sheriff laughed again, but not as though he liked the jest, while the
butchers said, one to another, "Before Heaven, never have we seen such a mad
rollicking blade. Mayhap, though, he will make the Sheriff mad."
"How now, brothers," cried Robin, "be merry! nay, never count over your
farthings, for by this and by that I will pay this shot myself, e'en though it cost
two hundred pounds. So let no man draw up his lip, nor thrust his forefinger
into his purse, for I swear that neither butcher nor Sheriff shall pay one penny
for this feast."
"Now thou art a right merry soul," quoth the Sheriff, "and I wot thou must
have many a head of horned beasts and many an acre of land, that thou dost
spend thy money so freely."
"Ay, that have I," quoth Robin, laughing loudly again, "five hundred and
more horned beasts have I and my brothers, and none of them have we been
able to sell, else I might not have turned butcher. As for my land, I have never
asked my steward how many acres I have."
At this the Sheriff's eyes twinkled, and he chuckled to himself. "Nay, good
youth," quoth he, "if thou canst not sell thy cattle, it may be I will find a man
that will lift them from thy hands; perhaps that man may be myself, for I love a

merry youth and would help such a one along the path of life. Now how much
dost thou want for thy horned cattle?"
"Well," quoth Robin, "they are worth at least five hundred pounds."
"Nay," answered the Sheriff slowly, and as if he were thinking within
himself, "well do I love thee, and fain would I help thee along, but five
hundred pounds in money is a good round sum; besides I have it not by me. Yet
I will give thee three hundred pounds for them all, and that in good hard silver
and gold."
"Now thou old miser!" quoth Robin, "well thou knowest that so many
horned cattle are worth seven hundred pounds and more, and even that is but
small for them, and yet thou, with thy gray hairs and one foot in the grave,
wouldst trade upon the folly of a wild youth."
At this the Sheriff looked grimly at Robin. "Nay," quoth Robin, "look not on
me as though thou hadst sour beer in thy mouth, man. I will take thine offer, for
I and my brothers do need the money. We lead a merry life, and no one leads a
merry life for a farthing, so I will close the bargain with thee. But mind that
thou bringest a good three hundred pounds with thee, for I trust not one that
driveth so shrewd a bargain."
"I will bring the money," said the Sheriff. "But what is thy name, good
youth?"
"Men call me Robert o' Locksley," quoth bold Robin.
"Then, good Robert o' Locksley," quoth the Sheriff, "I will come this day to
see thy horned beasts. But first my clerk shall draw up a paper in which thou
shalt be bound to the sale, for thou gettest not my money without I get thy
beasts in return."
Then Robin Hood laughed again. "So be it," he said, smiting his palm upon
the Sheriff's hand. "Truly my brothers will be thankful to thee for thy money."
Thus the bargain was closed, but many of the butchers talked among
themselves of the Sheriff, saying that it was but a scurvy trick to beguile a poor
spendthrift youth in this way.
The afternoon had come when the Sheriff mounted his horse and joined
Robin Hood, who stood outside the gateway of the paved court waiting for

him, for he had sold his horse and cart to a trader for two marks. Then they set
forth upon their way, the Sheriff riding upon his horse and Robin running
beside him. Thus they left Nottingham Town and traveled forward along the
dusty highway, laughing and jesting together as though they had been old
friends. But all the time the Sheriff said within himself, "Thy jest to me of
Robin Hood shall cost thee dear, good fellow, even four hundred pounds, thou
fool." For he thought he would make at least that much by his bargain.
So they journeyed onward till they came within the verge of Sherwood
Forest, when presently the Sheriff looked up and down and to the right and to
the left of him, and then grew quiet and ceased his laughter. "Now," quoth he,
"may Heaven and its saints preserve us this day from a rogue men call Robin
Hood."
Then Robin laughed aloud. "Nay," said he, "thou mayst set thy mind at rest,
for well do I know Robin Hood and well do I know that thou art in no more
danger from him this day than thou art from me."
At this the Sheriff looked askance at Robin, saying to himself, "I like not that
thou seemest so well acquainted with this bold outlaw, and I wish that I were
well out of Sherwood Forest."
But still they traveled deeper into the forest shades, and the deeper they
went, the more quiet grew the Sheriff. At last they came to where the road took
a sudden bend, and before them a herd of dun deer went tripping across the
path. Then Robin Hood came close to the Sheriff and pointing his finger, he
said, "These are my horned beasts, good Master Sheriff. How dost thou like
them? Are they not fat and fair to see?"
At this the Sheriff drew rein quickly. "Now fellow," quoth he, "I would I
were well out of this forest, for I like not thy company. Go thou thine own path,
good friend, and let me but go mine."
But Robin only laughed and caught the Sheriff's bridle rein. "Nay," cried he,
"stay awhile, for I would thou shouldst see my brothers, who own these fair
horned beasts with me." So saying, he clapped his bugle to his mouth and
winded three merry notes, and presently up the path came leaping fivescore
good stout yeomen with Little John at their head.
"What wouldst thou have, good master?" quoth Little John.

"Why," answered Robin, "dost thou not see that I have brought goodly
company to feast with us today? Fye, for shame! Do you not see our good and
worshipful master, the Sheriff of Nottingham? Take thou his bridle, Little John,
for he has honored us today by coming to feast with us."
Then all doffed their hats humbly, without smiling or seeming to be in jest,
while Little John took the bridle rein and led the palfrey still deeper into the
forest, all marching in order, with Robin Hood walking beside the Sheriff, hat
in hand.
All this time the Sheriff said never a word but only looked about him like
one suddenly awakened from sleep; but when he found himself going within
the very depths of Sherwood his heart sank within him, for he thought, "Surely
my three hundred pounds will be taken from me, even if they take not my life
itself, for I have plotted against their lives more than once." But all seemed
humble and meek and not a word was said of danger, either to life or money.
So at last they came to that part of Sherwood Forest where a noble oak
spread its branches wide, and beneath it was a seat all made of moss, on which
Robin sat down, placing the Sheriff at his right hand. "Now busk ye, my merry
men all," quoth he, "and bring forth the best we have, both of meat and wine,
for his worship the Sheriff hath feasted me in Nottingham Guild Hall today,
and I would not have him go back empty."
All this time nothing had been said of the Sheriff's money, so presently he
began to pluck up heart. "For," said he to himself, "maybe Robin Hood hath
forgotten all about it."
Then, while beyond in the forest bright fires crackled and savory smells of
sweetly roasting venison and fat capons filled the glade, and brown pasties
warmed beside the blaze, did Robin Hood entertain the Sheriff right royally.
First, several couples stood forth at quarterstaff, and so shrewd were they at the
game, and so quickly did they give stroke and parry, that the Sheriff, who loved
to watch all lusty sports of the kind, clapped his hands, forgetting where he
was, and crying aloud, "Well struck! Well struck, thou fellow with the black
beard!" little knowing that the man he called upon was the Tinker that tried to
serve his warrant upon Robin Hood.
Then several yeomen came forward and spread cloths upon the green grass,
and placed a royal feast; while others still broached barrels of sack and
Malmsey and good stout ale, and set them in jars upon the cloth, with drinking

horns about them. Then all sat down and feasted and drank merrily together
until the sun was low and the half-moon glimmered with a pale light betwixt
the leaves of the trees overhead.
Then the Sheriff arose and said, "I thank you all, good yeomen, for the merry
entertainment ye have given me this day. Right courteously have ye used me,
showing therein that ye have much respect for our glorious King and his
deputy in brave Nottinghamshire. But the shadows grow long, and I must away
before darkness comes, lest I lose myself within the forest."
Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose also, and Robin said to the
Sheriff, "If thou must go, worshipful sir, go thou must; but thou hast forgotten
one thing."
"Nay, I forgot nought," said the Sheriff; yet all the same his heart sank within
him.
"But I say thou hast forgot something," quoth Robin. "We keep a merry inn
here in the greenwood, but whoever becometh our guest must pay his
reckoning."
Then the Sheriff laughed, but the laugh was hollow. "Well, jolly boys," quoth
he, "we have had a merry time together today, and even if ye had not asked me,
I would have given you a score of pounds for the sweet entertainment I have
had."
"Nay," quoth Robin seriously, "it would ill beseem us to treat Your Worship
so meanly. By my faith, Sir Sheriff, I would be ashamed to show my face if I
did not reckon the King's deputy at three hundred pounds. Is it not so, my
merry men all?"
Then "Ay!" cried all, in a loud voice.
"Three hundred devils!" roared the Sheriff. "Think ye that your beggarly
feast was worth three pounds, let alone three hundred?"
"Nay," quoth Robin gravely. "Speak not so roundly, Your Worship. I do love
thee for the sweet feast thou hast given me this day in merry Nottingham
Town; but there be those here who love thee not so much. If thou wilt look
down the cloth thou wilt see Will Stutely, in whose eyes thou hast no great
favor; then two other stout fellows are there here that thou knowest not, that
were wounded in a brawl nigh Nottingham Town, some time ago—thou

wottest when; one of them was sore hurt in one arm, yet he hath got the use of
it again. Good Sheriff, be advised by me; pay thy score without more ado, or
maybe it may fare ill with thee."
As he spoke the Sheriff's ruddy cheeks grew pale, and he said nothing more
but looked upon the ground and gnawed his nether lip. Then slowly he drew
forth his fat purse and threw it upon the cloth in front of him.
"Now take the purse, Little John," quoth Robin Hood, "and see that the
reckoning be right. We would not doubt our Sheriff, but he might not like it if
he should find he had not paid his full score."
Then Little John counted the money and found that the bag held three
hundred pounds in silver and gold. But to the Sheriff it seemed as if every clink
of the bright money was a drop of blood from his veins. And when he saw it all
counted out in a heap of silver and gold, filling a wooden platter, he turned
away and silently mounted his horse.
"Never have we had so worshipful a guest before!" quoth Robin, "and, as the
day waxeth late, I will send one of my young men to guide thee out of the
forest depths."
"Nay, Heaven forbid!" cried the Sheriff hastily. "I can find mine own way,
good man, without aid."
"Then I will put thee on the right track mine own self," quoth Robin, and,
taking the Sheriff's horse by the bridle rein, he led him into the main forest
path. Then, before he let him go, he said, "Now, fare thee well, good Sheriff,
and when next thou thinkest to despoil some poor prodigal, remember thy feast
in Sherwood Forest. 'Ne'er buy a horse, good friend, without first looking into
its mouth,' as our good gaffer Swanthold says. And so, once more, fare thee
well." Then he clapped his hand to the horse's back, and off went nag and
Sheriff through the forest glades.
Then bitterly the Sheriff rued the day that first he meddled with Robin Hood,
for all men laughed at him and many ballads were sung by folk throughout the
country, of how the Sheriff went to shear and came home shorn to the very
quick. For thus men sometimes overreach themselves through greed and guile.

Little John Goes to Nottingham Fair
SPRING HAD GONE since the Sheriff's feast in Sherwood, and summer
also, and the mellow month of October had come. All the air was cool and
fresh; the harvests were gathered home, the young birds were full fledged, the
hops were plucked, and apples were ripe. But though time had so smoothed
things over that men no longer talked of the horned beasts that the Sheriff
wished to buy, he was still sore about the matter and could not bear to hear
Robin Hood's name spoken in his presence.
With October had come the time for holding the great Fair which was
celebrated every five years at Nottingham Town, to which folk came from far
and near throughout the country. At such times archery was always the main
sport of the day, for the Nottinghamshire yeomen were the best hand at the
longbow in all merry England, but this year the Sheriff hesitated a long time
before he issued proclamation of the Fair, fearing lest Robin Hood and his band
might come to it. At first he had a great part of a mind not to proclaim the Fair,
but second thought told him that men would laugh at him and say among
themselves that he was afraid of Robin Hood, so he put that thought by. At last
he fixed in his mind that he would offer such a prize as they would not care to
shoot for. At such times it had been the custom to offer a half score of marks or
a tun of ale, so this year he proclaimed that a prize of two fat steers should be
given to the best bowman.
When Robin Hood heard what had been proclaimed he was vexed, and said,
"Now beshrew this Sheriff that he should offer such a prize that none but
shepherd hinds will care to shoot for it! I would have loved nothing better than
to have had another bout at merry Nottingham Town, but if I should win this
prize nought would it pleasure or profit me."
Then up spoke Little John: "Nay, but hearken, good master," said he, "only
today Will Stutely, young David of Doncaster, and I were at the Sign of the
Blue Boar, and there we heard all the news of this merry Fair, and also that the
Sheriff hath offered this prize, that we of Sherwood might not care to come to
the Fair; so, good master, if thou wilt, I would fain go and strive to win even
this poor thing among the stout yeomen who will shoot at Nottingham Town."

"Nay, Little John," quoth Robin, "thou art a sound stout fellow, yet thou
lackest the cunning that good Stutely hath, and I would not have harm befall
thee for all Nottinghamshire. Nevertheless, if thou wilt go, take some disguise
lest there be those there who may know thee."
"So be it, good master," quoth Little John, "yet all the disguise that I wish is
a good suit of scarlet instead of this of Lincoln green. I will draw the cowl of
my jacket about my head so that it will hide my brown hair and beard, and
then, I trust, no one will know me."
"It is much against my will," said Robin Hood, "ne'ertheless, if thou dost
wish it, get thee gone, but bear thyself seemingly, Little John, for thou art mine
own right-hand man and I could ill bear to have harm befall thee."
So Little John clad himself all in scarlet and started off to the Fair at
Nottingham Town.
Right merry were these Fair days at Nottingham, when the green before the
great town gate was dotted with booths standing in rows, with tents of many-
colored canvas, hung about with streamers and garlands of flowers, and the
folk came from all the countryside, both gentle and common. In some booths
there was dancing to merry music, in others flowed ale and beer, and in others
yet again sweet cakes and barley sugar were sold; and sport was going outside
the booths also, where some minstrel sang ballads of the olden time, playing a
second upon the harp, or where the wrestlers struggled with one another within
the sawdust ring, but the people gathered most of all around a raised platform
where stout fellows played at quarterstaff.
So Little John came to the Fair. All scarlet were his hose and jerkin, and
scarlet was his cowled cap, with a scarlet feather stuck in the side of it. Over
his shoulders was slung a stout bow of yew, and across his back hung a quiver
of good round arrows. Many turned to look after such a stout, tall fellow, for
his shoulders were broader by a palm's-breadth than any that were there, and he
stood a head taller than all the other men. The lasses, also, looked at him
askance, thinking they had never seen a lustier youth.
First of all he went to the booth where stout ale was sold and, standing aloft
on a bench, he called to all that were near to come and drink with him. "Hey,
sweet lads!" cried he "who will drink ale with a stout yeoman? Come, all!
Come, all! Let us be merry, for the day is sweet and the ale is tingling. Come
hither, good yeoman, and thou, and thou; for not a farthing shall one of you

pay. Nay, turn hither, thou lusty beggar, and thou jolly tinker, for all shall be
merry with me."
Thus he shouted, and all crowded around, laughing, while the brown ale
flowed; and they called Little John a brave fellow, each swearing that he loved
him as his own brother; for when one has entertainment with nothing to pay,
one loves the man that gives it to one.
Then he strolled to the platform where they were at cudgel play, for he loved
a bout at quarterstaff as he loved meat and drink; and here befell an adventure
that was sung in ballads throughout the mid-country for many a day.
One fellow there was that cracked crowns of everyone who threw cap into
the ring. This was Eric o' Lincoln, of great renown, whose name had been sung
in ballads throughout the countryside. When Little John reached the stand he
found none fighting, but only bold Eric walking up and down the platform,
swinging his staff and shouting lustily, "Now, who will come and strike a
stroke for the lass he loves the best, with a good Lincolnshire yeoman? How
now, lads? Step up! Step up! Or else the lasses' eyes are not bright hereabouts,
or the blood of Nottingham youth is sluggish and cold. Lincoln against
Nottingham, say I! For no one hath put foot upon the boards this day such as
we of Lincoln call a cudgel player."
At this, one would nudge another with his elbow, saying, "Go thou, Ned!" or
"Go thou, Thomas!" but no lad cared to gain a cracked crown for nothing.
Presently Eric saw where Little John stood among the others, a head and
shoulders above them all, and he called to him loudly, "Halloa, thou long-
legged fellow in scarlet! Broad are thy shoulders and thick thy head; is not thy
lass fair enough for thee to take cudgel in hand for her sake? In truth, I believe
that Nottingham men do turn to bone and sinew, for neither heart nor courage
have they! Now, thou great lout, wilt thou not twirl staff for Nottingham?"
"Ay," quoth Little John, "had I but mine own good staff here, it would
pleasure me hugely to crack thy knave's pate, thou saucy braggart! I wot it
would be well for thee an thy cock's comb were cut!" Thus he spoke, slowly at
first, for he was slow to move; but his wrath gathered headway like a great
stone rolling down a hill, so that at the end he was full of anger.
Then Eric o' Lincoln laughed aloud. "Well spoken for one who fears to meet
me fairly, man to man," said he. "Saucy art thou thine own self, and if thou

puttest foot upon these boards, I will make thy saucy tongue rattle within thy
teeth!"
"Now," quoth Little John, "is there never a man here that will lend me a
good stout staff till I try the mettle of yon fellow?" At this, half a score reached
him their staves, and he took the stoutest and heaviest of them all. Then,
looking up and down the cudgel, he said, "Now, I have in my hand but a splint
of wood—a barley straw, as it were—yet I trow it will have to serve me, so
here goeth." Thereupon he cast the cudgel upon the stand and, leaping lightly
after it, snatched it up in his hand again.
Then each man stood in his place and measured the other with fell looks
until he that directed the sport cried, "Play!" At this they stepped forth, each
grasping his staff tightly in the middle. Then those that stood around saw the
stoutest game of quarterstaff that e'er Nottingham Town beheld. At first Eric o'
Lincoln thought that he would gain an easy advantage, so he came forth as if he
would say, "Watch, good people, how that I carve you this cockerel right
speedily"; but he presently found it to be no such speedy matter. Right deftly he
struck, and with great skill of fence, but he had found his match in Little John.
Once, twice, thrice, he struck, and three times Little John turned the blows to
the left hand and to the right. Then quickly and with a dainty backhanded blow,
he rapped Eric beneath his guard so shrewdly that it made his head ring again.
Then Eric stepped back to gather his wits, while a great shout went up and all
were glad that Nottingham had cracked Lincoln's crown; and thus ended the
first bout of the game.
Then presently the director of the sport cried, "Play!" and they came together
again; but now Eric played warily, for he found his man was of right good
mettle, and also he had no sweet memory of the blow that he had got; so this
bout neither Little John nor the Lincoln man caught a stroke within his guard.
Then, after a while, they parted again, and this made the second bout.
Then for the third time they came together, and at first Eric strove to be
wary, as he had been before; but, growing mad at finding himself so foiled, he
lost his wits and began to rain blows so fiercely and so fast that they rattled like
hail on penthouse roof; but, in spite of all, he did not reach within Little John's
guard. Then at last Little John saw his chance and seized it right cleverly. Once
more, with a quick blow, he rapped Eric beside the head, and ere he could
regain himself, Little John slipped his right hand down to his left and, with a

swinging blow, smote the other so sorely upon the crown that down he fell as
though he would never move again.
Then the people shouted so loud that folk came running from all about to see
what was the ado; while Little John leaped down from the stand and gave the
staff back to him that had lent it to him. And thus ended the famous bout
between Little John and Eric o' Lincoln of great renown.
But now the time had come when those who were to shoot with the longbow
were to take their places, so the people began flocking to the butts where the
shooting was to be. Near the target, in a good place, sat the Sheriff upon a
raised dais, with many gentlefolk around him. When the archers had taken their
places, the herald came forward and proclaimed the rules of the game, and how
each should shoot three shots, and to him that should shoot the best the prize of
two fat steers was to belong. A score of brave shots were gathered there, and
among them some of the keenest hands at the longbow in Lincoln and
Nottinghamshire; and among them Little John stood taller than all the rest.
"Who is yon stranger clad all in scarlet?" said some, and others answered, "It is
he that hath but now so soundly cracked the crown of Eric o' Lincoln." Thus
the people talked among themselves, until at last it reached even the Sheriff's
ears.
And now each man stepped forward and shot in turn; but though each shot
well, Little John was the best of all, for three times he struck the clout, and
once only the length of a barleycorn from the center. "Hey for the tall archer!"
shouted the crowd, and some among them shouted, "Hey for Reynold
Greenleaf!" for this was the name that Little John had called himself that day.
Then the Sheriff stepped down from the raised seat and came to where the
archers stood, while all doffed their caps that saw him coming. He looked
keenly at Little John but did not know him, though he said, after a while, "How
now, good fellow, methinks there is that about thy face that I have seen
erewhile."
"Mayhap it may be so," quoth Little John, "for often have I seen Your
Worship." And, as he spoke, he looked steadily into the Sheriff's eyes so that
the latter did not suspect who he was.
"A brave blade art thou, good friend," said the Sheriff, "and I hear that thou
hast well upheld the skill of Nottinghamshire against that of Lincoln this day.
What may be thy name, good fellow?"

"Men do call me Reynold Greenleaf, Your Worship," said Little John; and
the old ballad that tells of this, adds, "So, in truth, was he a green leaf, but of
what manner of tree the Sheriff wotted not."
"Now, Reynold Greenleaf," quoth the Sheriff, "thou art the fairest hand at the
longbow that mine eyes ever beheld, next to that false knave, Robin Hood,
from whose wiles Heaven forfend me! Wilt thou join my service, good fellow?
Thou shalt be paid right well, for three suits of clothes shalt thou have a year,
with good food and as much ale as thou canst drink; and, besides this, I will
pay thee forty marks each Michaelmastide."
"Then here stand I a free man, and right gladly will I enter thy household,"
said Little John, for he thought he might find some merry jest, should he enter
the Sheriff's service.
"Fairly hast thou won the fat steers," said the Sheriff, "and hereunto I will
add a butt of good March beer, for joy of having gotten such a man; for, I wot,
thou shootest as fair a shaft as Robin Hood himself."
"Then," said Little John, "for joy of having gotten myself into thy service, I
will give fat steers and brown ale to all these good folk, to make them merry
withal." At this arose a great shout, many casting their caps aloft, for joy of the
gift.
Then some built great fires and roasted the steers, and others broached the
butt of ale, with which all made themselves merry. Then, when they had eaten
and drunk as much as they could, and when the day faded and the great moon
arose, all red and round, over the spires and towers of Nottingham Town, they
joined hands and danced around the fires, to the music of bagpipes and harps.
But long before this merrymaking had begun, the Sheriff and his new servant
Reynold Greenleaf were in the Castle of Nottingham.

How Little John Lived at the Sheriff's
THUS LITTLE JOHN entered into the Sheriff's service and found the life he
led there easy enough, for the Sheriff made him his right-hand man and held
him in great favor. He sat nigh the Sheriff at meat, and he ran beside his horse
when he went a-hunting; so that, what with hunting and hawking a little, and
eating rich dishes and drinking good sack, and sleeping until late hours in the
morning, he grew as fat as a stall-fed ox. Thus things floated easily along with
the tide, until one day when the Sheriff went a-hunting, there happened that
which broke the smooth surface of things.
This morning the Sheriff and many of his men set forth to meet certain lords,
to go a-hunting. He looked all about him for his good man, Reynold Greenleaf,
but, not finding him, was vexed, for he wished to show Little John's skill to his
noble friends. As for Little John, he lay abed, snoring lustily, till the sun was
high in the heavens. At last he opened his eyes and looked about him but did
not move to arise. Brightly shone the sun in at the window, and all the air was
sweet with the scent of woodbine that hung in sprays about the wall without,
for the cold winter was past and spring was come again, and Little John lay
still, thinking how sweet was everything on this fair morn. Just then he heard,
faint and far away, a distant bugle note sounding thin and clear. The sound was
small, but, like a little pebble dropped into a glassy fountain, it broke all the
smooth surface of his thoughts, until his whole soul was filled with
disturbance. His spirit seemed to awaken from its sluggishness, and his
memory brought back to him all the merry greenwood life—how the birds
were singing blithely there this bright morning, and how his loved companions
and friends were feasting and making merry, or perhaps talking of him with
sober speech; for when he first entered the Sheriff's service he did so in jest;
but the hearthstone was warm during the winter, and the fare was full, and so
he had abided, putting off from day to day his going back to Sherwood, until
six long months had passed. But now he thought of his good master and of Will
Stutely, whom he loved better than anyone in all the world, and of young David
of Doncaster, whom he had trained so well in all manly sports, till there came
over his heart a great and bitter longing for them all, so that his eyes filled with
tears. Then he said aloud, "Here I grow fat like a stall-fed ox and all my
manliness departeth from me while I become a sluggard and dolt. But I will

arouse me and go back to mine own dear friends once more, and never will I
leave them again till life doth leave my lips." So saying, he leaped from bed,
for he hated his sluggishness now.
When he came downstairs he saw the Steward standing near the pantry door
—a great, fat man, with a huge bundle of keys hanging to his girdle. Then
Little John said, "Ho, Master Steward, a hungry man am I, for nought have I
had for all this blessed morn. Therefore, give me to eat."
Then the Steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys in his girdle, for
he hated Little John because he had found favor with the Sheriff. "So, Master
Reynold Greenleaf, thou art anhungered, art thou?" quoth he. "But, fair youth,
if thou livest long enough, thou wilt find that he who getteth overmuch sleep
for an idle head goeth with an empty stomach. For what sayeth the old saw,
Master Greenleaf? Is it not 'The late fowl findeth but ill faring'?"
"Now, thou great purse of fat!" cried Little John, "I ask thee not for fool's
wisdom, but for bread and meat. Who art thou, that thou shouldst deny me to
eat? By Saint Dunstan, thou hadst best tell me where my breakfast is, if thou
wouldst save broken bones!"
"Thy breakfast, Master Fireblaze, is in the pantry," answered the Steward.
"Then fetch it hither!" cried Little John, who waxed angry by this time.
"Go thou and fetch it thine own self," quoth the Steward. "Am I thy slave, to
fetch and carry for thee?"
"I say, go thou, bring it me!"
"I say, go thou, fetch it for thyself!"
"Ay, marry, that will I, right quickly!" quoth Little John in a rage. And, so
saying, he strode to the pantry and tried to open the door but found it locked,
whereat the Steward laughed and rattled his keys. Then the wrath of Little John
boiled over, and, lifting his clenched fist, he smote the pantry door, bursting out
three panels and making so large an opening that he could easily stoop and
walk through it.
When the Steward saw what was done, he waxed mad with rage; and, as
Little John stooped to look within the pantry, he seized him from behind by the
nape of the neck, pinching him sorely and smiting him over the head with his

keys till the yeoman's ears rang again. At this Little John turned upon the
Steward and smote him such a buffet that the fat man fell to the floor and lay
there as though he would never move again. "There," quoth Little John, "think
well of that stroke and never keep a good breakfast from a hungry man again."
So saying, he crept into the pantry and looked about him to see if he could
find something to appease his hunger. He saw a great venison pasty and two
roasted capons, beside which was a platter of plover's eggs; moreover, there
was a flask of sack and one of canary—a sweet sight to a hungry man. These
he took down from the shelves and placed upon a sideboard, and prepared to
make himself merry.
Now the Cook, in the kitchen across the courtyard, heard the loud talking
between Little John and the Steward, and also the blow that Little John struck
the other, so he came running across the court and up the stairway to where the
Steward's pantry was, bearing in his hands the spit with the roast still upon it.
Meanwhile the Steward had gathered his wits about him and risen to his feet,
so that when the Cook came to the Steward's pantry he saw him glowering
through the broken door at Little John, who was making ready for a good
repast, as one dog glowers at another that has a bone. When the Steward saw
the Cook, he came to him, and, putting one arm over his shoulder, "Alas, sweet
friend!" quoth he—for the Cook was a tall, stout man—"seest thou what that
vile knave Reynold Greenleaf hath done? He hath broken in upon our master's
goods, and hath smitten me a buffet upon the ear, so that I thought I was dead.
Good Cook, I love thee well, and thou shalt have a good pottle of our master's
best wine every day, for thou art an old and faithful servant. Also, good Cook, I
have ten shillings that I mean to give as a gift to thee. But hatest thou not to see
a vile upstart like this Reynold Greenleaf taking it upon him so bravely?"
"Ay, marry, that do I," quoth the Cook boldly, for he liked the Steward
because of his talk of the wine and of the ten shillings. "Get thee gone
straightway to thy room, and I will bring out this knave by his ears." So saying,
he laid aside his spit and drew the sword that hung by his side; whereupon the
Steward left as quickly as he could, for he hated the sight of naked steel.
Then the Cook walked straightway to the broken pantry door, through which
he saw Little John tucking a napkin beneath his chin and preparing to make
himself merry.

"Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf?" said the Cook, "thou art no better than
a thief, I wot. Come thou straight forth, man, or I will carve thee as I would
carve a sucking pig."
"Nay, good Cook, bear thou thyself more seemingly, or else I will come forth
to thy dole. At most times I am as a yearling lamb, but when one cometh
between me and my meat, I am a raging lion, as it were."
"Lion or no lion," quoth the valorous Cook, "come thou straight forth, else
thou art a coward heart as well as a knavish thief."
"Ha!" cried Little John, "coward's name have I never had; so, look to thyself,
good Cook, for I come forth straight, the roaring lion I did speak of but now."
Then he, too, drew his sword and came out of the pantry; then, putting
themselves into position, they came slowly together, with grim and angry
looks; but suddenly Little John lowered his point. "Hold, good Cook!" said he.
"Now, I bethink me it were ill of us to fight with good victuals standing so
nigh, and such a feast as would befit two stout fellows such as we are. Marry,
good friend, I think we should enjoy this fair feast ere we fight. What sayest
thou, jolly Cook?"
At this speech the Cook looked up and down, scratching his head in doubt,
for he loved good feasting. At last he drew a long breath and said to Little John,
"Well, good friend, I like thy plan right well; so, pretty boy, say I, let us feast,
with all my heart, for one of us may sup in Paradise before nightfall."
So each thrust his sword back into the scabbard and entered the pantry. Then,
after they had seated themselves, Little John drew his dagger and thrust it into
the pie. "A hungry man must be fed," quoth he, "so, sweet chuck, I help myself
without leave." But the Cook did not lag far behind, for straightway his hands
also were deeply thrust within the goodly pasty. After this, neither of them
spoke further, but used their teeth to better purpose. But though neither spoke,
they looked at one another, each thinking within himself that he had never seen
a more lusty fellow than the one across the board.
At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep breath, as
though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin, for he could eat
no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the pasty aside, as though
he would say, "I want thee by me no more, good friend." Then he took the
pottle of sack, and said he, "Now, good fellow, I swear by all that is bright, that

thou art the stoutest companion at eating that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy
health." So saying, he clapped the flask to his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while
the good wine flooded his throat. Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who
also said, "Lo, I drink thy health, sweet fellow!" Nor was he behind Little John
in drinking any more than in eating.
"Now," quoth Little John, "thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad. I
doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?"
"Truly, I have trolled one now and then," quoth the Cook, "yet I would not
sing alone."
"Nay, truly," said Little John, "that were but ill courtesy. Strike up thy ditty,
and I will afterward sing one to match it, if I can.
"So be it, pretty boy," quoth the Cook. "And hast thou e'er heard the song of
the Deserted Shepherdess?"
"Truly, I know not," answered Little John, "but sing thou and let me hear."
Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his throat,
sang right sweetly:
THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS

"In Lententime, when leaves wax green,
And pretty birds begin to mate,
When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween,
And stockdove cooeth soon and late,
Fair Phillis sat beside a stone,
And thus I heard her make her moan:
'O willow, willow, willow, willow!
I'll take me of thy branches fair
And twine a wreath to deck my hair.

"'The thrush hath taken him a she,
The robin, too, and eke the dove;
My Robin hath deserted me,
And left me for another love.
So here, by brookside, all alone,
I sit me down and make my moan.
O willow, willow, willow, willow!
I'll take me of thy branches fair
And twine a wreath to deck my hair.'

"But ne'er came herring from the sea,
But good as he were in the tide;
Young Corydon came o'er the lea,
And sat him Phillis down beside.
So, presently, she changed her tone,

And 'gan to cease her from her moan,
'O willow, willow, willow, willow!
Thou mayst e'en keep thy garlands fair,
I want them not to deck my hair.'"

"Now, by my faith," cried Little John, "that same is a right good song, and
hath truth in it, also."
"Glad am I thou likest it, sweet lad," said the Cook. "Now sing thou one
also, for ne'er should a man be merry alone, or sing and list not."
"Then I will sing thee a song of a right good knight of Arthur's court, and
how he cured his heart's wound without running upon the dart again, as did thy
Phillis; for I wot she did but cure one smart by giving herself another. So, list
thou while I sing:
THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE

"When Arthur, King, did rule this land,
A goodly king was he,
And had he of stout knights a band
Of merry company.

"Among them all, both great and small,
A good stout knight was there,
A lusty childe, and eke a tall,
That loved a lady fair.

"But nought would she to do with he,
But turned her face away;
So gat he gone to far countrye,
And left that lady gay.

"There all alone he made his moan,
And eke did sob and sigh,
And weep till it would move a stone,
And he was like to die.

"But still his heart did feel the smart,
And eke the dire distress,
And rather grew his pain more sharp
As grew his body less.

"Then gat he back where was good sack
And merry com panye,
And soon did cease to cry 'Alack!'
When blithe and gay was he.

"From which I hold, and feel full bold
To say, and eke believe,
That gin the belly go not cold
The heart will cease to grieve."

"Now, by my faith," cried the Cook, as he rattled the pottle against the
sideboard, "I like that same song hugely, and eke the motive of it, which lieth
like a sweet kernel in a hazelnut"
"Now thou art a man of shrewd opinions," quoth Little John, "and I love thee
truly as thou wert my brother."
"And I love thee, too. But the day draweth on, and I have my cooking to do
ere our master cometh home; so let us e'en go and settle this brave fight we
have in hand."
"Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "and that right speedily. Never have I been
more laggard in fighting than in eating and drinking. So come thou straight
forth into the passageway, where there is good room to swing a sword, and I
will try to serve thee."
Then they both stepped forth into the broad passage that led to the Steward's
pantry, where each man drew his sword again and without more ado fell upon
the other as though he would hew his fellow limb from limb. Then their swords
clashed upon one another with great din, and sparks flew from each blow in
showers. So they fought up and down the hall for an hour and more, neither
striking the other a blow, though they strove their best to do so; for both were
skillful at the fence; so nothing came of all their labor. Ever and anon they
rested, panting; then, after getting their wind, at it they would go again more
fiercely than ever. At last Little John cried aloud, "Hold, good Cook!"
whereupon each rested upon his sword, panting.
"Now will I make my vow," quoth Little John, "thou art the very best
swordsman that ever mine eyes beheld. Truly, I had thought to carve thee ere
now."
"And I had thought to do the same by thee," quoth the Cook, "but I have
missed the mark somehow."
"Now I have been thinking within myself," quoth Little John, "what we are
fighting for; but albeit I do not rightly know."
"Why, no more do I," said the Cook. "I bear no love for that pursy Steward,
but I thought that we had engaged to fight with one another and that it must be
done."

"Now," quoth Little John, "it doth seem to me that instead of striving to cut
one another's throats, it were better for us to be boon companions. What sayst
thou, jolly Cook, wilt thou go with me to Sherwood Forest and join with Robin
Hood's band? Thou shalt live a merry life within the woodlands, and
sevenscore good companions shalt thou have, one of whom is mine own self.
Thou shalt have three suits of Lincoln green each year, and forty marks in pay."
"Now, thou art a man after mine own heart!" cried the Cook right heartily,
"and, as thou speakest of it, that is the very service for me. I will go with thee,
and that right gladly. Give me thy palm, sweet fellow, and I will be thine own
companion from henceforth. What may be thy name, lad?"
"Men do call me Little John, good fellow."
"How? And art thou indeed Little John, and Robin Hood's own right-hand
man? Many a time and oft I heard of thee, but never did I hope to set eyes upon
thee. And thou art indeed the famous Little John!" And the Cook seemed lost in
amazement, and looked upon his companion with open eyes.
"I am Little John, indeed, and I will bring to Robin Hood this day a right
stout fellow to join his merry band. But ere we go, good friend, it seemeth to
me to be a vast pity that, as we have had so much of the Sheriff's food, we
should not also carry off some of his silver plate to Robin Hood, as a present
from his worship."
"Ay, marry is it," said the Cook. And so they began hunting about, and took
as much silver as they could lay hands upon, clapping it into a bag, and when
they had filled the sack they set forth to Sherwood Forest.
Plunging into the woods, they came at last to the greenwood tree, where they
found Robin Hood and threescore of his merry men lying upon the fresh green
grass. When Robin and his men saw who it was that came, they leaped to their
feet. "Now welcome!" cried Robin Hood. "Now welcome, Little John! For long
hath it been since we have heard from thee, though we all knew that thou hadst
joined the Sheriff's service. And how hast thou fared all these long days?"
"Right merrily have I lived at the Lord Sheriff's," answered Little John, "and
I have come straight thence. See, good master! I have brought thee his cook,
and even his silver plate." Thereupon he told Robin Hood and his merry men
that were there, all that had befallen him since he had left them to go to the Fair

at Nottingham Town. Then all shouted with laughter, except Robin Hood; but
he looked grave.
"Nay, Little John," said he, "thou art a brave blade and a trusty fellow. I am
glad thou hast brought thyself back to us, and with such a good companion as
the Cook, whom we all welcome to Sherwood. But I like not so well that thou
hast stolen the Sheriff's plate like some paltry thief. The Sheriff hath been
punished by us, and hath lost three hundred pounds, even as he sought to
despoil another; but he hath done nought that we should steal his household
plate from him."
Though Little John was vexed with this, he strove to pass it off with a jest.
"Nay, good master," quoth he, "if thou thinkest the Sheriff gave us not the
plate, I will fetch him, that he may tell us with his own lips he giveth it all to
us." So saying he leaped to his feet, and was gone before Robin could call him
back.
Little John ran for full five miles till he came to where the Sheriff of
Nottingham and a gay company were hunting near the forest. When Little John
came to the Sheriff he doffed his cap and bent his knee. "God save thee, good
master," quoth he.
"Why, Reynold Greenleaf!" cried the Sheriff, "whence comest thou and
where hast thou been?"
"I have been in the forest," answered Little John, speaking amazedly, "and
there I saw a sight such as ne'er before man's eyes beheld! Yonder I saw a
young hart all in green from top to toe, and about him was a herd of threescore
deer, and they, too, were all of green from head to foot. Yet I dared not shoot,
good master, for fear lest they should slay me."
"Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf," cried the Sheriff, "art thou dreaming
or art thou mad, that thou dost bring me such, a tale?"
"Nay, I am not dreaming nor am I mad," said Little John, "and if thou wilt
come with me, I will show thee this fair sight, for I have seen it with mine own
eyes. But thou must come alone, good master, lest the others frighten them and
they get away."
So the party all rode forward, and Little John led them downward into the
forest.

"Now, good master," quoth he at last, "we are nigh where I saw this herd."
Then the Sheriff descended from his horse and bade them wait for him until
he should return; and Little John led him forward through a close copse until
suddenly they came to a great open glade, at the end of which Robin Hood sat
beneath the shade of the great oak tree, with his merry men all about him. "See,
good Master Sheriff," quoth Little John, "yonder is the hart of which I spake to
thee."
At this the Sheriff turned to Little John and said bitterly, "Long ago I thought
I remembered thy face, but now I know thee. Woe betide thee, Little John, for
thou hast betrayed me this day."
In the meantime Robin Hood had come to them. "Now welcome, Master
Sheriff," said he. "Hast thou come today to take another feast with me?"
"Nay, Heaven forbid!" said the Sheriff in tones of deep earnest. "I care for no
feast and have no hunger today."
"Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "if thou hast no hunger, maybe thou hast thirst,
and well I know thou wilt take a cup of sack with me. But I am grieved that
thou wilt not feast with me, for thou couldst have victuals to thy liking, for
there stands thy Cook."
Then he led the Sheriff, willy-nilly, to the seat he knew so well beneath the
greenwood tree.
"Ho, lads!" cried Robin, "fill our good friend the Sheriff a right brimming
cup of sack and fetch it hither, for he is faint and weary."
Then one of the band brought the Sheriff a cup of sack, bowing low as he
handed it to him; but the Sheriff could not touch the wine, for he saw it served
in one of his own silver flagons, on one of his own silver plates.
"How now," quoth Robin, "dost thou not like our new silver service? We
have gotten a bag of it this day." So saying, he held up the sack of silver that
Little John and the Cook had brought with them.
Then the Sheriff's heart was bitter within him; but, not daring to say
anything, he only gazed upon the ground. Robin looked keenly at him for a
time before he spoke again. Then said he, "Now, Master Sheriff, the last time
thou camest to Sherwood Forest thou didst come seeking to despoil a poor

spendthrift, and thou wert despoiled thine own self; but now thou comest
seeking to do no harm, nor do I know that thou hast despoiled any man. I take
my tithes from fat priests and lordly squires, to help those that they despoil and
to raise up those that they bow down; but I know not that thou hast tenants of
thine own whom thou hast wronged in any way. Therefore, take thou thine own
again, nor will I dispossess thee today of so much as one farthing. Come with
me, and I will lead thee from the forest back to thine own party again."
Then, slinging the bag upon his shoulder, he turned away, the Sheriff
following him, all too perplexed in mind to speak. So they went forward until
they came to within a furlong of the spot where the Sheriff's companions were
waiting for him. Then Robin Hood gave the sack of silver back to the Sheriff.
"Take thou thine own again," he said, "and hearken to me, good Sheriff, take
thou a piece of advice with it. Try thy servants well ere thou dost engage them
again so readily." Then, turning, he left the other standing bewildered, with the
sack in his hands.
The company that waited for the Sheriff were all amazed to see him come
out of the forest bearing a heavy sack upon his shoulders; but though they
questioned him, he answered never a word, acting like one who walks in a
dream. Without a word, he placed the bag across his nag's back and then,
mounting, rode away, all following him; but all the time there was a great
turmoil of thoughts within his head, tumbling one over the other. And thus ends
the merry tale of Little John and how he entered the Sheriff's service.

Little John and the Tanner of Blyth
ONE FINE DAY, not long after Little John had left abiding with the Sheriff
and had come back, with his worship's cook, to the merry greenwood, as has
just been told, Robin Hood and a few chosen fellows of his band lay upon the
soft sward beneath the greenwood tree where they dwelled. The day was warm
and sultry, so that while most of the band were scattered through the forest
upon this mission and upon that, these few stout fellows lay lazily beneath the
shade of the tree, in the soft afternoon, passing jests among themselves and
telling merry stories, with laughter and mirth.
All the air was laden with the bitter fragrance of the May, and all the bosky
shades of the woodlands beyond rang with the sweet song of birds— the
throstle cock, the cuckoo, and the wood pigeon—and with the song of birds
mingled the cool sound of the gurgling brook that leaped out of the forest
shades, and ran fretting amid its rough, gray stones across the sunlit open glade
before the trysting tree. And a fair sight was that halfscore of tall, stout
yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, lying beneath the broad-spreading branches
of the great oak tree, amid the quivering leaves of which the sunlight shivered
and fell in dancing patches upon the grass.
Suddenly Robin Hood smote his knee.
"By Saint Dunstan," quoth he, "I had nigh forgot that quarter-day cometh on
apace, and yet no cloth of Lincoln green in all our store. It must be looked to,
and that in quick season. Come, busk thee, Little John! Stir those lazy bones of
thine, for thou must get thee straightway to our good gossip, the draper Hugh
Longshanks of Ancaster. Bid him send us straightway twentyscore yards of fair
cloth of Lincoln green; and mayhap the journey may take some of the fat from
off thy bones, that thou hast gotten from lazy living at our dear Sheriff's."
"Nay," muttered Little John (for he had heard so much upon this score that
he was sore upon the point), "nay, truly, mayhap I have more flesh upon my
joints than I once had, yet, flesh or no flesh, I doubt not that I could still hold
my place and footing upon a narrow bridge against e'er a yeoman in Sherwood,
or Nottinghamshire, for the matter of that, even though he had no more fat
about his bones than thou hast, good master."

At this reply a great shout of laughter went up, and all looked at Robin
Hood, for each man knew that Little John spake of a certain fight that
happened between their master and himself, through which they first became
acquainted.
"Nay," quoth Robin Hood, laughing louder than all. "Heaven forbid that I
should doubt thee, for I care for no taste of thy staff myself, Little John. I must
needs own that there are those of my band can handle a seven-foot staff more
deftly than I; yet no man in all Nottinghamshire can draw gray goose shaft with
my fingers. Nevertheless, a journey to Ancaster may not be ill for thee; so go
thou, as I bid, and thou hadst best go this very evening, for since thou hast
abided at the Sheriff's many know thy face, and if thou goest in broad daylight,
thou mayst get thyself into a coil with some of his worship's men-at-arms. Bide
thou here till I bring thee money to pay our good Hugh. I warrant he hath no
better customers in all Nottinghamshire than we." So saying, Robin left them
and entered the forest.
Not far from the trysting tree was a great rock in which a chamber had been
hewn, the entrance being barred by a massive oaken door two palms'-breadth in
thickness, studded about with spikes, and fastened with a great padlock. This
was the treasure house of the band, and thither Robin Hood went and,
unlocking the door, entered the chamber, from which he brought forth a bag of
gold which he gave to Little John, to pay Hugh Longshanks withal, for the
cloth of Lincoln green.
Then up got Little John, and, taking the bag of gold, which he thrust into his
bosom, he strapped a girdle about his loins, took a stout pikestaff full seven
feet long in his hand, and set forth upon his journey.
So he strode whistling along the leafy forest path that led to Fosse Way,
turning neither to the right hand nor the left, until at last he came to where the
path branched, leading on the one hand onward to Fosse Way, and on the other,
as well Little John knew, to the merry Blue Boar Inn. Here Little John suddenly
ceased whistling and stopped in the middle of the path. First he looked up and
then he looked down, and then, tilting his cap over one eye, he slowly
scratched the back part of his head. For thus it was: at the sight of these two
roads, two voices began to alarum within him, the one crying, "There lies the
road to the Blue Boar Inn, a can of brown October, and a merry night with
sweet companions such as thou mayst find there"; the other, "There lies the
way to Ancaster and the duty thou art sent upon." Now the first of these two

voices was far the louder, for Little John had grown passing fond of good
living through abiding at the Sheriff's house; so, presently, looking up into the
blue sky, across which bright clouds were sailing like silver boats, and
swallows skimming in circling flight, quoth he, "I fear me it will rain this
evening, so I'll e'en stop at the Blue Boar till it passes by, for I know my good
master would not have me wet to the skin." So, without more ado, off he strode
down the path that lay the way of his likings. Now there was no sign of any
foul weather, but when one wishes to do a thing, as Little John did, one finds
no lack of reasons for the doing.
Four merry wags were at the Blue Boar Inn; a butcher, a beggar, and two
barefoot friars. Little John heard them singing from afar, as he walked through
the hush of the mellow twilight that was now falling over hill and dale. Right
glad were they to welcome such a merry blade as Little John. Fresh cans of ale
were brought, and with jest and song and merry tales the hours slipped away on
fleeting wings. None thought of time or tide till the night was so far gone that
Little John put by the thought of setting forth upon his journey again that night,
and so bided at the Blue Boar Inn until the morrow.
Now it was an ill piece of luck for Little John that he left his duty for his
pleasure, and he paid a great score for it, as we are all apt to do in the same
case, as you shall see.
Up he rose at the dawn of the next day, and, taking his stout pikestaff in his
hand, he set forth upon his journey once more, as though he would make up for
lost time.
In the good town of Blyth there lived a stout tanner, celebrated far and near
for feats of strength and many tough bouts at wrestling and the quarterstaff. For
five years he had held the mid-country champion belt for wrestling, till the
great Adam o' Lincoln cast him in the ring and broke one of his ribs; but at
quarterstaff he had never yet met his match in all the country about. Besides all
this, he dearly loved the longbow, and a sly jaunt in the forest when the moon
was full and the dun deer in season; so that the King's rangers kept a shrewd
eye upon him and his doings, for Arthur a Bland's house was apt to have
aplenty of meat in it that was more like venison than the law allowed.
Now Arthur had been to Nottingham Town the day before Little John set
forth on his errand, there to sell a halfscore of tanned cowhides. At the dawn of
the same day that Little John left the inn, he started from Nottingham,

homeward for Blyth. His way led, all in the dewy morn, past the verge of
Sherwood Forest, where the birds were welcoming the lovely day with a great
and merry jubilee. Across the Tanner's shoulders was slung his stout
quarterstaff, ever near enough to him to be gripped quickly, and on his head
was a cap of doubled cowhide, so tough that it could hardly be cloven even by
a broadsword.
"Now," quoth Arthur a Bland to himself, when he had come to that part of
the road that cut through a corner of the forest, "no doubt at this time of year
the dun deer are coming from the forest depths nigher to the open meadow
lands. Mayhap I may chance to catch a sight of the dainty brown darlings thus
early in the morn." For there was nothing he loved better than to look upon a
tripping herd of deer, even when he could not tickle their ribs with a clothyard
shaft. Accordingly, quitting the path, he went peeping this way and that through
the underbrush, spying now here and now there, with all the wiles of a master
of woodcraft, and of one who had more than once donned a doublet of Lincoln
green.
Now as Little John stepped blithely along, thinking of nothing but of such
things as the sweetness of the hawthorn buds that bedecked the hedgerows, or
gazing upward at the lark, that, springing from the dewy grass, hung aloft on
quivering wings in the yellow sunlight, pouring forth its song that fell like a
falling star from the sky, his luck led him away from the highway, not far from
the spot where Arthur a Bland was peeping this way and that through the leaves
of the thickets. Hearing a rustling of the branches, Little John stopped and
presently caught sight of the brown cowhide cap of the Tanner moving among
the bushes.
"I do much wonder," quoth Little John to himself, "what yon knave is after,
that he should go thus peeping and peering about I verily believe that yon
scurvy varlet is no better than a thief, and cometh here after our own and the
good King's dun deer." For by much roving in the forest, Little John had come
to look upon all the deer in Sherwood as belonging to Robin Hood and his
band as much as to good King Harry. "Nay," quoth he again, after a time, "this
matter must e'en be looked into." So, quitting the highroad, he also entered the
thickets, and began spying around after stout Arthur a Bland.
So for a long time they both of them went hunting about, Little John after the
Tanner, and the Tanner after the deer. At last Little John trod upon a stick,
which snapped under his foot, whereupon, hearing the noise, the Tanner turned

quickly and caught sight of the yeoman. Seeing that the Tanner had spied him
out, Little John put a bold face upon the matter.
"Hilloa," quoth he, "what art thou doing here, thou naughty fellow? Who art
thou that comest ranging Sherwood's paths? In very sooth thou hast an evil cast
of countenance, and I do think, truly, that thou art no better than a thief, and
comest after our good King's deer."
"Nay," quoth the Tanner boldly—for, though taken by surprise, he was not a
man to be frightened by big words—"thou liest in thy teeth. I am no thief, but
an honest craftsman. As for my countenance, it is what it is; and, for the matter
of that, thine own is none too pretty, thou saucy fellow."
"Ha!" quoth Little John in a great loud voice, "wouldst thou give me
backtalk? Now I have a great part of a mind to crack thy pate for thee. I would
have thee know, fellow, that I am, as it were, one of the King's foresters.
Leastwise," muttered he to himself, "I and my friends do take good care of our
good sovereign's deer."
"I care not who thou art," answered the bold Tanner, "and unless thou hast
many more of thy kind by thee, thou canst never make Arthur a Bland cry 'A
mercy.'"
"Is it so?" cried Little John in a rage. "Now, by my faith, thou saucy rogue,
thy tongue hath led thee into a pit thou wilt have a sorry time getting out of; for
I will give thee such a drubbing as ne'er hast thou had in all thy life before.
Take thy staff in thy hand, fellow, for I will not smite an unarmed man.
"Marry come up with a murrain!" cried the Tanner, for he, too, had talked
himself into a fume. "Big words ne'er killed so much as a mouse. Who art thou
that talkest so freely of cracking the head of Arthur a Bland? If I do not tan thy
hide this day as ne'er I tanned a calf's hide in all my life before, split my staff
into skewers for lamb's flesh and call me no more brave man! Now look to
thyself, fellow!"
"Stay!" said Little John. "Let us first measure our cudgels. I do reckon my
staff longer than thine, and I would not take vantage of thee by even so much
as an inch."
"Nay, I pass not for length," answered the Tanner. "My staff is long enough
to knock down a calf; so look to thyself, fellow, I say again."

So, without more ado, each gripped his staff in the middle, and, with fell and
angry looks, they came slowly together.
Now news had been brought to Robin Hood how that Little John, instead of
doing his bidding, had passed by duty for pleasure, and so had stopped
overnight with merry company at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of going straight
to Ancaster. So, being vexed to his heart by this, he set forth at dawn of day to
seek Little John at the Blue Boar, or at least to meet the yeoman on the way,
and ease his heart of what he thought of the matter. As thus he strode along in
anger, putting together the words he would use to chide Little John, he heard,
of a sudden, loud and angry voices, as of men in a rage, passing fell words
back and forth from one to the other. At this, Robin Hood stopped and listened.
"Surely," quoth he to himself, "that is Little John's voice, and he is talking in
anger also. Methinks the other is strange to my ears. Now Heaven forfend that
my good trusty Little John should have fallen into the hands of the King's
rangers. I must see to this matter, and that quickly."
Thus spoke Robin Hood to himself, all his anger passing away like a breath
from the windowpane, at the thought that perhaps his trusty right-hand man
was in some danger of his life. So cautiously he made his way through the
thickets whence the voices came, and, pushing aside the leaves, peeped into the
little open space where the two men, staff in hand, were coming slowly
together.
"Ha!" quoth Robin to himself, "here is merry sport afoot. Now I would give
three golden angels from my own pocket if yon stout fellow would give Little
John a right sound drubbing! It would please me to see him well thumped for
having failed in my bidding. I fear me, though, there is but poor chance of my
seeing such a pleasant sight." So saying, he stretched himself at length upon the
ground, that he might not only see the sport the better, but that he might enjoy
the merry sight at his ease.
As you may have seen two dogs that think to fight, walking slowly round
and round each other, neither cur wishing to begin the combat, so those two
stout yeomen moved slowly around, each watching for a chance to take the
other unaware, and so get in the first blow. At last Little John struck like a
flash, and—"rap!"—the Tanner met the blow and turned it aside, and then
smote back at Little John, who also turned the blow; and so this mighty battle
began. Then up and down and back and forth they trod, the blows falling so
thick and fast that, at a distance, one would have thought that half a score of

men were fighting. Thus they fought for nigh a half an hour, until the ground
was all plowed up with the digging of their heels, and their breathing grew
labored like the ox in the furrow. But Little John suffered the most, for he had
become unused to such stiff labor, and his joints were not as supple as they had
been before he went to dwell with the Sheriff.
All this time Robin Hood lay beneath the bush, rejoicing at such a comely
bout of quarterstaff. "By my faith!" quoth he to himself, "never had I thought to
see Little John so evenly matched in all my life. Belike, though, he would have
overcome yon fellow before this had he been in his former trim."
At last Little John saw his chance, and, throwing all the strength he felt
going from him into one blow that might have felled an ox, he struck at the
Tanner with might and main. And now did the Tanner's cowhide cap stand him
in good stead, and but for it he might never have held staff in hand again. As it
was, the blow he caught beside the head was so shrewd that it sent him
staggering across the little glade, so that, if Little John had had the strength to
follow up his vantage, it would have been ill for stout Arthur. But he regained
himself quickly and, at arm's length, struck back a blow at Little John, and this
time the stroke reached its mark, and down went Little John at full length, his
cudgel flying from his hand as he fell. Then, raising his staff, stout Arthur dealt
him another blow upon the ribs.
"Hold!" roared Little John. "Wouldst thou strike a man when he is down?"
"Ay, marry would I," quoth the Tanner, giving him another thwack with his
staff.
"Stop!" roared Little John. "Help! Hold, I say! I yield me! I yield me, I say,
good fellow!"
"Hast thou had enough?" asked the Tanner grimly, holding his staff aloft.
"Ay, marry, and more than enough."
"And thou dost own that I am the better man of the two?"
"Yea, truly, and a murrain seize thee!" said Little John, the first aloud and the
last to his beard.
"Then thou mayst go thy ways; and thank thy patron saint that I am a
merciful man," said the Tanner.

"A plague o' such mercy as thine!" said Little John, sitting up and feeling his
ribs where the Tanner had cudgeled him. "I make my vow, my ribs feel as
though every one of them were broken in twain. I tell thee, good fellow, I did
think there was never a man in all Nottinghamshire could do to me what thou
hast done this day."
"And so thought I, also," cried Robin Hood, bursting out of the thicket and
shouting with laughter till the tears ran down his cheeks. "O man, man!" said
he, as well as he could for his mirth, "'a didst go over like a bottle knocked
from a wall. I did see the whole merry bout, and never did I think to see thee
yield thyself so, hand and foot, to any man in all merry England. I was seeking
thee, to chide thee for leaving my bidding undone; but thou hast been paid all I
owed thee, full measure, pressed down and overflowing, by this good fellow.
Marry, 'a did reach out his arm full length while thou stood gaping at him, and,
with a pretty rap, tumbled thee over as never have I seen one tumbled before."
So spoke bold Robin, and all the time Little John sat upon the ground, looking
as though he had sour curds in his mouth. "What may be thy name, good
fellow?" said Robin, next, turning to the Tanner.
"Men do call me Arthur a Bland," spoke up the Tanner boldly, "and now
what may be thy name?"
"Ha, Arthur a Bland!" quoth Robin, "I have heard thy name before, good
fellow. Thou didst break the crown of a friend of mine at the fair at Ely last
October. The folk there call him Jock o' Nottingham; we call him Will
Scathelock. This poor fellow whom thou hast so belabored is counted the best
hand at the quarterstaff in all merry England. His name is Little John, and mine
Robin Hood."
"How!" cried the Tanner, "art thou indeed the great Robin Hood, and is this
the famous Little John? Marry, had I known who thou art, I would never have
been so bold as to lift my hand against thee. Let me help thee to thy feet, good
Master Little John, and let me brush the dust from off thy coat."
"Nay," quoth Little John testily, at the same time rising carefully, as though
his bones had been made of glass, "I can help myself, good fellow, without thy
aid; and let me tell thee, had it not been for that vile cowskin cap of thine, it
would have been ill for thee this day."
At this Robin laughed again, and, turning to the Tanner, he said, "Wilt thou
join my band, good Arthur? For I make my vow thou art one of the stoutest

men that ever mine eyes beheld."
"Will I join thy band?" cried the Tanner joyfully. "Ay, marry, will I! Hey for
a merry life!" cried he, leaping aloft and snapping his fingers, "and hey for the
life I love! Away with tanbark and filthy vats and foul cowhides! I will follow
thee to the ends of the earth, good master, and not a herd of dun deer in all the
forest but shall know the sound of the twang of my bowstring."
"As for thee, Little John," said Robin, turning to him and laughing, "thou
wilt start once more for Ancaster, and we will go part way with thee, for I will
not have thee turn again to either the right hand or the left till thou hast fairly
gotten away from Sherwood. There are other inns that thou knowest yet,
hereabouts." Thereupon, leaving the thickets, they took once more to the
highway and departed upon their business.

Robin Hood and Will Scarlet
THUS THEY traveled along the sunny road, three stout fellows such as
you could hardly match anywhere else in all merry England. Many stopped
to gaze after them as they strode along, so broad were their shoulders and so
sturdy their gait.
Quoth Robin Hood to Little John, "Why didst thou not go straight to
Ancaster, yesterday, as I told thee? Thou hadst not gotten thyself into such a
coil hadst thou done as I ordered."
"I feared the rain that threatened," said Little John in a sullen tone, for he
was vexed at being so chaffed by Robin with what had happened to him.
"The rain!" cried Robin, stopping of a sudden in the middle of the road,
and looking at Little John in wonder. "Why, thou great oaf! not a drop of
rain has fallen these three days, neither has any threatened, nor hath there
been a sign of foul weather in earth or sky or water."
"Nevertheless," growled Little John, "the holy Saint Swithin holdeth the
waters of the heavens in his pewter pot, and he could have poured them out,
had he chosen, even from a clear sky; and wouldst thou have had me wet to
the skin?"
At this Robin Hood burst into a roar of laughter. "O Little John!" said he,
"what butter wits hast thou in that head of thine! Who could hold anger
against such a one as thou art?"
So saying, they all stepped out once more, with the right foot foremost,
as the saying is.
After they had traveled some distance, the day being warm and the road
dusty, Robin Hood waxed thirsty; so, there being a fountain of water as cold
as ice, just behind the hedgerow, they crossed the stile and came to where
the water bubbled up from beneath a mossy stone. Here, kneeling and
making cups of the palms of their hands, they drank their fill, and then, the

spot being cool and shady, they stretched their limbs and rested them for a
space.
In front of them, over beyond the hedge, the dusty road stretched away
across the plain; behind them the meadow lands and bright green fields of
tender young corn lay broadly in the sun, and overhead spread the shade of
the cool, rustling leaves of the beechen tree. Pleasantly to their nostrils
came the tender fragrance of the purple violets and wild thyme that grew
within the dewy moisture of the edge of the little fountain, and pleasantly
came the soft gurgle of the water. All was so pleasant and so full of the
gentle joy of the bright Maytime, that for a long time no one of the three
cared to speak, but each lay on his back, gazing up through the trembling
leaves of the trees to the bright sky overhead. At last, Robin, whose
thoughts were not quite so busy wool- gathering as those of the others, and
who had been gazing around him now and then, broke the silence.
"Heyday!" quoth he, "yon is a gaily feathered bird, I take my vow."
The others looked and saw a young man walking slowly down the
highway. Gay was he, indeed, as Robin had said, and a fine figure he cut,
for his doublet was of scarlet silk and his stockings also; a handsome sword
hung by his side, the embossed leathern scabbard being picked out with fine
threads of gold; his cap was of scarlet velvet, and a broad feather hung
down behind and back of one ear. His hair was long and yellow and curled
upon his shoulders, and in his hand he bore an early rose, which he smelled
at daintily now and then.
"By my life!" quoth Robin Hood, laughing, "saw ye e'er such a pretty,
mincing fellow?"
"Truly, his clothes have overmuch prettiness for my taste," quoth Arthur a
Bland, "but, ne'ertheless, his shoulders are broad and his loins are narrow,
and seest thou, good master, how that his arms hang from his body? They
dangle not down like spindles, but hang stiff and bend at the elbow. I take
my vow, there be no bread and milk limbs in those fine clothes, but stiff
joints and tough thews."
"Methinks thou art right, friend Arthur," said Little John. "I do verily
think that yon is no such roseleaf and whipped-cream gallant as he would

have one take him to be."
"Pah!" quoth Robin Hood, "the sight of such a fellow doth put a nasty
taste into my mouth! Look how he doth hold that fair flower betwixt his
thumb and finger, as he would say, 'Good rose, I like thee not so ill but I can
bear thy odor for a little while.' I take it ye are both wrong, and verily
believe that were a furious mouse to run across his path, he would cry, 'La!'
or 'Alack-a-day!' and fall straightway into a swoon. I wonder who he may
be."
"Some great baron's son, I doubt not," answered Little John, "with good
and true men's money lining his purse."
"Ay, marry, that is true, I make no doubt," quoth Robin. "What a pity that
such men as he, that have no thought but to go abroad in gay clothes, should
have good fellows, whose shoes they are not fit to tie, dancing at their
bidding. By Saint Dunstan, Saint Alfred, Saint Withold, and all the good
men in the Saxon calendar, it doth make me mad to see such gay lordlings
from over the sea go stepping on the necks of good Saxons who owned this
land before ever their great-grandsires chewed rind of brawn! By the bright
bow of Heaven, I will have their ill-gotten gains from them, even though I
hang for it as high as e'er a forest tree in Sherwood!"
"Why, how now, master," quoth Little John, "what heat is this? Thou dost
set thy pot a-boiling, and mayhap no bacon to cook! Methinks yon fellow's
hair is overlight for Norman locks. He may be a good man and true for
aught thou knowest."
"Nay," said Robin, "my head against a leaden farthing, he is what I say.
So, lie ye both here, I say, till I show you how I drub this fellow." So
saying, Robin Hood stepped forth from the shade of the beech tree, crossed
the stile, and stood in the middle of the road, with his hands on his hips, in
the stranger's path.
Meantime the stranger, who had been walking so slowly that all this talk
was held before he came opposite the place where they were, neither
quickened his pace nor seemed to see that such a man as Robin Hood was
in the world. So Robin stood in the middle of the road, waiting while the

other walked slowly forward, smelling his rose, and looking this way and
that, and everywhere except at Robin.
"Hold!" cried Robin, when at last the other had come close to him.
"Hold! Stand where thou art!"
"Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?" said the stranger in soft and
gentle voice. "And wherefore should I stand where I am? Ne'ertheless, as
thou dost desire that I should stay, I will abide for a short time, that I may
hear what thou mayst have to say to me."
"Then," quoth Robin, "as thou dost so fairly do as I tell thee, and dost
give me such soft speech, I will also treat thee with all due courtesy. I
would have thee know, fair friend, that I am, as it were, a votary at the
shrine of Saint Wilfred who, thou mayst know, took, willy-nilly, all their
gold from the heathen, and melted it up into candlesticks. Wherefore, upon
such as come hereabouts, I levy a certain toll, which I use for a better
purpose, I hope, than to make candlesticks withal. Therefore, sweet chuck, I
would have thee deliver to me thy purse, that I may look into it, and judge,
to the best of my poor powers, whether thou hast more wealth about thee
than our law allows. For, as our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, 'He who is
fat from overliving must needs lose blood.'"
All this time the youth had been sniffing at the rose that he held betwixt
his thumb and finger. "Nay," said he with a gentle smile, when Robin Hood
had done, "I do love to hear thee talk, thou pretty fellow, and if, haply, thou
art not yet done, finish, I beseech thee. I have yet some little time to stay."
"I have said all," quoth Robin, "and now, if thou wilt give me thy purse, I
will let thee go thy way without let or hindrance so soon as I shall see what
it may hold. I will take none from thee if thou hast but little."
"Alas! It doth grieve me much," said the other, "that I cannot do as thou
dost wish. I have nothing to give thee. Let me go my way, I prythee. I have
done thee no harm."
"Nay, thou goest not," quoth Robin, "till thou hast shown me thy purse."
"Good friend," said the other gently, "I have business elsewhere. I have
given thee much time and have heard thee patiently. Prythee, let me depart

in peace."
"I have spoken to thee, friend," said Robin sternly, "and I now tell thee
again, that thou goest not one step forward till thou hast done as I bid thee."
So saying, he raised his quarterstaff above his head in a threatening way.
"Alas!" said the stranger sadly, "it doth grieve me that this thing must be.
I fear much that I must slay thee, thou poor fellow!" So saying, he drew his
sword.
"Put by thy weapon," quoth Robin. "I would take no vantage of thee. Thy
sword cannot stand against an oaken staff such as mine. I could snap it like
a barley straw. Yonder is a good oaken thicket by the roadside; take thee a
cudgel thence and defend thyself fairly, if thou hast a taste for a sound
drubbing."
First the stranger measured Robin with his eye, and then he measured the
oaken staff. "Thou art right, good fellow," said he presently, "truly, my
sword is no match for that cudgel of thine. Bide thee awhile till I get me a
staff." So saying, he threw aside the rose that he had been holding all this
time, thrust his sword back into the scabbard, and, with a more hasty step
than he had yet used, stepped to the roadside where grew the little clump of
ground oaks Robin had spoken of. Choosing among them, he presently
found a sapling to his liking. He did not cut it, but, rolling up his sleeves a
little way, he laid hold of it, placed his heel against the ground, and, with
one mighty pull, plucked the young tree up by the roots from out the very
earth. Then he came back, trimming away the roots and tender stems with
his sword as quietly as if he had done nought to speak of.
Little John and the Tanner had been watching all that passed, but when
they saw the stranger drag the sapling up from the earth, and heard the
rending and snapping of its roots, the Tanner pursed his lips together,
drawing his breath between them in a long inward whistle.
"By the breath of my body!" said Little John, as soon as he could gather
his wits from their wonder, "sawest thou that, Arthur? Marry, I think our
poor master will stand but an ill chance with yon fellow. By Our Lady, he
plucked up yon green tree as it were a barley straw."

Whatever Robin Hood thought, he stood his ground, and now he and the
stranger in scarlet stood face to face.
Well did Robin Hood hold his own that day as a mid-country yeoman.
This way and that they fought, and back and forth, Robin's skill against the
stranger's strength. The dust of the highway rose up around them like a
cloud, so that at times Little John and the Tanner could see nothing, but
only hear the rattle of the staves against one another. Thrice Robin Hood
struck the stranger; once upon the arm and twice upon the ribs, and yet had
he warded all the other's blows, only one of which, had it met its mark,
would have laid stout Robin lower in the dust than he had ever gone before.
At last the stranger struck Robin's cudgel so fairly in the middle that he
could hardly hold his staff in his hand; again he struck, and Robin bent
beneath the blow; a third time he struck, and now not only fairly beat down
Robin's guard, but gave him such a rap, also, that down he tumbled into the
dusty road.
"Hold!" cried Robin Hood, when he saw the stranger raising his staff
once more. "I yield me!"
"Hold!" cried Little John, bursting from his cover, with the Tanner at his
heels. "Hold! give over, I say!"
"Nay," answered the stranger quietly, "if there be two more of you, and
each as stout as this good fellow, I am like to have my hands full.
Nevertheless, come on, and I will strive my best to serve you all."
"Stop!" cried Robin Hood, "we will fight no more. I take my vow, this is
an ill day for thee and me, Little John. I do verily believe that my wrist, and
eke my arm, are palsied by the jar of the blow that this stranger struck me."
Then Little John turned to Robin Hood. "Why, how now, good master,"
said he. "Alas! Thou art in an ill plight. Marry, thy jerkin is all befouled
with the dust of the road. Let me help thee to arise."
"A plague on thy aid!" cried Robin angrily. "I can get to my feet without
thy help, good fellow."
"Nay, but let me at least dust thy coat for thee. I fear thy poor bones are
mightily sore," quoth Little John soberly, but with a sly twinkle in his eyes.

"Give over, I say!" quoth Robin in a fume. "My coat hath been dusted
enough already, without aid of thine." Then, turning to the stranger, he said,
"What may be thy name, good fellow?"
"My name is Gamwell," answered the other.
"Ha!" cried Robin, "is it even so? I have near kin of that name. Whence
camest thou, fair friend?"
"From Maxfield Town I come," answered the stranger. "There was I born
and bred, and thence I come to seek my mother's young brother, whom men
call Robin Hood. So, if perchance thou mayst direct me—"
"Ha! Will Gamwell!" cried Robin, placing both hands upon the other's
shoulders and holding him off at arm's length. "Surely, it can be none other!
I might have known thee by that pretty maiden air of thine—that dainty,
finicking manner of gait. Dost thou not know me, lad? Look upon me well."
"Now, by the breath of my body!" cried the other, "I do believe from my
heart that thou art mine own Uncle Robin. Nay, certain it is so!" And each
flung his arms around the other, kissing him upon the cheek.
Then once more Robin held his kinsman off at arm's length and scanned
him keenly from top to toe. "Why, how now," quoth he, "what change is
here? Verily, some eight or ten years ago I left thee a stripling lad, with
great joints and ill-hung limbs, and lo! here thou art, as tight a fellow as e'er
I set mine eyes upon. Dost thou not remember, lad, how I showed thee the
proper way to nip the goose feather betwixt thy fingers and throw out thy
bow arm steadily? Thou gavest great promise of being a keen archer. And
dost thou not mind how I taught thee to fend and parry with the cudgel?"
"Yea," said young Gamwell, "and I did so look up to thee, and thought
thee so above all other men that, I make my vow, had I known who thou
wert, I would never have dared to lift hand against thee this day. I trust I did
thee no great harm."
"No, no," quoth Robin hastily, and looking sideways at Little John, "thou
didst not harm me. But say no more of that, I prythee. Yet I will say, lad,
that I hope I may never feel again such a blow as thou didst give me. By'r
Lady, my arm doth tingle yet from fingernail to elbow. Truly, I thought that

I was palsied for life. I tell thee, coz, that thou art the strongest man that
ever I laid mine eyes upon. I take my vow, I felt my stomach quake when I
beheld thee pluck up yon green tree as thou didst. But tell me, how camest
thou to leave Sir Edward and thy mother?"
"Alas!" answered young Gamwell, "it is an ill story, uncle, that I have to
tell thee. My father's steward, who came to us after old Giles Crookleg died,
was ever a saucy varlet, and I know not why my father kept him, saving that
he did oversee with great judgment. It used to gall me to hear him speak up
so boldly to my father, who, thou knowest, was ever a patient man to those
about him, and slow to anger and harsh words. Well, one day—and an ill
day it was for that saucy fellow—he sought to berate my father, I standing
by. I could stand it no longer, good uncle, so, stepping forth, I gave him a
box o' the ear, and— wouldst thou believe it?—the fellow straightway died
o't. I think they said I broke his neck, or something o' the like. So off they
packed me to seek thee and escape the law. I was on my way when thou
sawest me, and here I am."
"Well, by the faith of my heart," quoth Robin Hood, "for anyone escaping
the law, thou wast taking it the most easily that ever I beheld in all my life.
Whenever did anyone in all the world see one who had slain a man, and
was escaping because of it, tripping along the highway like a dainty court
damsel, sniffing at a rose the while?"
"Nay, uncle," answered Will Gamwell, "overhaste never churned good
butter, as the old saying hath it. Moreover, I do verily believe that this
overstrength of my body hath taken the nimbleness out of my heels. Why,
thou didst but just now rap me thrice, and I thee never a once, save by
overbearing thee by my strength."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "let us say no more on that score. I am right glad to
see thee, Will, and thou wilt add great honor and credit to my band of merry
fellows. But thou must change thy name, for warrants will be out presently
against thee; so, because of thy gay clothes, thou shalt henceforth and for
aye be called Will Scarlet."
"Will Scarlet," quoth Little John, stepping forward and reaching out his
great palm, which the other took, "Will Scarlet, the name fitteth thee well.
Right glad am I to welcome thee among us. I am called Little John; and this

is a new member who has just joined us, a stout tanner named Arthur a
Bland. Thou art like to achieve fame, Will, let me tell thee, for there will be
many a merry ballad sung about the country, and many a merry story told in
Sherwood of how Robin Hood taught Little John and Arthur a Bland the
proper way to use the quarterstaff; likewise, as it were, how our good
master bit off so large a piece of cake that he choked on it."
"Nay, good Little John," quoth Robin gently, for he liked ill to have such
a jest told of him. "Why should we speak of this little matter? Prythee, let
us keep this day's doings among ourselves."
"With all my heart," quoth Little John. "But, good master, I thought that
thou didst love a merry story, because thou hast so often made a jest about a
certain increase of fatness on my joints, of flesh gathered by my abiding
with the Sheriff of—"
"Nay, good Little John," said Robin hastily, "I do bethink me I have said
full enough on that score."
"It is well," quoth Little John, "for in truth I myself have tired of it
somewhat. But now I bethink me, thou didst also seem minded to make a
jest of the rain that threatened last night; so—"
"Nay, then," said Robin Hood testily, "I was mistaken. I remember me
now it did seem to threaten rain."
"Truly, I did think so myself," quoth Little John, "therefore, no doubt,
thou dost think it was wise of me to abide all night at the Blue Boar Inn,
instead of venturing forth in such stormy weather; dost thou not?"
"A plague of thee and thy doings!" cried Robin Hood. "If thou wilt have
it so, thou wert right to abide wherever thou didst choose."
"Once more, it is well," quoth Little John. "As for myself, I have been
blind this day. I did not see thee drubbed; I did not see thee tumbled heels
over head in the dust; and if any man says that thou wert, I can with a clear
conscience rattle his lying tongue betwixt his teeth."
"Come," cried Robin, biting his nether lip, while the others could not
forbear laughing. "We will go no farther today, but will return to Sherwood,

and thou shalt go to Ancaster another time, Little John."
So said Robin, for now that his bones were sore, he felt as though a long
journey would be an ill thing for him. So, turning their backs, they retraced
their steps whence they came.

The Adventure with Midge the Miller's Son
WHEN THE four yeomen had traveled for a long time toward Sherwood
again, high noontide being past, they began to wax hungry. Quoth Robin
Hood, "I would that I had somewhat to eat. Methinks a good loaf of white
bread, with a piece of snow-white cheese, washed down with a draught of
humming ale, were a feast for a king."
"Since thou speakest of it," said Will Scarlet, "methinks it would not be
amiss myself. There is that within me crieth out, 'Victuals, good friend,
victuals!'"
"I know a house near by," said Arthur a Bland, "and, had I but the money,
I would bring ye that ye speak of; to wit, a sweet loaf of bread, a fair
cheese, and a skin of brown ale."
"For the matter of that, thou knowest I have money by me, good master,"
quoth Little John.
"Why, so thou hast, Little John," said Robin. "How much money will it
take, good Arthur, to buy us meat and drink?"
"I think that six broad pennies will buy food enow for a dozen men," said
the Tanner.
"Then give him six pennies, Little John," quoth Robin, "for methinks
food for three men will about fit my need. Now get thee gone, Arthur, with
the money, and bring the food here, for there is a sweet shade in that thicket
yonder, beside the road, and there will we eat our meal."
So Little John gave Arthur the money, and the others stepped to the
thicket, there to await the return of the Tanner.
After a time he came back, bearing with him a great brown loaf of bread,
and a fair, round cheese, and a goatskin full of stout March beer, slung over
his shoulders. Then Will Scarlet took his sword and divided the loaf and the
cheese into four fair portions, and each man helped himself. Then Robin

Hood took a deep pull at the beer. "Aha!" said he, drawing in his breath,
"never have I tasted sweeter drink than this."
After this no man spake more, but each munched away at his bread and
cheese lustily, with ever and anon a pull at the beer.
At last Will Scarlet looked at a small piece of bread he still held in his
hand, and quoth he, "Methinks I will give this to the sparrows." So,
throwing it from him, he brushed the crumbs from his jerkin.
"I, too," quoth Robin, "have had enough, I think." As for Little John and
the Tanner, they had by this time eaten every crumb of their bread and
cheese.
"Now," quoth Robin, "I do feel myself another man, and would fain
enjoy something pleasant before going farther upon our journey. I do
bethink me, Will, that thou didst use to have a pretty voice, and one that
tuned sweetly upon a song. Prythee, give us one ere we journey farther."
"Truly, I do not mind turning a tune," answered Will Scarlet, "but I would
not sing alone."
"Nay, others will follow. Strike up, lad," quoth Robin.
"In that case, 'tis well," said Will Scarlet. "I do call to mind a song that a
certain minstrel used to sing in my father's hall, upon occasion. I know no
name for it and so can give you none; but thus it is." Then, clearing his
throat, he sang:

"In the merry blossom time,
When love longings food the breast,
When the flower is on the lime,
When the small fowl builds her nest,
Sweetly sings the nightingale
And the throstle cock so bold;
Cuckoo in the dewy dale
And the turtle in the word.
But the robin I love dear,
For he singeth through the year.
Robin! Robin!
Merry Robin!
So I'd have my true love be:
Not to fly
At the nigh
Sign of cold adversity.

"When the spring brings sweet delights,
When aloft the lark doth rise,
Lovers woo o' mellow nights,
And youths peep in maidens' eyes,
That time blooms the eglantine,
Daisies pied upon the hill,
Cowslips fair and columbine,
Dusky violets by the rill.
But the ivy green cloth grow
When the north wind bringeth snow.
Ivy! Ivy!
Stanch and true!
Thus I'd have her love to be:
Not to die
At the nigh
Breath of cold adversity."

"'Tis well sung," quoth Robin, "but, cousin, I tell thee plain, I would
rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some lusty ballad than a finicking
song of flowers and birds, and what not. Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and 'tis
none so bad a snatch of a song, for the matter of that. Now, Tanner, it is thy
turn."
"I know not," quoth Arthur, smiling, with his head on one side, like a
budding lass that is asked to dance, "I know not that I can match our sweet
friend's song; moreover, I do verily think that I have caught a cold and have
a certain tickling and huskiness in the windpipe."
"Nay, sing up, friend," quoth Little John, who sat next to him, patting him
upon the shoulder. "Thou hast a fair, round, mellow voice; let us have a
touch of it."
"Nay, an ye will ha' a poor thing," said Arthur, "I will do my best. Have
ye ever heard of the wooing of Sir Keith, the stout young Cornish knight, in
good King Arthur's time?"
"Methinks I have heard somewhat of it," said Robin; "but ne'ertheless
strike up thy ditty and let us hear it, for, as I do remember me, it is a gallant
song; so out with it, good fellow."
Thereupon, clearing his throat, the Tanner, without more ado, began to
sing:
THE WOOING OF SIR KEITH

"King Arthur sat in his royal hall,
And about on either hand
Was many a noble lordling tall,
The greatest in the land.

"Sat Lancelot with raven locks,
Gawaine with golden hair,
Sir Tristram, Kay who kept the locks,
And many another there.

"And through the stained windows bright,
From o'er the red-tiled eaves,
The sunlight blazed with colored light
On golden helms and greaves.

"But suddenly a silence came
About the Table Round,
For up the hall there walked a dame
Bent nigh unto the ground.

"Her nose was hooked, her eyes were bleared,
Her locks were lank and white;
Upon her chin there grew a beard;
She was a gruesome sight.

"And so with crawling step she came
And kneeled at Arthur's feet;
Quoth Kay, 'She is the foulest dame
That e'er my sight did greet.'

"'O mighty King! of thee I crave
A boon on bended knee';
'Twas thus she spoke. 'What wouldst thou have.'
Quoth Arthur, King, 'of me?'

"Quoth she, 'I have a foul disease
Doth gnaw my very heart,
And but one thing can bring me ease
Or cure my bitter smart.

"'There is no rest, no ease for me
North, east, or west, or south,
Till Christian knight will willingly
Thrice kiss me on the mouth.

"'Nor wedded may this childe have been
That giveth ease to me;
Nor may he be constrained, I ween,
But kiss me willingly.

"'So is there here one Christian knight
Of such a noble strain
That he will give a tortured wight
Sweet ease of mortal pain?'

"'A wedded man,' quoth Arthur, King,
'A wedded man I be
Else would I deem it noble thing
To kiss thee willingly.

"'Now, Lancelot, in all men's sight
Thou art the head and chief
Of chivalry. Come, noble knight,
And give her quick relief.'

"But Lancelot he turned aside
And looked upon the ground,
For it did sting his haughty pride
To hear them laugh around.

"'Come thou, Sir Tristram,' quoth the King.
Quoth he, 'It cannot be,
For ne'er can I my stomach bring
To do it willingly.'

"'Wilt thou, Sir Kay, thou scornful wight?'
Quoth Kay, 'Nay, by my troth!
What noble dame would kiss a knight
That kissed so foul a mouth?'

"'Wilt thou, Gawaine?' 'I cannot, King.'
'Sir Geraint?' 'Nay, not I;
My kisses no relief could bring,
For sooner would I die.'

"Then up and spake the youngest man
Of all about the board,
'Now such relief as Christian can
I'll give to her, my lord.'

"It was Sir Keith, a youthful knight,
Yet strong of limb and bold,
With beard upon his chin as light
As finest threads of gold.

"Quoth Kay, 'He hath no mistress yet
That he may call his own,
But here is one that's quick to get,
As she herself has shown.'

"He kissed her once, he kissed her twice,
He kissed her three times o'er,
A wondrous change came in a trice,
And she was foul no more.

"Her cheeks grew red as any rose,
Her brow as white as lawn,
Her bosom like the winter snows,
Her eyes like those of fawn.

"Her breath grew sweet as summer breeze
That blows the meadows o'er;
Her voice grew soft as rustling trees,
And cracked and harsh no more.

"Her hair grew glittering, like the gold,
Her hands as white as milk;
Her filthy rags, so foul and old,
Were changed to robes of silk.

"In great amaze the knights did stare.
Quoth Kay, 'I make my vow
If it will please thee, lady fair,
I'll gladly kiss thee now.'

"But young Sir Keith kneeled on one knee
And kissed her robes so fair.
'O let me be thy slave,' said he,
'For none to thee compare.'

"She bent her down, she kissed his brow,
She kissed his lips and eyes.
Quoth she, 'Thou art my master now,
My lord, my love, arise!

"'And all the wealth that is mine own,
My lands, I give to thee,
For never knight hath lady shown
Such noble courtesy.

"'Bewitched was I, in bitter pain,
But thou hast set me free,
So now I am myself again,
I give myself to thee.'"

"Yea, truly," quoth Robin Hood, when the Tanner had made an end of
singing, "it is as I remember it, a fair ditty, and a ballad with a pleasing tune
of a song."
"It hath oftentimes seemed to me," said Will Scarlet, "that it hath a
certain motive in it, e'en such as this: That a duty which seemeth to us
sometimes ugly and harsh, when we do kiss it fairly upon the mouth, so to
speak, is no such foul thing after all."
"Methinks thou art right," quoth Robin, "and, contrariwise, that when we
kiss a pleasure that appeareth gay it turneth foul to us; is it not so, Little
John? Truly such a thing hath brought thee sore thumps this day. Nay, man,
never look down in the mouth. Clear thy pipes and sing us a ditty."
"Nay," said Little John, "I have none as fair as that merry Arthur has
trolled. They are all poor things that I know. Moreover, my voice is not in
tune today, and I would not spoil even a tolerable song by ill singing."
Upon this all pressed Little John to sing, so that when he had denied them
a proper length of time, such as is seemly in one that is asked to sing, he
presently yielded. Quoth he, 'Well, an ye will ha' it so, I will give you what I
can. Like to fair Will, I have no title to my ditty, but thus it runs:

"O Lady mine, the spring is here,
With a hey nonny nonny;
The sweet love season of the year,
With a ninny ninny nonny;
Now lad and lass
Lie in the grass
That groweth green
With flowers between.
The buck doth rest
The leaves do start,
The cock doth crow,
The breeze doth blow,
And all things laugh in—"

"Who may yon fellow be coming along the road?" said Robin, breaking
into the song.
"I know not," quoth Little John in a surly voice. "But this I do know, that
it is an ill thing to do to check the flow of a good song."
"Nay, Little John," said Robin, "be not vexed, I prythee; but I have been
watching him coming along, bent beneath that great bag over his shoulder,
ever since thou didst begin thy song. Look, Little John, I pray, and see if
thou knowest him."
Little John looked whither Robin Hood pointed. "Truly," quoth he, after a
time, "I think yon fellow is a certain young miller I have seen now and then
around the edge of Sherwood; a poor wight, methinks, to spoil a good song
about."
"Now thou speakest of him," quoth Robin Hood, "methinks I myself have
seen him now and then. Hath he not a mill over beyond Nottingham Town,
nigh to the Salisbury road?"
"Thou art right; that is the man," said Little John.
"A good stout fellow," quoth Robin. "I saw him crack Ned o' Bradford's
crown about a fortnight since, and never saw I hair lifted more neatly in all
my life before."
By this time the young miller had come so near that they could see him
clearly. His clothes were dusted with flour, and over his back he carried a
great sack of meal, bending so as to bring the whole weight upon his

shoulders, and across the sack was a thick quarterstaff. His limbs were stout
and strong, and he strode along the dusty road right sturdily with the heavy
sack across his shoulders. His cheeks were ruddy as a winter hip, his hair
was flaxen in color, and on his chin was a downy growth of flaxen beard.
"A good honest fellow," quoth Robin Hood, "and such an one as is a
credit to English yeomanrie. Now let us have a merry jest with him. We will
forth as though we were common thieves and pretend to rob him of his
honest gains. Then will we take him into the forest and give him a feast
such as his stomach never held in all his life before. We will flood his throat
with good canary and send him home with crowns in his purse for every
penny he hath. What say ye, lads?"
"Truly, it is a merry thought," said Will Scarlet.
"It is well planned," quoth Little John, "but all the saints preserve us from
any more drubbings this day! Marry, my poor bones ache so that I—"
"Prythee peace, Little John," quoth Robin. "Thy foolish tongue will get
us both well laughed at yet."
"My foolish tongue, forsooth," growled Little John to Arthur a Bland. "I
would it could keep our master from getting us into another coil this day."
But now the Miller, plodding along the road, had come opposite to where
the yeomen lay hidden, whereupon all four of them ran at him and
surrounded him.
"Hold, friend!" cried Robin to the Miller; whereupon he turned slowly,
with the weight of the bag upon his shoulder, and looked at each in turn all
bewildered, for though a good stout man his wits did not skip like roasting
chestnuts.
"Who bids me stay?" said the Miller in a voice deep and gruff, like the
growl of a great dog.
"Marry, that do I," quoth Robin; "and let me tell thee, friend, thou hadst
best mind my bidding."
"And who art thou, good friend?" said the Miller, throwing the great sack
of meal from his shoulder to the ground, "and who are those with thee?"

"We be four good Christian men," quoth Robin, "and would fain help
thee by carrying part of thy heavy load."
"I give you all thanks," said the Miller, "but my bag is none that heavy
that I cannot carry it e'en by myself."
"Nay, thou dost mistake," quoth Robin, "I meant that thou mightest
perhaps have some heavy farthings or pence about thee, not to speak of
silver and gold. Our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth that gold is an
overheavy burden for a two-legged ass to carry; so we would e'en lift some
of this load from thee."
"Alas!" cried the Miller, "what would ye do to me? I have not about me
so much as a clipped groat. Do me no harm, I pray you, but let me depart in
peace. Moreover, let me tell you that ye are upon Robin Hood's ground, and
should he find you seeking to rob an honest craftsman, he will clip your
ears to your heads and scourge you even to the walls of Nottingham.
"In truth I fear Robin Hood no more than I do myself," quoth jolly Robin.
"Thou must this day give up to me every penny thou hast about thee. Nay, if
thou dost budge an inch I will rattle this staff about thine ears."
"Nay, smite me not!" cried the Miller, throwing up his elbow as though
he feared the blow. "Thou mayst search me if thou wilt, but thou wilt find
nothing upon me, pouch, pocket, or skin."
"Is it so?" quoth Robin Hood, looking keenly upon him. "Now I believe
that what thou tellest is no true tale. If I am not much mistook thou hast
somewhat in the bottom of that fat sack of meal. Good Arthur, empty the
bag upon the ground; I warrant thou wilt find a shilling or two in the flour."
"Alas!" cried the Miller, falling upon his knees, "spoil not all my good
meal! It can better you not, and will ruin me. Spare it, and I will give up the
money in the bag."
"Ha!" quoth Robin, nudging Will Scarlet. "Is it so? And have I found
where thy money lies? Marry, I have a wondrous nose for the blessed image
of good King Harry. I thought that I smelled gold and silver beneath the
barley meal. Bring it straight forth, Miller."

Then slowly the Miller arose to his feet, and slowly and unwillingly he
untied the mouth of the bag, and slowly thrust his hands into the meal and
began fumbling about with his arms buried to the elbows in the barley flour.
The others gathered round him, their heads together, looking and wondering
what he would bring forth.
So they stood, all with their heads close together gazing down into the
sack. But while he pretended to be searching for the money, the Miller
gathered two great handfuls of meal. "Ha," quoth he, "here they are, the
beauties." Then, as the others leaned still more forward to see what he had,
he suddenly cast the meal into their faces, filling their eyes and noses and
mouths with the flour, blinding and half choking them. Arthur a Bland was
worse off than any, for his mouth was open, agape with wonder of what was
to come, so that a great cloud of flour flew down his throat, setting him a-
coughing till he could scarcely stand.
Then, while all four stumbled about, roaring with the smart of the meal in
their eyeballs, and while they rubbed their eyes till the tears made great
channels on their faces through the meal, the Miller seized another handful
of flour and another and another, throwing it in their faces, so that even had
they had a glimmering of light before they were now as blind as ever a
beggar in Nottinghamshire, while their hair and beards and clothes were as
white as snow.
Then catching up his great crabstaff, the Miller began laying about him
as though he were clean gone mad. This way and that skipped the four, like
peas on a drumhead, but they could see neither to defend themselves nor to
run away. Thwack! thwack! went the Miller's cudgel across their backs, and
at every blow great white clouds of flour rose in the air from their jackets
and went drifting down the breeze.
"Stop!" roared Robin at last. "Give over, good friend, I am Robin Hood!"
"Thou liest, thou knave," cried the Miller, giving him a rap on the ribs
that sent up a great cloud of flour like a puff of smoke. "Stout Robin never
robbed an honest tradesman. Ha! thou wouldst have my money, wouldst
thou?" And he gave him another blow. "Nay, thou art not getting thy share,
thou long-legged knave. Share and share alike." And he smote Little John
across the shoulders so that he sent him skipping half across the road. "Nay,

fear not, it is thy turn now, black beard." And he gave the Tanner a crack
that made him roar for all his coughing. "How now, red coat, let me brush
the dust from thee!" cried he, smiting Will Scarlet. And so he gave them
merry words and blows until they could scarcely stand, and whenever he
saw one like to clear his eyes he threw more flour in his face. At last Robin
Hood found his horn and clapping it to his lips, blew three loud blasts upon
it.
Now it chanced that Will Stutely and a party of Robin's men were in the
glade not far from where this merry sport was going forward. Hearing the
hubbub of voices, and blows that sounded like the noise of a flail in the
barn in wintertime, they stopped, listening and wondering what was toward.
Quoth Will Stutely, "Now if I mistake not there is some stout battle with
cudgels going forward not far hence. I would fain see this pretty sight." So
saying, he and the whole party turned their steps whence the noise came.
When they had come near where all the tumult sounded they heard the three
blasts of Robin's bugle horn.
"Quick!" cried young David of Doncaster. "Our master is in sore need!"
So, without stopping a moment, they dashed forward with might and main
and burst forth from the covert into the highroad.
But what a sight was that which they saw! The road was all white with
meal, and five men stood there also white with meal from top to toe, for
much of the barley flour had fallen back upon the Miller.
"What is thy need, master?" cried Will Stutely. "And what doth all this
mean?"
"Why," quoth Robin in a mighty passion, "yon traitor felt low hath come
as nigh slaying me as e'er a man in all the world. Hadst thou not come
quickly, good Stutely, thy master had been dead."
Hereupon, while he and the three others rubbed the meal from their eyes,
and Will Stutely and his men brushed their clothes clean, he told them all;
how that he had meant to pass a jest upon the Miller, which same had
turned so grievously upon them.
"Quick, men, seize the vile Miller!" cried Stutely, who was nigh choking
with laughter as were the rest; whereupon several ran upon the stout fellow

and seizing him, bound his arms behind his back with bowstrings.
"Ha!" cried Robin, when they brought the trembling Miller to him. "Thou
wouldst murder me, wouldst thou? By my faith"—Here he stopped and
stood glaring upon the, Miller grimly. But Robin's anger could not hold, so
first his eyes twinkled, and then in spite of all he broke into a laugh.
Now when they saw their master laugh, the yeomen who stood around
could contain themselves no longer, and a mighty shout of laughter went up
from all. Many could not stand, but rolled upon the ground from pure
merriment.
"What is thy name, good fellow?" said Robin at last to the Miller, who
stood gaping and as though he were in amaze.
"Alas, sir, I am Midge, the Miller's son," said he in a frightened voice.
"I make my vow," quoth merry Robin, smiting him upon the shoulder,
"thou art the mightiest Midge that e'er mine eyes beheld. Now wilt thou
leave thy dusty mill and come and join my band? By my faith, thou art too
stout a man to spend thy days betwixt the hopper and the till."
"Then truly, if thou dost forgive me for the blows I struck, not knowing
who thou wast, I will join with thee right merrily," said the Miller.
"Then have I gained this day," quoth Robin, "the three stoutest yeomen in
all Nottinghamshire. We will get us away to the greenwood tree, and there
hold a merry feast in honor of our new friends, and mayhap a cup or two of
good sack and canary may mellow the soreness of my poor joints and
bones, though I warrant it will be many a day before I am again the man I
was." So saying, he turned and led the way, the rest following, and so they
entered the forest once more and were lost to sight.
So that night all was ablaze with crackling fires in the woodlands, for
though Robin and those others spoken of, only excepting Midge, the
Miller's son, had many a sore bump and bruise here and there on their
bodies, they were still not so sore in the joints that they could not enjoy a
jolly feast given all in welcome to the new members of the band. Thus with
songs and jesting and laughter that echoed through the deeper and more
silent nooks of the forest, the night passed quickly along, as such merry

times are wont to do, until at last each man sought his couch and silence fell
on all things and all things seemed to sleep.
But Little John's tongue was ever one that was not easy of guidance, so
that, inch by inch, the whole story of his fight with the Tanner and Robin's
fight with Will Scarlet leaked out. And so I have told it that you may laugh
at the merry tale along with me.

Robin Hood and Allan a Dale
IT HAS just been told how three unlucky adventures fell upon Robin
Hood and Little John all in one day bringing them sore ribs and aching
bones. So next we will tell how they made up for those ill happenings by a
good action that came about not without some small pain to Robin.
Two days had passed by, and somewhat of the soreness had passed away
from Robin Hood's joints, yet still, when he moved of a sudden and without
thinking, pain here and there would, as it were, jog him, crying, "Thou hast
had a drubbing, good fellow."
The day was bright and jocund, and the morning dew still lay upon the
grass. Under the greenwood tree sat Robin Hood; on one side was Will
Scarlet, lying at full length upon his back, gazing up into the clear sky, with
hands clasped behind his head; upon the other side sat Little John,
fashioning a cudgel out of a stout crab-tree limb; elsewhere upon the grass
sat or lay many others of the band.
"By the faith of my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I do bethink me that we
have had no one to dine with us for this long time. Our money groweth low
in the purse, for no one hath come to pay a reckoning for many a day. Now
busk thee, good Stutely, and choose thee six men, and get thee gone to
Fosse Way or thereabouts, and see that thou bringest someone to eat with us
this evening. Meantime we will prepare a grand feast to do whosoever may
come the greater honor. And stay, good Stutely. I would have thee take Will
Scarlet with thee, for it is meet that he should become acquaint with the
ways of the forest."
"Now do I thank thee, good master," quoth Stutely, springing to his feet,
"that thou hast chosen me for this adventure. Truly, my limbs do grow slack
through abiding idly here. As for two of my six, I will choose Midge the
Miller and Arthur a Bland, for, as well thou knowest, good master, they are
stout fists at the quarterstaff. Is it not so, Little John?"

At this all laughed but Little John and Robin, who twisted up his face. "I
can speak for Midge," said he, "and likewise for my cousin Scarlet. This
very blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors as a
beggar's cloak."
So, having chosen four more stout fellows, Will Stutely and his band set
forth to Fosse Way, to find whether they might not come across some rich
guest to feast that day in Sherwood with Robin and his band.
For all the livelong day they abided near this highway. Each man had
brought with him a good store of cold meat and a bottle of stout March beer
to stay his stomach till the homecoming. So when high noontide had come
they sat them down upon the soft grass, beneath a green and wide-spreading
hawthorn bush, and held a hearty and jovial feast. After this, one kept watch
while the others napped, for it was a still and sultry day.
Thus they passed the time pleasantly enow, but no guest such as they
desired showed his face in all the time that they lay hidden there. Many
passed along the dusty road in the glare of the sun: now it was a bevy of
chattering damsels merrily tripping along; now it was a plodding tinker;
now a merry shepherd lad; now a sturdy farmer; all gazing ahead along the
road, unconscious of the seven stout fellows that lay hidden so near them.
Such were the travelers along the way; but fat abbot, rich esquire, or
money-laden usurer came there none.
At last the sun began to sink low in the heavens; the light grew red and
the shadows long. The air grew full of silence, the birds twittered sleepily,
and from afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the milkmaid
calling the kine home to the milking.
Then Stutely arose from where he was lying. "A plague of such ill luck!"
quoth he. "Here have we abided all day, and no bird worth the shooting, so
to speak, hath come within reach of our bolt. Had I gone forth on an
innocent errand, I had met a dozen stout priests or a score of pursy money-
lenders. But it is ever thus: the dun deer are never so scarce as when one has
a gray goose feather nipped betwixt the fingers. Come, lads, let us pack up
and home again, say I."

Accordingly, the others arose, and, coming forth from out the thicket,
they all turned their toes back again to Sherwood. After they had gone some
distance, Will Stutely, who headed the party, suddenly stopped. "Hist!"
quoth he, for his ears were as sharp as those of a five-year-old fox. "Hark,
lads! Methinks I hear a sound." At this all stopped and listened with bated
breath, albeit for a time they could hear nothing, their ears being duller than
Stutely's. At length they heard a faint and melancholy sound, like someone
in lamentation.
"Ha!" quoth Will Scarlet, "this must be looked into. There is someone in
distress nigh to us here."
"I know not," quoth Will Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, "our
master is ever rash about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but, for my
part, I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils. Yon is a man's
voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always ready to get himself out
from his own pothers."
Then out spake Will Scarlet boldly. "Now out upon thee, to talk in that
manner, Stutely! Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the trouble
of this poor creature."
"Nay," quoth Stutely, "thou dost leap so quickly, thou'lt tumble into the
ditch. Who said I would not go? Come along, say I." Thus saying, he led the
way, the others following, till, after they had gone a short distance, they
came to a little opening in the woodland, whence a brook, after gurgling out
from under the tangle of overhanging bushes, spread out into a broad and
glassy-pebbled pool. By the side of this pool, and beneath the branches of a
willow, lay a youth upon his face, weeping aloud, the sound of which had
first caught the quick ears of Stutely. His golden locks were tangled, his
clothes were all awry, and everything about him betokened sorrow and woe.
Over his head, from the branches of the osier, hung a beautiful harp of
polished wood inlaid with gold and silver in fantastic devices. Beside him
lay a stout ashen bow and half a score of fair, smooth arrows.
"Halloa!" shouted Will Stutely, when they had come out from the forest
into the little open spot. "Who art thou, fellow, that liest there killing all the
green grass with salt water?"

Hearing the voice, the stranger sprang to his feet and; snatching up his
bow and fitting a shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill might
befall him.
"Truly," said one of the yeomen, when they had seen the young stranger's
face, "I do know that lad right well. He is a certain minstrel that I have seen
hereabouts more than once. It was only a week ago I saw him skipping
across the hill like a yearling doe. A fine sight he was then, with a flower at
his ear and a cock's plume stuck in his cap; but now, methinks, our cockerel
is shorn of his gay feathers."
"Pah!" cried Will Stutely, coming up to the stranger, "wipe thine eyes,
man! I do hate to see a tall, stout fellow so sniveling like a girl of fourteen
over a dead tomtit. Put down thy bow, man! We mean thee no harm."
But Will Scarlet, seeing how the stranger, who had a young and boyish
look, was stung by the words that Stutely had spoken, came to him and put
his hand upon the youth's shoulder. "Nay, thou art in trouble, poor boy!"
said he kindly. "Mind not what these fellows have said. They are rough, but
they mean thee well. Mayhap they do not understand a lad like thee. Thou
shalt come with us, and perchance we may find a certain one that can aid
thee in thy perplexities, whatsoever they may be."
"Yea, truly, come along," said Will Stutely gruffly. "I meant thee no
harm, and may mean thee some good. Take down thy singing tool from off
this fair tree, and away with us."
The youth did as he was bidden and, with bowed head and sorrowful
step, accompanied the others, walking beside Will Scarlet. So they wended
their way through the forest. The bright light faded from the sky and a
glimmering gray fell over all things. From the deeper recesses of the forest
the strange whispering sounds of night-time came to the ear; all else was
silent, saving only for the rattling of their footsteps amid the crisp, dry
leaves of the last winter. At last a ruddy glow shone before them here and
there through the trees; a little farther and they came to the open glade, now
bathed in the pale moonlight. In the center of the open crackled a great fire,
throwing a red glow on all around. At the fire were roasting juicy steaks of
venison, pheasants, capons, and fresh fish from the river. All the air was
filled with the sweet smell of good things cooking.

The little band made its way across the glade, many yeomen turning with
curious looks and gazing after them, but none speaking or questioning
them. So, with Will Scarlet upon one side and Will Stutely upon the other,
the stranger came to where Robin Hood sat on a seat of moss under the
greenwood tree, with Little John standing beside him.
"Good even, fair friend," said Robin Hood, rising as the other drew near.
"And hast thou come to feast with me this day?"
"Alas! I know not," said the lad, looking around him with dazed eyes, for
he was bewildered with all that he saw. "Truly, I know not whether I be in a
dream," said he to himself in a low voice.
"Nay, marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art awake, as thou wilt
presently find, for a fine feast is a-cooking for thee. Thou art our honored
guest this day."
Still the young stranger looked about him, as though in a dream.
Presently he turned to Robin. "Methinks," said he, "I know now where I am
and what hath befallen me. Art not thou the great Robin Hood?"
"Thou hast hit the bull's eye," quoth Robin, clapping him upon the
shoulder. "Men hereabouts do call me by that name. Sin' thou knowest me,
thou knowest also that he who feasteth with me must pay his reckoning. I
trust thou hast a full purse with thee, fair stranger."
"Alas!" said the stranger, "I have no purse nor no money either, saving
only the half of a sixpence, the other half of which mine own dear love doth
carry in her bosom, hung about her neck by a strand of silken thread."
At this speech a great shout of laughter went up from those around,
whereat the poor boy looked as he would die of shame; but Robin Hood
turned sharply to Will Stutely. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is this the guest
that thou hast brought us to fill our purse? Methinks thou hast brought but a
lean cock to the market."
"Nay, good master," answered Will Stutely, grinning, "he is no guest of
mine; it was Will Scarlet that brought him thither."

Then up spoke Will Scarlet, and told how they had found the lad in
sorrow, and how he had brought him to Robin, thinking that he might
perchance aid him in his trouble. Then Robin Hood turned to the youth,
and, placing his hand upon the other's shoulder, held him off at arm's length,
scanning his face closely.
"A young face," quoth he in a low voice, half to himself, "a kind face, a
good face. 'Tis like a maiden's for purity, and, withal, the fairest that e'er
mine eyes did see; but, if I may judge fairly by thy looks, grief cometh to
young as well as to old." At these words, spoken so kindly, the poor lad's
eyes brimmed up with tears. "Nay, nay," said Robin hastily, "cheer up, lad; I
warrant thy case is not so bad that it cannot be mended. What may be thy
name?"
"Allen a Dale is my name, good master."
"Allen a Dale," repeated Robin, musing. "Allen a Dale. It doth seem to
me that the name is not altogether strange to mine ears. Yea, surely thou art
the minstrel of whom we have been hearing lately, whose voice so charmeth
all men. Dost thou not come from the Dale of Rotherstream, over beyond
Stavely?"
"Yea, truly," answered Allan, "I do come thence."
"How old art thou, Allan?" said Robin.
"I am but twenty years of age."
"Methinks thou art overyoung to be perplexed with trouble," quoth Robin
kindly; then, turning to the others, he cried, "Come, lads, busk ye and get
our feast ready; only thou, Will Scarlet, and thou, Little John, stay here with
me."
Then, when the others had gone, each man about his business, Robin
turned once more to the youth. "Now, lad," said he, "tell us thy troubles, and
speak freely. A flow of words doth ever ease the heart of sorrows; it is like
opening the waste weir when the mill dam is overfull. Come, sit thou here
beside me, and speak at thine ease."

Then straightway the youth told the three yeomen all that was in his
heart; at first in broken words and phrases, then freely and with greater ease
when he saw that all listened closely to what he said. So he told them how
he had come from York to the sweet vale of Rother, traveling the country
through as a minstrel, stopping now at castle, now at hall, and now at
farmhouse; how he had spent one sweet evening in a certain broad, low
farmhouse, where he sang before a stout franklin and a maiden as pure and
lovely as the first snowdrop of spring; how he had played and sung to her,
and how sweet Ellen o' the Dale had listened to him and had loved him.
Then, in a low, sweet voice, scarcely louder than a whisper, he told how he
had watched for her and met her now and then when she went abroad, but
was all too afraid in her sweet presence to speak to her, until at last, beside
the banks of Rother, he had spoken of his love, and she had whispered that
which had made his heartstrings quiver for joy. Then they broke a sixpence
between them, and vowed to be true to one another forever.
Next he told how her father had discovered what was a-doing, and had
taken her away from him so that he never saw her again, and his heart was
sometimes like to break; how this morn, only one short month and a half
from the time that he had seen her last, he had heard and knew it to be so,
that she was to marry old Sir Stephen of Trent, two days hence, for Ellen's
father thought it would be a grand thing to have his daughter marry so high,
albeit she wished it not; nor was it wonder that a knight should wish to
marry his own sweet love, who was the most beautiful maiden in all the
world.
To all this the yeomen listened in silence, the clatter of many voices,
jesting and laughing, sounding around them, and the red light of the fire
shining on their faces and in their eyes. So simple were the poor boy's
words, and so deep his sorrow, that even Little John felt a certain knotty
lump rise in his throat.
"I wonder not," said Robin, after a moment's silence, "that thy true love
loved thee, for thou hast surely a silver cross beneath thy tongue, even like
good Saint Francis, that could charm the birds of the air by his speech."
"By the breath of my body," burst forth Little John, seeking to cover his
feelings with angry words, "I have a great part of a mind to go straightway

and cudgel the nasty life out of the body of that same vile Sir Stephen.
Marry, come up, say I—what a plague—does an old weazen think that
tender lasses are to be bought like pullets o' a market day? Out upon him!—
I—but no matter, only let him look to himself."
Then up spoke Will Scarlet. "Methinks it seemeth but ill done of the lass
that she should so quickly change at others' bidding, more especially when
it cometh to the marrying of a man as old as this same Sir Stephen. I like it
not in her, Allan."
"Nay," said Allan hotly, "thou dost wrong her. She is as soft and gentle as
a stockdove. I know her better than anyone in all the world. She may do her
father's bidding, but if she marries Sir Stephen, her heart will break and she
will die. My own sweet dear, I—" He stopped and shook his head, for he
could say nothing further.
While the others were speaking, Robin Hood had been sunk in thought.
"Methinks I have a plan might fit thy case, Allan," said he. "But tell me
first, thinkest thou, lad, that thy true love hath spirit enough to marry thee
were ye together in church, the banns published, and the priest found, even
were her father to say her nay?"
"Ay, marry would she," cried Allan eagerly.
"Then, if her father be the man that I take him to be, I will undertake that
he shall give you both his blessing as wedded man and wife, in the place of
old Sir Stephen, and upon his wedding morn. But stay, now I bethink me,
there is one thing reckoned not upon—the priest. Truly, those of the cloth
do not love me overmuch, and when it comes to doing as I desire in such a
matter, they are as like as not to prove stiff- necked. As to the lesser clergy,
they fear to do me a favor because of abbot or bishop.
"Nay," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing, "so far as that goeth, I know of a
certain friar that, couldst thou but get on the soft side of him, would do thy
business even though Pope Joan herself stood forth to ban him. He is
known as the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey, and dwelleth in Fountain
Dale."
"But," quoth Robin, "Fountain Abbey is a good hundred miles from here.
An we would help this lad, we have no time to go thither and back before

his true love will be married. Nought is to be gained there, coz."
"Yea," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing again, "but this Fountain Abbey is not
so far away as the one of which thou speakest, uncle. The Fountain Abbey
of which I speak is no such rich and proud place as the other, but a simple
little cell; yet, withal, as cosy a spot as ever stout anchorite dwelled within.
I know the place well, and can guide thee thither, for, though it is a goodly
distance, yet methinks a stout pair of legs could carry a man there and back
in one day."
"Then give me thy hand, Allan," cried Robin, "and let me tell thee, I
swear by the bright hair of Saint AElfrida that this time two days hence
Ellen a Dale shall be thy wife. I will seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey
tomorrow day, and I warrant I will get upon the soft side of him, even if I
have to drub one soft."
At this Will Scarlet laughed again. "Be not too sure of that, good uncle,"
quoth he, "nevertheless, from what I know of him, I think this Curtal Friar
will gladly join two such fair lovers, more especially if there be good eating
and drinking afoot thereafter."
But now one of the band came to say that the feast was spread upon the
grass; so, Robin leading the way, the others followed to where the goodly
feast was spread. Merry was the meal. Jest and story passed freely, and all
laughed till the forest rang again. Allan laughed with the rest, for his cheeks
were flushed with the hope that Robin Hood had given him.
At last the feast was done, and Robin Hood turned to Allan, who sat
beside him. "Now, Allan," quoth he, "so much has been said of thy singing
that we would fain have a taste of thy skill ourselves. Canst thou not give us
something?"
"Surely," answered Allan readily; for he was no third-rate songster that
must be asked again and again, but said "yes" or "no" at the first bidding;
so, taking up his harp, he ran his fingers lightly over the sweetly sounding
strings, and all was hushed about the cloth. Then, backing his voice with
sweet music on his harp, he sang:
MAY ELLEN'S WEDDING

(Giving an account of how she was beloved by a fairy prince, who took
her to his own home.)

"May Ellen sat beneath a thorn
And in a shower around
The blossoms fell at every breeze
Like snow upon the ground,
And in a lime tree near was heard
The sweet song of a strange, wild bird.

"O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet,
O lingering sweet the strain!
May Ellen's heart within her breast
Stood still with blissful pain:
And so, with listening, upturned face,
She sat as dead in that fair place.

"'Come down from out the blossoms, bird!
Come down from out the tree,
And on my heart I'll let thee lie,
And love thee tenderly!'
Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low,
From where the hawthorn shed its snow.

"Down dropped the bird on quivering wing,
From out the blossoming tree,
And nestled in her snowy breast.
'My love! my love!' cried she;
Then straightway home, 'mid sun and flower,
She bare him to her own sweet bower.

"The day hath passed to mellow night,
The moon floats o'er the lea,
And in its solemn, pallid light
A youth stands silently:
A youth of beauty strange and rare,
Within May Ellen's bower there.

"He stood where o'er the pavement cold
The glimmering moonbeams lay.
May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes,
Nor could she turn away,
For, as in mystic dreams we see
A spirit, stood he silently.

"All in a low and breathless voice,
'Whence comest thou?' said she;
'Art thou the creature of a dream,
Or a vision that I see?'
Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver
Through straining reeds beside the river.

"'I came, a bird on feathered wing,
From distant Faeryland
Where murmuring waters softly sing
Upon the golden strand,
Where sweet trees are forever green;
And there my mother is the queen.'

. . . . . . .

"No more May Ellen leaves her bower
To grace the blossoms fair;
But in the hushed and midnight hour
They hear her talking there,
Or, when the moon is shining white,
They hear her singing through the night.

"'Oh, don thy silks and jewels fine,'
May Ellen's mother said,
'For hither comes the Lord of Lyne
And thou this lord must wed.'
May Ellen said, 'It may not be.
He ne'er shall find his wife in me.'

"Up spoke her brother, dark and grim:
'Now by the bright blue sky,
E'er yet a day hath gone for him
Thy wicked bird shall die!
For he hath wrought thee bitter harm,
By some strange art or cunning charm.'

"Then, with a sad and mournful song,
Away the bird did fly,
And o'er the castle eaves, and through
The gray and windy sky.
'Come forth!' then cried the brother grim,
'Why dost thou gaze so after him?'

"It is May Ellen's wedding day,
The sky is blue and fair,
And many a lord and lady gay
In church are gathered there.
The bridegroom was Sir Hugh the Bold,
All clad in silk and cloth of gold.

"In came the bride in samite white
With a white wreath on her head;
Her eyes were fixed with a glassy look,
Her face was as the dead,
And when she stood among the throng,
She sang a wild and wondrous song.

"Then came a strange and rushing sound
Like the coming wind doth bring,
And in the open windows shot
Nine swans on whistling wing,
And high above the heads they flew,
In gleaming fight the darkness through.

"Around May Ellen's head they flew
In wide and windy fight,
And three times round the circle drew.
The guests shrank in affright,
And the priest beside the altar there,
Did cross himself with muttered prayer.

"But the third time they flew around,
Fair Ellen straight was gone,

And in her place, upon the ground,
There stood a snow-white swan.
Then, with a wild and lovely song,
It joined the swift and winged throng.

"There's ancient men at weddings been,
For sixty years and more,
But such a wondrous wedding day,
They never saw before.
But none could check and none could stay,
The swans that bore the bride away."

Not a sound broke the stillness when Allan a Dale had done, but all sat
gazing at the handsome singer, for so sweet was his voice and the music
that each man sat with bated breath, lest one drop more should come and he
should lose it.
"By my faith and my troth," quoth Robin at last, drawing a deep breath,
"lad, thou art—Thou must not leave our company, Allan! Wilt thou not stay
with us here in the sweet green forest? Truly, I do feel my heart go out
toward thee with great love."
Then Allan took Robin's hand and kissed it. "I will stay with thee always,
dear master," said he, "for never have I known such kindness as thou hast
shown me this day."
Then Will Scarlet stretched forth his hand and shook Allan's in token of
fellowship, as did Little John likewise. And thus the famous Allan a Dale
became one of Robin Hood's band.

Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal Friar
THE STOUT YEOMEN of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a
morn, more especially when the summertime had come, for then in the
freshness of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and the song of the
small birds the sweetest.
Quoth Robin, "Now will I go to seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey
of whom we spake yesternight, and I will take with me four of my good
men, and these four shall be Little John, Will Scarlet, David of Doncaster,
and Arthur a Bland. Bide the rest of you here, and Will Stutely shall be your
chief while I am gone." Then straightway Robin Hood donned a fine steel
coat of chain mail, over which he put on a light jacket of Lincoln green.
Upon his head he clapped a steel cap, and this he covered by one of soft
white leather, in which stood a nodding cock's plume. By his side he hung a
good broadsword of tempered steel, the bluish blade marked all over with
strange figures of dragons, winged women, and what not. A gallant sight
was Robin so arrayed, I wot, the glint of steel showing here and there as the
sunlight caught brightly the links of polished mail that showed beneath his
green coat.
So, having arrayed himself, he and the four yeomen set forth upon their
way, Will Scarlet taking the lead, for he knew better than the others whither
to go. Thus, mile after mile, they strode along, now across a brawling
stream, now along a sunlit road, now adown some sweet forest path, over
which the trees met in green and rustling canopy, and at the end of which a
herd of startled deer dashed away, with rattle of leaves and crackle of
branches. Onward they walked with song and jest and laughter till noontide
was passed, when at last they came to the banks of a wide, glassy, and lily-
padded stream. Here a broad, beaten path stretched along beside the banks,
on which path labored the horses that tugged at the slow-moving barges,
laden with barley meal or what not, from the countryside to the many-
towered town. But now, in the hot silence of the midday, no horse was seen
nor any man besides themselves. Behind them and before them stretched

the river, its placid bosom ruffled here and there by the purple dusk of a
small breeze.
"Now, good uncle," quoth Will Scarlet at last, when they had walked for
a long time beside this sweet, bright river, "just beyond yon bend ahead of
us is a shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh, and
upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage hidden amidst
the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth the Friar of Fountain
Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know the way; albeit it is not overhard to
find."
"Nay," quoth jolly Robin, stopping suddenly, "had I thought that I should
have had to wade water, even were it so crystal a stream as this, I had
donned other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for after all a
wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be, must. But bide ye
here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry adventure alone. Nevertheless,
listen well, and if ye hear me sound upon my bugle horn, come quickly." So
saying, he turned and left them, striding onward alone.
Robin had walked no farther than where the bend of the road hid his
good men from his view, when he stopped suddenly, for he thought that he
heard voices. He stood still and listened, and presently heard words passed
back and forth betwixt what seemed to be two men, and yet the two voices
were wondrously alike. The sound came from over behind the bank, that
here was steep and high, dropping from the edge of the road a half a score
of feet to the sedgy verge of the river.
"'Tis strange," muttered Robin to himself after a space, when the voices
had ceased their talking, "surely there be two people that spoke the one to
the other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make my vow
that never have I heard the like in all my life before. Truly, if this twain are
to be judged by their voices, no two peas were ever more alike. I will look
into this matter." So saying, he came softly to the river bank and laying him
down upon the grass, peered over the edge and down below.
All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight
upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft
foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in
cool places, and up to Robin's nostrils came the tender odor of the wild

thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams. Here, with his broad
back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree, and half hidden by the soft
ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny fellow, but no other man was there.
His head was as round as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped,
curly black hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was
shorn as smooth as the palm of one's hand, which, together with his loose
robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his looks never would
have done, that he was a friar. His cheeks were as red and shining as a
winter crab, albeit they were nearly covered over with a close curly black
beard, as were his chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that
of a north country bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e'en a
match for those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows
danced a pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of
humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled
by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he had laid
off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs were stretched wide
apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great pasty compounded of juicy
meats of divers kinds made savory with tender young onions, both meat and
onions being mingled with a good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great
piece of brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then
he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he
would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him.
"By my faith," quoth Robin to himself, "I do verily believe that this is the
merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight
in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it must have
been this holy man talking to himself."
So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he was
so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and, having first
wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and sweeter napkin
ne'er had king in all the world), he took up his flask and began talking to
himself as though he were another man, and answering himself as though
he were somebody else.
"Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee as a
lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to me in
this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me say so, I do

love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take a drink of good
Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech thee, sweeten the
draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from his right hand to his
left). An thou wilt force it on me so, I must needs do thy bidding, yet with
the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very great health (here he took a
long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad, 'tis thy turn next (here he passed
the bottle from his left hand back again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck,
and here's wishing thee as much good as thou wishest me." Saying this, he
took another draught, and truly he drank enough for two.
All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his
stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm across
his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would not have
spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire.
Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking
again in this wise: "Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La, I
know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost thou
not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet as any
bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing than eat a fair
feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that can pipe so well and hath
heard so many goodly songs and ballads, ne'ertheless, an thou wilt have it
so, I will do my best. But now methinks that thou and I might sing some
fair song together; dost thou not know a certain dainty little catch called
'The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid'? Why, truly, methinks I have
heard it ere now. Then dost thou not think that thou couldst take the lass's
part if I take the lad's? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and
I will follow with the lass."
Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high and
squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of
THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCORNFUL MAID

HE
"Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love?
And it's wilt thou, love, be mine?
For I will give unto thee, my love,
Gay knots and ribbons so fine.
I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee,

And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee.
Then it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
So come thou and be my love.

SHE
"Now get thee away, young man so fine;
Now get thee away, I say;
For my true love shall never be thine,
And so thou hadst better not stay.
Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
So I'll wait till a better young man I see.
For it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark,
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
Yet never I'll be thy love.

HE
"Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
For many a maid can be found,
And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
By thee will I never be bound.
For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
But others are found that are just as fair.
So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I'll seek me another dear love.

SHE
"Young man, turn not so very quick away
Another fair lass to find.
Methinks I have spoken in haste today,
Nor have I made up my mind,

And if thou only wilt stay with me,
I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee."

Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty
roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in
the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed:

"So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
For the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill
And I'll be thine own true love."

So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard
Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined in
with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before him and
wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music, he kept on
bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might
have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word been sung than the
holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and springing to his
feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have we here? Come forth, thou limb
of evil, and I will carve thee into as fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in
Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday." Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a
great broadsword full as stout as was Robin's.
"Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with the
tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so sweetly
together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down the bank to
where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my throat is as parched
with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October. Hast thou haply any
Malmsey left in that stout pottle?"
"Truly," said the Friar in a glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely
where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse
any man drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art welcome to a drink
of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin.
Robin took it without more ado and putting it to his lips, tilted his head
back, while that which was within said "glug! lug! glug!" for more than
three winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the while, and
when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held it betwixt his
eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman, and straightway
placed it at his own lips. When it came away again there was nought within
it.

"Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?"
asked Robin, laughing.
"Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly.
"And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?"
"Yea, somewhat."
"Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the
name of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey."
"Yea, somewhat."
"Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth Robin,
"I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the
river or the other."
"That," quoth the Friar, "is a practical question upon which the cunning
rules appertaining to logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out by the
aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not."
"I do wish much," quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest,
"to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar."
"Truly," said the other piously, "it is a goodly wish on the part of one so
young. Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend, the river
is free to all."
"Yea, good father," said Robin, "but thou seest that my clothes are of the
finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are stout
and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me across?"
"Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!" burst forth
the Friar in a mighty rage, "dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou kiss-
my-lady-la poppenjay; thou—thou What shall I call thee? Dost thou ask me,
the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear—" Here he paused suddenly,
then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little eyes twinkled once
more. "But why should I not?" quoth he piously.

"Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the
river? And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise?
Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of
mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin,
and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the while
as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself.
Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked
his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin
upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt get thy
weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine own."
"Nay, good father," said Robin, "I would not burden thee with aught of
mine but myself."
"Dost thou think," said the Friar mildly, "that the good Saint Christopher
would ha' sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as I bid thee, for I
would carry it as a penance to my pride."
Upon this, without more ado, Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his
side and handed it to the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his arm.
Then once more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted upon
it, he stepped sturdily into the water and so strode onward, splashing in the
shoal, and breaking all the smooth surface into ever- widening rings. At last
he reached the other side and Robin leaped lightly from his back.
"Many thanks, good father," quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy
man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste."
At this the stout Friar looked upon Robin for a long time, his head on one
side, and with a most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly winked his
right eye. "Nay, good youth," said he gently, "I doubt not that thou art in
haste with thine affairs, yet thou dost think nothing of mine. Thine are of a
carnal nature; mine are of a spiritual nature, a holy work, so to speak;
moreover, mine affairs do lie upon the other side of this stream. I see by thy
quest of this same holy recluse that thou art a good young man and most
reverent to the cloth. I did get wet coming hither, and am sadly afraid that
should I wade the water again I might get certain cricks and pains i' the
joints that would mar my devotions for many a day to come. I know that

since I have so humbly done thy bidding thou wilt carry me back again.
Thou seest how Saint Godrick, that holy hermit whose natal day this is, hath
placed in my hands two swords and in thine never a one. Therefore be
persuaded, good youth, and carry me back again."
Robin Hood looked up and he looked down, biting his nether lip. Quoth
he, "Thou cunning Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow. Let me tell thee
that not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me in all my life before. I
might have known from thy looks that thou wert no such holy man as thou
didst pretend to be."
"Nay," interrupted the Friar, "I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither,
lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel."
"Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the right to
use his tongue as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee
back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee."
"Marry, come up," quoth the Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy
skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back."
So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side; then he bent his
stout back and took the Friar upon it.
Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar than the
Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford, so he went stumbling
among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now nearly tripping
over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his face in beads from the
hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his load. Meantime, the Friar
kept digging his heels into Robin's sides and bidding him hasten, calling
him many ill names the while. To all this Robin answered never a word,
but, having softly felt around till he found the buckle of the belt that held
the Friar's sword, he worked slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them.
Thus it came about that, by the time he had reached the other bank with his
load, the Friar's sword belt was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin
stood on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped
hold of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the holy
man, leaving him without a weapon.

"Now then," quoth merry Robin, panting as he spake and wiping the
sweat from his brow, "I have thee, fellow. This time that same saint of
whom thou didst speak but now hath delivered two swords into my hand
and hath stripped thine away from thee. Now if thou dost not carry me
back, and that speedily, I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full of holes
as a slashed doublet."
The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked at Robin with a
grim look. "Now," said he at last, "I did think that thy wits were of the
heavy sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me
upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against thee
save in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy bidding and take thee upon
my back and carry thee."
So jolly Robin gave him his sword again, which the Friar buckled to his
side, and this time looked to it that it was more secure in its fastenings; then
tucking up his robes once more, he took Robin Hood upon his back and
without a word stepped into the water, and so waded on in silence while
Robin sat laughing upon his back. At last he reached the middle of the ford
where the water was deepest. Here he stopped for a moment, and then, with
a sudden lift of his hand and heave of his shoulders, fairly shot Robin over
his head as though he were a sack of grain.
Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash. "There," quoth the
holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore, "let that cool thy hot
spirit, if it may."
Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood
gazing about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little
rills. At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of his
mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the stout Friar
standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin Hood a mad
man. "Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am after thee straight, and if I do not
carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never lift finger again!" So saying,
he dashed, splashing, to the bank.
"Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear not;
I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry 'Alack-a-day' ere long time is
gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer."

And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado, to
roll up his sleeves above his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more
about him, showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out like
humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of before,
that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown.
"Look to thyself," cried Robin, drawing his good sword.
"Ay, marry," quoth the Friar, who held his already in his hand. So,
without more ado, they came together, and thereupon began a fierce and
mighty battle. Right and left, and up and down and back and forth they
fought. The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash that
sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout at quarterstaff, but a
grim and serious fight of real earnest. Thus they strove for an hour or more,
pausing every now and then to rest, at which times each looked at the other
with wonder, and thought that never had he seen so stout a fellow; then
once again they would go at it more fiercely than ever. Yet in all this time
neither had harmed the other nor caused his blood to flow. At last merry
Robin cried, "Hold thy hand, good friend!" whereupon both lowered their
swords.
"Now I crave a boon ere we begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat
from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that it
would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so stout
and brave a fellow.
"What wouldst thou have of me?" asked the Friar.
"Only this," quoth Robin; "that thou wilt let me blow thrice upon my
bugle horn."
The Friar bent his brows and looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. "Now I do
verily think that thou hast some cunning trick in this," quoth he.
"Ne'ertheless, I fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish, providing thou
wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle."
"With all my heart," quoth Robin, "so, here goes for one." So saying, he
raised his silver horn to his lips and blew thrice upon it, clear and high.

Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come to pass,
holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as knights use
for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle always hung at
his girdle along with his rosary.
Scarcely had the echo of the last note of Robin's bugle come winding
back from across the river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came
running around the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an
arrow ready nocked upon the string.
"Ha! Is it thus, thou traitor knave!" cried the Friar. "Then, marry, look to
thyself!" So saying, he straightway clapped the hawk's whistle to his lips
and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now there came a
crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the road, and presently
forth from the covert burst four great, shaggy hounds. "At 'em, Sweet Lips!
At 'em, Bell Throat! At 'em, Beauty! At 'em, Fangs!" cried the Friar,
pointing at Robin.
And now it was well for that yeoman that a tree stood nigh him beside
the road, else had he had an ill chance of it. Ere one could say "Gaffer
Downthedale" the hounds were upon him, and he had only time to drop his
sword and leap lightly into the tree, around which the hounds gathered,
looking up at him as though he were a cat on the eaves. But the Friar
quickly called off his dogs. "At 'em!" cried he, pointing down the road to
where the yeomen were standing stock still with wonder of what they saw.
As the hawk darts down upon its quarry, so sped the four dogs at the
yeomen; but when the four men saw the hounds so coming, all with one
accord, saving only Will Scarlet, drew each man his goose feather to his ear
and let fly his shaft.
And now the old ballad telleth of a wondrous thing that happened, for
thus it says, that each dog so shot at leaped lightly aside, and as the arrow
passed him whistling, caught it in his mouth and bit it in twain. Now it
would have been an ill day for these four good fellows had not Will Scarlet
stepped before the others and met the hounds as they came rushing. "Why,
how now, Fangs!" cried he sternly. "Down, Beauty! Down, sirrah! What
means this?"

At the sound of his voice each dog shrank back quickly and then
straightway came to him and licked his hands and fawned upon him, as is
the wont of dogs that meet one they know. Then the four yeomen came
forward, the hounds leaping around Will Scarlet joyously. "Why, how
now!" cried the stout Friar, "what means this? Art thou wizard to turn those
wolves into lambs? Ha!" cried he, when they had come still nearer, "can I
trust mine eyes? What means it that I see young Master William Gamwell
in such company?"
"Nay, Tuck," said the young man, as the four came forward to where
Robin was now clambering down from the tree in which he had been
roosting, he having seen that all danger was over for the time; "nay, Tuck,
my name is no longer Will Gamwell, but Will Scarlet; and this is my good
uncle, Robin Hood, with whom I am abiding just now."
"Truly, good master," said the Friar, looking somewhat abashed and
reaching out his great palm to Robin, "I ha' oft heard thy name both sung
and spoken of, but I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave thy
forgiveness, and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against me."
"Truly, most holy father," said Little John, "I am more thankful than e'er I
was in all my life before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee and thy
dogs. I tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away from me when I
saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of thine coming straight
at me."
"Thou mayst indeed be thankful, friend," said the Friar gravely. "But,
Master Will, how cometh it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?"
"Why, Tuck, dost thou not know of my ill happening with my father's
steward?" answered Scarlet.
"Yea, truly, yet I knew not that thou wert in hiding because of it. Marry,
the times are all awry when a gentleman must lie hidden for so small a
thing."
"But we are losing time," quoth Robin, "and I have yet to find that same
Curtal Friar."

"Why, uncle, thou hast not far to go," said Will Scarlet, pointing to the
Friar, "for there he stands beside thee."
"How?" quoth Robin, "art thou the man that I have been at such pains to
seek all day, and have got such a ducking for?"
"Why, truly," said the Friar demurely, "some do call me the Curtal Friar
of Fountain Dale; others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain Abbey;
others still again call me simple Friar Tuck."
"I like the last name best," quoth Robin, "for it doth slip more glibly off
the tongue. But why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought, instead of
sending me searching for black moonbeams?"
"Why, truly, thou didst not ask me, good master," quoth stout Tuck; "but
what didst thou desire of me?"
"Nay," quoth Robin, "the day groweth late, and we cannot stand longer
talking here. Come back with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to thee
as we travel along."
So, without tarrying longer, they all departed, with the stout dogs at their
heels, and wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was long past
nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree.
Now listen, for next I will tell how Robin Hood compassed the happiness
of two young lovers, aided by the merry Friar Tuck of Fountain Dale.

Robin Hood Compasses a Marriage
AND NOW had come the morning when fair Ellen was to be married,
and on which merry Robin had sworn that Allan a Dale should, as it were,
eat out of the platter that had been filled for Sir Stephen of Trent. Up rose
Robin Hood, blithe and gay, up rose his merry men one and all, and up rose
last of all stout Friar Tuck, winking the smart of sleep from out his eyes.
Then, while the air seemed to brim over with the song of many birds, all
blended together and all joying in the misty morn, each man raved face and
hands in the leaping brook, and so the day began.
"Now," quoth Robin, when they had broken their fast, and each man had
eaten his fill, "it is time for us to set forth upon the undertaking that we
have in hand for today. I will choose me one score of my good men to go
with me, for I may need aid; and thou, Will Scarlet, wilt abide here and be
the chief while I am gone." Then searching through all the band, each man
of whom crowded forward eager to be chosen, Robin called such as he
wished by name, until he had a score of stout fellows, the very flower of his
yeomanrie. Besides Little John and Will Stutely were nigh all those famous
lads of whom I have already told you. Then, while those so chosen ran
leaping, full of joy, to arm themselves with bow and shaft and broadsword,
Robin Hood stepped aside into the covert, and there donned a gay,
beribboned coat such as might have been worn by some strolling minstrel,
and slung a harp across his shoulder, the better to carry out that part.
All the band stared and many laughed, for never had they seen their
master in such a fantastic guise before.
"Truly," quoth Robin, holding up his arms and looking down at himself,
"I do think it be somewhat of a gay, gaudy, grasshopper dress; but it is a
pretty thing for all that, and doth not ill befit the turn of my looks, albeit I
wear it but for the nonce. But stay, Little John, here are two bags that I
would have thee carry in thy pouch for the sake of safekeeping. I can ill
care for them myself beneath this motley."

"Why, master," quoth Little John, taking the bags and weighing them in
his hand, "here is the chink of gold."
"Well, what an there be," said Robin, "it is mine own coin and the band is
none the worse for what is there. Come, busk ye, lads," and he turned
quickly away. "Get ye ready straightway." Then gathering the score together
in a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar Tuck, he
led them forth upon their way from the forest shades.
So they walked on for a long time till they had come out of Sherwood
and to the vale of Rotherstream. Here were different sights from what one
saw in the forest; hedgerows, broad fields of barley corn, pasture lands
rolling upward till they met the sky and all dotted over with flocks of white
sheep, hayfields whence came the odor of new-mown hay that lay in
smooth swathes over which skimmed the swifts in rapid flight; such they
saw, and different was it, I wot, from the tangled depths of the sweet
woodlands, but full as fair. Thus Robin led his band, walking blithely with
chest thrown out and head thrown back, snuffing the odors of the gentle
breeze that came drifting from over the hayfields.
"Truly," quoth he, "the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland
shades. Who calls it a vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness in our
minds that bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that merry song
thou singest, Little John? Is it not thus?

"
For when my love's eyes do thine, do thine,
And when her lips smile so rare,
The day it is jocund and fine, so fine,
Though let it be wet or be fair
And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast,
Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past."

"Nay," said Friar Tuck piously, "ye do think of profane things and of
nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards against care and woe than
ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation. Look upon me,
have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?"
At this a great shout of laughter went up from all around, for the night
before the stout Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any one

of all the merry men.
"Truly," quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, "I should say
that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness."
So they stepped along, talking, singing, jesting, and laughing, until they
had come to a certain little church that belonged to the great estates owned
by the rich Priory of Emmet. Here it was that fair Ellen was to be married
on that morn, and here was the spot toward which the yeomen had pointed
their toes. On the other side of the road from where the church stood with
waving fields of barley around, ran a stone wall along the roadside. Over
the wall from the highway was a fringe of young trees and bushes, and here
and there the wall itself was covered by a mass of blossoming woodbine
that filled all the warm air far and near with its sweet summer odor. Then
straightway the yeomen leaped over the wall, alighting on the tall soft grass
upon the other side, frightening a flock of sheep that lay there in the shade
so that they scampered away in all directions. Here was a sweet cool
shadow both from the wall and from the fair young trees and bushes, and
here sat the yeomen down, and glad enough they were to rest after their
long tramp of the morning.
"Now," quoth Robin, "I would have one of you watch and tell me when
he sees anyone coming to the church, and the one I choose shall be young
David of Doncaster. So get thee upon the wall, David, and hide beneath the
woodbine so as to keep watch."
Accordingly young David did as he was bidden, the others stretching
themselves at length upon the grass, some talking together and others
sleeping. Then all was quiet save only for the low voices of those that
talked together, and for Allan's restless footsteps pacing up and down, for
his soul was so full of disturbance that he could not stand still, and saving,
also, for the mellow snoring of Friar Tuck, who enjoyed his sleep with a
noise as of one sawing soft wood very slowly. Robin lay upon his back and
gazed aloft into the leaves of the trees, his thought leagues away, and so a
long time passed.
Then up spoke Robin, "Now tell us, young David of Doncaster, what dost
thou see?"

Then David answered, "I see the white clouds floating and I feel the wind
a-blowing and three black crows are flying over the wold; but nought else
do I see, good master."
So silence fell again and another time passed, broken only as I have said,
till Robin, growing impatient, spake again. "Now tell me, young David,
what dost thou see by this?"
And David answered, "I see the windmills swinging and three tall poplar
trees swaying against the sky, and a flock of fieldfares are flying over the
hill; but nought else do I see, good master."
So another time passed, till at last Robin asked young David once more
what he saw; and David said, "I hear the cuckoo singing, and I see how the
wind makes waves in the barley field; and now over the hill to the church
cometh an old friar, and in his hands he carries a great bunch of keys; and
lo! Now he cometh to the church door."
Then up rose Robin Hood and shook Friar Tuck by the shoulder. "Come,
rouse thee, holy man!" cried he; whereupon, with much grunting, the stout
Tuck got to his feet. "Marry, bestir thyself," quoth Robin, "for yonder, in the
church door, is one of thy cloth. Go thou and talk to him, and so get thyself
into the church, that thou mayst be there when thou art wanted; meantime,
Little John, Will Stutely, and I will follow thee anon."
So Friar Tuck clambered over the wall, crossed the road, and came to the
church, where the old friar was still laboring with the great key, the lock
being somewhat rusty and he somewhat old and feeble.
"Hilloa, brother," quoth Tuck, "let me aid thee." So saying, he took the
key from the other's hand and quickly opened the door with a turn of it.
"Who art thou, good brother?" asked the old friar, in a high, wheezing
voice. "Whence comest thou, and whither art thou going?" And he winked
and blinked at stout Friar Tuck like an owl at the sun.
"Thus do I answer thy questions, brother," said the other. "My name is
Tuck, and I go no farther than this spot, if thou wilt haply but let me stay
while this same wedding is going forward. I come from Fountain Dale and,
in truth, am a certain poor hermit, as one may say, for I live in a cell beside

the fountain blessed by that holy Saint Ethelrada. But, if I understand aught,
there is to be a gay wedding here today; so, if thou mindest not, I would
fain rest me in the cool shade within, for I would like to see this fine sight."
"Truly, thou art welcome, brother," said the old man, leading the way
within. Meantime, Robin Hood, in his guise of harper, together with Little
John and Will Stutely, had come to the church. Robin sat him down on a
bench beside the door, but Little John, carrying the two bags of gold, went
within, as did Will Stutely.
So Robin sat by the door, looking up the road and down the road to see
who might come, till, after a time, he saw six horsemen come riding
sedately and slowly, as became them, for they were churchmen in high
orders. Then, when they had come nearer, Robin saw who they were, and
knew them. The first was the Bishop of Hereford, and a fine figure he cut, I
wot. His vestments were of the richest silk, and around his neck was a fair
chain of beaten gold. The cap that hid his tonsure was of black velvet, and
around the edges of it were rows of jewels that flashed in the sunlight, each
stone being set in gold. His hose were of flame-colored silk, and his shoes
of black velvet, the long, pointed toes being turned up and fastened to his
knees, and on either instep was embroidered a cross in gold thread. Beside
the Bishop rode the Prior of Emmet upon a mincing palfrey. Rich were his
clothes also, but not so gay as the stout Bishop's. Behind these were two of
the higher brethren of Emmet, and behind these again two retainers
belonging to the Bishop; for the Lord Bishop of Hereford strove to be as
like the great barons as was in the power of one in holy orders.
When Robin saw this train drawing near, with flash of jewels and silk
and jingle of silver bells on the trappings of the nags, he looked sourly upon
them. Quoth he to himself, "Yon Bishop is overgaudy for a holy man. I do
wonder whether his patron, who, methinks, was Saint Thomas, was given to
wearing golden chains about his neck, silk clothing upon his body, and
pointed shoes upon his feet; the money for all of which, God wot, hath been
wrung from the sweat of poor tenants. Bishop, Bishop, thy pride may have
a fall ere thou wottest of it."
So the holy men came to the church; the Bishop and the Prior jesting and
laughing between themselves about certain fair dames, their words more

befitting the lips of laymen, methinks, than holy clerks. Then they
dismounted, and the Bishop, looking around, presently caught sight of
Robin standing in the doorway. "Hilloa, good fellow," quoth he in a jovial
voice, "who art thou that struttest in such gay feathers?"
"A harper am I from the north country," quoth Robin, "and I can touch
the strings, I wot, as never another man in all merry England can do. Truly,
good Lord Bishop, many a knight and burgher, clerk and layman, have
danced to my music, willy-nilly, and most times greatly against their will;
such is the magic of my harping. Now this day, my Lord Bishop, if I may
play at this wedding, I do promise that I will cause the fair bride to love the
man she marries with a love that shall last as long as that twain shall live
together."
"Ha! is it so?" cried the Bishop. "Meanest thou this in sooth?" And he
looked keenly at Robin, who gazed boldly back again into his eyes. "Now,
if thou wilt cause this maiden (who hath verily bewitched my poor cousin
Stephen) thus to love the man she is to marry, as thou sayst thou canst, I
will give thee whatsoever thou wilt ask me in due measure. Let me have a
taste of thy skill, fellow."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "my music cometh not without I choose, even at a
lord bishop's bidding. In sooth, I will not play until the bride and
bridegroom come."
"Now, thou art a saucy varlet to speak so to my crest," quoth the Bishop,
frowning on Robin. "Yet, I must needs bear with thee. Look, Prior, hither
cometh our cousin Sir Stephen, and his ladylove."
And now, around the bend of the highroad, came others, riding upon
horses. The first of all was a tall, thin man, of knightly bearing, dressed all
in black silk, with a black velvet cap upon his head, turned up with scarlet.
Robin looked, and had no doubt that this was Sir Stephen, both because of
his knightly carriage and of his gray hairs. Beside him rode a stout Saxon
franklin, Ellen's father, Edward of Deirwold; behind those two came a litter
borne by two horses, and therein was a maiden whom Robin knew must be
Ellen. Behind this litter rode six men-at-arms, the sunlight flashing on their
steel caps as they came jingling up the dusty road.

So these also came to the church, and there Sir Stephen leaped from his
horse and, coming to the litter, handed fair Ellen out therefrom. Then Robin
Hood looked at her, and could wonder no longer how it came about that so
proud a knight as Sir Stephen of Trent wished to marry a common franklin's
daughter; nor did he wonder that no ado was made about the matter, for she
was the fairest maiden that ever he had beheld. Now, however, she was all
pale and drooping, like a fair white lily snapped at the stem; and so, with
bent head and sorrowful look, she went within the church, Sir Stephen
leading her by the hand.
"Why dost thou not play, fellow?" quoth the Bishop, looking sternly at
Robin.
"Marry," said Robin calmly, "I will play in greater wise than Your
Lordship thinks, but not till the right time hath come."
Said the Bishop to himself, while he looked grimly at Robin, "When this
wedding is gone by I will have this fellow well whipped for his saucy
tongue and bold speech."
And now fair Ellen and Sir Stephen stood before the altar, and the Bishop
himself came in his robes and opened his book, whereat fair Ellen looked
up and about her in bitter despair, like the fawn that finds the hounds on her
haunch. Then, in all his fluttering tags and ribbons of red and yellow, Robin
Hood strode forward. Three steps he took from the pillar whereby he
leaned, and stood between the bride and bridegroom.
"Let me look upon this lass," he said in a loud voice. "Why, how now!
What have we here? Here be lilies in the cheeks, and not roses such as befit
a bonny bride. This is no fit wedding. Thou, Sir Knight, so old, and she so
young, and thou thinkest to make her thy wife? I tell thee it may not be, for
thou art not her own true love."
At this all stood amazed, and knew not where to look nor what to think or
say, for they were all bewildered with the happening; so, while everyone
looked at Robin as though they had been changed to stone, he clapped his
bugle horn to his lips and blew three blasts so loud and clear, they echoed
from floor to rafter as though they were sounded by the trump of doom.
Then straightway Little John and Will Stutely came leaping and stood upon

either side of Robin Hood, and quickly drew their broadswords, the while a
mighty voice rolled over the heads of all, "Here be I, good master, when
thou wantest me"; for it was Friar Tuck that so called from the organ loft.
And now all was hubbub and noise. Stout Edward strode forward raging,
and would have seized his daughter to drag her away, but Little John
stepped between and thrust him back. "Stand back, old man," said he, "thou
art a hobbled horse this day."
"Down with the villains!" cried Sir Stephen, and felt for his sword, but it
hung not beside him on his wedding day.
Then the men-at-arms drew their swords, and it seemed like that blood
would wet the stones; but suddenly came a bustle at the door and loud
voices, steel flashed in the light, and the crash of blows sounded. The men-
at-arms fell back, and up the aisle came leaping eighteen stout yeomen all
clad in Lincoln green, with Allan a Dale at their head. In his hand he bore
Robin Hood's good stout trusty bow of yew, and this he gave to him,
kneeling the while upon one knee.
Then up spake Edward of Deirwold in a deep voice of anger, "Is it thou,
Allan a Dale, that hath bred all this coil in a church?"
"Nay," quoth merry Robin, "that have I done, and I care not who knoweth
it, for my name is Robin Hood."
At this name a sudden silence fell. The Prior of Emmet and those that
belonged to him gathered together like a flock of frightened sheep when the
scent of the wolf is nigh, while the Bishop of Hereford, laying aside his
book, crossed himself devoutly. "Now Heaven keep us this day," said he,
"from that evil man!"
"Nay," quoth Robin, "I mean you no harm; but here is fair Ellen's
betrothed husband, and she shall marry him or pain will be bred to some of
you."
Then up spake stout Edward in a loud and angry voice, "Now I say nay! I
am her father, and she shall marry Sir Stephen and none other."

Now all this time, while everything was in turmoil about him, Sir
Stephen had been standing in proud and scornful silence. "Nay, fellow,"
said he coldly, "thou mayst take thy daughter back again; I would not marry
her after this day's doings could I gain all merry England thereby. I tell thee
plainly, I loved thy daughter, old as I am, and would have taken her up like
a jewel from the sty, yet, truly, I knew not that she did love this fellow, and
was beloved by him. Maiden, if thou dost rather choose a beggarly minstrel
than a high-born knight, take thy choice. I do feel it shame that I should
thus stand talking amid this herd, and so I will leave you." Thus saying, he
turned and, gathering his men about him, walked proudly down the aisle.
Then all the yeomen were silenced by the scorn of his words. Only Friar
Tuck leaned over the edge of the choir loft and called out to him ere he had
gone, "Good den, Sir Knight. Thou wottest old bones must alway make
room for young blood." Sir Stephen neither answered nor looked up, but
passed out from the church as though he had heard nought, his men
following him.
Then the Bishop of Hereford spoke hastily, "I, too, have no business here,
and so will depart." And he made as though he would go. But Robin Hood
laid hold of his clothes and held him. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," said he, "I
have yet somewhat to say to thee." The Bishop's face fell, but he stayed as
Robin bade him, for he saw he could not go.
Then Robin Hood turned to stout Edward of Deirwold, and said he,
"Give thy blessing on thy daughter's marriage to this yeoman, and all will
be well. Little John, give me the bags of gold. Look, farmer. Here are two
hundred bright golden angels; give thy blessing, as I say, and I will count
them out to thee as thy daughter's dower. Give not thy blessing, and she
shall be married all the same, but not so much as a cracked farthing shall
cross thy palm. Choose."
Then Edward looked upon the ground with bent brows, turning the
matter over and over in his mind; but he was a shrewd man and one, withal,
that made the best use of a cracked pipkin; so at last he looked up and said,
but in no joyous tone, "If the wench will go her own gait, let her go. I had
thought to make a lady of her; yet if she chooses to be what she is like to be,
I have nought to do with her henceforth. Ne'ertheless I will give her my
blessing when she is duly wedded."

"It may not be," spake up one of those of Emmet. "The banns have not
been duly published, neither is there any priest here to marry them."
"How sayst thou?" roared Tuck from the choir loft. "No priest? Marry,
here stands as holy a man as thou art, any day of the week, a clerk in orders,
I would have thee know. As for the question of banns, stumble not over that
straw, brother, for I will publish them." So saying, he called the banns; and,
says the old ballad, lest three times should not be enough, he published
them nine times o'er. Then straightway he came down from the loft and
forthwith performed the marriage service; and so Allan and Ellen were duly
wedded.
And now Robin counted out two hundred golden angels to Edward of
Deirwold, and he, upon his part, gave his blessing, yet not, I wot, as though
he meant it with overmuch good will. Then the stout yeomen crowded
around and grasped Allan's palm, and he, holding Ellen's hand within his
own, looked about him all dizzy with his happiness.
Then at last jolly Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford, who had been
looking on at all that passed with a grim look. "My Lord Bishop," quoth he,
"thou mayst bring to thy mind that thou didst promise me that did I play in
such wise as to cause this fair lass to love her husband, thou wouldst give
me whatsoever I asked in reason. I have played my play, and she loveth her
husband, which she would not have done but for me; so now fulfill thy
promise. Thou hast upon thee that which, methinks, thou wouldst be the
better without; therefore, I prythee, give me that golden chain that hangeth
about thy neck as a wedding present for this fair bride."
Then the Bishop's cheeks grew red with rage and his eyes flashed. He
looked at Robin with a fell look, but saw that in the yeoman's face which
bade him pause. Then slowly he took the chain from about his neck and
handed it to Robin, who flung it over Ellen's head so that it hung glittering
about her shoulders. Then said merry Robin, "I thank thee, on the bride's
part, for thy handsome gift, and truly thou thyself art more seemly without
it. Now, shouldst thou ever come nigh to Sherwood I much hope that I shall
give thee there such a feast as thou hast ne'er had in all thy life before."
"May Heaven forfend!" cried the Bishop earnestly; for he knew right
well what manner of feast it was that Robin Hood gave his guests in

Sherwood Forest.
But now Robin Hood gathered his men together, and, with Allan and his
young bride in their midst, they all turned their footsteps toward the
woodlands. On the way thither Friar Tuck came close to Robin and plucked
him by the sleeve. "Thou dost lead a merry life, good master," quoth he,
"but dost thou not think that it would be for the welfare of all your souls to
have a good stout chaplain, such as I, to oversee holy matters? Truly, I do
love this life mightily." At this merry Robin Hood laughed amain, and bade
him stay and become one of their band if he wished.
That night there was such a feast held in the greenwood as
Nottinghamshire never saw before. To that feast you and I were not bidden,
and pity it is that we were not; so, lest we should both feel the matter the
more keenly, I will say no more about it.

Robin Hood Aids a Sorrowful Knight
SO PASSED the gentle springtime away in budding beauty; its silver
showers and sunshine, its green meadows and its flowers. So, likewise,
passed the summer with its yellow sunlight, its quivering heat and deep,
bosky foliage, its long twilights and its mellow nights, through which the
frogs croaked and fairy folk were said to be out on the hillsides. All this had
passed and the time of fall had come, bringing with it its own pleasures and
joyousness; for now, when the harvest was gathered home, merry bands of
gleaners roamed the country about, singing along the roads in the daytime,
and sleeping beneath the hedgerows and the hay-ricks at night. Now the
hips burned red in the tangled thickets and the hews waxed black in the
hedgerows, the stubble lay all crisp and naked to the sky, and the green
leaves were fast turning russet and brown. Also, at this merry season, good
things of the year are gathered in in great store. Brown ale lies ripening in
the cellar, hams and bacon hang in the smoke-shed, and crabs are stowed
away in the straw for roasting in the wintertime, when the north wind piles
the snow in drifts around the gables and the fire crackles warm upon the
hearth.
So passed the seasons then, so they pass now, and so they will pass in
time to come, while we come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are
soon forgotten.
Quoth Robin Hood, snuffing the air, "Here is a fair day, Little John, and
one that we can ill waste in idleness. Choose such men as thou dost need,
and go thou east while I will wend to the west, and see that each of us
bringeth back some goodly guest to dine this day beneath the greenwood
tree."
"Marry," cried Little John, clapping his palms together for joy, "thy
bidding fitteth my liking like heft to blade. I'll bring thee back a guest this
day, or come not back mine own self."
Then they each chose such of the band as they wished, and so went forth
by different paths from the forest.

Now, you and I cannot go two ways at the same time while we join in
these merry doings; so we will e'en let Little John follow his own path
while we tuck up our skirts and trudge after Robin Hood. And here is good
company, too; Robin Hood, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, Will Scathelock,
Midge, the Miller's son, and others. A score or more of stout fellows had
abided in the forest, with Friar Tuck, to make ready for the homecoming,
but all the rest were gone either with Robin Hood or Little John.
They traveled onward, Robin following his fancy and the others
following Robin. Now they wended their way through an open dale with
cottage and farm lying therein, and now again they entered woodlands once
more. Passing by fair Mansfield Town, with its towers and battlements and
spires all smiling in the sun, they came at last out of the forest lands.
Onward they journeyed, through highway and byway, through villages
where goodwives and merry lasses peeped through the casements at the fine
show of young men, until at last they came over beyond Alverton in
Derbyshire. By this time high noontide had come, yet they had met no guest
such as was worth their while to take back to Sherwood; so, coming at last
to a certain spot where a shrine stood at the crossing of two roads, Robin
called upon them to stop, for here on either side was shelter of high
hedgerows, behind which was good hiding, whence they could watch the
roads at their ease, while they ate their midday meal. Quoth merry Robin,
"Here, methinks, is good lodging, where peaceful folk, such as we be, can
eat in quietness; therefore we will rest here, and see what may, perchance,
fall into our luck-pot." So they crossed a stile and came behind a hedgerow
where the mellow sunlight was bright and warm, and where the grass was
soft, and there sat them down. Then each man drew from the pouch that
hung beside him that which he had brought to eat, for a merry walk such as
this had been sharpens the appetite till it is as keen as a March wind. So no
more words were spoken, but each man saved his teeth for better use—
munching at brown crust and cold meat right lustily.
In front of them, one of the highroads crawled up the steep hill and then
dipped suddenly over its crest, sharp-cut with hedgerow and shaggy grass
against the sky. Over the top of the windy hill peeped the eaves of a few
houses of the village that fell back into the valley behind; there, also,
showed the top of a windmill, the sails slowly rising and dipping from

behind the hill against the clear blue sky, as the light wind moved them with
creaking and labored swing.
So the yeomen lay behind the hedge and finished their midday meal; but
still the time slipped along and no one came. At last, a man came slowly
riding over the hill and down the stony road toward the spot where Robin
and his band lay hidden. He was a good stout knight, but sorrowful of face
and downcast of mien. His clothes were plain and rich, but no chain of gold,
such as folk of his stand in life wore at most times, hung around his neck,
and no jewel was about him; yet no one could mistake him for aught but
one of proud and noble blood. His head was bowed upon his breast and his
hands drooped limp on either side; and so he came slowly riding, as though
sunk in sad thoughts, while even his good horse, the reins loose upon his
neck, walked with hanging head, as though he shared his master's grief.
Quoth Robin Hood, "Yon is verily a sorry-looking gallant, and doth seem
to have donned ill-content with his jerkin this morning; nevertheless, I will
out and talk with him, for there may be some pickings here for a hungry
daw. Methinks his dress is rich, though he himself is so downcast. Bide ye
here till I look into this matter." So saying, he arose and left them, crossed
the road to the shrine, and there stood, waiting for the sorrowful knight to
come near him. So, presently, when the knight came riding slowly along,
jolly Robin stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle rein. "Hold,
Sir Knight," quoth he. "I prythee tarry for a short time, for I have a few
words to say to thee."
"What art thou, friend, who dost stop a traveler in this manner upon his
most gracious Majesty's highway?" said the Knight.
"Marry," quoth Robin, "that is a question hard to answer. One man calleth
me kind, another calleth me cruel; this one calleth me good honest fellow,
and that one, vile thief. Truly, the world hath as many eyes to look upon a
man withal as there are spots on a toad; so, with what pair of eyes thou
regardest me lieth entirely with thine own self. My name is Robin Hood."
"Truly, good Robin," said the Knight, a smile twitching at the corners of
his mouth, "thou hast a quaint conceit. As for the pair of eyes with which I
regard thee, I would say that they are as favorable as may be, for I hear
much good of thee and little ill. What is thy will of me?"

"Now, I make my vow, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "thou hast surely
learned thy wisdom of good Gaffer Swanthold, for he sayeth, 'Fair words
are as easy spoke as foul, and bring good will in the stead of blows.' Now I
will show thee the truth of this saying; for, if thou wilt go with me this day
to Sherwood Forest, I will give thee as merry a feast as ever thou hadst in
all thy life."
"Thou art indeed kind," said the Knight, "but methinks thou wilt find me
but an ill-seeming and sorrowful guest. Thou hadst best let me pass on my
way in peace."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "thou mightst go thine own way but for one thing,
and that I will tell thee. We keep an inn, as it were, in the very depths of
Sherwood, but so far from highroads and beaten paths that guests do not
often come nigh us; so I and my friends set off merrily and seek them when
we grow dull of ourselves. Thus the matter stands, Sir Knight; yet I will
furthermore tell thee that we count upon our guests paying a reckoning."
"I take thy meaning, friend," said the Knight gravely, "but I am not thy
man, for I have no money by me."
"Is it sooth?" said Robin, looking at the Knight keenly. "I can scarce
choose but believe thee; yet, Sir Knight, there be those of thy order whose
word is not to be trusted as much as they would have others believe. Thou
wilt think no ill if I look for myself in this matter." Then, still holding the
horse by the bridle rein, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill
whistle, whereupon fourscore yeomen came leaping over the stile and ran to
where the Knight and Robin stood. "These," said Robin, looking upon them
proudly, "are some of my merry men. They share and share alike with me
all joys and troubles, gains and losses. Sir Knight, I prythee tell me what
money thou hast about thee."
For a time the Knight said not a word, but a slow red arose into his
cheeks; at last he looked Robin in the face and said, "I know not why I
should be ashamed, for it should be no shame to me; but, friend, I tell thee
the truth, when I say that in my purse are ten shillings, and that that is every
groat that Sir Richard of the Lea hath in all the wide world."

When Sir Richard ended a silence fell, until at last Robin said, "And dost
thou pledge me thy knightly word that this is all thou hast with thee?"
"Yea," answered Sir Richard, "I do pledge thee my most solemn word, as
a true knight, that it is all the money I have in the world. Nay, here is my
purse, ye may find for yourselves the truth of what I say." And he held his
purse out to Robin.
"Put up thy purse, Sir Richard," quoth Robin. "Far be it from me to doubt
the word of so gentle a knight. The proud I strive to bring low, but those
that walk in sorrow I would aid if I could. Come, Sir Richard, cheer up thy
heart and go with us into the greenwood. Even I may perchance aid thee,
for thou surely knowest how the good Athelstane was saved by the little
blind mole that digged a trench over which he that sought the king's life
stumbled."
"Truly, friend," said Sir Richard, "methinks thou meanest kindness in
thine own way; nevertheless my troubles are such that it is not likely that
thou canst cure them. But I will go with thee this day into Sherwood."
Hereupon he turned his horse's head, and they all wended their way to the
woodlands, Robin walking on one side of the Knight and Will Scarlet on
the other, while the rest of the band trudged behind.
After they had traveled thus for a time Robin Hood spake. "Sir Knight,"
said he, "I would not trouble thee with idle questions; but dost thou find it
in thy heart to tell me thy sorrows?"
"Truly, Robin," quoth the Knight, "I see no reason why I should not do
so. Thus it is: My castle and my lands are in pawn for a debt that I owe.
Three days hence the money must be paid or else all mine estate is lost
forever, for then it falls into the hands of the Priory of Emmet, and what
they swallow they never give forth again."
Quoth Robin, "I understand not why those of thy kind live in such a
manner that all their wealth passeth from them like snow beneath the
springtide sun."
"Thou wrongest me, Robin," said the Knight, "for listen: I have a son but
twenty winters old, nevertheless he has won his spurs as knight. Last year,
on a certain evil day, the jousts were held at Chester, and thither my son

went, as did I and my lady wife. I wot it was a proud time for us, for he
unhorsed each knight that he tilted against. At last he ran a course with a
certain great knight, Sir Walter of Lancaster, yet, though my son was so
youthful, he kept his seat, albeit both spears were shivered to the heft; but it
happened that a splinter of my boy's lance ran through the visor of Sir
Walter's helmet and pierced through his eye into his brain, so that he died
ere his esquire could unlace his helm. Now, Robin, Sir Walter had great
friends at court, therefore his kinsmen stirred up things against my son so
that, to save him from prison, I had to pay a ransom of six hundred pounds
in gold. All might have gone well even yet, only that, by ins and outs and
crookedness of laws, I was shorn like a sheep that is clipped to the quick.
So it came that I had to pawn my lands to the Priory of Emmet for more
money, and a hard bargain they drove with me in my hour of need. Yet I
would have thee understand I grieve so for my lands only because of my
dear lady wife."
"But where is thy son now?" asked Robin, who had listened closely to all
the Knight had said.
"In Palestine," said Sir Richard, "battling like a brave Christian soldier
for the cross and the holy sepulcher. Truly, England was an ill place for him
because of Sir Walter's death and the hate of the Lancastrian's kinsmen."
"Truly," said Robin, much moved, "thine is a hard lot. But tell me, what
is owing to Emmet for thine estates?"
"Only four hundred pounds," said Sir Richard.
At this, Robin smote his thigh in anger. "O the bloodsuckers!" cried he.
"A noble estate to be forfeit for four hundred pounds! But what will befall
thee if thou dost lose thy lands, Sir Richard?"
"It is not mine own lot that doth trouble me in that case," said the Knight,
"but my dear lady's; for should I lose my land she will have to betake
herself to some kinsman and there abide in charity, which, methinks, would
break her proud heart. As for me, I will over the salt sea, and so to Palestine
to join my son in fight for the holy sepulcher."
Then up spake Will Scarlet. "But hast thou no friend that will help thee in
thy dire need?"

"Never a man," said Sir Richard. "While I was rich enow at home, and
had friends, they blew great boasts of how they loved me. But when the oak
falls in the forest the swine run from beneath it lest they should be smitten
down also. So my friends have left me; for not only am I poor but I have
great enemies."
Then Robin said, "Thou sayst thou hast no friends, Sir Richard. I make
no boast, but many have found Robin Hood a friend in their troubles. Cheer
up, Sir Knight, I may help thee yet."
The Knight shook his head with a faint smile, but for all that, Robin's
words made him more blithe of heart, for in truth hope, be it never so faint,
bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat.
The day was well-nigh gone when they came near to the greenwood tree.
Even at a distance they saw by the number of men that Little John had come
back with some guest, but when they came near enough, whom should they
find but the Lord Bishop of Hereford! The good Bishop was in a fine stew, I
wot. Up and down he walked beneath the tree like a fox caught in a
hencoop. Behind him were three Black Friars standing close together in a
frightened group, like three black sheep in a tempest. Hitched to the
branches of the trees close at hand were six horses, one of them a barb with
gay trappings upon which the Bishop was wont to ride, and the others laden
with packs of divers shapes and kinds, one of which made Robin's eyes
glisten, for it was a box not overlarge, but heavily bound with bands and
ribs of iron.
When the Bishop saw Robin and those with him come into the open he
made as though he would have run toward the yeoman, but the fellow that
guarded the Bishop and the three friars thrust his quarterstaff in front, so
that his lordship was fain to stand back, though with frowning brow and
angry speech.
"Stay, my Lord Bishop," cried jolly Robin in a loud voice, when he saw
what had passed, "I will come to thee with all speed, for I would rather see
thee than any man in merry England." So saying, he quickened his steps
and soon came to where the Bishop stood fuming.

"How now," quoth the Bishop in a loud and angry voice, when Robin had
so come to him, "is this the way that thou and thy band treat one so high in
the church as I am? I and these brethren were passing peacefully along the
highroad with our pack horses, and a half score of men to guard them, when
up comes a great strapping fellow full seven feet high, with fourscore or
more men back of him, and calls upon me to stop—me, the Lord Bishop of
Hereford, mark thou! Whereupon my armed guards— beshrew them for
cowards!—straight ran away. But look ye; not only did this fellow stop me,
but he threatened me, saying that Robin Hood would strip me as bare as a
winter hedge. Then, besides all this, he called me such vile names as 'fat
priest,' 'man-eating bishop,' 'money-gorging usurer,' and what not, as though
I were no more than a strolling beggar or tinker."
At this, the Bishop glared like an angry cat, while even Sir Richard
laughed; only Robin kept a grave face. "Alas! my lord," said he, "that thou
hast been so ill-treated by my band! I tell thee truly that we greatly
reverence thy cloth. Little John, stand forth straightway."
At these words Little John came forward, twisting his face into a
whimsical look, as though he would say, "Ha' mercy upon me, good
master." Then Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford and said, "Was this
the man who spake so boldly to Your Lordship?"
"Ay, truly it was the same," said the Bishop, "a naughty fellow, I wot.
"And didst thou, Little John," said Robin in a sad voice, "call his lordship
a fat priest?"
"Ay," said Little John sorrowfully.
"And a man-eating bishop?"
"Ay," said Little John, more sorrowfully than before.
"And a money-gorging usurer?"
"Ay," said Little John in so sorrowful a voice that it might have drawn
tears from the Dragon of Wentley.
"Alas, that these things should be!" said jolly Robin, turning to the
Bishop, "for I have ever found Little John a truthful man."

At this, a roar of laughter went up, whereat the blood rushed into the
Bishop's face till it was cherry red from crown to chin; but he said nothing
and only swallowed his words, though they well-nigh choked him.
"Nay, my Lord Bishop," said Robin, "we are rough fellows, but I trust not
such ill men as thou thinkest, after all. There is not a man here that would
harm a hair of thy reverence's head. I know thou art galled by our jesting,
but we are all equal here in the greenwood, for there are no bishops nor
barons nor earls among us, but only men, so thou must share our life with
us while thou dost abide here. Come, busk ye, my merry men, and get the
feast ready. Meantime, we will show our guests our woodland sports."
So, while some went to kindle the fires for roasting meats, others ran
leaping to get their cudgels and longbows. Then Robin brought forward Sir
Richard of the Lea. "My Lord Bishop," said he, "here is another guest that
we have with us this day. I wish that thou mightest know him better, for I
and all my men will strive to honor you both at this merrymaking."
"Sir Richard," said the Bishop in a reproachful tone, "methinks thou and I
are companions and fellow sufferers in this den of—" He was about to say
"thieves," but he stopped suddenly and looked askance at Robin Hood.
"Speak out, Bishop," quoth Robin, laughing. "We of Sherwood check not
an easy flow of words. 'Den of thieves' thou west about to say."
Quoth the Bishop, "Mayhap that was what I meant to say, Sir Richard;
but this I will say, that I saw thee just now laugh at the scurrilous jests of
these fellows. It would have been more becoming of thee, methinks, to have
checked them with frowns instead of spurring them on by laughter."
"I meant no harm to thee," said Sir Richard, "but a merry jest is a merry
jest, and I may truly say I would have laughed at it had it been against mine
own self."
But now Robin Hood called upon certain ones of his band who spread
soft moss upon the ground and laid deerskins thereon. Then Robin bade his
guests be seated, and so they all three sat down, some of the chief men,
such as Little John, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, and others, stretching
themselves upon the ground near by. Then a garland was set up at the far
end of the glade, and thereat the bowmen shot, and such shooting was done

that day as it would have made one's heart leap to see. And all the while
Robin talked so quaintly to the Bishop and the Knight that, the one
forgetting his vexation and the other his troubles, they both laughed aloud
again and again.
Then Allan a Dale came forth and tuned his harp, and all was hushed
around, and he sang in his wondrous voice songs of love, of war, of glory,
and of sadness, and all listened without a movement or a sound. So Allan
sang till the great round silver moon gleamed with its clear white light amid
the upper tangle of the mazy branches of the trees. At last two fellows came
to say that the feast was ready spread, so Robin, leading his guests with
either hand, brought them to where great smoking dishes that sent savory
smells far and near stood along the white linen cloth spread on the grass. All
around was a glare of torches that lit everything up with a red light. Then,
straightway sitting down, all fell to with noise and hubbub, the rattling of
platters blending with the sound of loud talking and laughter. A long time
the feast lasted, but at last all was over, and the bright wine and humming
ale passed briskly. Then Robin Hood called aloud for silence, and all was
hushed till he spoke.
"I have a story to tell you all, so listen to what I have to say," quoth he;
whereupon, without more ado, he told them all about Sir Richard, and how
his lands were in pawn. But, as he went on, the Bishop's face, that had erst
been smiling and ruddy with merriment, waxed serious, and he put aside the
horn of wine he held in his hand, for he knew the story of Sir Richard, and
his heart sank within him with grim forebodings. Then, when Robin Hood
had done, he turned to the Bishop of Hereford. "Now, my Lord Bishop,"
said he, "dost thou not think this is ill done of anyone, much more of a
churchman, who should live in humbleness and charity?"
To this the Bishop answered not a word but looked upon the ground with
moody eyes.
Quoth Robin, "Now, thou art the richest bishop in all England; canst thou
not help this needy brother?" But still the Bishop answered not a word.
Then Robin turned to Little John, and quoth he, "Go thou and Will
Stutely and bring forth those five pack horses yonder." Whereupon the two
yeomen did as they were bidden, those about the cloth making room on the

green, where the light was brightest, for the five horses which Little John
and Will Stutely presently led forward.
"Who hath the score of the goods?" asked Robin Hood, looking at the
Black Friars.
Then up spake the smallest of all, in a trembling voice—an old man he
was, with a gentle, wrinkled face. "That have I; but, I pray thee, harm me
not."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "I have never harmed harmless man yet; but give it
to me, good father." So the old man did as he was bidden, and handed
Robin the tablet on which was marked down the account of the various
packages upon the horses. This Robin handed to Will Scarlet, bidding him
to read the same. So Will Scarlet, lifting his voice that all might hear, began:
"Three bales of silk to Quentin, the mercer at Ancaster."
"That we touch not," quoth Robin, "for this Quentin is an honest fellow,
who hath risen by his own thrift." So the bales of silk were laid aside
unopened.
"One bale of silk velvet for the Abbey of Beaumont."
"What do these priests want of silk velvet?" quoth Robin. "Nevertheless,
though they need it not, I will not take all from them. Measure it off into
three lots, one to be sold for charity, one for us, and one for the abbey." So
this, too, was done as Robin Hood bade.
"Twoscore of great wax candles for the Chapel of Saint Thomas."
"That belongeth fairly to the chapel," quoth Robin, "so lay it to one side.
Far be it from us to take from the blessed Saint Thomas that which
belongeth to him." So this, also, was done according to Robin's bidding, and
the candles were laid to one side, along with honest Quentin's unopened
bales of silk. So the list was gone through with, and the goods adjudged
according to what Robin thought most fit. Some things were laid aside
untouched, and many were opened and divided into three equal parts, for
charity, for themselves, and for the owners. And now all the ground in the
torchlight was covered over with silks and velvets and cloths of gold and

cases of rich wines, and so they came to the last line upon the tablet—"A
box belonging to the Lord Bishop of Hereford."
At these words the Bishop shook as with a chill, and the box was set
upon the ground.
"My Lord Bishop, hast thou the key of this box?" asked Robin.
The Bishop shook his head.
"Go, Will Scarlet," said Robin, "thou art the strongest man here—bring a
sword straightway, and cut this box open, if thou canst." Then up rose Will
Scarlet and left them, coming back in a short time, bearing a great two-
handed sword. Thrice he smote that strong, ironbound box, and at the third
blow it burst open and a great heap of gold came rolling forth, gleaming red
in the light of the torches. At this sight a murmur went all around among the
band, like the sound of the wind in distant trees; but no man came forward
nor touched the money.
Quoth Robin, "Thou, Will Scarlet, thou, Allan a Dale, and thou, Little
John, count it over."
A long time it took to count all the money, and when it had been duly
scored up, Will Scarlet called out that there were fifteen hundred golden
pounds in all. But in among the gold they found a paper, and this Will
Scarlet read in a loud voice, and all heard that this money was the rental and
fines and forfeits from certain estates belonging to the Bishopric of
Hereford.
"My Lord Bishop," said Robin Hood, "I will not strip thee, as Little John
said, like a winter hedge, for thou shalt take back one third of thy money.
One third of it thou canst well spare to us for thy entertainment and that of
thy train, for thou art very rich; one third of it thou canst better spare for
charity, for, Bishop, I hear that thou art a hard master to those beneath thee
and a close hoarder of gains that thou couldst better and with more credit to
thyself give to charity than spend upon thy own likings."
At this the Bishop looked up, but he could say never a word; yet he was
thankful to keep some of his wealth.

Then Robin turned to Sir Richard of the Lea, and quoth he, "Now, Sir
Richard, the church seemed like to despoil thee, therefore some of the
overplus of church gains may well be used in aiding thee. Thou shalt take
that five hundred pounds laid aside for people more in need than the Bishop
is, and shalt pay thy debts to Emmet therewith."
Sir Richard looked at Robin until something arose in his eyes that made
all the lights and the faces blur together. At last he said, "I thank thee,
friend, from my heart, for what thou doest for me; yet, think not ill if I
cannot take thy gift freely. But this I will do: I will take the money and pay
my debts, and in a year and a day hence will return it safe either to thee or
to the Lord Bishop of Hereford. For this I pledge my most solemn knightly
word. I feel free to borrow, for I know no man that should be more bound to
aid me than one so high in that church that hath driven such a hard bargain."
"Truly, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "I do not understand those fine scruples
that weigh with those of thy kind; but, nevertheless, it shall all be as thou
dost wish. But thou hadst best bring the money to me at the end of the year,
for mayhap I may make better use of it than the Bishop." Thereupon,
turning to those near him, he gave his orders, and five hundred pounds were
counted out and tied up in a leathern bag for Sir Richard. The rest of the
treasure was divided, and part taken to the treasurehouse of the band, and
part put by with the other things for the Bishop.
Then Sir Richard arose. "I cannot stay later, good friends," said he, "for
my lady will wax anxious if I come not home; so I crave leave to depart."
Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose, and Robin said, "We
cannot let thee go hence unattended, Sir Richard."
Then up spake Little John, "Good master, let me choose a score of stout
fellows from the band, and let us arm ourselves in a seemly manner and so
serve as retainers to Sir Richard till he can get others in our stead."
"Thou hast spoken well, Little John, and it shall be done," said Robin.
Then up spake Will Scarlet, "Let us give him a golden chain to hang
about his neck, such as befits one of his blood, and also golden spurs to
wear at his heels."

Then Robin Hood said, "Thou hast spoken well, Will Scarlet, and it shall
be done."
Then up spake Will Stutely, "Let us give him yon bale of rich velvet and
yon roll of cloth of gold to take home to his noble lady wife as a present
from Robin Hood and his merry men all."
At this all clapped their hands for joy, and Robin said: "Thou hast well
spoken, Will Stutely, and it shall be done."
Then Sir Richard of the Lea looked all around and strove to speak, but
could scarcely do so for the feelings that choked him; at last he said in a
husky, trembling voice, "Ye shall all see, good friends, that Sir Richard o'
the Lea will ever remember your kindness this day. And if ye be at any time
in dire need or trouble, come to me and my lady, and the walls of Castle
Lea shall be battered down ere harm shall befall you. I—" He could say
nothing further, but turned hastily away.
But now Little John and nineteen stout fellows whom he had chosen for
his band, came forth all ready for the journey. Each man wore upon his
breast a coat of linked mail, and on his head a cap of steel, and at his side a
good stout sword. A gallant show they made as they stood all in a row. Then
Robin came and threw a chain of gold about Sir Richard's neck, and Will
Scarlet knelt and buckled the golden spurs upon his heel; and now Little
John led forward Sir Richard's horse, and the Knight mounted. He looked
down at Robin for a little time, then of a sudden stooped and kissed his
cheek. All the forest glades rang with the shout that went up as the Knight
and the yeomen marched off through the woodland with glare of torches
and gleam of steel, and so were gone.
Then up spake the Bishop of Hereford in a mournful voice, "I, too, must
be jogging, good fellow, for the night waxes late."
But Robin laid his hand upon the Bishop's arm and stayed him. "Be not
so hasty, Lord Bishop," said he. "Three days hence Sir Richard must pay his
debts to Emmet; until that time thou must be content to abide with me lest
thou breed trouble for the Knight. I promise thee that thou shalt have great
sport, for I know that thou art fond of hunting the dun deer. Lay by thy

mantle of melancholy, and strive to lead a joyous yeoman life for three stout
days. I promise thee thou shalt be sorry to go when the time has come."
So the Bishop and his train abided with Robin for three days, and much
sport his lordship had in that time, so that, as Robin had said, when the time
had come for him to go he was sorry to leave the greenwood. At the end of
three days Robin set him free, and sent him forth from the forest with a
guard of yeomen to keep freebooters from taking what was left of the packs
and bundles.
But, as the Bishop rode away, he vowed within himself that he would
sometime make Robin rue the day that he stopped him in Sherwood.
But now we shall follow Sir Richard; so listen, and you shall hear what
befell him, and how he paid his debts at Emmet Priory, and likewise in due
season to Robin Hood.

How Sir Richard of the Lea Paid His Debts
THE LONG HIGHWAY stretched straight on, gray and dusty in the sun.
On either side were dikes full of water bordered by osiers, and far away in
the distance stood the towers of Emmet Priory with tall poplar trees around.
Along the causeway rode a knight with a score of stout men-at-arms
behind him. The Knight was clad in a plain, long robe of gray serge,
gathered in at the waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hung a long
dagger and a stout sword. But though he was so plainly dressed himself, the
horse he rode was a noble barb, and its trappings were rich with silk and
silver bells.
So thus the band journeyed along the causeway between the dikes, till at
last they reached the great gate of Emmet Priory. There the Knight called to
one of his men and bade him knock at the porter's lodge with the heft of his
sword.
The porter was drowsing on his bench within the lodge, but at the knock
he roused himself and, opening the wicket, came hobbling forth and greeted
the Knight, while a tame starling that hung in a wicker cage within piped
out, "In coelo quies! In coelo quies!" such being the words that the poor old
lame porter had taught him to speak.
"Where is thy prior?" asked the Knight of the old porter.
"He is at meat, good knight, and he looketh for thy coming," quoth the
porter, "for, if I mistake not, thou art Sir Richard of the Lea."
"I am Sir Richard of the Lea; then I will go seek him forthwith," said the
Knight.
"But shall I not send thy horse to stable?" said the porter. "By Our Lady,
it is the noblest nag, and the best harnessed, that e'er I saw in all my life
before." And he stroked the horse's flank with his palm.

"Nay," quoth Sir Richard, "the stables of this place are not for me, so
make way, I prythee." So saying, he pushed forward, and, the gates being
opened, he entered the stony courtyard of the Priory, his men behind him. In
they came with rattle of steel and clashing of swords, and ring of horses'
feet on cobblestones, whereat a flock of pigeons that strutted in the sun flew
with flapping wings to the high eaves of the round towers.
While the Knight was riding along the causeway to Emmet, a merry feast
was toward in the refectory there. The afternoon sun streamed in through
the great arched windows and lay in broad squares of light upon the stone
floor and across the board covered with a snowy linen cloth, whereon was
spread a princely feast. At the head of the table sat Prior Vincent of Emmet
all clad in soft robes of fine cloth and silk; on his head was a black velvet
cap picked out with gold, and around his neck hung a heavy chain of gold,
with a great locket pendant therefrom. Beside him, on the arm of his great
chair, roosted his favorite falcon, for the Prior was fond of the gentle craft
of hawking. On his right hand sat the Sheriff of Nottingham in rich robes of
purple all trimmed about with fur, and on his left a famous doctor of law in
dark and sober garb. Below these sat the high cellarer of Emmet, and others
chief among the brethren.
Jest and laughter passed around, and all was as merry as merry could be.
The wizened face of the man of law was twisted into a wrinkled smile, for
in his pouch were fourscore golden angels that the Prior had paid him in fee
for the case betwixt him and Sir Richard of the Lea. The learned doctor had
been paid beforehand, for he had not overmuch trust in the holy Vincent of
Emmet.
Quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "But art thou sure, Sir Prior, that thou
hast the lands so safe?"
"Ay, marry," said Prior Vincent, smacking his lips after a deep draught of
wine, "I have kept a close watch upon him, albeit he was unawares of the
same, and I know right well that he hath no money to pay me withal."
"Ay, true," said the man of law in a dry, husky voice, "his land is surely
forfeit if he cometh not to pay; but, Sir Prior, thou must get a release
beneath his sign manual, or else thou canst not hope to hold the land
without trouble from him."

"Yea," said the Prior, "so thou hast told me ere now, but I know that this
knight is so poor that he will gladly sign away his lands for two hundred
pounds of hard money."
Then up spake the high cellarer, "Methinks it is a shame to so drive a
misfortunate knight to the ditch. I think it sorrow that the noblest estate in
Derbyshire should so pass away from him for a paltry five hundred pounds.
Truly, I—"
"How now," broke in the Prior in a quivering voice, his eyes glistening
and his cheeks red with anger, "dost thou prate to my very beard, sirrah? By
Saint Hubert, thou hadst best save thy breath to cool thy pottage, else it may
scald thy mouth."
"Nay," said the man of law smoothly, "I dare swear this same knight will
never come to settlement this day, but will prove recreant. Nevertheless, we
will seek some means to gain his lands from him, so never fear."
But even as the doctor spoke, there came a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs
and a jingle of iron mail in the courtyard below. Then up spake the Prior
and called upon one of the brethren that sat below the salt, and bade him
look out of the window and see who was below, albeit he knew right well it
could be none but Sir Richard.
So the brother arose and went and looked, and he said, "I see below a
score of stout men-at-arms and a knight just dismounting from his horse. He
is dressed in long robes of gray which, methinks, are of poor seeming; but
the horse he rideth upon hath the richest coursing that ever I saw. The
Knight dismounts and they come this way, and are even now below in the
great hall."
"Lo, see ye there now," quoth Prior Vincent. "Here ye have a knight with
so lean a purse as scarce to buy him a crust of bread to munch, yet he keeps
a band of retainers and puts rich trappings upon his horse's hide, while his
own back goeth bare. Is it not well that such men should be brought low?"
"But art thou sure," said the little doctor tremulously, "that this knight
will do us no harm? Such as he are fierce when crossed, and he hath a band
of naughty men at his heels. Mayhap thou hadst better give an extension of

his debt." Thus he spake, for he was afraid Sir Richard might do him a
harm.
"Thou needst not fear," said the Prior, looking down at the little man
beside him. "This knight is gentle and would as soon think of harming an
old woman as thee."
As the Prior finished, a door at the lower end of the refectory swung
open, and in came Sir Richard, with folded hands and head bowed upon his
breast. Thus humbly he walked slowly up the hall, while his men-at-arms
stood about the door. When he had come to where the Prior sat, he knelt
upon one knee. "Save and keep thee, Sir Prior," said he, "I am come to keep
my day."
Then the first word that the Prior said to him was "Hast thou brought my
money?"
"Alas! I have not so much as one penny upon my body," said the Knight;
whereat the Prior's eyes sparkled.
"Now, thou art a shrewd debtor, I wot," said he. Then, "Sir Sheriff, I
drink to thee."
But still the Knight kneeled upon the hard stones, so the Prior turned to
him again. "What wouldst thou have?" quoth he sharply.
At these words, a slow red mounted into the Knight's cheeks; but still he
knelt. "I would crave thy mercy," said he. "As thou hopest for Heaven's
mercy, show mercy to me. Strip me not of my lands and so reduce a true
knight to poverty."
"Thy day is broken and thy lands forfeit," said the man of law, plucking
up his spirits at the Knight's humble speech.
Quoth Sir Richard, "Thou man of law, wilt thou not befriend me in mine
hour of need?"
"Nay," said the other, "I hold with this holy Prior, who hath paid me my
fees in hard gold, so that I am bounder to him."
"Wilt thou not be my friend, Sir Sheriff?" said Sir Richard.

"Nay, 'fore Heaven," quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "this is no
business of mine, yet I will do what I may," and he nudged the Prior
beneath the cloth with his knee. "Wilt thou not ease him of some of his
debts, Sir Prior?"
At this the Prior smiled grimly. "Pay me three hundred pounds, Sir
Richard," said he, "and I will give thee quittance of thy debt."
"Thou knowest, Sir Prior, that it is as easy for me to pay four hundred
pounds as three hundred," said Sir Richard. "But wilt thou not give me
another twelvemonth to pay my debt?"
"Not another day," said the Prior sternly.
"And is this all thou wilt do for me?" asked the Knight.
"Now, out upon thee, false knight!" cried the Prior, bursting forth in
anger. "Either pay thy debt as I have said, or release thy land and get thee
gone from out my hall."
Then Sir Richard arose to his feet. "Thou false, lying priest!" said he in
so stern a voice that the man of law shrunk affrighted, "I am no false knight,
as thou knowest full well, but have even held my place in the press and the
tourney. Hast thou so little courtesy that thou wouldst see a true knight
kneel for all this time, or see him come into thy hall and never offer him
meat or drink?"
Then quoth the man of law in a trembling voice, "This is surely an ill
way to talk of matters appertaining to business; let us be mild in speech.
What wilt thou pay this knight, Sir Prior, to give thee release of his land?"
"I would have given him two hundred pounds," quoth the Prior, "but
since he hath spoken so vilely to my teeth, not one groat over one hundred
pounds will he get."
"Hadst thou offered me a thousand pounds, false prior," said the Knight,
"thou wouldst not have got an inch of my land." Then turning to where his
men-at-arms stood near the door, he called, "Come hither," and beckoned
with his finger; whereupon the tallest of them all came forward and handed
him a long leathern bag. Sir Richard took the bag and shot from it upon the

table a glittering stream of golden money. "Bear in mind, Sir Prior," said he,
"that thou hast promised me quittance for three hundred pounds. Not one
farthing above that shalt thou get." So saying, he counted out three hundred
pounds and pushed it toward the Prior.
But now the Prior's hands dropped at his sides and the Prior's head hung
upon his shoulder, for not only had he lost all hopes of the land, but he had
forgiven the Knight one hundred pounds of his debt and had needlessly paid
the man of law fourscore angels. To him he turned, and quoth he, "Give me
back my money that thou hast."
"Nay," cried the other shrilly, "it is but my fee that thou didst pay me, and
thou gettest it not back again." And he hugged his gown about him.
"Now, Sir Prior," quoth Sir Richard, "I have held my day and paid all the
dues demanded of me; so, as there is no more betwixt us, I leave this vile
place straightway." So saying, he turned upon his heel and strode away.
All this time the Sheriff had been staring with wide-open eyes and mouth
agape at the tall man-at-arms, who stood as though carved out of stone. At
last he gasped out, "Reynold Greenleaf!"
At this, the tall man-at-arms, who was no other than Little John, turned,
grinning, to the Sheriff. "I give thee good den, fair gossip," quoth he. "I
would say, sweet Sheriff, that I have heard all thy pretty talk this day, and it
shall be duly told unto Robin Hood. So, farewell for the nonce, till we meet
again in Sherwood Forest." Then he, also, turned and followed Sir Richard
down the hall, leaving the Sheriff, all pale and amazed, shrunk together
upon his chair.
A merry feast it was to which Sir Richard came, but a sorry lot he left
behind him, and little hunger had they for the princely food spread before
them. Only the learned doctor was happy, for he had his fee.
Now a twelvemonth and a day passed since Prior Vincent of Emmet sat
at feast, and once more the mellow fall of another year had come. But the
year had brought great change, I wot, to the lands of Sir Richard of the Lea;
for, where before shaggy wild grasses grew upon the meadow lands, now
all stretch away in golden stubble, betokening that a rich and plentiful crop
had been gathered therefrom. A year had made a great change in the castle,

also, for, where were empty moats and the crumbling of neglect, all was
now orderly and well kept.
Bright shone the sun on battlement and tower, and in the blue air
overhead a Hock of clattering jackdaws flew around the gilded weather
vane and spire. Then, in the brightness of the morning, the drawbridge fell
across the moat with a rattle and clank of chains, the gate of the castle
swung slowly open, and a goodly array of steel-clad men-at-arms, with a
knight all clothed in chain mail, as white as frost on brier and thorn of a
winter morning, came flashing out from the castle courtyard. In his hand the
Knight held a great spear, from the point of which fluttered a blood-red
pennant as broad as the palm of one's hand. So this troop came forth from
the castle, and in the midst of them walked three pack horses laden with
parcels of divers shapes and kinds.
Thus rode forth good Sir Richard of the Lea to pay his debt to Robin
Hood this bright and merry morn. Along the highway they wended their
way, with measured tramp of feet and rattle and jingle of sword and
harness. Onward they marched till they came nigh to Denby, where, from
the top of a hill, they saw, over beyond the town, many gay flags and
streamers floating in the bright air. Then Sir Richard turned to the man-at-
arms nearest to him. "What is toward yonder at Denby today?" quoth he.
"Please Your Worship," answered the man-at-arms, "a merry fair is held
there today, and a great wrestling match, to which many folk have come, for
a prize hath been offered of a pipe of red wine, a fair golden ring, and a pair
of gloves, all of which go to the best wrestler."
"Now, by my faith," quoth Sir Richard, who loved good manly sports
right well, "this will be a goodly thing to see. Methinks we have to stay a
little while on our journey, and see this merry sport." So he turned his
horse's head aside toward Denby and the fair, and thither he and his men
made their way.
There they found a great hubbub of merriment. Flags and streamers were
floating, tumblers were tumbling on the green, bagpipes were playing, and
lads and lasses were dancing to the music. But the crowd were gathered
most of all around a ring where the wrestling was going forward, and
thither Sir Richard and his men turned their steps.

Now when the judges of the wrestling saw Sir Richard coming and knew
who he was, the chief of them came down from the bench where he and the
others sat, and went to the Knight and took him by the hand, beseeching
him to come and sit with them and judge the sport. So Sir Richard got down
from his horse and went with the others to the bench raised beside the ring.
Now there had been great doings that morning, for a certain yeoman
named Egbert, who came from Stoke over in Staffordshire, had thrown with
ease all those that came against him; but a man of Denby, well known
through all the countryside as William of the Scar, had been biding his time
with the Stoke man; so, when Egbert had thrown everyone else, stout
William leaped into the ring. Then a tough bout followed, and at last he
threw Egbert heavily, whereat there was a great shouting and shaking of
hands, for all the Denby men were proud of their wrestler.
When Sir Richard came, he found stout William, puffed up by the shouts
of his friends, walking up and down the ring, daring anyone to come and try
a throw with him. "Come one, come all!" quoth he. "Here stand I, William
of the Scar, against any man. If there is none in Derbyshire to come against
me, come all who will, from Nottingham, Stafford, or York, and if I do not
make them one and all root the ground with their noses like swine in the
forests, call me no more brave William the wrestler."
At this all laughed; but above all the laughter a loud voice was heard to
cry out, "Sin' thou talkest so big, here cometh one from Nottinghamshire to
try a fall with thee, fellow"; and straightway a tall youth with a tough
quarterstaff in his hand came pushing his way through the crowd and at last
leaped lightly over the rope into the ring. He was not as heavy as stout
William, but he was taller and broader in the shoulders, and all his joints
were well knit. Sir Richard looked upon him keenly, then, turning to one of
the judges, he said, "Knowest thou who this youth is? Methinks I have seen
him before."
"Nay," said the judge, "he is a stranger to me."
Meantime, without a word, the young man, laying aside his quarterstaff,
began to take off his jerkin and body clothing until he presently stood with
naked arms and body; and a comely sight he was when so bared to the view,

for his muscles were cut round and smooth and sharp like swift-running
water.
And now each man spat upon his hands and, clapping them upon his
knees, squatted down, watching the other keenly, so as to take the vantage
of him in the grip. Then like a flash they leaped together, and a great shout
went up, for William had gotten the better hold of the two. For a short time
they strained and struggled and writhed, and then stout William gave his
most cunning trip and throw, but the stranger met it with greater skill than
his, and so the trip came to nought. Then, of a sudden, with a twist and a
wrench, the stranger loosed himself, and he of the scar found himself
locked in a pair of arms that fairly made his ribs crack. So, with heavy, hot
breathing, they stood for a while straining, their bodies all glistening with
sweat, and great drops of sweat trickling down their faces. But the stranger's
hug was so close that at last stout William's muscles softened under his grip,
and he gave a sob. Then the youth put forth all his strength and gave a
sudden trip with his heel and a cast over his right hip, and down stout
William went, with a sickening thud, and lay as though he would never
move hand nor foot again.
But now no shout went up for the stranger, but an angry murmur was
heard among the crowd, so easily had he won the match. Then one of the
judges, a kinsman to William of the Scar, rose with trembling lip and
baleful look. Quoth he, "If thou hath slain that man it will go ill with thee,
let me tell thee, fellow." But the stranger answered boldly, "He took his
chance with me as I took mine with him. No law can touch me to harm me,
even if I slew him, so that it was fairly done in the wrestling ring."
"That we shall see," said the judge, scowling upon the youth, while once
more an angry murmur ran around the crowd; for, as I have said, the men of
Denby were proud of stout William of the Scar.
Then up spoke Sir Richard gently. "Nay," said he, "the youth is right; if
the other dieth, he dieth in the wrestling ring, where he took his chance, and
was cast fairly enow."
But in the meantime three men had come forward and lifted stout
William from the ground and found that he was not dead, though badly
shaken by his heavy fall. Then the chief judge rose and said, "Young man,

the prize is duly thine. Here is the red-gold ring, and here the gloves, and
yonder stands the pipe of wine to do with whatsoever thou dost list."
At this, the youth, who had donned his clothes and taken up his staff
again, bowed without a word, then, taking the gloves and the ring, and
thrusting the one into his girdle and slipping the other upon his thumb, he
turned and, leaping lightly over the ropes again, made his way through the
crowd, and was gone.
"Now, I wonder who yon youth may be," said the judge, turning to Sir
Richard, "he seemeth like a stout Saxon from his red cheeks and fair hair.
This William of ours is a stout man, too, and never have I seen him cast in
the ring before, albeit he hath not yet striven with such great wrestlers as
Thomas of Cornwall, Diccon of York, and young David of Doncaster. Hath
he not a firm foot in the ring, thinkest thou, Sir Richard?"
"Ay, truly, and yet this youth threw him fairly, and with wondrous ease. I
much wonder who he can be." Thus said Sir Richard in a thoughtful voice.
For a time the Knight stood talking to those about him, but at last he
arose and made ready to depart, so he called his men about him and,
tightening the girths of his saddle, he mounted his horse once more.
Meanwhile the young stranger had made his way through the crowd, but,
as he passed, he heard all around him such words muttered as "Look at the
cockerel!" "Behold how he plumeth himself!" "I dare swear he cast good
William unfairly!" "Yea, truly, saw ye not birdlime upon his hands?" "It
would be well to cut his cock's comb!" To all this the stranger paid no heed,
but strode proudly about as though he heard it not. So he walked slowly
across the green to where the booth stood wherein was dancing, and
standing at the door he looked in on the sport. As he stood thus, a stone
struck his arm of a sudden with a sharp jar, and, turning, he saw that an
angry crowd of men had followed him from the wrestling ring. Then, when
they saw him turn so, a great hooting and yelling arose from all, so that the
folk came running out from the dancing booth to see what was to do. At last
a tall, broad-shouldered, burly blacksmith strode forward from the crowd
swinging a mighty blackthorn club in his hand.

"Wouldst thou come here to our fair town of Denby, thou Jack in the Box,
to overcome a good honest lad with vile, juggling tricks?" growled he in a
deep voice like the bellow of an angry bull. "Take that, then!" And of a
sudden he struck a blow at the youth that might have felled an ox. But the
other turned the blow deftly aside, and gave back another so terrible that the
Denby man went down with a groan, as though he had been smitten by
lightning. When they saw their leader fall, the crowd gave another angry
shout; but the stranger placed his back against the tent near which he stood,
swinging his terrible staff, and so fell had been the blow that he struck the
stout smith that none dared to come within the measure of his cudgel, so the
press crowded back, like a pack of dogs from a bear at bay. But now some
coward hand from behind threw a sharp jagged stone that smote the
stranger on the crown, so that he staggered back, and the red blood gushed
from the cut and ran down his face and over his jerkin. Then, seeing him
dazed with this vile blow, the crowd rushed upon him, so that they overbore
him and he fell beneath their feet.
Now it might have gone ill with the youth, even to the losing of his
young life, had not Sir Richard come to this fair; for of a sudden, shouts
were heard, and steel flashed in the air, and blows were given with the flat
of swords, while through the midst of the crowd Sir Richard of the Lea
came spurring on his white horse. Then the crowd, seeing the steel-clad
knight and the armed men, melted away like snow on the warm hearth,
leaving the young man all bloody and dusty upon the ground.
Finding himself free, the youth arose and, wiping the blood from his face,
looked up. Quoth he, "Sir Richard of the Lea, mayhap thou hast saved my
life this day."
"Who art thou that knowest Sir Richard of the Lea so well?" quoth the
Knight. "Methinks I have seen thy face before, young man."
"Yea, thou hast," said the youth, "for men call me David of Doncaster."
"Ha!" said Sir Richard, "I wonder that I knew thee not, David; but thy
beard hath grown longer, and thou thyself art more set in manhood since
this day twelvemonth. Come hither into the tent, David, and wash the blood
from thy face. And thou, Ralph, bring him straightway a clean jerkin. Now I
am sorry for thee, yet I am right glad that I have had a chance to pay a part

of my debt of kindness to thy good master Robin Hood, for it might have
gone ill with thee had I not come, young man."
So saying, the Knight led David into the tent, and there the youth washed
the blood from his face and put on the clean jerkin.
In the meantime a whisper had gone around from those that stood nearest
that this was none other than the great David of Doncaster, the best wrestler
in all the mid-country, who only last spring had cast stout Adam o' Lincoln
in the ring at Selby, in Yorkshire, and now held the mid-country champion
belt. Thus it happened that when young David came forth from the tent
along with Sir Richard, the blood all washed from his face, and his soiled
jerkin changed for a clean one, no sounds of anger were heard, but all
pressed forward to see the young man, feeling proud that one of the great
wrestlers of England should have entered the ring at Denby fair. For thus
fickle is a mass of men.
Then Sir Richard called aloud, "Friends, this is David of Doncaster; so
think it no shame that your Denby man was cast by such a wrestler. He
beareth you no ill will for what hath passed, but let it be a warning to you
how ye treat strangers henceforth. Had ye slain him it would have been an
ill day for you, for Robin Hood would have harried your town as the kestrel
harries the dovecote. I have bought the pipe of wine from him, and now I
give it freely to you to drink as ye list. But never hereafterward fall upon a
man for being a stout yeoman."
At this all shouted amain; but in truth they thought more of the wine than
of the Knight's words. Then Sir Richard, with David beside him and his
men-at-arms around, turned about and left the fair.
But in after days, when the men that saw that wrestling bout were bent
with age, they would shake their heads when they heard of any stalwart
game, and say, "Ay, ay; but thou shouldst have seen the great David of
Doncaster cast stout William of the Scar at Denby fair."
Robin Hood stood in the merry greenwood with Little John and most of
his stout yeomen around him, awaiting Sir Richard's coming. At last a glint
of steel was seen through the brown forest leaves, and forth from the covert
into the open rode Sir Richard at the head of his men. He came straight

forward to Robin Hood and leaping from off his horse, clasped the yeoman
in his arms.
"Why, how now," said Robin, after a time, holding Sir Richard off and
looking at him from top to toe, "methinks thou art a gayer bird than when I
saw thee last."
"Yes, thanks to thee, Robin," said the Knight, laying his hand upon the
yeoman's shoulder. "But for thee I would have been wandering in misery in
a far country by this time. But I have kept my word, Robin, and have
brought back the money that thou didst lend me, and which I have doubled
four times over again, and so become rich once more. Along with this
money I have brought a little gift to thee and thy brave men from my dear
lady and myself." Then, turning to his men, he called aloud, "Bring forth
the pack horses."
But Robin stopped him. "Nay, Sir Richard," said he, "think it not bold of
me to cross thy bidding, but we of Sherwood do no business till after we
have eaten and drunk." Whereupon, taking Sir Richard by the hand, he led
him to the seat beneath the greenwood tree, while others of the chief men of
the band came and seated themselves around. Then quoth Robin, "How
cometh it that I saw young David of Doncaster with thee and thy men, Sir
Knight?"
Then straightway the Knight told all about his stay at Denby and of the
happening at the fair, and how it was like to go hard with young David; so
he told his tale, and quoth he, "It was this, good Robin, that kept me so late
on the way, otherwise I would have been here an hour agone."
Then, when he had done speaking, Robin stretched out his hand and
grasped the Knight's palm. Quoth he in a trembling voice, "I owe thee a
debt I can never hope to repay, Sir Richard, for let me tell thee, I would
rather lose my right hand than have such ill befall young David of
Doncaster as seemed like to come upon him at Denby."
So they talked until after a while one came forward to say that the feast
was spread; whereupon all arose and went thereto. When at last it was done,
the Knight called upon his men to bring the pack horses forward, which
they did according to his bidding. Then one of the men brought the Knight a

strongbox, which he opened and took from it a bag and counted out five
hundred pounds, the sum he had gotten from Robin.
"Sir Richard," quoth Robin, "thou wilt pleasure us all if thou wilt keep
that money as a gift from us of Sherwood. Is it not so, my lads?"
Then all shouted "Ay" with a mighty voice.
"I thank you all deeply," said the Knight earnestly, "but think it not ill of
me if I cannot take it. Gladly have I borrowed it from you, but it may not be
that I can take it as a gift."
Then Robin Hood said no more but gave the money to Little John to put
away in the treasury, for he had shrewdness enough to know that nought
breeds ill will and heart bitterness like gifts forced upon one that cannot
choose but take them.
Then Sir Richard had the packs laid upon the ground and opened,
whereupon a great shout went up that made the forest ring again, for lo,
there were tenscore bows of finest Spanish yew, all burnished till they
shone again, and each bow inlaid with fanciful figures in silver, yet not
inlaid so as to mar their strength. Beside these were tenscore quivers of
leather embroidered with golden thread, and in each quiver were a score of
shafts with burnished heads that shone like silver; each shaft was feathered
with peacock's plumes, innocked with silver.
Sir Richard gave to each yeoman a bow and a quiver of arrows, but to
Robin he gave a stout bow inlaid with the cunningest workmanship in gold,
while each arrow in his quiver was innocked with gold.
Then all shouted again for joy of the fair gift, and all swore among
themselves that they would die if need be for Sir Richard and his lady.
At last the time came when Sir Richard must go, whereupon Robin Hood
called his band around him, and each man of the yeomen took a torch in his
hand to light the way through the woodlands. So they came to the edge of
Sherwood, and there the Knight kissed Robin upon the cheeks and left him
and was gone.

Thus Robin Hood helped a noble knight out of his dire misfortunes, that
else would have smothered the happiness from his life.

Little John Turns Barefoot Friar
COLD WINTER had passed and spring had come. No leafy thickness
had yet clad the woodlands, but the budding leaves hung like a tender mist
about the trees. In the open country the meadow lands lay a sheeny green,
the cornfields a dark velvety color, for they were thick and soft with the
growing blades. The plowboy shouted in the sun, and in the purple new-
turned furrows flocks of birds hunted for fat worms. All the broad moist
earth smiled in the warm light, and each little green hill clapped its hand for
joy.
On a deer's hide, stretched on the ground in the open in front of the
greenwood tree, sat Robin Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox.
Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched
Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread,
wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the cord upon his
thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to his harp.
Quoth Robin at last, "Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the
gentle springtime than be King of all merry England. What palace in the
broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all
the world hath such appetite for plover's eggs and lampreys as I for juicy
venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he saith,
'Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.'"
"Yea," quoth Little John, as he rubbed his new-made bowstring with
yellow beeswax, "the life we lead is the life for me. Thou speakest of the
springtime, but methinks even the winter hath its own joys. Thou and I,
good master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past, at the
Blue Boar. Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will Stutely and
Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with the two beggars and the
strolling friar?"
"Yea," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "that was the night that Will Stutely
must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale
emptied over his head for his pains."

"Truly, it was the same," said Little John, laughing also. "Methinks that
was a goodly song that the strolling friar sang. Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick
ear for a tune, dost thou not remember it?"
"I did have the catch of it one time," said Tuck. "Let me see," and he
touched his forefinger to his forehead in thought, humming to himself, and
stopping ever and anon to fit what he had got to what he searched for in his
mind. At last he found it all and clearing his throat, sang merrily:

"In the blossoming hedge the robin cock sings,
For the sun it is merry and bright,
And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings,
For his heart is all full of delight.
For the May bloometh fair,
And there's little of care,
And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare.
When the flowers all die,
Then off he will fly,
To keep himself warm
In some jolly old barn
Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm.

"And such is the life of the strolling friar,
With aplenty to eat and to drink;
For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire,
And the pretty girls smile at his wink.
Then he lustily trolls
As he onward strolls,
A rollicking song for the saving of souls.
When the wind doth blow,
With the coming of snow,
There's a place by the fire
For the fatherly friar,
And a crab in the bowl for his heart's desire."

Thus Friar Tuck sang in a rich and mellow voice, rolling his head from
side to side in time with the music, and when he had done, all clapped their
hands and shouted with laughter, for the song fitted him well.
"In very sooth," quoth Little John, "it is a goodly song, and, were I not a
yeoman of Sherwood Forest, I had rather be a strolling friar than aught else
in the world."
"Yea, it is a goodly song," said Robin Hood, "but methought those two
burly beggars told the merrier tales and led the merrier life. Dost thou not
remember what that great black-bearded fellow told of his begging at the
fair in York?"

"Yea," said Little John, "but what told the friar of the harvest home in
Kentshire? I hold that he led a merrier life than the other two."
"Truly, for the honor of the cloth," quoth Friar Tuck, "I hold with my
good gossip, Little John."
"Now," quoth Robin, "I hold to mine own mind. But what sayst thou,
Little John, to a merry adventure this fair day? Take thou a friar's gown
from our chest of strange garments, and don the same, and I will stop the
first beggar I meet and change clothes with him. Then let us wander the
country about, this sweet day, and see what befalls each of us."
"That fitteth my mind," quoth Little John, "so let us forth, say I."
Thereupon Little John and Friar Tuck went to the storehouse of the band,
and there chose for the yeoman the robe of a Gray Friar. Then they came
forth again, and a mighty roar of laughter went up, for not only had the
band never seen Little John in such guise before, but the robe was too short
for him by a good palm's-breadth. But Little John's hands were folded in his
loose sleeves, and Little John's eyes were cast upon the ground, and at his
girdle hung a great, long string of beads.
And now Little John took up his stout staff, at the end of which hung a
chubby little leathern pottle, such as palmers carry at the tips of their staves;
but in it was something, I wot, more like good Malmsey than cold spring
water, such as godly pilgrims carry. Then up rose Robin and took his stout
staff in his hand, likewise, and slipped ten golden angels into his pouch; for
no beggar's garb was among the stores of the band, so he was fain to run his
chance of meeting a beggar and buying his clothes of him.
So, all being made ready, the two yeomen set forth on their way, striding
lustily along all in the misty morning. Thus they walked down the forest
path until they came to the highway, and then along the highway till it split
in twain, leading on one hand to Blyth and on the other to Gainsborough.
Here the yeomen stopped.
Quoth jolly Robin, "Take thou the road to Gainsborough, and I will take
that to Blyth. So, fare thee well, holy father, and mayst thou not ha' cause to
count thy beads in earnest ere we meet again."

"Good den, good beggar that is to be," quoth Little John, "and mayst thou
have no cause to beg for mercy ere I see thee next."
So each stepped sturdily upon his way until a green hill rose between
them, and the one was hid from the sight of the other.
Little John walked along, whistling, for no one was nigh upon all the
road. In the budding hedges the little birds twittered merrily, and on either
hand the green hills swept up to the sky, the great white clouds of
springtime sailing slowly over their crowns in lazy flight. Up hill and down
dale walked Little John, the fresh wind blowing in his face and his robes
fluttering behind him, and so at last he came to a crossroad that led to
Tuxford. Here he met three pretty lasses, each bearing a basket of eggs to
market. Quoth he, "Whither away, fair maids?" And he stood in their path,
holding his staff in front of them, to stop them.
Then they huddled together and nudged one another, and one presently
spake up and said, "We are going to the Tuxford market, holy friar, to sell
our eggs."
"Now out upon it!" quoth Little John, looking upon them with his head
on one side. "Surely, it is a pity that such fair lasses should be forced to
carry eggs to market. Let me tell you, an I had the shaping of things in this
world, ye should all three have been clothed in the finest silks, and ride
upon milk-white horses, with pages at your side, and feed upon nothing but
whipped cream and strawberries; for such a life would surely befit your
looks."
At this speech all three of the pretty maids looked down, blushing and
simpering. One said, "La!" another, "Marry, a' maketh sport of us!" and the
third, "Listen, now, to the holy man!" But at the same time they looked at
Little John from out the corners of their eyes.
"Now, look you," said Little John, "I cannot see such dainty damsels as
ye are carrying baskets along a highroad. Let me take them mine own self,
and one of you, if ye will, may carry my staff for me."
"Nay," said one of the lasses, "but thou canst not carry three baskets all at
one time."

"Yea, but I can," said Little John, "and that I will show you presently. I
thank the good Saint Wilfred that he hath given me a pretty wit. Look ye,
now. Here I take this great basket, so; here I tie my rosary around the
handle, thus; and here I slip the rosary over my head and sling the basket
upon my back, in this wise." And Little John did according to his words, the
basket hanging down behind him like a peddler's pack; then, giving his staff
to one of the maids, and taking a basket upon either arm, he turned his face
toward Tuxford Town and stepped forth merrily, a laughing maid on either
side, and one walking ahead, carrying the staff. In this wise they journeyed
along, and everyone they met stopped and looked after them, laughing, for
never had anybody seen such a merry sight as this tall, strapping Gray Friar,
with robes all too short for him, laden with eggs, and tramping the road
with three pretty lasses. For this Little John cared not a whit, but when such
folks gave jesting words to him he answered back as merrily, speech for
speech.
So they stepped along toward Tuxford, chatting and laughing, until they
came nigh to the town. Here Little John stopped and set down the baskets,
for he did not care to go into the town lest he should, perchance, meet some
of the Sheriff's men. "Alas! sweet chucks," quoth he, "here I must leave
you. I had not thought to come this way, but I am glad that I did so. Now,
ere we part, we must drink sweet friendship." So saying, he unslung the
leathern pottle from the end of his staff, and, drawing the stopper therefrom,
he handed it to the lass who had carried his staff, first wiping the mouth of
the pottle upon his sleeve. Then each lass took a fair drink of what was
within, and when it had passed all around, Little John finished what was
left, so that not another drop could be squeezed from it. Then, kissing each
lass sweetly, he wished them all good den, and left them. But the maids
stood looking after him as he walked away whistling. "What a pity," quoth
one, "that such a stout, lusty lad should be in holy orders."
"Marry," quoth Little John to himself, as he strode along, "yon was no
such ill happening; Saint Dunstan send me more of the like."
After he had trudged along for a time he began to wax thirsty again in the
warmth of the day. He shook his leathern pottle beside his ear, but not a
sound came therefrom. Then he placed it to his lips and tilted it high aloft,
but not a drop was there. "Little John! Little John!" said he sadly to himself,

shaking his head the while, "woman will be thy ruin yet, if thou dost not
take better care of thyself."
But at last he reached the crest of a certain hill, and saw below a sweet
little thatched inn lying snugly in the dale beneath him, toward which the
road dipped sharply. At the sight of this, a voice within him cried aloud, "I
give thee joy, good friend, for yonder is thy heart's delight, to wit, a sweet
rest and a cup of brown beer." So he quickened his pace down the hill and
so came to the little inn, from which hung a sign with a stag's head painted
upon it. In front of the door a clucking hen was scratching in the dust with a
brood of chickens about her heels, the sparrows were chattering of
household affairs under the eaves, and all was so sweet and peaceful that
Little John's heart laughed within him. Beside the door stood two stout cobs
with broad soft-padded saddles, well fitted for easy traveling, and speaking
of rich guests in the parlor. In front of the door three merry fellows, a tinker,
a peddler, and a beggar, were seated on a bench in the sun quaffing stout
ale.
"I give you good den, sweet friends," quoth Little John, striding up to
where they sat.
"Give thee good den, holy father," quoth the merry Beggar with a grin.
"But look thee, thy gown is too short. Thou hadst best cut a piece off the top
and tack it to the bottom, so that it may be long enough. But come, sit
beside us here and take a taste of ale, if thy vows forbid thee not."
"Nay," quoth Little John, also grinning, "the blessed Saint Dunstan hath
given me a free dispensation for all indulgence in that line." And he thrust
his hand into his pouch for money to pay his score.
"Truly," quoth the Tinker, "without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the
good Saint Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is
like to ha' many a penance to make. Nay, take thy hand from out thy pouch,
brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot. Ho, landlord, a pot of ale!"
So the ale was brought and given to Little John. Then, blowing the froth a
little way to make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher
and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his eyes to keep the
dazzle of the sunshine out of them. Then he took the pot away, for there was

nothing in it, and heaved a full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist
eyes and shaking his head solemnly.
"Ho, landlord!" cried the Peddler, "bring this good fellow another pot of
ale, for truly it is a credit to us all to have one among us who can empty a
canakin so lustily."
So they talked among themselves merrily, until after a while quoth Little
John, "Who rideth those two nags yonder?"
"Two holy men like thee, brother," quoth the Beggar. "They are now
having a goodly feast within, for I smelled the steam of a boiled pullet just
now. The landlady sayeth they come from Fountain Abbey, in Yorkshire,
and go to Lincoln on matters of business."
"They are a merry couple," said the Tinker, "for one is as lean as an old
wife's spindle, and the other as fat as a suet pudding."
"Talking of fatness," said the Peddler, "thou thyself lookest none too ill-
fed, holy friar."
"Nay, truly," said Little John, "thou seest in me what the holy Saint
Dunstan can do for them that serve him upon a handful of parched peas and
a trickle of cold water."
At this a great shout of laughter went up. "Truly, it is a wondrous thing,"
quoth the Beggar, "I would have made my vow, to see the masterly manner
in which thou didst tuck away yon pot of ale, that thou hadst not tasted clear
water for a brace of months. Has not this same holy Saint Dunstan taught
thee a goodly song or two?"
"Why, as for that," quoth Little John, grinning, "mayhap he hath lent me
aid to learn a ditty or so."
"Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee," quoth the Tinker.
At this Little John cleared his throat and, after a word or two about a
certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus:

"Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go?

I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also,
And we'll gather the rose
As it sweetly blows,
For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing."

Now it seemed as though Little John's songs were never to get sung, for
he had got no farther than this when the door of the inn opened and out
came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the landlord following them, and,
as the saying is, washing his hands with humble soap. But when the
brothers of Fountain Abbey saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad
in the robes of a Gray Friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little Brother
drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the thin
Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in his mouth. Then,
as Little John gathered his breath for a new verse, "How, now," roared forth
the fat Brother, his voice coming from him like loud thunder from a little
cloud, "thou naughty fellow, is this a fit place for one in thy garb to tipple
and sing profane songs?"
"Nay," quoth Little John, "sin' I cannot tipple and sing, like Your
Worship's reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must e'en
tipple and sing where I can."
"Now, out upon thee," cried the tall lean Brother in a harsh voice, "now,
out upon thee, that thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this talk and
bearing."
"Marry, come up!" quoth Little John. "Disgrace, sayest thou? Methinks it
is more disgrace for one of our garb to wring hard-earned farthings out of
the gripe of poor lean peasants. It is not so, brother?"
At this the Tinker and the Peddler and the Beggar nudged one another,
and all grinned, and the friars scowled blackly at Little John; but they could
think of nothing further to say, so they turned to their horses. Then Little
John arose of a sudden from the bench where he sat, and ran to where the
brothers of Fountain Abbey were mounting. Quoth he, "Let me hold your
horses' bridles for you. Truly, your words have smitten my sinful heart, so
that I will abide no longer in this den of evil, but will go forward with you.
No vile temptation, I wot, will fall upon me in such holy company."

"Nay, fellow," said the lean Brother harshly, for he saw that Little John
made sport of them, "we want none of thy company, so get thee gone."
"Alas," quoth Little John, "I am truly sorry that ye like me not nor my
company, but as for leaving you, it may not be, for my heart is so moved,
that, willy-nilly, I must go with you for the sake of your holy company."
Now, at this talk all the good fellows on the bench grinned till their teeth
glistened, and even the landlord could not forbear to smile. As for the friars,
they looked at one another with a puzzled look, and knew not what to do in
the matter. They were so proud that it made them feel sick with shame to
think of riding along the highroad with a strolling friar, in robes all too short
for him, running beside them, but yet they could not make Little John stay
against his will, for they knew he could crack the bones of both of them in a
twinkling were he so minded. Then up spake the fat Brother more mildly
than he had done before. "Nay, good brother," said he, "we will ride fast,
and thou wilt tire to death at the pace."
"Truly, I am grateful to thee for the thought of me," quoth Little John,
"but have no fear, brother; my limbs are stout, and I could run like a hare
from here to Gainsborough."
At these words a sound of laughing came from the bench, whereat the
lean Brother's wrath boiled over, like water into the fire, with great fuss and
noise. "Now, out upon thee, thou naughty fellow!" he cried. "Art thou not
ashamed to bring disgrace so upon our cloth? Bide thee here, thou sot, with
these porkers. Thou art no fit company for us."
"La, ye there now!" quoth Little John. "Thou hearest, landlord; thou art
not fit company for these holy men; go back to thine alehouse. Nay, if these
most holy brothers of mine do but give me the word, I'll beat thy head with
this stout staff till it is as soft as whipped eggs."
At these words a great shout of laughter went up from those on the
bench, and the landlord's face grew red as a cherry from smothering his
laugh in his stomach; but he kept his merriment down, for he wished not to
bring the ill-will of the brothers of Fountain Abbey upon him by unseemly
mirth. So the two brethren, as they could do nought else, having mounted
their nags, turned their noses toward Lincoln and rode away.

"I cannot stay longer, sweet friends," quoth Little John, as he pushed in
betwixt the two cobs, "therefore I wish you good den. Off we go, we three."
So saying, he swung his stout staff over his shoulder and trudged off,
measuring his pace with that of the two nags.
The two brothers glowered at Little John when he so pushed himself
betwixt them, then they drew as far away from him as they could, so that
the yeoman walked in the middle of the road, while they rode on the
footpath on either side of the way. As they so went away, the Tinker, the
Peddler, and the Beggar ran skipping out into the middle of the highway,
each with a pot in his hand, and looked after them laughing.
While they were in sight of those at the inn, the brothers walked their
horses soberly, not caring to make ill matters worse by seeming to run away
from Little John, for they could not but think how it would sound in folks'
ears when they heard how the brethren of Fountain Abbey scampered away
from a strolling friar, like the Ugly One, when the blessed Saint Dunstan
loosed his nose from the red-hot tongs where he had held it fast; but when
they had crossed the crest of the hill and the inn was lost to sight, quoth the
fat Brother to the thin Brother, "Brother Ambrose, had we not better mend
our pace?"
"Why truly, gossip," spoke up Little John, "methinks it would be well to
boil our pot a little faster, for the day is passing on. So it will not jolt thy fat
too much, onward, say I."
At this the two friars said nothing, but they glared again on Little John
with baleful looks; then, without another word, they clucked to their horses,
and both broke into a canter. So they galloped for a mile and more, and
Little John ran betwixt them as lightly as a stag and never turned a hair with
the running. At last the fat Brother drew his horse's rein with a groan, for he
could stand the shaking no longer. "Alas," said Little John, with not so
much as a catch in his breath, "I did sadly fear that the roughness of this
pace would shake thy poor old fat paunch."
To this the fat Friar said never a word, but he stared straight before him,
and he gnawed his nether lip. And now they traveled forward more quietly,
Little John in the middle of the road whistling merrily to himself, and the
two friars in the footpath on either side saying never a word.

Then presently they met three merry minstrels, all clad in red, who stared
amain to see a Gray Friar with such short robes walking in the middle of the
road, and two brothers with heads bowed with shame, riding upon richly
caparisoned cobs on the footpaths. When they had come near to the
minstrels, Little John waved his staff like an usher clearing the way. "Make
way!" he cried in a loud voice. "Make way! make way! For here we go, we
three!" Then how the minstrels stared, and how they laughed! But the fat
Friar shook as with an ague, and the lean Friar bowed his head over his
horse's neck.
Then next they met two noble knights in rich array, with hawk on wrist,
and likewise two fair ladies clad in silks and velvets, all a-riding on noble
steeds. These all made room, staring, as Little John and the two friars came
along the road. To them Little John bowed humbly. "Give you greetings,
lords and ladies," said he. "But here we go, we three."
Then all laughed, and one of the fair ladies cried out, "What three
meanest thou, merry friend?"
Little John looked over his shoulder, for they had now passed each other,
and he called back, "Big Jack, lean Jack and fat Jack-pudding."
At this the fat Friar gave a groan and seemed as if he were like to fall
from his saddle for shame; the other brother said nothing, but he looked
before him with a grim and stony look.
Just ahead of them the road took a sudden turn around a high hedge, and
some twoscore paces beyond the bend another road crossed the one they
were riding upon. When they had come to the crossroad and were well
away from those they had left, the lean Friar drew rein suddenly. "Look ye,
fellow," quoth he in a voice quivering with rage, "we have had enough of
thy vile company, and care no longer to be made sport of. Go thy way, and
let us go ours in peace."
"La there, now!" quoth Little John. "Methought we were such a merry
company, and here thou dost blaze up like fat in the pan. But truly, I ha' had
enow of you today, though I can ill spare your company. I know ye will
miss me, but gin ye want me again, whisper to Goodman Wind, and he will

bring news thereof to me. But ye see I am a poor man and ye are rich. I pray
you give me a penny or two to buy me bread and cheese at the next inn."
"We have no money, fellow," said the lean Friar harshly. "Come, Brother
Thomas, let us forward."
But Little John caught the horses by the bridle reins, one in either hand.
"Ha' ye in truth no money about you whatsoever?" said he. "Now, I pray
you, brothers, for charity's sake, give me somewhat to buy a crust of bread,
e'en though it be only a penny."
"I tell thee, fellow, we have no money," thundered the fat little Friar with
the great voice.
"Ha' ye, in holy truth, no money?" asked Little John.
"Not a farthing," said the lean Friar sourly.
"Not a groat," said the fat Friar loudly.
"Nay," quoth Little John, "this must not be. Far be it from me to see such
holy men as ye are depart from me with no money. Get both of you down
straightway from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of
the crossroads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us some money
to carry us on our journey."
"What sayest thou, thou limb of evil!" cried the lean Friar, fairly
gnashing his teeth with rage. "Doss thou bid me, the high cellarer of
Fountain Abbey, to get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to
pray to some beggarly Saxon saint?"
"Now," quoth Little John, "I ha' a great part of a mind to crack thy head
for thee for speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan! But get down
straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I may forget that
ye are both in holy orders." So saying, he twirled his stout staff till it
whistled again.
At this speech both friars grew as pale as dough. Down slipped the fat
Brother from off his horse on one side, and down slipped the lean Brother
on the other.

"Now, brothers, down on your knees and pray," said Little John;
thereupon, putting his heavy hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced
them to their knees, he kneeling also. Then Little John began to beseech
Saint Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice. After he had
so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in their pouches and
see if the Saint had sent them anything; so each put his hand slowly in the
pouch that hung beside him, but brought nothing thence.
"Ha!" quoth Little John, "have your prayers so little virtue? Then let us at
it again." Then straightway he began calling on Saint Dunstan again,
somewhat in this wise: "O gracious Saint Dunstan! Send some money
straightway to these poor folk, lest the fat one waste away and grow as lean
as the lean one, and the lean one waste away to nothing at all, ere they get
to Lincoln Town; but send them only ten shillings apiece, lest they grow
puffed up with pride, Any more than that that thou sendest, send to me.
"Now," quoth he, rising, "let us see what each man hath." Then he thrust
his hand into his pouch and drew thence four golden angels. "What have ye,
brothers?" said he.
Then once again each friar slowly thrust his hand into his pouch, and
once again brought it out with nothing in it.
"Have ye nothing?" quoth Little John. "Nay, I warrant there is somewhat
that hath crept into the seams of your pouches, and so ye ha' missed it. Let
me look."
So he went first to the lean Friar, and, thrusting his hand into the pouch,
he drew forth a leathern bag and counted therefrom one hundred and ten
pounds of golden money. "I thought," quoth Little John, "that thou hadst
missed, in some odd corner of thy pouch, the money that the blessed Saint
had sent thee. And now let me see whether thou hast not some, also,
brother." Thereupon he thrust his hand into the pouch of the fat Friar and
drew thence a bag like the other and counted out from it threescore and ten
pounds. "Look ye now," quoth he, "I knew the good Saint had sent thee
some pittance that thou, also, hadst missed."
Then, giving them one pound between them, he slipped the rest of the
money into his own pouch, saying, "Ye pledged me your holy word that ye

had no money. Being holy men, I trust that ye would not belie your word so
pledged, therefore I know the good Saint Dunstan hath sent this in answer
to my prayers. But as I only prayed for ten shillings to be sent to each of
you, all over and above that belongeth by rights to me, and so I take it. I
give you good den, brothers, and may ye have a pleasant journey
henceforth." So saying, he turned and left them, striding away. The friars
looked at one another with a woeful look, and slowly and sadly they
mounted their horses again and rode away with never a word.
But Little John turned his footsteps back again to Sherwood Forest, and
merrily he whistled as he strode along.
And now we will see what befell Robin Hood in his venture as beggar.

Robin Hood Turns Beggar
AFTER JOLLY ROBIN had left Little John at the forking of the roads,
he walked merrily onward in the mellow sunshine that shone about him.
Ever and anon he would skip and leap or sing a snatch of song, for pure
joyousness of the day; for, because of the sweetness of the springtide, his
heart was as lusty within him as that of a colt newly turned out to grass.
Sometimes he would walk a long distance, gazing aloft at the great white
swelling clouds that moved slowly across the deep blue sky; anon he would
stop and drink in the fullness of life of all things, for the hedgerows were
budding tenderly and the grass of the meadows was waxing long and green;
again he would stand still and listen to the pretty song of the little birds in
the thickets or hearken to the clear crow of the cock daring the sky to rain,
whereat he would laugh, for it took but little to tickle Robin's heart into
merriment. So he trudged manfully along, ever willing to stop for this
reason or for that, and ever ready to chat with such merry lasses as he met
now and then. So the morning slipped along, but yet he met no beggar with
whom he could change clothes. Quoth he, "If I do not change my luck in
haste, I am like to have an empty day of it, for it is well nigh half gone
already, and, although I have had a merry walk through the countryside, I
know nought of a beggar's life."
Then, after a while, he began to grow hungry, whereupon his mind turned
from thoughts of springtime and flowers and birds and dwelled upon boiled
capons, Malmsey, white bread, and the like, with great tenderness. Quoth he
to himself, "I would I had Willie Wynkin's wishing coat; I know right well
what I should wish for, and this it should be." Here he marked upon the
fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand those things
which he wished for. "Firstly, I would have a sweet brown pie of tender
larks; mark ye, not dry cooked, but with a good sop of gravy to moisten it
withal. Next, I would have a pretty pullet, fairly boiled, with tender pigeons'
eggs, cunningly sliced, garnishing the platter around. With these I would
have a long, slim loaf of wheaten bread that hath been baked upon the
hearth; it should be warm from the fire, with glossy brown crust, the color
of the hair of mine own Maid Marian, and this same crust should be as crisp

and brittle as the thin white ice that lies across the furrows in the early
winter's morning. These will do for the more solid things; but with these I
must have three potties, fat and round, one full of Malmsey, one of Canary,
and one brimming full of mine own dear lusty sack." Thus spoke Robin to
himself, his mouth growing moist at the corners with the thoughts of the
good things he had raised in his own mind.
So, talking to himself, he came to where the dusty road turned sharply
around the hedge, all tender with the green of the coming leaf, and there he
saw before him a stout fellow sitting upon a stile, swinging his legs in
idleness. All about this lusty rogue dangled divers pouches and bags of
different sizes and kinds, a dozen or more, with great, wide, gaping mouths,
like a brood of hungry daws. His coat was gathered in at his waist, and was
patched with as many colors as there are stripes upon a Maypole in the
springtide. On his head he wore a great tall leathern cap, and across his
knees rested a stout quarterstaff of blackthorn, full as long and heavy as
Robin's. As jolly a beggar was he as ever trod the lanes and byways of
Nottinghamshire, for his eyes were as gray as slate, and snapped and
twinkled and danced with merriment, and his black hair curled close all
over his head in little rings of kinkiness.
"Halloa, good fellow," quoth Robin, when he had come nigh to the other,
"what art thou doing here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and
the buds are swelling?"
Then the other winked one eye and straightway trolled forth in a merry
voice:

"I sit upon the stile,
And I sing a little while
As I wait for my own true dear, O,
For the sun is shining bright,
And the leaves are dancing light,
And the little fowl sings she is near, O.

"And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh not."
"Now that is a right sweet song," quoth Robin, "and, were I in the right
mind to listen to thee, I could bear well to hear more; but I have two things
of seriousness to ask of thee; so listen, I prythee."

At this the jolly Beggar cocked his head on one side, like a rogue of a
magpie. Quoth he, "I am an ill jug to pour heavy things into, good friend,
and, if I mistake not, thou hast few serious words to spare at any time."
"Nay," quoth jolly Robin, "what I would say first is the most serious of
all thoughts to me, to wit, 'Where shall I get somewhat to eat and drink?'"
"Sayst thou so?" quoth the Beggar. "Marry, I make no such serious
thoughts upon the matter. I eat when I can get it, and munch my crust when
I can get no crumb; likewise, when there is no ale to be had I wash the dust
from out my throat with a trickle of cold water. I was sitting here, as thou
camest upon me, bethinking myself whether I should break my fast or no. I
do love to let my hunger grow mightily keen ere I eat, for then a dry crust is
as good to me as a venison pasty with suet and raisins is to stout King
Harry. I have a sharp hunger upon me now, but methinks in a short while it
will ripen to a right mellow appetite."
"Now, in good sooth," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "thou hast a quaint
tongue betwixt thy teeth. But hast thou truly nought but a dry crust about
thee? Methinks thy bags and pouches are fat and lusty for such thin fare."
"Why, mayhap there is some other cold fare therein," said the Beggar
slyly.
"And hast thou nought to drink but cold water?" said Robin.
"Never so much as a drop," quoth the Beggar. "Over beyond yon clump
of trees is as sweet a little inn as ever thou hast lifted eyelid upon; but I go
not thither, for they have a nasty way with me. Once, when the good Prior
of Emmet was dining there, the landlady set a dear little tart of stewed crabs
and barley sugar upon the window sill to cool, and, seeing it there, and
fearing it might be lost, I took it with me till that I could find the owner
thereof. Ever since then they have acted very ill toward me; yet truth bids
me say that they have the best ale there that ever rolled over my tongue."
At this Robin laughed aloud. "Marry," quoth he, "they did ill toward thee
for thy kindness. But tell me truly, what hast thou in thy pouches?"
"Why," quoth the Beggar, peeping into the mouths of his bags, "I find
here a goodly piece of pigeon pie, wrapped in a cabbage leaf to hold the

gravy. Here I behold a dainty streaked piece of brawn, and here a fair lump
of white bread. Here I find four oaten cakes and a cold knuckle of ham. Ha!
In sooth, 'tis strange; but here I behold six eggs that must have come by
accident from some poultry yard hereabouts. They are raw, but roasted upon
the coals and spread with a piece of butter that I see—"
"Peace, good friend!" cried Robin, holding up his hand. "Thou makest
my poor stomach quake with joy for what thou tellest me so sweetly. If thou
wilt give me to eat, I will straightway hie me to that little inn thou didst tell
of but now, and will bring a skin of ale for thy drinking and mine."
"Friend, thou hast said enough," said the Beggar, getting down from the
stile. "I will feast thee with the best that I have and bless Saint Cedric for
thy company. But, sweet chuck, I prythee bring three quarts of ale at least,
one for thy drinking and two for mine, for my thirst is such that methinks I
can drink ale as the sands of the River Dee drink salt water."
So Robin straightway left the Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a
budding lime bush back of the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the
grass and roasted his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by
long labor in that line. After a while back came Robin bearing a goodly skin
of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the grass. Then, looking upon
the feast spread upon the ground—and a fair sight it was to look upon—he
slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed
the fairest sight that he had beheld in all his life.
"Friend," said the Beggar, "let me feel the weight of that skin.
"Yea, truly," quoth Robin, "help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let
me see whether thy pigeon pie is fresh or no."
So the one seized upon the ale and the other upon the pigeon pie, and
nothing was heard for a while but the munching of food and the gurgle of
ale as it left the skin.
At last, after a long time had passed thus, Robin pushed the food from
him and heaved a great sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had
been made all over anew.

"And now, good friend," quoth he, leaning upon one elbow, "I would
have at thee about that other matter of seriousness of which I spoke not long
since."
"How!" said the Beggar reproachfully, "thou wouldst surely not talk of
things appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!"
"Nay," quoth Robin, laughing. "I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend;
drink while I talk to thee. Thus it is: I would have thee know that I have
taken a liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar's life mine
own self."
Said the Beggar, "I marvel not that thou hast taken a liking to my manner
of life, good fellow, but 'to like' and 'to do' are two matters of different sorts.
I tell thee, friend, one must serve a long apprenticeship ere one can learn to
be even so much as a clapper- dudgeon, much less a crank or an Abraham-
man.3 I tell thee, lad, thou art too old to enter upon that which it may take
thee years to catch the hang of."

3
Classes of traveling mendicants that infested England as late as the
middle of the seventeenth century. VIDE Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES, etc.

"Mayhap that may be so," quoth Robin, "for I bring to mind that Gaffer
Swanthold sayeth Jack Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill
shoon. Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar's life, and need but the
clothing to be as good as any."
"I tell thee, fellow," said the Beggar, "if thou wert clad as sweetly as good
Saint Wynten, the patron of our craft, thou wouldst never make a beggar.
Marry, the first jolly traveler that thou wouldst meet would beat thee to a
pudding for thrusting thy nose into a craft that belongeth not to thee."
"Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "I would have a try at it; and methinks I
shall change clothes with thee, for thy garb seemeth to be pretty, not to say
gay. So not only will I change clothes, but I will give thee two golden
angels to boot. I have brought my stout staff with me, thinking that I might
have to rap some one of the brethren of thy cloth over the head by way of
argument in this matter, but I love thee so much for the feast thou hast given

me that I would not lift even my little finger against thee, so thou needst not
have a crumb of fear."
To this the Beggar listened with his knuckles resting against his hips, and
when Robin had ended he cocked his head on one side and thrust his tongue
into his cheek.
"Marry, come up," quoth he at last. "Lift thy finger against me, forsooth!
Art thou out of thy wits, man? My name is Riccon Hazel, and I come from
Holywell, in Flintshire, over by the River Dee. I tell thee, knave, I have
cracked the head of many a better man than thou art, and even now I would
scald thy crown for thee but for the ale thou hast given me. Now thou shalt
not have so much as one tag-rag of my coat, even could it save thee from
hanging."
"Now, fellow," said Robin, "it would ill suit me to spoil thy pretty head
for thee, but I tell thee plainly, that but for this feast I would do that to thee
would stop thy traveling the country for many a day to come. Keep thy lips
shut, lad, or thy luck will tumble out of thy mouth with thy speech!"
"Now out, and alas for thee, man, for thou hast bred thyself ill this day!"
cried the Beggar, rising and taking up his staff. "Take up thy club and
defend thyself, fellow, for I will not only beat thee but I will take from thee
thy money and leave thee not so much as a clipped groat to buy thyself a
lump of goose grease to rub thy cracked crown withal. So defend thyself, I
say."
Then up leaped merry Robin and snatched up his staff also. "Take my
money, if thou canst," quoth he. "I promise freely to give thee every
farthing if thou dost touch me." And he twirled his staff in his fingers till it
whistled again.
Then the Beggar swung his staff also, and struck a mighty blow at Robin,
which the yeoman turned. Three blows the Beggar struck, yet never one
touched so much as a hair of Robin's head. Then stout Robin saw his
chance, and, ere you could count three, Riccon's staff was over the hedge,
and Riccon himself lay upon the green grass with no more motion than you
could find in an empty pudding bag.

"How now!" quoth merry Robin, laughing. "Wilt thou have my hide or
my money, sweet chuck?" But to this the other answered never a word.
Then Robin, seeing his plight, and that he was stunned with the blow, ran,
still laughing, and brought the skin of ale and poured some of it on the
Beggar's head and some down his throat, so that presently he opened his
eyes and looked around as though wondering why he lay upon his back.
Then Robin, seeing that he had somewhat gathered the wits that had just
been rapped out of his head, said, "Now, good fellow, wilt thou change
clothes with me, or shall I have to tap thee again? Here are two golden
angels if thou wilt give me freely all thy rags and bags and thy cap and
things. If thou givest them not freely, I much fear me I shall have to— " and
he looked up and down his staff.
Then Riccon sat up and rubbed the bump on his crown. "Now, out upon
it!" quoth he. "I did think to drub thee sweetly, fellow. I know not how it is,
but I seem, as it were, to have bought more beer than I can drink. If I must
give up my clothes, I must, but first promise me, by thy word as a true
yeoman, that thou wilt take nought from me but my clothes."
"I promise on the word of a true yeoman," quoth Robin, thinking that the
fellow had a few pennies that he would save.
Thereupon the Beggar drew a little knife that hung at his side and,
ripping up the lining of his coat, drew thence ten bright golden pounds,
which he laid upon the ground beside him with a cunning wink at Robin.
"Now thou mayst have my clothes and welcome," said he, "and thou
mightest have had them in exchange for thine without the cost of a single
farthing, far less two golden angels."
"Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art a sly fellow, and I tell thee
truly, had I known thou hadst so much money by thee maybe thou mightst
not have carried it away, for I warrant thou didst not come honestly by it."
Then each stripped off his clothes and put on those of the other, and as
lusty a beggar was Robin Hood as e'er you could find of a summer's day.
But stout Riccon of Holywell skipped and leaped and danced for joy of the
fair suit of Lincoln green that he had so gotten. Quoth he, "I am a gay-
feathered bird now. Truly, my dear Moll Peascod would never know me in

this dress. Thou mayst keep the cold pieces of the feast, friend, for I mean
to live well and lustily while my money lasts and my clothes are gay."
So he turned and left Robin and, crossing the stile, was gone, but Robin
heard him singing from beyond the hedge as he strode away:

"For Polly is smiling and Molly is glad
When the beggar comes in at the door,
And Jack and Dick call him a fine lusty lad,
And the hostess runs up a great score.

Then hey, Willy Waddykin,
Stay, Billy Waddykin,
And let the brown ale flow free, flow free,
The beggar's the man for me."

Robin listened till the song ended in the distance, then he also crossed the
stile into the road, but turned his toes away from where the Beggar had
gone. The road led up a gentle hill and up the hill Robin walked, a half
score or more of bags dangling about his legs. Onward he strolled for a long
time, but other adventure he found not. The road was bare of all else but
himself, as he went kicking up little clouds of dust at each footstep; for it
was noontide, the most peaceful time of all the day, next to twilight. All the
earth was silent in the restfulness of eating time; the plowhorses stood in the
furrow munching, with great bags over their noses holding sweet food, the
plowman sat under the hedge and the plowboy also, and they, too, were
munching, each one holding a great piece of bread in one fist and a great
piece of cheese in the other.
So Robin, with all the empty road to himself, strode along whistling
merrily, his bags and pouches bobbing and dangling at his thighs. At last he
came to where a little grass-grown path left the road and, passing through a
stile and down a hill, led into a little dell and on across a rill in the valley
and up the hill on the other side, till it reached a windmill that stood on the
cap of the rise where the wind bent the trees in swaying motion. Robin
looked at the spot and liked it, and, for no reason but that his fancy led him,
he took the little path and walked down the grassy sunny slope of the open
meadow, and so came to the little dingle and, ere he knew it, upon four
lusty fellows that sat with legs outstretched around a goodly feast spread
upon the ground.

Four merry beggars were they, and each had slung about his neck a little
board that rested upon his breast. One board had written upon it, "I am
blind," another, "I am deaf," another, "I am dumb," and the fourth, "Pity the
lame one." But although all these troubles written upon the boards seemed
so grievous, the four stout fellows sat around feasting as merrily as though
Cain's wife had never opened the pottle that held misfortunes and let them
forth like a cloud of flies to pester us.
The deaf man was the first to hear Robin, for he said, "Hark, brothers, I
hear someone coming." And the blind man was the first to see him, for he
said, "He is an honest man, brothers, and one of like craft to ourselves."
Then the dumb man called to him in a great voice and said, "Welcome,
brother; come and sit while there is still some of the feast left and a little
Malmsey in the pottle." At this, the lame man, who had taken off his
wooden leg and unstrapped his own leg, and was sitting with it stretched
out upon the grass so as to rest it, made room for Robin among them. "We
are glad to see thee, brother," said he, holding out the flask of Malmsey.
"Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, and weighing the flask in his hands ere
he drank, "methinks it is no more than seemly of you all to be glad to see
me, seeing that I bring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the
deaf, and such a lusty leg to a lame man. I drink to your happiness, brothers,
as I may not drink to your health, seeing ye are already hale, wind and
limb."
At this all grinned, and the Blind beggar, who was the chief man among
them, and was the broadest shouldered and most lusty rascal of all, smote
Robin upon the shoulder, swearing he was a right merry wag.
"Whence comest thou, lad?" asked the Dumb man.
"Why," quoth Robin, "I came this morning from sleeping overnight in
Sherwood."
"Is it even so?" said the Deaf man. "I would not for all the money we four
are carrying to Lincoln Town sleep one night in Sherwood. If Robin Hood
caught one of our trade in his woodlands he would, methinks, clip his ears."
"Methinks he would, too," quoth Robin, laughing. "But what money is
this that ye speak of?"

Then up spake the Lame man. "Our king, Peter of York," said he, "hath
sent us to Lincoln with those moneys that—"
"Stay, brother Hodge," quoth the Blind man, breaking into the talk, "I
would not doubt our brother here, but bear in mind we know him not. What
art thou, brother? Upright-man, Jurkman, Clapper-dudgeon, Dommerer, or
Abraham-man?"
At these words Robin looked from one man to the other with mouth
agape. "Truly," quoth he, "I trust I am an upright man, at least, I strive to be;
but I know not what thou meanest by such jargon, brother. It were much
more seemly, methinks, if yon Dumb man, who hath a sweet voice, would
give us a song."
At these words a silence fell on all, and after a while the Blind man spoke
again. Quoth he, "Thou dost surely jest when thou sayest that thou dost not
understand such words. Answer me this: Hast thou ever fibbed a chouse
quarrons in the Rome pad for the loure in his bung?"4

4
I.E., in old beggar's cant, "beaten a man or gallant upon the
highway for the money in his purse." Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES.

"Now out upon it," quoth Robin Hood testily, "an ye make sport of me by
pattering such gibberish, it will be ill for you all, I tell you. I have the best
part of a mind to crack the heads of all four of you, and would do so, too,
but for the sweet Malmsey ye have given me. Brother, pass the pottle lest it
grow cold."
But all the four beggars leaped to their feet when Robin had done
speaking, and the Blind man snatched up a heavy knotted cudgel that lay
beside him on the grass, as did the others likewise. Then Robin, seeing that
things were like to go ill with him, albeit he knew not what all the coil was
about, leaped to his feet also and, catching up his trusty staff, clapped his
back against the tree and stood upon his guard against them. "How, now!"
cried he, twirling his staff betwixt his fingers, "would you four stout fellows
set upon one man? Stand back, ye rascals, or I will score your pates till they

have as many marks upon them as a pothouse door! Are ye mad? I have
done you no harm."
"Thou liest!" quoth the one who pretended to be blind and who, being the
lustiest villain, was the leader of the others, "thou liest! For thou hast come
among us as a vile spy. But thine ears have heard too much for thy body's
good, and thou goest not forth from this place unless thou goest feet
foremost, for this day thou shalt die! Come, brothers, all together! Down
with him!" Then, whirling up his cudgel, he rushed upon Robin as an angry
bull rushes upon a red rag. But Robin was ready for any happening. "Crick!
Crack!" he struck two blows as quick as a wink, and down went the Blind
man, rolling over and over upon the grass.
At this the others bore back and stood at a little distance scowling upon
Robin. "Come on, ye scum!" cried he merrily. "Here be cakes and ale for
all. Now, who will be next served?"
To this speech the beggars answered never a word, but they looked at
Robin as great Blunderbore looked upon stout Jack the slayer of giants, as
though they would fain eat him, body and bones; nevertheless, they did not
care to come nigher to him and his terrible staff. Then, seeing them so
hesitate, Robin of a sudden leaped upon them, striking even as he leaped.
Down went the Dumb man, and away flew his cudgel from his hand as he
fell. At this the others ducked to avoid another blow, then, taking to their
heels, scampered, the one one way and the other the other, as though they
had the west wind's boots upon their feet. Robin looked after them,
laughing, and thought that never had he seen so fleet a runner as the Lame
man; but neither of the beggars stopped nor turned around, for each felt in
his mind the wind of Robin's cudgel about his ears.
Then Robin turned to the two stout knaves lying upon the ground. Quoth
he, "These fellows spake somewhat about certain moneys they were taking
to Lincoln; methinks I may find it upon this stout blind fellow, who hath as
keen sight as e'er a trained woodsman in Nottingham or Yorkshire. It were a
pity to let sound money stay in the pockets of such thieving knaves." So
saying, he stooped over the burly rascal and searched among his rags and
tatters, till presently his fingers felt a leathern pouch slung around his body
beneath his patched and tattered coat. This he stripped away and, weighing

it in his hands, bethought himself that it was mighty heavy. "It were a sweet
thing," said he to himself, "if this were filled with gold instead of copper
pence." Then, sitting down upon the grass, he opened the pocket and looked
into it. There he found four round rolls wrapped up in dressed sheepskin;
one of these rolls he opened; then his mouth gaped and his eyes stared, I
wot, as though they would never close again, for what did he see but fifty
pounds of bright golden money? He opened the other pockets and found in
each one the same, fifty bright new-stamped golden pounds. Quoth Robin,
"I have oft heard that the Beggars' Guild was over-rich, but never did I think
that they sent such sums as this to their treasury. I shall take it with me, for
it will be better used for charity and the good of my merry band than in the
enriching of such knaves as these." So saying, he rolled up the money in the
sheepskin again, and putting it back in the purse, he thrust the pouch into
his own bosom. Then taking up the flask of Malmsey, he held it toward the
two fellows lying on the grass, and quoth he, "Sweet friends, I drink your
health and thank you dearly for what ye have so kindly given me this day,
and so I wish you good den." Then, taking up his staff, he left the spot and
went merrily on his way.
But when the two stout beggars that had been rapped upon the head
roused themselves and sat up, and when the others had gotten over their
fright and come back, they were as sad and woebegone as four frogs in dry
weather, for two of them had cracked crowns, their Malmsey was all gone,
and they had not so much as a farthing to cross their palms withal.
But after Robin left the little dell he strode along merrily, singing as he
went; and so blithe was he and such a stout beggar, and, withal, so fresh and
clean, that every merry lass he met had a sweet word for him and felt no
fear, while the very dogs, that most times hate the sight of a beggar, snuffed
at his legs in friendly wise and wagged their tails pleasantly; for dogs know
an honest man by his smell, and an honest man Robin was—in his own
way.
Thus he went along till at last he had come to the wayside cross nigh
Ollerton, and, being somewhat tired, he sat him down to rest upon the
grassy bank in front of it. "It groweth nigh time," quoth he to himself, "that
I were getting back again to Sherwood; yet it would please me well to have
one more merry adventure ere I go back again to my jolly band."

So he looked up the road and down the road to see who might come, until
at last he saw someone drawing near, riding upon a horse. When the traveler
came nigh enough for him to see him well, Robin laughed, for a strange
enough figure he cut. He was a thin, wizened man, and, to look upon him,
you could not tell whether he was thirty years old or sixty, so dried up was
he even to skin and bone. As for the nag, it was as thin as the rider, and both
looked as though they had been baked in Mother Huddle's Oven, where folk
are dried up so that they live forever.
But although Robin laughed at the droll sight, he knew the wayfarer to be
a certain rich corn engrosser of Worksop, who more than once had bought
all the grain in the countryside and held it till it reached even famine prices,
thus making much money from the needs of poor people, and for this he
was hated far and near by everyone that knew aught of him.
So, after a while, the Corn Engrosser came riding up to where Robin sat;
whereupon merry Robin stepped straightway forth, in all his rags and
tatters, his bags and pouches dangling about him, and laid his hand upon the
horse's bridle rein, calling upon the other to stop.
"Who art thou, fellow, that doth dare to stop me thus upon the King's
highway?" said the lean man, in a dry, sour voice.
"Pity a poor beggar," quoth Robin. "Give me but a farthing to buy me a
piece of bread."
"Now, out upon thee!" snarled the other. "Such sturdy rogues as thou art
are better safe in the prisons or dancing upon nothing, with a hempen collar
about the neck, than strolling the highways so freely."
"Tut," quoth Robin, "how thou talkest! Thou and I are brothers, man. Do
we not both take from the poor people that which they can ill spare? Do we
not make our livings by doing nought of any good? Do we not both live
without touching palm to honest work? Have we either of us ever rubbed
thumbs over honestly gained farthings? Go to! We are brothers, I say; only
thou art rich and I am poor; wherefore, I prythee once more, give me a
penny."
"Doss thou prate so to me, sirrah?" cried the Corn Engrosser in a rage.
"Now I will have thee soundly whipped if ever I catch thee in any town

where the law can lay hold of thee! As for giving thee a penny, I swear to
thee that I have not so much as a single groat in my purse. Were Robin
Hood himself to take me, he might search me from crown to heel without
finding the smallest piece of money upon me. I trust I am too sly to travel
so nigh to Sherwood with money in my pouch, and that thief at large in the
woods."
Then merry Robin looked up and down, as if to see that there was no one
nigh, and then, coming close to the Corn Engrosser, he stood on tiptoe and
spake in his ear, "Thinkest thou in sooth that I am a beggar, as I seem to be?
Look upon me. There is not a grain of dirt upon my hands or my face or my
body. Didst thou ever see a beggar so? I tell thee I am as honest a man as
thou art. Look, friend." Here he took the purse of money from his breast
and showed to the dazzled eyes of the Corn Engrosser the bright golden
pieces. "Friend, these rags serve but to hide an honest rich man from the
eyes of Robin Hood."
"Put up thy money, lad," cried the other quickly. "Art thou a fool, to trust
to beggar's rags to shield thee from Robin Hood? If he caught thee, he
would strip thee to the skin, for he hates a lusty beggar as he doth a fat
priest or those of my kind."
"Is it indeed so?" quoth Robin. "Had I known this, mayhap I had not
come hereabouts in this garb. But I must go forward now, as much depends
upon my journeying. Where goest thou, friend?"
"I go to Grantham," said the Corn Engrosser, "but I shall lodge tonight at
Newark, if I can get so far upon my way."
"Why, I myself am on the way to Newark," quoth merry Robin, "so that,
as two honest men are better than one in roads beset by such a fellow as this
Robin Hood, I will jog along with thee, if thou hast no dislike to my
company."
"Why, as thou art an honest fellow and a rich fellow," said the Corn
Engrosser, "I mind not thy company; but, in sooth, I have no great fondness
for beggars."
"Then forward," quoth Robin, "for the day wanes and it will be dark ere
we reach Newark." So off they went, the lean horse hobbling along as

before, and Robin running beside, albeit he was so quaking with laughter
within him that he could hardly stand; yet he dared not laugh aloud, lest the
Corn Engrosser should suspect something. So they traveled along till they
reached a hill just on the outskirts of Sherwood. Here the lean man checked
his lean horse into a walk, for the road was steep, and he wished to save his
nag's strength, having far to go ere he reached Newark. Then he turned in
his saddle and spake to Robin again, for the first time since they had left the
cross. "Here is thy greatest danger, friend," said he, "for here we are nighest
to that vile thief Robin Hood, and the place where he dwells. Beyond this
we come again to the open honest country, and so are more safe in our
journeying."
"Alas!" quoth Robin, "I would that I had as little money by me as thou
hast, for this day I fear that Robin Hood will get every groat of my wealth."
Then the other looked at Robin and winked cunningly. Quoth he, "I tell
thee, friend, that I have nigh as much by me as thou hast, but it is hidden so
that never a knave in Sherwood could find it."
"Thou dost surely jest," quoth Robin. "How could one hide so much as
two hundred pounds upon his person?"
"Now, as thou art so honest a fellow, and, withal, so much younger than I
am, I will tell thee that which I have told to no man in all the world before,
and thus thou mayst learn never again to do such a foolish thing as to trust
to beggar's garb to guard thee against Robin Hood. Seest thou these clogs
upon my feet?"
"Yea," quoth Robin, laughing, "truly, they are large enough for any man
to see, even were his sight as foggy as that of Peter Patter, who never could
see when it was time to go to work."
"Peace, friend," said the Corn Engrosser, "for this is no matter for jesting.
The soles of these clogs are not what they seem to be, for each one is a
sweet little box; and by twisting the second nail from the toe, the upper of
the shoe and part of the sole lifts up like a lid, and in the spaces within are
fourscore and ten bright golden pounds in each shoe, all wrapped in hair, to
keep them from clinking and so telling tales of themselves."

When the Corn Engrosser had told this, Robin broke into a roar of
laughter and, laying his hands upon the bridle rein, stopped the sad- looking
nag. "Stay, good friend," quoth he, between bursts of merriment, "thou art
the slyest old fox that e'er I saw in all my life! —In the soles of his shoon,
quotha!—If ever I trust a poor-seeming man again, shave my head and paint
it blue! A corn factor, a horse jockey, an estate agent, and a jackdaw for
cunningness, say I!" And he laughed again till he shook in his shoes with
mirth.
All this time the Corn Engrosser had been staring at Robin, his mouth
agape with wonder. "Art thou mad," quoth he, "to talk in this way, so loud
and in such a place? Let us forward, and save thy mirth till we are safe and
sound at Newark."
"Nay," quoth Robin, the tears of merriment wet on his cheeks, "on second
thoughts I go no farther than here, for I have good friends hereabouts. Thou
mayst go forward if thou dost list, thou sweet pretty fellow, but thou must
go forward barefoot, for I am afraid that thy shoon must be left behind. Off
with them, friend, for I tell thee I have taken a great fancy to them."
At these words the corn factor grew pale as a linen napkin. "Who art thou
that talkest so?" said he.
Then merry Robin laughed again, and quoth he, "Men hereabouts call me
Robin Hood; so, sweet friend, thou hadst best do my bidding and give me
thy shoes, wherefore hasten, I prythee, or else thou wilt not get to fair
Newark Town till after dark."
At the sound of the name of Robin Hood, the corn factor quaked with
fear, so that he had to seize his horse by the mane to save himself from
falling off its back. Then straightway, and without more words, he stripped
off his clogs and let them fall upon the road. Robin, still holding the bridle
rein, stooped and picked them up. Then he said, "Sweet friend, I am used to
ask those that I have dealings with to come and feast at Sherwood with me.
I will not ask thee, because of our pleasant journey together; for I tell thee
there be those in Sherwood that would not be so gentle with thee as I have
been. The name of Corn Engrosser leaves a nasty taste upon the tongue of
all honest men. Take a fool's advice of me and come no more so nigh to
Sherwood, or mayhap some day thou mayst of a sudden find a clothyard

shaft betwixt thy ribs. So, with this, I give thee good den." Hereupon he
clapped his hand to the horse's flank and off went nag and rider. But the
man's face was all bedewed with the sweat of fright, and never again, I wot,
was he found so close to Sherwood Forest as he had been this day.
Robin stood and looked after him, and, when he was fairly gone, turned,
laughing, and entered the forest carrying the shoes in his hand.
That night in sweet Sherwood the red fires glowed brightly in wavering
light on tree and bush, and all around sat or lay the stout fellows of the band
to hear Robin Hood and Little John tell their adventures. All listened
closely, and again and again the woods rang with shouts of laughter.
When all was told, Friar Tuck spoke up. "Good master," said he, "thou
hast had a pretty time, but still I hold to my saying, that the life of the
barefoot friar is the merrier of the two."
"Nay," quoth Will Stutely, "I hold with our master, that he hath had the
pleasanter doings of the two, for he hath had two stout bouts at quarterstaff
this day."
So some of the band held with Robin Hood and some with Little John. As
for me, I think—But I leave it with you to say for yourselves which you
hold with.

Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen Eleanor
THE HIGHROAD stretched white and dusty in the hot summer
afternoon sun, and the trees stood motionless along the roadside. All across
the meadow lands the hot air danced and quivered, and in the limpid waters
of the lowland brook, spanned by a little stone bridge, the fish hung
motionless above the yellow gravel, and the dragonfly sat quite still,
perched upon the sharp tip of a spike of the rushes, with its wings glistening
in the sun.
Along the road a youth came riding upon a fair milk-white barb, and the
folk that he passed stopped and turned and looked after him, for never had
so lovely a lad or one so gaily clad been seen in Nottingham before. He
could not have been more than sixteen years of age, and was as fair as any
maiden. His long yellow hair flowed behind him as he rode along, all clad
in silk and velvet, with jewels flashing and dagger jingling against the
pommel of the saddle. Thus came the Queen's Page, young Richard
Partington, from famous London Town down into Nottinghamshire, upon
Her Majesty's bidding, to seek Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest.
The road was hot and dusty and his journey had been long, for that day
he had come all the way from Leicester Town, a good twenty miles and
more; wherefore young Partington was right glad when he saw before him a
sweet little inn, all shady and cool beneath the trees, in front of the door of
which a sign hung pendant, bearing the picture of a blue boar. Here he drew
rein and called loudly for a pottle of Rhenish wine to be brought him, for
stout country ale was too coarse a drink for this young gentleman. Five
lusty fellows sat upon the bench beneath the pleasant shade of the wide-
spreading oak in front of the inn door, drinking ale and beer, and all stared
amain at this fair and gallant lad. Two of the stoutest of them were clothed
in Lincoln green, and a great heavy oaken staff leaned against the gnarled
oak tree trunk beside each fellow.
The landlord came and brought a pottle of wine and a long narrow glass
upon a salver, which he held up to the Page as he sat upon his horse. Young

Partington poured forth the bright yellow wine and holding the glass aloft,
cried, "Here is to the health and long happiness of my royal mistress, the
noble Queen Eleanor; and may my journey and her desirings soon have end,
and I find a certain stout yeoman men call Robin Hood."
At these words all stared, but presently the two stout yeomen in Lincoln
green began whispering together. Then one of the two, whom Partington
thought to be the tallest and stoutest fellow he had ever beheld, spoke up
and said, "What seekest thou of Robin Hood, Sir Page? And what does our
good Queen Eleanor wish of him? I ask this of thee, not foolishly, but with
reason, for I know somewhat of this stout yeoman."
"An thou knowest aught of him, good fellow," said young Partington,
"thou wilt do great service to him and great pleasure to our royal Queen by
aiding me to find him."
Then up spake the other yeoman, who was a handsome fellow with
sunburned face and nut-brown, curling hair, "Thou hast an honest look, Sir
Page, and our Queen is kind and true to all stout yeomen. Methinks I and
my friend here might safely guide thee to Robin Hood, for we know where
he may be found. Yet I tell thee plainly, we would not for all merry England
have aught of harm befall him."
"Set thy mind at ease; I bring nought of ill with me," quoth Richard
Partington. "I bring a kind message to him from our Queen, therefore an ye
know where he is to be found, I pray you to guide me thither."
Then the two yeomen looked at one another again, and the tall man said,
"Surely it were safe to do this thing, Will"; whereat the other nodded.
Thereupon both arose, and the tall yeoman said, "We think thou art true, Sir
Page, and meanest no harm, therefore we will guide thee to Robin Hood as
thou dost wish."
Then Partington paid his score, and the yeomen coming forward, they all
straightway departed upon their way.
Under the greenwood tree, in the cool shade that spread all around upon
the sward, with flickering lights here and there, Robin Hood and many of
his band lay upon the soft green grass, while Allan a Dale sang and played
upon his sweetly sounding harp. All listened in silence, for young Allan's

singing was one of the greatest joys in all the world to them; but as they so
listened there came of a sudden the sound of a horse's feet, and presently
Little John and Will Stutely came forth from the forest path into the open
glade, young Richard Partington riding between them upon his milk-white
horse. The three came toward where Robin Hood sat, all the band staring
with might and main, for never had they seen so gay a sight as this young
Page, nor one so richly clad in silks and velvets and gold and jewels. Then
Robin arose and stepped forth to meet him, and Partington leaped from his
horse and doffing his cap of crimson velvet, met Robin as he came. "Now,
welcome!" cried Robin. "Now, welcome, fair youth, and tell me, I prythee,
what bringeth one of so fair a presence and clad in such noble garb to our
poor forest of Sherwood?"
Then young Partington said, "If I err not, thou art the famous Robin
Hood, and these thy stout band of outlawed yeomen. To thee I bring
greetings from our noble Queen Eleanor. Oft hath she heard thee spoken of
and thy merry doings hereabouts, and fain would she behold thy face;
therefore she bids me tell thee that if thou wilt presently come to London
Town, she will do all in her power to guard thee against harm, and will send
thee back safe to Sherwood Forest again. Four days hence, in Finsbury
Fields, our good King Henry, of great renown, holdeth a grand shooting
match, and all the most famous archers of merry England will be thereat.
Our Queen would fain see thee strive with these, knowing that if thou wilt
come thou wilt, with little doubt, carry off the prize. Therefore she hath sent
me with this greeting, and furthermore sends thee, as a sign of great good
will, this golden ring from off her own fair thumb, which I give herewith
into thy hands."
Then Robin Hood bowed his head and taking the ring, kissed it right
loyally, and then slipped it upon his little finger. Quoth he, "Sooner would I
lose my life than this ring; and ere it departs from me, my hand shall be
cold in death or stricken off at the wrist. Fair Sir Page, I will do our Queen's
bidding, and will presently hie with thee to London; but, ere we go, I will
feast thee here in the woodlands with the very best we have."
"It may not be," said the Page; "we have no time to tarry, therefore get
thyself ready straightway; and if there be any of thy band that thou wouldst

take with thee, our Queen bids me say that she will make them right
welcome likewise."
"Truly, thou art right," quoth Robin, "and we have but short time to stay;
therefore I will get me ready presently. I will choose three of my men, only,
to go with me, and these three shall be Little John, mine own true right-
hand man, Will Scarlet, my cousin, and Allan a Dale, my minstrel. Go, lads,
and get ye ready straightway, and we will presently off with all speed that
we may. Thou, Will Stutely, shall be the chief of the band while I am gone."
Then Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale ran leaping, full of
joy, to make themselves ready, while Robin also prepared himself for the
journey. After a while they all four came forth, and a right fair sight they
made, for Robin was clad in blue from head to foot, and Little John and
Will Scarlet in good Lincoln green, and as for Allan a Dale, he was dressed
in scarlet from the crown of his head to the toes of his pointed shoes. Each
man wore beneath his cap a little head covering of burnished steel set with
rivets of gold, and underneath his jerkin a coat of linked mail, as fine as
carded wool, yet so tough that no arrow could pierce it. Then, seeing all
were ready, young Partington mounted his horse again, and the yeomen
having shaken hands all around, the five departed upon their way.
That night they took up their inn in Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire,
and the next night they lodged at Kettering, in Northamptonshire; and the
next at Bedford Town; and the next at St. Albans, in Hertfordshire. This
place they left not long after the middle of the night, and traveling fast
through the tender dawning of the summer day, when the dews lay shining
on the meadows and faint mists hung in the dales, when the birds sang their
sweetest and the cobwebs beneath the hedges glimmered like fairy cloth of
silver, they came at last to the towers and walls of famous London Town,
while the morn was still young and all golden toward the east.
Queen Eleanor sat in her royal bower, through the open casements of
which poured the sweet yellow sunshine in great floods of golden light. All
about her stood her ladies-in-waiting chatting in low voices, while she
herself sat dreamily where the mild air came softly drifting into the room
laden with the fresh perfumes of the sweet red roses that bloomed in the
great garden beneath the wall. To her came one who said that her page,

Richard Partington, and four stout yeomen waited her pleasure in the court
below. Then Queen Eleanor arose joyously and bade them be straightway
shown into her presence.
Thus Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale came
before the Queen into her own royal bower. Then Robin kneeled before the
Queen with his hands folded upon his breast, saying in simple phrase, "Here
am I, Robin Hood. Thou didst bid me come, and lo, I do thy bidding. I give
myself to thee as thy true servant, and will do thy commanding, even if it be
to the shedding of the last drop of my life's blood."
But good Queen Eleanor smiled pleasantly upon him, bidding him to
arise. Then she made them all be seated to rest themselves after their long
journey. Rich food was brought them and noble wines, and she had her own
pages to wait upon the wants of the yeomen. At last, after they had eaten all
they could, she began questioning them of their merry adventures. Then
they told her all of the lusty doings herein spoken of, and among others that
concerning the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Richard of the Lea, and how the
Bishop had abided three days in Sherwood Forest. At this, the Queen and
the ladies about her laughed again and again, for they pictured to
themselves the stout Bishop abiding in the forest and ranging the woods in
lusty sport with Robin and his band. Then, when they had told all that they
could bring to mind, the Queen asked Allan to sing to her, for his fame as a
minstrel had reached even to the court at London Town. So straightway
Allan took up his harp in his hand, and, without more asking, touched the
strings lightly till they all rang sweetly, then he sang thus:

"Gentle river, gentle river,
Bright thy crystal waters flow,
Sliding where the aspens shiver,
Gliding where the lilies blow,

"Singing over pebbled shallows,
Kissing blossoms bending low,
Breaking 'neath the dipping swallows,
Purpling where the breezes blow.

"Floating on thy breast forever
Down thy current I could glide;
Grief and pain should reach me never
On thy bright and gentle tide.

"So my aching heart seeks thine, love,
There to find its rest and peace,

For, through loving, bliss is mine, love,
And my many troubles cease."

Thus Allan sang, and as he sang all eyes dwelled upon him and not a
sound broke the stillness, and even after he had done the silence hung for a
short space. So the time passed till the hour drew nigh for the holding of the
great archery match in Finsbury Fields.
A gay sight were famous Finsbury Fields on that bright and sunny
morning of lusty summertime. Along the end of the meadow stood the
booths for the different bands of archers, for the King's yeomen were
divided into companies of fourscore men, and each company had a captain
over it; so on the bright greensward stood ten booths of striped canvas, a
booth for each band of the royal archers, and at the peak of each fluttered a
flag in the mellow air, and the flag was the color that belonged to the
captain of each band. From the center booth hung the yellow flag of Tepus,
the famous bow bearer of the King; next to it, on one hand, was the blue
flag of Gilbert of the White Hand, and on the other the blood- red pennant
of stout young Clifton of Buckinghamshire. The seven other archer captains
were also men of great renown; among them were Egbert of Kent and
William of Southampton; but those first named were most famous of all.
The noise of many voices in talk and laughter came from within the booths,
and in and out ran the attendants like ants about an ant-hill. Some bore ale
and beer, and some bundles of bowstrings or sheaves of arrows. On each
side of the archery range were rows upon rows of seats reaching high aloft,
and in the center of the north side was a raised dais for the King and Queen,
shaded by canvas of gay colors, and hung about with streaming silken
pennants of red and blue and green and white. As yet the King and Queen
had not come, but all the other benches were full of people, rising head
above head high aloft till it made the eye dizzy to look upon them.
Eightscore yards distant from the mark from which the archers were to
shoot stood ten fair targets, each target marked by a flag of the color
belonging to the band that was to shoot thereat. So all was ready for the
coming of the King and Queen.
At last a great blast of bugles sounded, and into the meadow came riding
six trumpeters with silver trumpets, from which hung velvet banners heavy
with rich workings of silver and gold thread. Behind these came stout King

Henry upon a dapple-gray stallion, with his Queen beside him upon a milk-
white palfrey. On either side of them walked the yeomen of the guard, the
bright sunlight flashing from the polished blades of the steel halberds they
carried. Behind these came the Court in a great crowd, so that presently all
the lawn was alive with bright colors, with silk and velvet, with waving
plumes and gleaming gold, with flashing jewels and sword hilts; a gallant
sight on that bright summer day.
Then all the people arose and shouted, so that their voices sounded like
the storm upon the Cornish coast, when the dark waves run upon the shore
and leap and break, surging amid the rocks; so, amid the roaring and the
surging of the people, and the waving of scarfs and kerchiefs, the King and
Queen came to their place, and, getting down from their horses, mounted
the broad stairs that led to the raised platform, and there took their seats on
two thrones bedecked with purple silks and cloths of silver and of gold.
When all was quiet a bugle sounded, and straightway the archers came
marching in order from their tents. Fortyscore they were in all, as stalwart a
band of yeomen as could be found in all the wide world. So they came in
orderly fashion and stood in front of the dais where King Henry and his
Queen sat. King Henry looked up and down their ranks right proudly, for
his heart warmed within him at the sight of such a gallant band of yeomen.
Then he bade his herald Sir Hugh de Mowbray stand forth and proclaim the
rules governing the game. So Sir Hugh stepped to the edge of the platform
and spoke in a loud clear voice, and thus he said:
That each man should shoot seven arrows at the target that belonged to
his band, and, of the fourscore yeomen of each band, the three that shot the
best should be chosen. These three should shoot three arrows apiece, and
the one that shot the best should again be chosen. Then each of these should
again shoot three arrows apiece, and the one that shot the best should have
the first prize, the one that shot the next best should have the second, and
the one that shot the next best should have the third prize. Each of the
others should have fourscore silver pennies for his shooting. The first prize
was to be twoscore and ten golden pounds, a silver bugle horn inlaid with
gold, and a quiver with ten white arrows tipped with gold and feathered
with the white swan's-wing therein. The second prize was to be fivescore of

the fattest bucks that run on Dallen Lea, to be shot when the yeoman that
won them chose. The third prize was to be two tuns of good Rhenish wine.
So Sir Hugh spoke, and when he had done all the archers waved their
bows aloft and shouted. Then each band turned and marched in order back
to its place.
And now the shooting began, the captains first taking stand and speeding
their shafts and then making room for the men who shot, each in turn, after
them. Two hundred and eighty score shafts were shot in all, and so deftly
were they sped that when the shooting was done each target looked like the
back of a hedgehog when the farm dog snuffs at it. A long time was taken in
this shooting, and when it was over the judges came forward, looked
carefully at the targets, and proclaimed in a loud voice which three had shot
the best from the separate bands. Then a great hubbub of voices arose, each
man among the crowd that looked on calling for his favorite archer. Then
ten fresh targets were brought forward, and every sound was hushed as the
archers took their places once more.
This time the shooting was more speedily done, for only nine shafts were
shot by each band. Not an arrow missed the targets, but in that of Gilbert of
the White Hand five arrows were in the small white spot that marked the
center; of these five three were sped by Gilbert. Then the judges came
forward again, and looking at the targets, called aloud the names of the
archer chosen as the best bowman of each band. Of these Gilbert of the
White Hand led, for six of the ten arrows he had shot had lodged in the
center; but stout Tepus and young Clifton trod close upon his heels; yet the
others stood a fair chance for the second or third place.
And now, amid the roaring of the crowd, those ten stout fellows that were
left went back to their tents to rest for a while and change their bowstrings,
for nought must fail at this next round, and no hand must tremble or eye
grow dim because of weariness.
Then while the deep buzz and hum of talking sounded all around like the
noise of the wind in the leafy forest, Queen Eleanor turned to the King, and
quoth she, "Thinkest thou that these yeomen so chosen are the very best
archers in all merry England?"

"Yea, truly," said the King, smiling, for he was well pleased with the
sport that he had seen; "and I tell thee, that not only are they the best
archers in all merry England, but in all the wide world beside."
"But what wouldst thou say," quoth Queen Eleanor, "if I were to find
three archers to match the best three yeomen of all thy guard?"
"I would say thou hast done what I could not do," said the King,
laughing, "for I tell thee there lives not in all the world three archers to
match Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton of Buckinghamshire."
"Now," said the Queen, "I know of three yeomen, and in truth I have seen
them not long since, that I would not fear to match against any three that
thou canst choose from among all thy fortyscore archers; and, moreover, I
will match them here this very day. But I will only match them with thy
archers providing that thou wilt grant a free pardon to all that may come in
my behalf."
At this, the King laughed loud and long. "Truly," said he, "thou art taking
up with strange matters for a queen. If thou wilt bring those three fellows
that thou speakest of, I will promise faithfully to give them free pardon for
forty days, to come or to go wheresoever they please, nor will I harm a hair
of their heads in all that time. Moreover, if these that thou bringest shoot
better than my yeomen, man for man, they shall have the prizes for
themselves according to their shooting. But as thou hast so taken up of a
sudden with sports of this kind, hast thou a mind for a wager?"
"Why, in sooth," said Queen Eleanor, laughing, "I know nought of such
matters, but if thou hast a mind to do somewhat in that way, I will strive to
pleasure thee. What wilt thou wager upon thy men?"
Then the merry King laughed again, for he dearly loved goodly jest; so
he said, amidst his laughter, "I will wager thee ten tuns of Rhenish wine, ten
tuns of the stoutest ale, and tenscore bows of tempered Spanish yew, with
quivers and arrows to match."
All that stood around smiled at this, for it seemed a merry wager for a
king to give to a queen; but Queen Eleanor bowed her head quietly. "I will
take thy wager," said she, "for I know right well where to place those things
that thou hast spoken of. Now, who will be on my side in this matter?" And

she looked around upon them that stood about; but no one spake or cared to
wager upon the Queen's side against such archers as Tepus and Gilbert and
Clifton. Then the Queen spoke again, "Now, who will back me in this
wager? Wilt thou, my Lord Bishop of Hereford?"
"Nay," quoth the Bishop hastily, "it ill befits one of my cloth to deal in
such matters. Moreover, there are no such archers as His Majesty's in all the
world; therefore I would but lose my money.
"Methinks the thought of thy gold weigheth more heavily with thee than
the wrong to thy cloth," said the Queen, smiling, and at this a ripple of
laughter went around, for everyone knew how fond the Bishop was of his
money. Then the Queen turned to a knight who stood near, whose name was
Sir Robert Lee. "Wilt thou back me in this manner?" said she. "Thou art
surely rich enough to risk so much for the sake of a lady."
"To pleasure my Queen I will do it," said Sir Robert Lee, "but for the
sake of no other in all the world would I wager a groat, for no man can
stand against Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton."
Then turning to the King, Queen Eleanor said, "I want no such aid as Sir
Robert giveth me; but against thy wine and beer and stout bows of yew I
wager this girdle all set with jewels from around my waist; and surely that
is worth more than thine."
"Now, I take thy wager," quoth the King. "Send for thy archers
straightway. But here come forth the others; let them shoot, and then I will
match those that win against all the world."
"So be it," said the Queen. Thereupon, beckoning to young Richard
Partington, she whispered something in his ear, and straightway the Page
bowed and left the place, crossing the meadow to the other side of the
range, where he was presently lost in the crowd. At this, all that stood
around whispered to one another, wondering what it all meant, and what
three men the Queen was about to set against those famous archers of the
King's guard.
And now the ten archers of the King's guard took their stand again, and
all the great crowd was hushed to the stillness of death. Slowly and
carefully each man shot his shafts, and so deep was the silence that you

could hear every arrow rap against the target as it struck it. Then, when the
last shaft had sped, a great roar went up; and the shooting, I wot, was well
worthy of the sound. Once again Gilbert had lodged three arrows in the
white; Tepus came second with two in the white and one in the black ring
next to it; but stout Clifton had gone down and Hubert of Suffolk had taken
the third place, for, while both those two good yeomen had lodged two in
the white, Clifton had lost one shot upon the fourth ring, and Hubert came
in with one in the third.
All the archers around Gilbert's booth shouted for joy till their throats
were hoarse, tossing their caps aloft, and shaking hands with one another.
In the midst of all the noise and hubbub five men came walking across
the lawn toward the King's pavilion. The first was Richard Partington, and
was known to most folk there, but the others were strange to everybody.
Beside young Partington walked a yeoman clad in blue, and behind came
three others, two in Lincoln green and one in scarlet. This last yeoman
carried three stout bows of yew tree, two fancifully inlaid with silver and
one with gold. While these five men came walking across the meadow, a
messenger came running from the King's booth and summoned Gilbert and
Tepus and Hubert to go with him. And now the shouting quickly ceased, for
all saw that something unwonted was toward, so the folk stood up in their
places and leaned forward to see what was the ado.
When Partington and the others came before the spot where the King and
Queen sat, the four yeomen bent their knees and doffed their caps unto her.
King Henry leaned far forward and stared at them closely, but the Bishop of
Hereford, when he saw their faces, started as though stung by a wasp. He
opened his mouth as though about to speak, but, looking up, he saw the
Queen gazing at him with a smile upon her lips, so he said nothing, but bit
his nether lip, while his face was as red as a cherry.
Then the Queen leaned forward and spake in a clear voice. "Locksley,"
said she, "I have made a wager with the King that thou and two of thy men
can outshoot any three that he can send against you. Wilt thou do thy best
for my sake?"
"Yea," quoth Robin Hood, to whom she spake, "I will do my best for thy
sake, and, if I fail, I make my vow never to finger bowstring more."

Now, although Little John had been somewhat abashed in the Queen's
bower, he felt himself the sturdy fellow he was when the soles of his feet
pressed green grass again; so he said boldly, "Now, blessings on thy sweet
face, say I. An there lived a man that would not do his best for thee—I will
say nought, only I would like to have the cracking of his knave's pate!
"Peace, Little John!" said Robin Hood hastily, in a low voice; but good
Queen Eleanor laughed aloud, and a ripple of merriment sounded all over
the booth.
The Bishop of Hereford did not laugh, neither did the King, but he turned
to the Queen, and quoth he, "Who are these men that thou hast brought
before us?"
Then up spoke the Bishop hastily, for he could hold his peace no longer:
"Your Majesty," quoth he, "yon fellow in blue is a certain outlawed thief of
the mid-country, named Robin Hood; yon tall, strapping villain goeth by the
name of Little John; the other fellow in green is a certain backsliding
gentleman, known as Will Scarlet; the man in red is a rogue of a northern
minstrel, named Allan a Dale."
At this speech the King's brows drew together blackly, and he turned to
the Queen. "Is this true?" said he sternly.
"Yea," said the Queen, smiling, "the Bishop hath told the truth; and truly
he should know them well, for he and two of his friars spent three days in
merry sport with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. I did little think that the
good Bishop would so betray his friends. But bear in mind that thou hast
pledged thy promise for the safety of these good yeomen for forty days."
"I will keep my promise," said the King, in a deep voice that showed the
anger in his heart, "but when these forty days are gone let this outlaw look
to himself, for mayhap things will not go so smoothly with him as he would
like." Then he turned to his archers, who stood near the Sherwood yeomen,
listening and wondering at all that passed. Quoth he, "Gilbert, and thou,
Tepus, and thou, Hubert, I have pledged myself that ye shall shoot against
these three fellows. If ye outshoot the knaves I will fill your caps with silver
pennies; if ye fail ye shall lose your prizes that ye have won so fairly, and
they go to them that shoot against you, man to man. Do your best, lads, and

if ye win this bout ye shall be glad of it to the last days of your life. Go,
now, and get you gone to the butts."
Then the three archers of the King turned and went back to their booths,
and Robin and his men went to their places at the mark from which they
were to shoot. Then they strung their bows and made themselves ready,
looking over their quivers of arrows, and picking out the roundest and the
best feathered.
But when the King's archers went to their tents, they told their friends all
that had passed, and how that these four men were the famous Robin Hood
and three of his band, to wit, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Allan a Dale. The
news of this buzzed around among the archers in the booths, for there was
not a man there that had not heard of these great mid-country yeomen.
From the archers the news was taken up by the crowd that looked on at the
shooting, so that at last everybody stood up, craning their necks to catch
sight of the famous outlaws.
Six fresh targets were now set up, one for each man that was to shoot;
whereupon Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert came straightway forth from the
booths. Then Robin Hood and Gilbert of the White Hand tossed a farthing
aloft to see who should lead in the shooting, and the lot fell to Gilbert's side;
thereupon he called upon Hubert of Suffolk to lead.
Hubert took his place, planted his foot firmly, and fitted a fair, smooth
arrow; then, breathing upon his fingertips, he drew the string slowly and
carefully. The arrow sped true, and lodged in the white; again he shot, and
again he hit the clout; a third shaft he sped, but this time failed of the center,
and but struck the black, yet not more than a finger's-breadth from the
white. At this a shout went up, for it was the best shooting that Hubert had
yet done that day.
Merry Robin laughed, and quoth he, "Thou wilt have an ill time bettering
that round, Will, for it is thy turn next. Brace thy thews, lad, and bring not
shame upon Sherwood."
Then Will Scarlet took his place; but, because of overcaution, he spoiled
his target with the very first arrow that he sped, for he hit the next ring to
the black, the second from the center. At this Robin bit his lips. "Lad, lad,"

quoth he, "hold not the string so long! Have I not often told thee what
Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, that 'overcaution spilleth the milk'?" To this Will
Scarlet took heed, so the next arrow he shot lodged fairly in the center ring;
again he shot, and again he smote the center; but, for all that, stout Hubert
had outshot him, and showed the better target. Then all those that looked on
clapped their hands for joy because that Hubert had overcome the stranger.
Quoth the King grimly, to the Queen, "If thy archers shoot no better than
that, thou art like to lose thy wager, lady." But Queen Eleanor smiled, for
she looked for better things from Robin Hood and Little John.
And now Tepus took his place to shoot. He, also, took overheed to what
he was about, and so he fell into Will Scarlet's error. The first arrow he
struck into the center ring, but the second missed its mark, and smote the
black; the last arrow was tipped with luck, for it smote the very center of
the clout, upon the black spot that marked it. Quoth Robin Hood, "That is
the sweetest shot that hath been sped this day; but, nevertheless, friend
Tepus, thy cake is burned, methinks. Little John, it is thy turn next."
So Little John took his place as bidden, and shot his three arrows quickly.
He never lowered his bow arm in all the shooting, but fitted each shaft with
his longbow raised; yet all three of his arrows smote the center within easy
distance of the black. At this no sound of shouting was heard, for, although
it was the best shooting that had been done that day, the folk of London
Town did not like to see the stout Tepus overcome by a fellow from the
countryside, even were he as famous as Little John.
And now stout Gilbert of the White Hand took his place and shot with the
greatest care; and again, for the third time in one day, he struck all three
shafts into the clout.
"Well done, Gilbert!" quoth Robin Hood, smiting him upon the shoulder.
"I make my vow, thou art one of the best archers that ever mine eyes
beheld. Thou shouldst be a free and merry ranger like us, lad, for thou art
better fitted for the greenwood than for the cobblestones and gray walls of
London Town." So saying, he took his place, and drew a fair, round arrow
from his quiver, which he turned over and over ere he fitted it to his
bowstring.

Then the King muttered in his beard, "Now, blessed Saint Hubert, if thou
wilt but jog that rogue's elbow so as to make him smite even the second
ring, I will give eightscore waxen candles three fingers'-breadth in thickness
to thy chapel nigh Matching." But it may be Saint Hubert's ears were
stuffed with tow, for he seemed not to hear the King's prayer this day.
Having gotten three shafts to his liking, merry Robin looked carefully to
his bowstring ere he shot. "Yea," quoth he to Gilbert, who stood nigh him to
watch his shooting, "thou shouldst pay us a visit at merry Sherwood." Here
he drew the bowstring to his ear. "In London"—here he loosed his shaft
—"thou canst find nought to shoot at but rooks and daws; there one can
tickle the ribs of the noblest stags in England." So he shot even while he
talked, yet the shaft lodged not more than half an inch from the very center.
"By my soul!" cried Gilbert. "Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in that
wise?"
"Nay," quoth Robin, laughing, "not quite so ill as that, I trust." And he
took up another shaft and fitted it to the string. Again he shot, and again he
smote his arrow close beside the center; a third time he loosed his bowstring
and dropped his arrow just betwixt the other two and into the very center, so
that the feathers of all three were ruffled together, seeming from a distance
to be one thick shaft.
And now a low murmur ran all among that great crowd, for never before
had London seen such shooting as this; and never again would it see it after
Robin Hood's day had gone. All saw that the King's archers were fairly
beaten, and stout Gilbert clapped his palm to Robin's, owning that he could
never hope to draw such a bowstring as Robin Hood or Little John. But the
King, full of wrath, would not have it so, though he knew in his mind that
his men could not stand against those fellows. "Nay!" cried he, clenching
his hands upon the arms of his seat, "Gilbert is not yet beaten! Did he not
strike the clout thrice? Although I have lost my wager, he hath not yet lost
the first prize. They shall shoot again, and still again, till either he or that
knave Robin Hood cometh off the best. Go thou, Sir Hugh, and bid them
shoot another round, and another, until one or the other is overcome." Then
Sir Hugh, seeing how wroth the King was, said never a word, but went

straightway to do his bidding; so he came to where Robin Hood and the
other stood, and told them what the King had said.
"With all my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I will shoot from this time till
tomorrow day if it can pleasure my most gracious lord and King. Take thy
place, Gilbert lad, and shoot."
So Gilbert took his place once more, but this time he failed, for, a sudden
little wind arising, his shaft missed the center ring, but by not more than the
breadth of a barley straw.
"Thy eggs are cracked, Gilbert," quoth Robin, laughing; and straightway
he loosed a shaft, and once more smote the white circle of the center.
Then the King arose from his place, and not a word said he, but he
looked around with a baleful look, and it would have been an ill day for
anyone that he saw with a joyous or a merry look upon his face. Then he
and his Queen and all the court left the place, but the King's heart was
brimming full of wrath.
After the King had gone, all the yeomen of the archer guard came
crowding around Robin, and Little John, and Will, and Allan, to snatch a
look at these famous fellows from the mid-country; and with them came
many that had been onlookers at the sport, for the same purpose. Thus it
happened presently that the yeomen, to whom Gilbert stood talking, were
all surrounded by a crowd of people that formed a ring about them.
After a while the three judges that had the giving away of the prizes came
forward, and the chief of them all spake to Robin and said, "According to
agreement, the first prize belongeth rightly to thee; so here I give thee the
silver bugle, here the quiver of ten golden arrows, and here a purse of
twoscore and ten golden pounds." And as he spake he handed those things
to Robin, and then turned to Little John. "To thee," he said, "belongeth the
second prize, to wit, fivescore of the finest harts that run on Dallen Lea.
Thou mayest shoot them whensoever thou dost list." Last of all he turned to
stout Hubert. "Thou," said he, "hast held thine own against the yeomen with
whom thou didst shoot, and so thou hast kept the prize duly thine, to wit,
two tuns of good Rhenish wine. These shall be delivered to thee

whensoever thou dost list." Then he called upon the other seven of the
King's archers who had last shot, and gave each fourscore silver pennies.
Then up spake Robin, and quoth he, "This silver bugle I keep in honor of
this shooting match; but thou, Gilbert, art the best archer of all the King's
guard, and to thee I freely give this purse of gold. Take it, man, and would it
were ten times as much, for thou art a right yeoman, good and true.
Furthermore, to each of the ten that last shot I give one of these golden
shafts apiece. Keep them always by you, so that ye may tell your
grandchildren, an ye are ever blessed with them, that ye are the very
stoutest yeomen in all the wide world."
At this all shouted aloud, for it pleased them to hear Robin speak so of
them.
Then up spake Little John. "Good friend Tepus," said he, "I want not
those harts of Dallen Lea that yon stout judge spoke of but now, for in truth
we have enow and more than enow in our own country. Twoscore and ten I
give to thee for thine own shooting, and five I give to each band for their
pleasure."
At this another great shout went up, and many tossed their caps aloft, and
swore among themselves that no better fellows ever walked the sod than
Robin Hood and his stout yeomen.
While they so shouted with loud voices, a tall burly yeoman of the King's
guard came forward and plucked Robin by the sleeve. "Good master," quoth
he, "I have somewhat to tell thee in thine ear; a silly thing, God wot, for one
stout yeoman to tell another; but a young peacock of a page, one Richard
Partington, was seeking thee without avail in the crowd, and, not being able
to find thee, told me that he bore a message to thee from a certain lady that
thou wottest of. This message he bade me tell thee privily, word for word,
and thus it was. Let me see—I trust I have forgot it not—yea, thus it was:
'The lion growls. Beware thy head.'"
"Is it so?" quoth Robin, starting; for he knew right well that it was the
Queen sent the message, and that she spake of the King's wrath. "Now, I
thank thee, good fellow, for thou hast done me greater service than thou
knowest of this day." Then he called his three yeomen together and told

them privately that they had best be jogging, as it was like to be ill for them
so nigh merry London Town. So, without tarrying longer, they made their
way through the crowd until they had come out from the press. Then,
without stopping, they left London Town and started away northward.

The Chase of Robin Hood
SO ROBIN HOOD and the others left the archery range at Finsbury
Fields, and, tarrying not, set forth straightway upon their homeward
journey. It was well for them that they did so, for they had not gone more
than three or four miles upon their way when six of the yeomen of the
King's guard came bustling among the crowd that still lingered, seeking for
Robin and his men, to seize upon them and make them prisoners. Truly, it
was an ill-done thing in the King to break his promise, but it all came about
through the Bishop of Hereford's doing, for thus it happened:
After the King left the archery ground, he went straightway to his
cabinet, and with him went the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Robert Lee; but
the King said never a word to these two, but sat gnawing his nether lip, for
his heart was galled within him by what had happened. At last the Bishop of
Hereford spoke, in a low, sorrowful voice: "It is a sad thing, Your Majesty,
that this knavish outlaw should be let to escape in this wise; for, let him but
get back to Sherwood Forest safe and sound, and he may snap his fingers at
king and king's men."
At these words the King raised his eyes and looked grimly upon the
Bishop. "Sayst thou so?" quoth he. "Now, I will show thee, in good time,
how much thou dost err, for, when the forty days are past and gone, I will
seize upon this thieving outlaw, if I have to tear down all of Sherwood to
find him. Thinkest thou that the laws of the King of England are to be so
evaded by one poor knave without friends or money?"
Then the Bishop spoke again, in his soft, smooth voice:
"Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty, and believe that I have nought but
the good of England and Your Majesty's desirings at heart; but what would
it boot though my gracious lord did root up every tree of Sherwood? Are
there not other places for Robin Hood's hiding? Cannock Chase is not far
from Sherwood, and the great Forest of Arden is not far from Cannock
Chase. Beside these are many other woodlands in Nottingham and Derby,
Lincoln and York, amid any of which Your Majesty might as well think to

seize upon Robin Hood as to lay finger upon a rat among the dust and
broken things of a garret. Nay, my gracious lord, if he doth once plant foot
in the woodland, he is lost to the law forever."
At these words the King tapped his fingertips upon the table beside him
with vexation. "What wouldst thou have me do, Bishop?" quoth he. "Didst
thou not hear me pledge my word to the Queen? Thy talk is as barren as the
wind from the bellows upon dead coals."
"Far be it from me," said the cunning Bishop, "to point the way to one so
clear-sighted as Your Majesty; but, were I the King of England, I should
look upon the matter in this wise: I have promised my Queen, let us say,
that for forty days the cunningest rogue in all England shall have freedom to
come and go; but, lo! I find this outlaw in my grasp; shall I, then, foolishly
cling to a promise so hastily given? Suppose that I had promised to do Her
Majesty's bidding, whereupon she bade me to slay myself; should I, then,
shut mine eyes and run blindly upon my sword? Thus would I argue within
myself. Moreover, I would say unto myself, a woman knoweth nought of
the great things appertaining to state government; and, likewise, I know a
woman is ever prone to take up a fancy, even as she would pluck a daisy
from the roadside, and then throw it away when the savor is gone; therefore,
though she hath taken a fancy to this outlaw, it will soon wane away and be
forgotten. As for me, I have the greatest villain in all England in my grasp;
shall I, then, open my hand and let him slip betwixt my fingers? Thus, Your
Majesty, would I say to myself, were I the King of England." So the Bishop
talked, and the King lent his ear to his evil counsel, until, after a while, he
turned to Sir Robert Lee and bade him send six of the yeomen of the guard
to take Robin Hood and his three men prisoners.
Now Sir Robert Lee was a gentle and noble knight, and he felt grieved to
the heart to see the King so break his promise; nevertheless, he said
nothing, for he saw how bitterly the King was set against Robin Hood; but
he did not send the yeomen of the guard at once, but went first to the
Queen, and told her all that had passed, and bade her send word to Robin of
his danger. This he did not for the well-being of Robin Hood, but because
he would save his lord's honor if he could. Thus it came about that when,
after a while, the yeomen of the guard went to the archery field, they found
not Robin and the others, and so got no cakes at that fair.

The afternoon was already well-nigh gone when Robin Hood, Little
John, Will, and Allan set forth upon their homeward way, trudging along
merrily through the yellow slanting light, which speedily changed to rosy
red as the sun sank low in the heavens. The shadows grew long, and finally
merged into the grayness of the mellow twilight. The dusty highway lay all
white betwixt the dark hedgerows, and along it walked four fellows like
four shadows, the pat of their feet sounding loud, and their voices, as they
talked, ringing clear upon the silence of the air. The great round moon was
floating breathlessly up in the eastern sky when they saw before them the
twinkling lights of Barnet Town, some ten or twelve miles from London.
Down they walked through the stony streets and past the cosy houses with
overhanging gables, before the doors of which sat the burghers and
craftsmen in the mellow moonlight, with their families about them, and so
came at last, on the other side of the hamlet, to a little inn, all shaded with
roses and woodbines. Before this inn Robin Hood stopped, for the spot
pleased him well. Quoth he, "Here will we take up our inn and rest for the
night, for we are well away from London Town and our King's wrath.
Moreover, if I mistake not, we will find sweet faring within. What say ye,
lads?"
"In sooth, good master," quoth Little John, "thy bidding and my doing
ever fit together like cakes and ale. Let us in, I say also."
Then up spake Will Scarlet: "I am ever ready to do what thou sayest,
uncle, yet I could wish that we were farther upon our way ere we rest for
the night. Nevertheless, if thou thinkest best, let us in for the night, say I
also."
So in they went and called for the best that the place afforded. Then a
right good feast was set before them, with two stout bottles of old sack to
wash it down withal. These things were served by as plump and buxom a
lass as you could find in all the land, so that Little John, who always had an
eye for a fair lass, even when meat and drink were by, stuck his arms
akimbo and fixed his eyes upon her, winking sweetly whenever he saw her
looking toward him. Then you should have seen how the lass twittered with
laughter, and how she looked at Little John out of the corners of her eyes, a
dimple coming in either cheek; for the fellow had always a taking way with
the womenfolk.

So the feast passed merrily, and never had that inn seen such lusty
feeders as these four stout fellows; but at last they were done their eating,
though it seemed as though they never would have ended, and sat loitering
over the sack. As they so sat, the landlord came in of a sudden, and said that
there was one at the door, a certain young esquire, Richard Partington, of
the Queen's household, who wished to see the lad in blue, and speak with
him, without loss of time. So Robin arose quickly, and, bidding the landlord
not to follow him, left the others gazing at one another, and wondering what
was about to happen.
When Robin came out of the inn, he found young Richard Partington
sitting upon his horse in the white moonlight, awaiting his coming.
"What news bearest thou, Sir Page?" said Robin. "I trust that it is not of
an ill nature."
"Why," said young Partington, "for the matter of that, it is ill enow. The
King hath been bitterly stirred up against thee by that vile Bishop of
Hereford. He sent to arrest thee at the archery butts at Finsbury Fields, but
not finding thee there, he hath gathered together his armed men, fiftyscore
and more, and is sending them in haste along this very road to Sherwood,
either to take thee on the way or to prevent thy getting back to the
woodlands again. He hath given the Bishop of Hereford command over all
these men, and thou knowest what thou hast to expect of the Bishop of
Hereford—short shrift and a long rope. Two bands of horsemen are already
upon the road, not far behind me, so thou hadst best get thee gone from this
place straightway, for, if thou tarriest longer, thou art like to sleep this night
in a cold dungeon. This word the Queen hath bidden me bring to thee."
"Now, Richard Partington," quoth Robin, "this is the second time that
thou hast saved my life, and if the proper time ever cometh I will show thee
that Robin Hood never forgets these things. As for that Bishop of Hereford,
if I ever catch him nigh to Sherwood again, things will be like to go ill with
him. Thou mayst tell the good Queen that I will leave this place without
delay, and will let the landlord think that we are going to Saint Albans; but
when we are upon the highroad again, I will go one way through the
country and will send my men the other, so that if one falleth into the King's
hands the others may haply escape. We will go by devious ways, and so, I

hope, will reach Sherwood in safety. And now, Sir Page, I wish thee
farewell."
"Farewell, thou bold yeoman," said young Partington, "and mayst thou
reach thy hiding in safety." So each shook the other's hand, and the lad,
turning his horse's head, rode back toward London, while Robin entered the
inn once more.
There he found his yeomen sitting in silence, waiting his coming;
likewise the landlord was there, for he was curious to know what Master
Partington had to do with the fellow in blue. "Up, my merry men!" quoth
Robin, "this is no place for us, for those are after us with whom we will
stand but an ill chance an we fall into their hands. So we will go forward
once more, nor will we stop this night till we reach Saint Albans."
Hereupon, taking out his purse, he paid the landlord his score, and so they
left the inn.
When they had come to the highroad without the town, Robin stopped
and told them all that had passed between young Partington and himself,
and how that the King's men were after them with hot heels. Then he told
them that here they should part company; they three going to the eastward
and he to the westward, and so, skirting the main highroads, would come by
devious paths to Sherwood. "So, be ye wily," said Robin Hood, "and keep
well away from the northward roads till ye have gotten well to the eastward.
And thou, Will Scarlet, take the lead of the others, for thou hast a cunning
turn to thy wits." Then Robin kissed the three upon the cheeks, and they
kissed him, and so they parted company.
Not long after this, a score or more of the King's men came clattering up
to the door of the inn at Barnet Town. Here they leaped from their horses
and quickly surrounded the place, the leader of the band and four others
entering the room where the yeomen had been. But they found that their
birds had flown again, and that the King had been balked a second time.
"Methought that they were naughty fellows," said the host, when he
heard whom the men-at-arms sought. "But I heard that blue-clad knave say
that they would go straight forward to Saint Albans; so, an ye hurry
forward, ye may, perchance, catch them on the highroad betwixt here and
there." For this news the leader of the band thanked mine host right heartily,

and, calling his men together, mounted and set forth again, galloping
forward to Saint Albans upon a wild goose chase.
After Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale had left the highway
near garnet, they traveled toward the eastward, without stopping, as long as
their legs could carry them, until they came to Chelmsford, in Essex.
Thence they turned northward, and came through Cambridge and
Lincolnshire, to the good town of Gainsborough. Then, striking to the
westward and the south, they came at last to the northern borders of
Sherwood Forest, without in all that time having met so much as a single
band of the King's men. Eight days they journeyed thus ere they reached the
woodlands in safety, but when they got to the greenwood glade, they found
that Robin had not yet returned.
For Robin was not as lucky in getting back as his men had been, as you
shall presently hear.
After having left the great northern road, he turned his face to the
westward, and so came past Aylesbury, to fair Woodstock, in Oxfordshire.
Thence he turned his footsteps northward, traveling for a great distance by
way of Warwick Town, till he came to Dudley, in Staffordshire. Seven days
it took him to journey thus far, and then he thought he had gotten far
enough to the north, so, turning toward the eastward, shunning the main
roads, and choosing byways and grassy lanes, he went, by way of Litchfield
and Ashby de la Zouch, toward Sherwood, until he came to a place called
Stanton. And now Robin's heart began to laugh aloud, for he thought that
his danger had gone by, and that his nostrils would soon snuff the spicy air
of the woodlands once again. But there is many a slip betwixt the cup and
the lip, and this Robin was to find. For thus it was:
When the King's men found themselves foiled at Saint Albans, and that
Robin and his men were not to be found high nor low, they knew not what
to do. Presently another band of horsemen came, and another, until all the
moonlit streets were full of armed men. Betwixt midnight and dawn another
band came to the town, and with them came the Bishop of Hereford. When
he heard that Robin Hood had once more slipped out of the trap, he stayed
not a minute, but, gathering his bands together, he pushed forward to the
northward with speed, leaving orders for all the troops that came to Saint

Albans to follow after him without tarrying. On the evening of the fourth
day he reached Nottingham Town, and there straightway divided his men
into bands of six or seven, and sent them all through the countryside,
blocking every highway and byway to the eastward and the southward and
the westward of Sherwood. The Sheriff of Nottingham called forth all his
men likewise, and joined with the Bishop, for he saw that this was the best
chance that had ever befallen of paying back his score in full to Robin
Hood. Will Scarlet and Little John and Allan a Dale had just missed the
King's men to the eastward, for the very next day after they had passed the
line and entered Sherwood the roads through which they had traveled were
blocked, so that, had they tarried in their journeying, they would surely
have fallen into the Bishop's hands.
But of all this Robin knew not a whit; so he whistled merrily as he
trudged along the road beyond Stanton, with his heart as free from care as
the yolk of an egg is from cobwebs. At last he came to where a little stream
spread across the road in a shallow sheet, tinkling and sparkling as it fretted
over its bed of golden gravel. Here Robin stopped, being athirst, and,
kneeling down, he made a cup of the palms of his hands, and began to
drink. On either side of the road, for a long distance, stood tangled thickets
of bushes and young trees, and it pleased Robin's heart to hear the little
birds singing therein, for it made him think of Sherwood, and it seemed as
though it had been a lifetime since he had breathed the air of the woodlands.
But of a sudden, as he thus stooped, drinking, something hissed past his ear,
and struck with a splash into the gravel and water beside him. Quick as a
wink Robin sprang to his feet, and, at one bound, crossed the stream and the
roadside, and plunged headlong into the thicket, without looking around, for
he knew right well that that which had hissed so venomously beside his ear
was a gray goose shaft, and that to tarry so much as a moment meant death.
Even as he leaped into the thicket six more arrows rattled among the
branches after him, one of which pierced his doublet, and would have
struck deeply into his side but for the tough coat of steel that he wore. Then
up the road came riding some of the King's men at headlong speed. They
leaped from their horses and plunged straightway into the thicket after
Robin. But Robin knew the ground better than they did, so crawling here,
stooping there, and, anon, running across some little open, he soon left them
far behind, coming out, at last, upon another road about eight hundred paces

distant from the one he had left. Here he stood for a moment, listening to
the distant shouts of the seven men as they beat up and down in the thickets
like hounds that had lost the scent of the quarry. Then, buckling his belt
more tightly around his waist, he ran fleetly down the road toward the
eastward and Sherwood.
But Robin had not gone more than three furlongs in that direction when
he came suddenly to the brow of a hill, and saw beneath him another band
of the King's men seated in the shade along the roadside in the valley
beneath. Then he paused not a moment, but, seeing that they had not caught
sight of him, he turned and ran back whence he had come, knowing that it
was better to run the chance of escaping those fellows that were yet in the
thickets than to rush into the arms of those in the valley. So back he ran
with all speed, and had gotten safely past the thickets, when the seven men
came forth into the open road. They raised a great shout when they saw
him, such as the hunter gives when the deer breaks cover, but Robin was
then a quarter of a mile and more away from them, coursing over the
ground like a greyhound. He never slackened his pace, but ran along, mile
after mile, till he had come nigh to Mackworth, over beyond the Derwent
River, nigh to Derby Town. Here, seeing that he was out of present danger,
he slackened in his running, and at last sat him down beneath a hedge where
the grass was the longest and the shade the coolest, there to rest and catch
his wind. "By my soul, Robin," quoth he to himself, "that was the narrowest
miss that e'er thou hadst in all thy life. I do say most solemnly that the
feather of that wicked shaft tickled mine ear as it whizzed past. This same
running hath given me a most craving appetite for victuals and drink. Now I
pray Saint Dunstan that he send me speedily some meat and beer."
It seemed as though Saint Dunstan was like to answer his prayer, for
along the road came plodding a certain cobbler, one Quince, of Derby, who
had been to take a pair of shoes to a farmer nigh Kirk Langly, and was now
coming back home again, with a fair boiled capon in his pouch and a stout
pottle of beer by his side, which same the farmer had given him for joy of
such a stout pair of shoon. Good Quince was an honest fellow, but his wits
were somewhat of the heavy sort, like unbaked dough, so that the only thing
that was in his mind was, "Three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy shoon,
good Quince—three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy shoon," and this

traveled round and round inside of his head, without another thought getting
into his noddle, as a pea rolls round and round inside an empty quart pot.
"Halloa, good friend," quoth Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the
other had gotten nigh enough, "whither away so merrily this bright day?"
Hearing himself so called upon, the Cobbler stopped, and, seeing a well-
clad stranger in blue, he spoke to him in seemly wise. "Give ye good den,
fair sir, and I would say that I come from Kirk Langly, where I ha' sold my
shoon and got three shillings sixpence ha'penny for them in as sweet money
as ever thou sawest, and honestly earned too, I would ha' thee know. But an
I may be so bold, thou pretty fellow, what dost thou there beneath the
hedge?"
"Marry," quoth merry Robin, "I sit beneath the hedge here to drop salt on
the tails of golden birds; but in sooth thou art the first chick of any worth I
ha' seen this blessed day."
At these words the Cobbler's eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth
grew round with wonder, like a knothole in a board fence. "Slack-a-day,"
quoth he, "look ye, now! I ha' never seen those same golden birds. And dost
thou in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell me, are
there many of them? I would fain find them mine own self."
"Ay, truly," quoth Robin, "they are as thick here as fresh herring in
Cannock Chase."
"Look ye, now!" said the Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. "And dost thou
in sooth catch them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?"
"Yea," quoth Robin, "but this salt is of an odd kind, let me tell thee, for it
can only be gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a wooden
platter, and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou witty man,
what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in that pottle?"
At these words the Cobbler looked down at those things of which merry
Robin spoke, for the thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from his
mind, and it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back again.
"Why," said he at last, "in the one is good March beer, and in the other is a

fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha' a fine feast this day an I
mistake not."
"But tell me, good Quince," said Robin, "hast thou a mind to sell those
things to me? For the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will give
thee these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten shillings to
boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy beer and thy capon. What
sayst thou, bully boy?"
"Nay, thou dost jest with me," said the Cobbler, "for my clothes are
coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty."
"Never a jest do I speak," quoth Robin. "Come, strip thy jacket off and I
will show thee, for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I will be
kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things thou hast with
thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating." At these words he began
slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler, seeing him so in earnest, began
pulling off his clothes also, for Robin Hood's garb tickled his eye. So each
put on the other fellow's clothes, and Robin gave the honest Cobbler ten
bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, "I ha' been a many things in my
life before, but never have I been an honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall
to and eat, for something within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon."
So both sat down and began to feast right lustily, so that when they were
done the bones of the capon were picked as bare as charity.
Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feeling of comfort within
him. Quoth he, "By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou
hast a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow. I
prythee, turn one of them out for me."
"A song or two I ha'," quoth the Cobbler, "poor things, poor things, but
such as they are thou art welcome to one of them." So, moistening his throat
with a swallow of beer, he sang:

"Of all the joys, the best I love,
Sing hey my frisking Nan, O,
And that which most my soul doth move,
It is the clinking can, O.

"All other bliss I'd throw away,

Sing hey my frisking Nan, O,
But this—"

The stout Cobbler got no further in his song, for of a sudden six
horsemen burst upon them where they sat, and seized roughly upon the
honest craftsman, hauling him to his feet, and nearly plucking the clothes
from him as they did so. "Ha!" roared the leader of the band in a great big
voice of joy, "have we then caught thee at last, thou blue- clad knave? Now,
blessed be the name of Saint Hubert, for we are fourscore pounds richer this
minute than we were before, for the good Bishop of Hereford hath promised
that much to the band that shall bring thee to him. Oho! thou cunning
rascal! thou wouldst look so innocent, forsooth! We know thee, thou old
fox. But off thou goest with us to have thy brush clipped forthwith." At
these words the poor Cobbler gazed all around him with his great blue eyes
as round as those of a dead fish, while his mouth gaped as though he had
swallowed all his words and so lost his speech.
Robin also gaped and stared in a wondering way, just as the Cobbler
would have done in his place. "Alack-a-daisy, me," quoth he. "I know not
whether I be sitting here or in No-man's-land! What meaneth all this stir i'
th' pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest fellow."
"'Honest fellow,' sayst thou, clown?" quoth one of the men "Why, I tell
thee that this is that same rogue that men call Robin Hood."
At this speech the Cobbler stared and gaped more than ever, for there was
such a threshing of thoughts going on within his poor head that his wits
were all befogged with the dust and chaff thereof. Moreover, as he looked at
Robin Hood, and saw the yeoman look so like what he knew himself to be,
he began to doubt and to think that mayhap he was the great outlaw in real
sooth. Said he in a slow, wondering voice, "Am I in very truth that fellow?
—Now I had thought—but nay, Quince, thou art mistook—yet—am I?—
Nay, I must indeed be Robin Hood! Yet, truly, I had never thought to pass
from an honest craftsman to such a great yeoman."
"Alas!" quoth Robin Hood, "look ye there, now! See how your ill-
treatment hath curdled the wits of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I,
myself, am Quince, the Cobbler of Derby Town."