Etext of Robin Hood
By Henry Gilbert

PREFACE

ONCE upon a time the great mass of English people were unfree.
They could not live where they chose, nor work for whom they
pleased. Society in those feudal days was mainly divided into lords
and peasants. The lords held the land from the king, and the
peasants or villeins were looked upon as part of the soil, and had to
cultivate it to support themselves and their masters. If John or
Dick, thrall of a manor, did not like the way in which the lord or
his steward treated him, he could not go to some other part of the
country and get work under a kinder owner. If he tried to do this he
was looked upon as a criminal, to be brought back and punished
with the whip or the branding-iron, or cast into prison.

When the harvest was plenteous and his master was kind or
careless, I do not think the peasant felt his serfdom to be so
unbearable as at other times. When, however, hunger stalked
through the land, and the villein and his family starved; or when
the lord was of a stem or exacting nature, and the serf was called
upon to do excessive labor, or was otherwise harshly treated, then,
I think, the old Teutonic or Welsh blood in the English peasant
grew hot, and he longed for freedom.

The silence and green peace of forest lands stood in those days
along many a league where now the thick yellow corn grows, or
the cows roam over the rich pastures, or even where today the
bricky suburbs of towns straggle over the country. Such forests
must have been places of terror and fascination for the poor villein
who could see them from where he delved in his fields. In their
quiet glades ran the king's deer, and in their dense thickets skulked
the boar, creatures whose killing was reserved for the king and a
few of his friends, the great nobles, and princes of the Church. A
poor man, yeoman or peasant, found slaying one of the royal
beasts of the forest was cruelly maimed as a punishment. Or if he
was not caught, he ran and hid deep in the forest and became an
outlaw, a "wolf's-head" as the term was, and then any one might
slay him that could.

It was in such conditions that Robin Hood lived and did deeds of
daring such as we read of in the ballads and traditions which have
come down to us. Because his name is not to be found in the
crabbed records of lawyers and such men, some people have
doubted whether Robin Hood ever really existed. But I am sure
that Robin was once very much alive. It may be that the unknown
poets who made the ballads idealized him a little, that is, they
described him as being more daring, more successful, more of a
hero, perhaps, than he really was; but that is what poets and writers
are always expected to do.

The ballads which we have about Robin Hood and his band of
outlaws number about forty. The oldest are the best, because they
are the most natural and exciting. The majority of the later poems
are very poor; many are tiresome repetitions of one or two
incidents, while others are rough, doggerel rhymes, without spirit
or imagination.

In the tales which I have told in this book I have used a few of the
best episodes related in the ballads; but I have also thought out
other tales about Robin, and I have added incidents and events
which have been invented so as to give a truthful picture of the
times in which he lived.

Just as King Arthur was the hero of the knightly classes of England
in feudal times, so Robin Hood was the hero or popular figure
among men of the poorer sort. The serf and the yeomen were tied
to their fields and their unvarying round of labor by the shackles of
custom; any offence against the laws was visited with swift and
harsh punishment. It was sweet, therefore, in hours of leisure, to
hear songs about the bold outlaw, Robin Hood, who once had been
as bound in set laws as they, but who had fled to the freedom of
the forest, where, with cool daring and thrilling effrontery, he
laughed to scorn the harsh forest laws of the king, and waged war
upon all those rich lords and proud prelates who were the enemies
of humble folk.

Nor are the virtues ascribed to Robin Hood by the makers of the
ballads inferior to those which were said to be possessed by King
Arthur. Certainly Robin was a robber, but his great redeeming
features were gentleness and generosity. He was always
good-humored and genial, and took a beating in good part. Noble
in bearing, his courteous dignity lifted him high above the ordinary
rough manners of his time. Then, too, he was religious, and had
especial reverence for the Virgin Mary, and for her sake he treated
all women with the greatest courtesy, and would not harm any who
were in their company. Most of all, he was helpful to the poor, the
hungry and the distressed, and if he robbed the rich, he gave
liberally to humble folk.

Robin Hood, indeed, is as gallant and generous a hero as any to be
found in English literature, and while delight in the greenwood,
and love of wild things continue to glow in the hearts of healthy
boys and girls, I am sure that tales of Robin Hood and his outlaws
will always be welcome.

HENRY GILBERT.
LONDON, JULY, 1912.

Chapter I HOW ROBIN BECAME AN OUTLAW

IT was high noon in summertime, and the forest seemed to sleep.
Hardly a breeze stirred the broad fans of the oak leaves, and the
only sound was the low hum of insects which flew to and fro
unceasingly in the cool twilight under the wide-spreading boughs.

So quiet did it seem and so lonely, that almost one might think that
nothing but the wild red deer, or his fierce enemy the slinking
wolf, had ever walked this way since the beginning of the world.
There was a little path worn among the thick bushes of hazel,
dogberry, and traveler's joy, but so narrow was it and so faint that
it could well have been worn by the slender, fleeting feet of the
doe, or even by the hares and rabbits which had their home in a
great bank among the roots of a beech near by.

Few, indeed, were the folks that ever came this way, for it was in
the loneliest part of Barnisdale Forest. Besides, who had any right
to come here save it was the king's foresters keeping strict watch
and ward over the king's deer? Nevertheless, the rabbits which
should have been feeding before their holes, or playing their mad
pranks, seemed to have bolted into their burrows as if scared by
something which had passed that way. Only now, indeed, were one
or two peeping out to see that things were quiet again. Then a
venturesome bunny suddenly scampered out, and in a moment
others trooped forth.

A little way beyond the bank where the rabbits were now nibbling
or darting off in little mad rushes, the path made a bend, and then
the giant trunks of the trees were fewer, and more light came
through from the sky. Suddenly the trees ceased, and the little sly
path ran into a wide glade where grass grew, and bushes of holly
and hazel stood here and there.

A man stood close by the path, behind a tree, and looked out into
the glade. He was dressed in a tunic made of a rough green cloth,
open at the top, and showing a bronzed neck. Round his waist was
a broad leathern girdle in which were stuck at one place a dagger,
and at the other side three long arrows. Short breeches of soft
leather covered his thighs, below which he wore hosen of green
wool, which reached to his feet. The latter were encased in shoes
of stout pig's leather.

His head of dark brown curls was covered by a velvet cap, at the
side of which was stuck a short feather, pulled from the wing of a
plover. His face, bronzed to a ruddy tan by wind and weather, was
open and frank, his eye shone like a wild bird's, and was as fearless
and as noble. Great of limb was he, and seemingly of a strength
beyond his age, which was about twenty-five years. In one hand he
carried a long-bow, while the other rested on the smooth bole of
the beech before him.

He looked intently at some bushes which stood a little distance
before him in the glade, and moved not a muscle while he
watched. Sometimes he looked beyond far to the side of the glade
where, on the edge of the shaw or wood, two or three deer were
feeding under the trees, advancing toward where he stood.

Suddenly he saw the bushes move stealthily; an unkempt head
issued between the leaves, and the haggard face of a man looked
warily this way and that. Next moment, out of the bush where the
hidden man lay an arrow sped. Straight to the feeding deer it flew,
and sank in the breast of the nearest doe. She ran a few feet and
then fell; while the others, scared, ran off into the trees.

Not at once did the hidden man issue from his hiding-place to take
up the animal he had slain. He waited patiently while one might
count fifty, for he knew that, should there be a forester skulking
near who should meet the scampering deer whose companion had
been struck down, he would know from their frightened air that
something wrongful had been done, and he would search for the
doer.

The moments went slowly by and nothing moved; neither did the
hidden man, nor he who watched him. Nor did a forester show
himself on the edge of the shaw where the deer had fled. Feeling
himself secure, therefore, the man came from the bush, but there
was no bow and arrows in his hand, for these he had left secure in
his hiding-place to be brought away another day.

He was dressed in the rough and ragged homespun of a villein, a
rope round his brown tunic, and his lower limbs half covered with
loose trousers of the same material as his tunic, but more holed
and patched. Looking this way and that, he walked half-bent across
to where the doe lay, and leaning over it, he snatched his knife
from his belt and began almost feverishly to cut portions of the
tenderest parts from the carcass.

As the man behind the tree saw him, he seemed to recognize him,
and muttered, "Poor lad!" The villein wrapped the deer's flesh in a
rough piece of cloth, and then rose and disappeared between the
trees. Then with swift and noiseless footsteps the watcher went
back through the path and into the depths of the forest. A few
moments later the villein, with wary eyes looking this way and
that, was passing swiftly between the boles of the trees. Every now
and then he stopped and rubbed his red hands in the long, moist
grass, to remove the tell-tale stains of blood.

Suddenly, as he came from behind the giant trunk of an oak, the
tall form of the man who had watched him stood in his pathway.
Instantly his hand went to his knife, and he seemed about to spring
upon the other.

"Man," said he in the green tunic, "what madness drives you to
this?"

The villein recognized the speaker at once, and gave a fierce
laugh.

"Madness!" he said. "'Tis not for myself this time, Master Robin.
But my little lad is dying of hunger, and while there's deer in the
greenwood he shall not starve."

"Your little lad, Scarlet?" said Robin. "Is your sister's son living
with you now?"

"Ay," replied Scarlet. "You've been away these three weeks and
cannot have heard." He spoke in a hard voice, while the two
continued their walk down a path so narrow that while Robin
walked before, Scarlet was compelled to walk just behind.

"A sennight since," Scarlet went on, "my sister's husband, John a'
Green, was taken ill and died. What did our lord's steward do? Said
'Out ye go, baggage, and fend for yourself. The holding is for a
man who'll do due services for it.'"

"'Twas like Guy of Gisborne to do thus," said Robin; "the
evil-hearted traitor!"

"Out she went, with no more than the rags which covered herself
and the bairns," said Scarlet fiercely. "If I had been by I could not
have kept my knife from his throat. She came to me; dazed she
was and ill. She had the hunger-plague in truth, and sickened and
died last week. The two little ones were taken in by neighbors, but
I kept little Gilbert myself. I am a lonely man, and I love the lad,
and if harm should happen to him I shall put my mark upon Guy of
Gisborne for it."

As Robin had listened to the short and tragic story of the wreck of
a poor villein's home, his heart burned in rage against the steward,
Sir Guy of Gisborne, who ruled the manor of Birkencar for the
White Monks of St. Mary's Abbey with so harsh a hand. But he
knew that the steward did no more than the abbot and monks
permitted him, and he cursed the whole brood of them, rich and
proud as they were, given over to hunting and high living on the
services and rents which they wrung from the poor villeins, who
were looked upon merely as part of the soil of the manors which
they tilled.
    Robin, or Robert of Locksley, as he was known to the steward
and the monks, was a freeman, or socman, as it was termed, and
was a young man of wealth as things went then. He had his own
house and land, a farm of some hundred and sixty acres of the
richest land on the verge of the manor, and he knew full well that
the monks had long cast covetous eyes upon his little holding. It
lay beside the forest, and was called the Outwoods. He and his
ancestors had held this land for generations, first from the lords to
whom the manor of Birkencar had been given by King William,
and for the last generation or so from the Abbey of St. Mary, to
which the last owner, the Lord Guy de Wrothsley, had left it in his
will.

Robin held his land at a rent, and so long as he paid this to the
monks they could not legally oust him from his farm, much as they
would have liked to do this. Robin was looked upon by the abbot
as a discontented and malicious man. He had often bearded the
abbot in his own monastery, and told him to his face how wickedly
he and his stewards treated the villeins and poorer tenants of their
manors. Such defiance in those days was reckoned to be almost
unheard of, and the monks and Guy of Gisborne, their steward at
Birkencar, hated Robin and his free speech as much as Robin
hated them for their tyranny and oppression.

"Pity it is I was away," said Robin in reply to Scarlet's last words.
"But you could have gone to Outwoods, and Scadlock would have
given you food."

"Ay, Master Robin," said Scarlet, "you have ever been the good
and true friend of us all. But I, too, have been a freeman, and I
cannot beg my bread. You have made enemies enough on our
behalf as it is, and I would not live upon you to boot. No, while
there is deer in the greenwood, I and the little lad shall not starve.
Besides, Master Robin, you should look to yourself. If your
unfriends had known how long you would be away they would -- it
hath been whispered -- have proclaimed you an outlaw, and taken
your land in your absence, and killed you when you returned."

Robin laughed. "Ay, I have heard of it while I was away."

Scarlet looked at him in wonder. He thought he had been telling
his friend a great and surprising secret.

"You have heard of it?" he replied; "now that is passing strange."

Robin made no answer. He knew well that his enemies were only
looking out for an opportunity of thrusting him to ruin. Many a
man going on a long journey had come back to find that in his
absence his enemy had made oath to a justice that he had fled on
account of some wrongdoing, and thus had caused him to be
proclaimed an outlaw, whose head any one could cut off.

Scarlet was silent, thinking of many strange tales which the
villeins, when they sat together at ale after work, had spoken
concerning their great friend Robin.

Suddenly, from a little way before them, came the sound as if a
squirrel was scolding. Then there was silence for a space; and then
the cry, a lonely sad cry it was, as of a wolf. Instantly Robin
stopped, laid the long-bow he had in his hand at the root of a great
oak, together with the arrows from his girdle. Then, turning to
Scarlet, he said in a low stern voice:

"Place the deer's meat you have in your tunic beside these. Quick,
man, ere the foresters see your bulging breast. You shall have it
safely anon."
    Almost mechanically, at the commanding tones Scarlet took the
rough piece of hempen cloth in which he had wrapped the flesh of
the doe from the breast of his tunic and laid it beside the bow and
arrows. Next moment Robin resumed his walk. When they had
gone a few steps, Scarlet looked round at the place where they had
placed the things. They were gone!

A cold chill seemed to grip his heart, and he almost stopped, but
Robin's stern voice said: "Step out, man, close behind? Poor
Scarlet, sure that he was in the presence of witchcraft, did as he
was bidden; but crossed himself to fend off evil.

Next moment the narrow path before them was blocked by the
forms of two burly foresters, with bows at their backs and long
staves in their hands. Their hard eyes looked keenly at Robin and
Scarlet, and for a moment it seemed that they meditated barring
their way. But Robin's bold look as he advanced made them
change their minds, and they let them pass.

"When freeman and villein are found together," scoffed one,
"there's ill brewing for their lord." "And when two foresters are
found together," said Robin, with a short laugh, "some poor man's
life will be sworn away ere long."

"I know ye, Robert of Locksley," said the one who had first
spoken, "as your betters know ye, for a man whose tongue wags
too fast."

"And I know thee, Black Hugo," replied Robin, "for a man who
swore his best friend to ruin to join his few poor acres to thine."

The man's face darkened with rage, while the other forester
laughed at his discomfiture. Black Hugo looked at Robin as if he
would have thrown himself upon him; but Robin's fearless eyes
overawed him, and he sullenly turned away without another word.

Robin and Scarlet resumed their walk, and in a little while had
issued from the forest, and were tramping through the bush and
thick undergrowth of the waste lands which divided the farms of
the manor on this side from the forest.

At last they came to the top of an incline, and before them the land
sloped down to the cultivated fields and the pasture which
surrounded the little village of villeins' huts, with the manor-house
at a distance beyond the village half-way up another slope. Scarlet
looked keenly about him, to see if any one in the fields had seen
him coming from the forest; for he had run from his work of dyke
building to shoot the deer, and wondered whether his absence had
been discovered. If it had, he didn't care for the scourging-post and
the whip on his bare back, which might be his portion tomorrow
when the steward's men came round to find his work only half
done. At any rate, his little lad, Gilbert of the White Hand, would
have a king's supper that night.

Would he? He suddenly remembered, and again fear shook him.
Where had Robin's bow and arrows and his venison disappeared?
Had some goblin or elf snatched them up, or had he really looked
in the wrong place, and had the foresters found them by now? He
clenched his jaw and looked back, his hand upon his knife, almost
expecting to see the two foresters coming after him.

"Hallo," said Robin carelessly, "there are my bow and arrows and
your venison, lad."

Turning, Scarlet saw the things lying beside a tussock of grass at a
little distance, where he was certain he had looked a moment
before and seen nothing!

"Master," he said, in an awed voice, "this is sheer wizardry. I -- I --
fear for you if unfriends learn you are helped by the evil spirits that
dwell in the woods."

"Scarlet," said Robin, "I thought thou wert a wiser man, but, like
the rest, thou seemest to be no more than a fool. Have no fear for
me. My friends of the woods are quite harmless, and are no worse
than thou or I."

"Master," said Scarlet, sorry for his hasty speech, "I crave pardon
for my fool's words. My tongue ran before my thoughts, for the
sight of those things where nothing had been a moment before
affrighted me. But I know there cannot be worse things in the
woods than there are in strong castles and abbots' palaces whose
masters oppress and maim poor villeins. Say, master, is that which
has helped us but now -- is it a brownie, as men call it -- a troll?"
    Robin looked quietly into Scarlet's face for a moment or two
without speaking.

"Scarlet," he said, "I think I see a time before us when thou and I
will be much together in the greenwood. Then I will show thee my
friends there. But until then, Scarlet, not a word of what has passed
today. Thou swearest it?"

"By the gentle Virgin!" said Scarlet, throwing up his hand as he
took the oath. "Amen!" replied Robin, doffing his cap and bending
his head at the name. "Now," he went on, "take thy meat and hand
me my bow and arrows. For I must back to the greenwood. And
tell thy little man, Gilbert, that Robin wishes him to get well
quickly, for I would go shooting with him again on the uplands at
the plovers."

"Ay," said Scarlet, and his haggard, hungry face shone with a
gentle look as he spoke, "the little lad hath ever loved to speak of
you since you took such note of him. Your words will hearten him
bravely."

When the two men had parted, Robin turned and plunged into the
thick undergrowth, but in a different direction from that in which
he had come with Scarlet. He looked up at the sun and quickened
his pace, for he saw it was two hours past noon. Soon he had
reached the trees, and threading his way unerringly among them,
he struck southward toward the road that ran for many a mile
through the forest from Barnisdale into Nottinghamshire.

With a quick and eager step did Robin pass through the glades, for
he was going to see the lady he loved best in all the world. Fair
Marian was she called, the daughter of Richard FitzWalter of
Malaset. Ever since when, as a boy, Robin had shot and sported in
Locksley Chase, near where he had been born, Marian had been
his playmate, and though she was an earl's daughter, and Robin
was but a yeoman and not rich, they had loved each other dearly,
and sworn that neither would marry anyone else.

This day she was to journey from her father's castle at Malaset to
Linden Leam, nearby Nottingham, to stay a while at the castle of
her uncle, Sir Richard at Lee, and Robin had promised to guard her
through the forest.

Soon he reached a broad trackway, carpeted with thick grass and
with deep wheel-holes here and there in the boggy hollows. He
walked rapidly along this, and did not rest till he had covered some
five miles. Then, coming to where another road crossed it, he
paused, looked about him keenly, and then disappeared among
some hazel bushes that crowned a bank beside the four ways.

Proceeding for some distance, he at length gained a hollow where
the ground was clear of bushes. On one side was a bare place
where the sand showed, and to this Robin walked straightway. On
the bare ground were a few broken twigs which to the ordinary eye
would have seemed to have been blown there by the wind; but
with hands on knees Robin bent and scanned them keenly.

"One bent at the head and eight straight twigs," he said under his
breath; "a knight on horseback, that will mean, with eight knaves
afoot. They are halted on the western road not far from here. Now
what means that?"

He stood up, and turning away, quickly crossed the road by which
he had come, and dived into the forest which skirted the right-hand
road. Very cautiously he made his way between the trees, taking
care not to step on a twig as he walked rapidly over the grass, his
quick eyes meanwhile bent in every direction, trying to pierce the
twilight of the thick forest round about.

Suddenly he dropped on his knees, and began working away
further into the trees. He had heard the tiniest noise of a jingling
bridle before him. In a little while, peering from between the
branches of a young yew-tree, he saw, drawn up into the deepest
shadow of the trees, a band of armed men with a knight in chain
mail on horseback in their midst.

Eagerly he scanned each, in the endeavor to learn to what lord they
belonged; but the men on foot were dressed in plain jerkins, and
the knight bore a blank shield, kite-shaped. For some moments he
was baffled in his attempt to learn who these men were, and why
they lay hid in the wood as if about to set on some travelers whom
they expected to pass by. Then the knight swept his glance round
the forest, and with a gesture of impatience and an oath quieted his
restive horse.

At the sound of his voice Robin recognized him, and his face went
stern, and a fierce light came into his eyes.

"So, Roger de Longchamp," he said to himself, "you would seize
by force my lady whose favor you cannot get by fair means!"

For this Sir Roger was a proud and tyrannical knight, who had
asked for the hand of Fair Marian, but her father had refused him.
FitzWalter loved his daughter, and though he laughed at her for her
love of Robin, he would not give her to a man with so evil a fame
as Roger de Longchamp, brother of that proud prelate, the Bishop
of F‚camp, and favorite of Duke Richard.

Often, when Robin had thought how Sir Roger de Longchamp or
any other man, however evil he was, could visit Sir Richard
FitzWalter and speak openly with Marian, he became moody, and
wondered whether indeed there was any truth in the tales which
old Stephen of Gamwell, his uncle, had told him concerning his
noble lineage. He had said that, three generations before, Robin's
ancestors had owned broad lands and many manors, and had been
lords of Huntingdon town. But that, for having taken part in some
revolt of the English against the Norman conqueror, their lands
had been seized by the king, the earl slain, and his kinsmen hunted
this way and that into obscurity.

Every one knew now that the earldom and lands of Huntingdon
were in the hands of the king himself, and that the title had been
given to David, brother of the Scottish king. But Robin had often
wondered whether he could regain something of the former honors
and rank of his family. If so, then he would go and claim Marian
boldly, and take no denial.

A movement among the lurking men before him caused him to
cease his thinking. A man came running through the trees toward
them, and going up to the knight, said in a low voice:

"They are coming! The lady and one varlet are on horseback, the
others are walking. There are nine in all, and they are mere
house-churls."

"Good!" said the knight. "When they come near I will ride against
them and seize the lady's bridle. Should the churl who is riding
seek to follow me, do you knock him down."

Robin smiled grimly as he listened and slipped an arrow from its
fastening at his belt. Almost immediately the voices of men were
heard coming along the grassy road, with the beat of horses' hoofs,
and in a little while Robin's heart warmed as he saw through the
leaves the gentle womanly figure of Marian on a horse, with her
hood thrown back from her face. She was conversing with Walter,
the steward of her father's house, who rode beside her.

Next moment the knight had burst through the trees, followed by
his men. The brave Walter instantly pushed his horse before that of
his mistress, and with a stout staff which he carried prepared to
defend her, while the others of her guards also ran before her. Sir
Roger struck at the steward with his sword, which sliced a huge
splinter from the staff which the other held. With a quick turn of
the staff, however, Walter beat on the knight's sword hand, and so
shrewd was the blow that the weapon fell from the knight's fingers.
It was hung by a strap at his wrist, however, and with a furious cry
he regained the haft again.

In a second more the sword would have pierced the body of the
brave steward, but suddenly he was jerked from his horse by one
of Sir Roger's men and fell senseless on the ground. The struggle
between Marian's men and those of the knight was now becoming
hot, but the poor villeins with their staffs or short spears had little
chance against the swords of the robbers.

Already the hand of Sir Roger was on the reins in Marian's fingers,
and with flashing eyes she was trying to back her horse away,
when suddenly there came a sound like a great bee, and as she
looked at the bars of the knight's vizor she was aware that
something flew into them, and next moment she saw the long
yellow shaft of an arrow quivering before them.

The knight gave a deep groan, swayed, and then fell from his
horse. Instantly his men ceased fighting; one, the chief among
them, ran to the dead knight, drew the ruddily tipped arrow from
his master's eye, and then all looked swiftly up and down the broad
track and at the dense green forest at their sides.

"'Tis but one man!" said one of them. "It came from the left side
here."

"Ay, but I know the bolt! It is "began he that still held the arrow,
but he never ended his words. Again came a swift sound through
the air, but this time like the low whistling of a forest bird, and he
sank to the ground with a small black arrow-shaft jutting from his
breast. The bolt had been shot from the right side, showing that
more than one bowman observed them.

Instantly the others scattered and ran into the forest, but ere the last
could reach its shade an arrow, no larger than a birding bolt, issued
from the trees on the right and sank into the shoulder of the last
fugitive, who shrieked, but still ran on.

Next moment Marian saw Robin, with cap in hand, issue from the
wood beside her. He came to her side, and with flushing cheeks
she bent to him and said:

"Sweet Robin, I knew thou wouldst not fail me. That was a brave
shot of thine which struck down that felon knight. But, dear heart
of mine, if he be he whom I think he is, his death will work thee
much harm."

She gave him her hand, and fondly Robin kissed it. "He is Roger
de Longchamp, sweetheart," replied Robin; "but if it had been
King Henry himself lurking thus to do you harm, I would not have
saved my bolt."

"But, Robin dear," went on Marian, and her eyes were soft yet
proud, "the bishop his brother will pursue thee and outlaw thee for
this. And thou wilt lose lands and name for my sake! O Robin!
Robin! But I will take counsel of Sir Richard at Lee, who loves
thee dearly, how best to get thee pardon from the bishop."

"Sweet Marian," said Robin, and very stem was his look and voice,
"I will have no pardon from any proud prelate for any ill I do the
evil brood of priests. Come soon, come late, I knew that ere long I
should do some deed against the doers of evil who sit in strong
castles or loll in soft abbeys and oppress and wrong poor or weaker
folk. It is done at last, and I am content. Trouble not for me, dear
heart. But now, let us get thee to a safe place ere those runaway
rogues raise the hue and cry after me. Walter," said Robin to the
poor steward, who, dazed and faint, was now sitting up in the road,
"gather thy wits together, brave man, and see to thy mistress.
Lads," he said to the villeins, most of whom were wounded, "think
no more of thy wounds till thy lady be safe. The knight that is slain
hath friends as evil as he, and they may be down upon us ere long,
and then you may not escape so lightly. And now trot forward to
where the roads fork, and I will join thee anon."

Robin helped Walter on his horse, and Fair Marian and her faithful
villeins went forward. When they had passed, Robin pulled the
dead knight out of the track and far into the forest, then raised the
vizor of the helm, placed the dead man's sword-hilt on his breast,
and folded the limp arms over it, so that it seemed as if the dead
were kissing the cross of the sword. Then, with bared head,
kneeling, he said a short prayer for the repose of the knight's soul.
He did the same with the dead body of the marauder who had been
slain by the second arrow, and then, picking up both his own bolt
and the smaller arrow, he slashed the knight's horse across the
loins and saw it go flying down a forest drive that would lead it
quite away from the spot. All this he did so as to put pursuers off
the track as long as possible.

Then, going a few steps into the forest in the direction in which the
knight's men had fled, he put a horn to his lips and blew a long
shrill blast with strange broken notes at the end. Afterward he
hastened to rejoin Fair Marian, and with his hand upon the bridle
of her horse he led the way from the beaten track, and passing by
secret ways and tiny paths only half visible, he rapidly pushed on,
and very soon they were in the deeps of the forest where none who
were with him had ever passed before.

Fair Marian, content to know that Robin was with her, saw nothing
to fear in the silence and sombre shadows about them; but many of
the villeins, as they walked in single file along the narrow way
made by the hoofs of the horses, often crossed themselves as they
passed along some gloomy grove of trees, or wound across the
solitary glades where everything was so silent and gray that it
seemed as if no life had stirred there since the beginning of the
world.

To their simple minds they were risking the loss not only of their
lives, but of their immortal souls, by venturing into these wild
places, the haunts of wood-demons, trolls, and witches. They kept
close together, the last man in the line looking ever behind him in
dread; while all glanced furtively this way and that between the
close trunks of the mossy trees, expecting every moment to see the
evil eyes of elves gleaming out at them, or dreading that warlocks
or witches, with red grinning mouths, would dart from behind
some great screen of ivy or dodder which hung from some of the
old trees.

The only sounds to be heard was the soft padding of their own
footsteps over the thick grass, or the snap of a twig here and there.
Sometimes far up through the dense leaves above their heads they
could hear the cry of a bird, or from a thicket here and there would
come/~ strange uncanny cheep! cheep! but nothing could be seen.
Once or twice they heard the murmur of water, and they would
come upon a little lonely brooklet half hidden beneath the
undergrowth.

Once they passed through a wide glade, and in the middle thereof
were two green mounds close to each other, and at the sight of
them the poor churls were exceeding afraid.

"Trolls' houses!" they whispered to each other, and pointed and
hurried on.

"I doubt we 'scape with our souls this day," said one in a half
whisper.

"Why doth he that leads us bring us by those places of dread?"
growled another. "The trolls will spy us as we pass, and work some
wizardry upon us, and the bones of all of us will be left to whiten
in this unholy forest till the crack of doom."

So closely, in their terror, did they press upon the haunches of
Waiter's horse that he had to warn them. "Keep back, thou
fellows," he said. "Thou knowest my horse is mettlesome, and if
he lash out at thee, thy heads, though thick, will not be thick
enough to withstand his hoof."

By this time the light from the sky showed that the afternoon was
drawing to even. Little had Robin spoken since he began the swift
flight through the forest, but now he turned to Marian, and with a
smile said:

"Forgive me, sweet lady, for my seeming churlishness. But Roger
de Longchamp's friends at his castle of Evil Hold are men not to be
despised. Their cruel deeds are not fit for thy ears, and I have
hastened to escape them speedily. Have I taxed thee beyond thy
strength?"

"Nay, nay, Robin dear," said Marian, with a sweet look. "I knew
what was in thy heart, and therefore I troubled thee not with talk.
But what mean you by the Evil Hold? I knew not Roger de
Longchamp's castle of Wrangby was so named."

"That is how it is named by the poor folk who own him lord,"
replied Robin, "because of the nameless deeds that are committed
there by him and his boon comrades, Isenbart de Belame, Niger le
Grym, Hamo de Mortain, Ivo de Raby, and others."

Marian shuddered and paled at the names.

"I have heard of them" she said in a low voice. "Let us push on,"
she continued. "I am not tired, Robin, and I would fain see thee
safe in Sir Richard's castle."

"Have no fear for me," laughed Robin. "While I have my good
bow, and the greenwood stands to shelter me, I can laugh at all
who wish me ill. In a little while now you shall be greeting your
uncle, and safe within his strong walls."

Suddenly from somewhere in the twilight forest before them came
a scream as of some animal or bird in the talons of a hawk. Robin
stopped and peered forward. Then there came the lonely cry of a
wolf, causing the villeins behind to shudder as they, too, strained
their eyes into the murky depths of the trees.

Robin stepped forward, and as he did so he gave a cry as if a
black-cock called his mate; then he led Marian's horse forward at a
slow pace. In a little while they came to rising ground, and
approaching the top they saw the sinking sun gleaming redly
through the trees. At the summit they found the trees gave place to
a gentle slope of green sward, and before them, beyond some
meadows, lay a castle, and on a trackway not far from the forest
were two riders passing toward the castle.

"I think," said Robin, "that yonder horsemen are Sir Richard and
his kinsman, Sir Huon de Bulwell."

"It is in truth they," replied Marian; "I think they have been to meet
me by the highway, and are no doubt wondering what hath
befallen me. Give them a call, dear Robin, and do you, Walter,
ride forward and tell them that, thanks to my friend, Robert of
Locksley, I am safe and well."

Robin blew a blast on his horn. The horsemen turned their heads at
the sound, and Marian, pushing her horse away from the trees,
waved a kerchief at them. Instantly they recognized her, and
waving their hands in greeting, began to ride toward the party.

"Tell me, Robin," said Marian, as having dismounted to rest her
stiffened limbs, she walked beside her lover, "what meant those
cries we heard but now? It was as if some one signaled and you
answered them."

"It meant, sweetheart," replied Robin, "that a friend of mine in the
greenwood there saw these horsemen and thought they might be
our enemies. But I guessed they could not have reached this spot
so quickly as we, and that they whom he saw were some of Sir
Richard's meinie [followers] come to look for thee. Then I warned
him that I thought all was well, and so came on."

"Who are these friends who guard you thus when you pass through
the forest?" she asked. "Is it the same who shot those smaller
arrows at Sir Roger's men?"

"I will tell thee, sweeting," replied Robin. "They are dwellers in
the forest whom once I rescued from a fearful death at the hands of
evil and cruel men. And ever since they have been my dear friends,
to guard and watch for me when I am in the greenwood."

"I am glad thou hast such friends, dear Robin," said Marian. "It
lightens my heart to think thou hast such faithful watchers. For I
fear me that thou wilt have need of such ere long."

But now Sir Richard at Lee and his kinsman had come up, and
great was their joy to find Fair Marian was safe, for they had been
much troubled to find no sign of her upon the road by which she
usually came; and were riding back to the castle to collect a body
of retainers to search the forest roads for her.

When Sir Richard and Sir Huon were told of Sir Roger's attempt to
kidnap Marian, and of how Robin had slain him, they looked
grave, and Sir Huon shook his head. But Sir Richard, a gray-haired
man with a noble countenance, turned to Robin and shook him by
the hand heartily.

"Thou hast rid the earth of a vile oppressor and a felon knight," he
cried, "and I for one thank thee heartily. The evil that he hath done
to poor folks, the robbery of orphans, the cruelties to women -- all
his crimes have cried long to heaven for vengeance. And I rejoice
that your good bolt hath pierced his evil brain."

"Ye say truth," said Sir Huon gravely, "but I think me of what
Robin may suffer. The bishop will not let his brother go
unavenged, nor will the comrades of Roger rest in their efforts to
capture Robin and take him to their crucet-house [torture-house],
which men rightly call the Evil Hold."

"Fear not for me," said Robin, with a quiet yet firm voice. "I doubt
not I shall escape all their traps and snares. But do you and the
father of my dear lady take care that, in despite, those evil knights
do not capture Fair Marian and wreak their vengeance upon her.
As for me, I will do all I may to shield her."

"Ye say truth," said Sir Richard. "I had not thought on that, but of a
surety Isenbart de Belame and Niger le Grym will wish to seize our
fair niece as a prize. God and Our Lady forfend us all from their
evil wiles."

"Amen," said Robin; "and meanwhile I will keep a watch upon
Castle Wrangby and its villainous lords."

For the next three days Robin and Marian, with Sir Richard and
the Lady Alice, his wife, spent the time merrily together, hunting
with hawks along the leas, or hunting the wild boar in the woods.
At night in hall they played hoodman blind, or danced to the viols,
or sat at draughts or chess, or heard minstrels sing to them or tell
them tales of Arthur's knights, of Roland, and of Oliver his dear
friend, or of Ogler the Dane, or Graelent, and how they had all
vanished away into the realms of the Fairy Queen.

But on the fourth day Robin went into the forest to shoot small
birds, and as he sat on a bank he heard the tapping as of a
woodpecker. Looking up into the limbs of the wych-elm above
him, he saw a little man's face peeping out through the leaves.

"Come down, Ket the Trow," said Robin, "and tell me thy news,
lad."

Next moment the little man had dropped from the tree and stood
before Robin. Ket was no taller than a medium-sized lad of
fourteen, but he was a man full grown, with great breadth of chest,
long, hairy arms and legs, the muscles on which stood up like iron
bands. His hair was black, thick, and curly; he had no shoes on his
feet, and the only covering he wore was a stout leather jacket laced
in front, and close-fitting breeches of doe-skin that reached to his
knees. His face, broad and good-natured, was lit up with a smile as
he returned Robin's kindly gaze, and his eyes, bright and keen, yet
gentle as those of a fawn, rested on Robin's face with a look of
respect that was almost reverence.

"You followed the men that fled. Where went they?" asked Robin.

"Through the forest north by west went they, till they came to the
burn," answered Ket. "They forded it at the Stakes and crossed the
moor to the Ridgeway. Through Hag's Wood they wended and
through Thicket Hollow, and then I knew where they would go; by
the Hoar Tree and the Cwelm stone, over Gallows Hill and by the
Mark Oak, till they came to the Dead Man's Hill, and so by the
lane of the Red Stones to the Evil Hold. All night I watched in the
Mark Oak, and at dawn I saw three knights ride from the castle.
One went south by east, and with him on horses were two of the
knaves I had followed. Two went east, and these I followed. They
had ten horsed knaves with them. They went through Barnisdale
Wood, and I left them on the wide road which leads to Doncaster."

"You did well, Ket," replied Robin. "And then?"

"I went to thy house, Outwoods, by Barnisdale Wood," replied Ket,
"and Scadlock thy man I met in Old Nick's Piece, and sad was he,
for he said that he saw Guy of Gisborne and two monks riding by
thy land the day before, and they spoke together, and stopped and
pointed at thy fields. And he thinks the curse of that Judas, Sir
Guy, is on thy land, and that ruin cometh quickly to thee, and full
was he of woe, and much he longed to see thy face."
 
The little man had dropped from the tree and stood before 
Robin. Ket was no taller than a medium-sized lad of fourteen. 

Robin was silent for a while, and he was sunk in thought.

"Heard you aught else? What of Scarlet and the little lad?"

"I saw them not, but at night I crept down to the village and stole
beside the cot with the bush before the door [the village alehouse],
and leaned my ear against a crack and listened. And much woe and
anger was in the mouths of the villeins so that they drank little."

"What said they?" asked Robin. "How many think you were
there?"

Ket lifted up both hands and showed ten, then he dropped one
hand and showed five fingers and then two more.

"Were they the young men or the older?"

"Most were full of fiery words, and therefore young I guess," went
on Ket. "They that had the sorest backs spoke most bitterly. Cruel
had been the beatings at the post that day, it seems; one was yet in
the pit, too sore to move; one had been burned that day with the
branding-iron because the steward swore he was a thief -- and he
was most fierce of all; and many said their lives were too bitter to
be borne. The work they must do on the lord's land was more than
was due from them, and their own fields were left untilled, and
therefore they starved. Some said they would run away to the
town, where, if they could hide for a year and a day, they would be
free men; others said the plague and pestilence could be got in a
village cot as easily as in a town hovel, and they would prefer to
live on the king's deer in the greenwood."

"Ay!" said Robin, in a bitter voice, "poor folks have no friends in
these days. The king's own sons rebel and war upon their father,
the lords and monks fight for power and wider lands, and grind the
faces of their villeins to the soil which they delve and dig, and
squeeze from them rents and services against all rightful custom.
Ket!" he said, rising, "I will go home this day. Find Hob, your
brother, and when I have said farewell to my friends I will come
anon."

Saying these words, Robin picked up the birds he had shot and
went back to the castle of Sir Richard, to say farewell to Marian.
Ket the Trow or Troll glided among the trees and disappeared.

That day, when the shadows of the trees cast by the sinking sun lay
far over the fields, and in the warmth and quiet of the departing
day there seemed no room in the peaceful world except for happy
thoughts, Robin with quick soft steps came to the edge of
Barnisdale Forest where it marched with his own land.

The forest side was on high ground, which then sank gently away
to his fields. Long and earnestly he looked at his house, and
beyond to the cots of the five villeins who were part of his land.
His own house and the garth or yard in the low quickset hedge
about it seemed quite peaceful, as indeed it should be at that time.
Perhaps Scadlock, his bailiff, was inside, but the villeins must still
be at work in the fields. Then it struck him that perhaps it was too
quiet. There were no children tumbling and playing about in the
dusty space before the villeins' cottages, but every door was fast
closed, and no life stirred.

He was about to continue his walk under the trees to gain the
footpath which led to the front of his house, when he saw a
woman, a serf's wife, steal from the door of her hovel and creep
along to the end of the hedgeú There she stood, and seemed to
watch for some one coming across the fields on the other side of
the house. Suddenly he saw her with both hands gesticulating, as if
signing to some one to keep away. For a long time she stood thus,
but from where Robin stood he could not see who it was to whom
she made her signal.

At length the woman, having apparently succeeded in giving her
warning, stole cautiously back into her house and quietly closed
the door.

Something was wrong. Of that Robin was certain now. Glancing
warily this way and that, he went further among the trees, and
approached the head of the footpath with every care. Suddenly as
he looked from behind a tree he dodged down again. A
man-at-arms stood beneath the next tree, which threw its broad
branches over the footpath.

From behind the beech trunk Robin keenly observed the man,
whose back was toward him. He had evidently been put there to
guard the approach from the forest. From where he stood the
soldier could see the front of the house, and something that was
happening there seemed to hold his attention. Sometimes he gave a
laugh or a grunt of satisfaction.

Robin's eyes went hard of look. He knew the man by his tunic of
red cloth and his helm to be one of the guard of armed retainers
which the abbot of St. Mary's, lord of the manor, had formed for
his own dignity and to add to his retinue of lazy and oppressive
menials. Very cautiously Robin crept along between the two trees,
keeping himself hidden by the trunk against which the man leaned.

With the stealthiness and quietness of a wild cat, Robin covered
the space, until only the trunk of the tree separated him from the
unsuspecting soldier. He rose to his full height, but as he did so his
leg snapped a twig jutting from the tree. The man half swung
round at the noise, but next moment Robin's fingers were about his
throat, and in that grip of iron he was powerless.

The man swooned, and then, laying him down, Robin quickly
bound his hands and feet and placed a rough gag in his mouth, so
that when he revived, as he would shortly, he would be unable to
do any harm.

When Robin turned to see what had drawn the man's attention so
much, a groan burst from his lips. Tied to posts in front of the
house were Scadlock and three of the poor villeins. Their backs
were bare, and before each stood a burly soldier with a long
knotted strap in his hand.

A little way from them stood others of the men-at-arms and their
chief, Hubert of Lynn, a man whom for his brutal insolence and
cruelty Robin had long hated. In the still air of the afternoon
Robin's keen ears could catch the laughter which came from
Hubert and his men. At length, when all seemed ready, the voice
of the leader rang out:

"A hundred lashes first for these dogs that would resist the servants
of their lord, and then an arrow for each. Now -- go!"

Almost as if one man moved the four whips, they rose in the air
and came down upon the bare backs which, since Robin had been
their lord, had never been wealed by the cruel whip.

Robin, under the beechen boughs, picked up his longbow and the
long deer-bolts or arrows, which he had lain down when he had
prepared to creep upon the man at the top of the path. He twanged
his bow-string, saw that it was well set to the bow, and laid each
arrow apart before him.

Then kneeling on one knee, he whispered a prayer to Our Lady.

"The light is bad, fair and sweet Mother of Christ," he said, "but do
thou guide my arrows to the evil hearts of these men. Six bolts
have I, and out of the pity I have for my poor folk, I would slay
first him with the bitterest heart, Hubert of Lynn, and then those
four with whips. Hear me, O our sweet Lady, for the sake of thy
Son who was so stern against wrong, and pitiful for weak folk.
Amen."

Then he notched the first shaft, and aimed it at the breast of
Hubert. Singing its deep song as if in exultation, the great arrow
leaped through the air upon its way. When it was but half-way
across the field, another, with as triumphant a song, was humming
behind it.

With a cry, Hubert sank on one knee to the ground, the shaft
jutting from his breast. Feebly he tried to pluck it forth, but his life
was already gone. He fell over on his side, dead. At the same time
the place seemed full of great bees. First one man dropped his
whip, spun round with his hands upon a bolt in his side, and then
fell. Another sank to the ground without a murmur; a second
leaped in the air like a shot rabbit; and the other, with one arm
pinned to his side by an arrow, ran across the field swaying this
way and that, until he dropped in a furrow and lay still.

There were four who remained untouched, but filled with such
consternation were they, that they broke and fled in all directions.
So dazed was one that he came flying up the field path at the head
of which Robin still kneeled, terrible in his wrath, with his last bolt
notched upon his string. The fellow ran with open arms, terror in
his eyes, thinking not at all of whither he was going.

He pulled up when he came within a few yards of Robin, and
yelled:

"O master, be you fiend or man, shoot not! Thy witch bolts spoke
as they came through the air. I yield me! I yield me!"

The man fell before Robin, crying: "I will be your man, lord. I was
an honest man two days ago, and the son of an honest man, and my
heart rose against the evil work I was in."

Robin rose to his feet, and the man clutched his hands and placed
his head between in token of fealty.

"See to it," said Robin sternly, "that you forget not your plighted
word. How long have you been with Hubert and his men?"

"But two days, lord," said the man, whose simple and honest eyes
were now less wide with terror. "I am Dudda or Dodd, son of
Alstan, a good villein at Blythe, and forasmuch as my lord beat me
without justice I fled to the woods. But I starved, and for need of
food I crept out and lay at the abbey door and begged for bread.
And they fed me, and seeing I was strong of my limbs said I should
bear arms. And I rejoiced for a time till the cruel deeds they
boasted of as done upon poor villeins like myself made me hate
them."

"Get up, Dodd," said Robin. "Remember thy villein blood
henceforth, and do no wrong to thy kind. Come with me."

Robin went down to the garth of his farm, released poor Scadlock
and his other men, then entered the house and found salves
wherewith he anointed their wealed and broken backs.

"'Twas but yesterday, master," said Scadlock, in reply to Robin's
question as to what had happened, "that they proclaimed you an
outlaw from the steps of the cross at Ponrefract, and this morning
Hubert of Lynn came to possess your lands for the lord abbot. We
here -- Ward, Godard, Dunn and John -- could not abear to see this
wrong done, and so, like poor fools, with sticks and forks we tried
to beat them back."

"Ay, poor lads, foolish and faithful, ye had like to have paid with
your lives for it," said Robin. "But now, come in and feed, and I
will take counsel what must needs be done."

By this time it was dark. One of the women was called in from the
serfs' cottages, a fire was lit in the center of the one large room
which formed Robin's manor-house, and soon bowls of good hot
food were being emptied, and spirits were reviving. Even the
captured man-at-arms was not forgotten; he was brought in and
fed, and then lodged securely in a strong outhouse for the night.

"Master," said Scadlock, as he and Robin were returning to the
house from this task, "what is in your mind to do? Must it be the
woods and the houseless life of an outlaw for you?"

"There is no other way," said Robin with a hard laugh. "And glad I
shall be, for in the greenwood I may try to do what I may to give
the rich and the proud some taste of what they give to the poor
men whom they rule."

"And I will go with you, master, with a very glad heart," said
Scadlock. "And so will the others, for after this day they can
expect no mercy from Guy of Gisborne."

Suddenly they heard across the fields toward the village the sound
of many voices, and listening intently, they could hear the tramp of
feet.

"It is Guy of Gisborne and his men-at-arms!" said Scadlock.
"Master, we must fly to the woods at once."

"Nay, nay," said Robin, "think you Guy of Gisborne would come
cackling like so many geese to warn me of his approach? They are
the villeins of the manor, though what they do abroad so late is
more than I may say. They will smart for it tomorrow, I ween,
when the steward learns of it."

"Nay, master," came a voice for the darkness at their elbow;
"there'Il be no morrow for them in bondage if you will but lead
us."

It was the voice of one of the older villeins, who had stolen up
before the crowd. It was Will of the Stuteley, generally called Will
the Bowman -- a quiet, thoughtful man, whom Robin had always
liked. He had been reeve or head villein in his time.

"What, Will," said Robin, "what would they with me? Where
should I lead them?"

"Give them a hearing, Master Robert," said Will. "Their hearts are
overfull, but their stomachs are nigh empty, so driven and stressed
beyond fair duty have they been this winter and summer. First the
failure of harvest, then a hard winter, a hungry summer, and a
grasping lord who skins us. I tell thee I can bear no more, old as I
am."

"Well, well, Will, here they are," replied Robin, as a crowd of dark
forms came into the yard. "Now, lads, what is it you want of me?"
he cried.

"We would run to the greenwood, master," some cried. "Sick and
sore are we of our hard lot, and we can bear no more," cried
others.

Unused to much speaking, they could not explain their feelings
any more, and so waited, hoping that he who was so much wiser,
yet so kind, would be able to understand all the bitterness that was
in their hearts.

"Well," said Robin earnestly, "and if you run to the woods, what of
your wives and children?"

"No harm can come to them," was the reply. "Our going will give
them more worth in the eyes of the lord and his steward. We do
not own them. They are the chattels of the lord, body and soul.
There will be more food for them if we go."

There was some truth in this, as Robin knew. The lord and his
steward would not visit their vengeance upon the women and
children of those villeins who ran away. The work on the manor
lands must go on, and the women and children helped in this.
Some of the older women held plots of land, which were tilled by
their sons or by poorer men in the hamlet who held no land, and
who for their day's food were happy to work for anyone who would
feed and shelter them.

"How many of ye are there?" asked Robin. "Are there any old men
among ye?"

"There are thirty of us. Most of us are young and wiser than our
fathers," growled one man. "Or we will put up with less these
days," added another.

"So you will let the work of the manor and the due services ye owe
to the lord fall on the shoulders of the old men, the women, and
the youngsters?" said Robin, who was resolved that if these men
broke from their lord they should know all the consequences.
"Come, lads, is it manly to save our own skins and let the moil and
toil and swinking labor light on the backs of those less able to bear
the heat of the noonday sun, the beat of the winter rain?"

Many had come hot from the fierce talk of the wilder men among
them as they sat in the alehouse, and now in the darkness and the
chill air of the night their courage was oozing, and they glanced
this way and that, as if looking how to get back to their huts, where
wife and children were sleeping.

But others, of sterner stuff, who had suffered more or felt more
keenly, were not to be put off. Some said they were not married,
others that they would bear no more the harsh rule of Guy of
Gisborne.

Suddenly flying steps were heard coming toward them, and all
listened, holding their breath. The fainter hearted, even at the
sound, edged out of the crowd and crept away.

A little man crashed through the hedge and lit almost at the feet of
Robin.

"'Tis time ye ceased your talking," he said, his voice panting and a
strange catch in it.

"'Tis Much, the Miller's son!" said they all, and waited. They felt
that something of dread had happened, for he was a fearless little
man, and not easily moved.

"'Tis time ye ceased plotting, lads," he said, with a curious break in
his voice. "Ye are but serfs, of no more worth than the cattle ye
clean or the gray swine ye feed-written down on the lawyers'
parchments with the ploughs, the mattocks, the carts, and the
hovels ye lie in, and to be sold at the lord's will as freely!"

Tears were in his voice, so great was his passion, so deeply did his
knowledge move him.

"I tell thee thou shouldst creep back to the sties in which ye live,"
he went on, "and not pretend that ye have voice or wish in what
shall befall ye. For the lord is sick of his unruly serfs, and
tomorrow -- tomorrow he will sell thee off his land!"

A great breath of surprise and rage rose from the men before him.

"Sell us?" they cried. "He will sell us?"

"Ay, he will sell some ten of thee. The parchment is already
written which shall pass thee to Lord Arnald of Shotley Hawe."

"That fiend in the flesh!" said Robin, "and enemy of God -- that
flayer of poor peasants' skins! But, lads, to sell thee! Oh, vile!"

A great roar, like the roar of maddened oxen, rose from the throats
of the villeins. Oh, it was true that, in strict law, the poor villeins
could be sold like cattle, but on this manor never had it been
known to be done. They held their little roods of land by due
services rendered, and custom ruled that son should inherit after
father, and all things should be done according to what the older
men said was the custom of the manor.

But now to be rooted out of the place they and their folk had
known for generations, and sold like cattle in a market-place! Oh,
it was not to be borne!

"Man," said one, "where got you this evil news?"

"From Rare, man to Lord Arnald's steward," replied Much. "I met
him at the alehouse in Blythe, and he told it me with a laugh,
saying that Guy of Gisborne had told the steward we were an
unruly and saucy lot of knaves whom he knew it would be a
pleasure for his lordship to tame."

"Ye say there are ten of us to be sold?" asked a timid voice in the
rear. "Do ye know who these be?"

"What matter?" roared one man. "It touches us all. For me, by the
holy rood, I will run to the woods, but I will put my mark on the
steward ere I go."

"Rare knew not the names of any," said Much. "What matter, as
Hugh of the Forde says. There are ten of ye. They are those who
have given the hardest words to Guy of Gisborne, and have felt the
whip most often across their backs at the post."

"How many of us are here, lads?" said Will the Bowman in a hard
voice.

"We were thirty a while ago," said one with a harsh laugh. "But
now we are but fourteen, counting Much."

"Where is Scarlet and his little lad?" asked Robin. He had suddenly
remembered that his friend was not among others -- yet Scarlet had
been the boldest in opposing the unjust demands and oppressive
exactions of the steward.

"Will Scarlet lies in the pit!" said Much, "nigh dead with a hundred
lashes. Tomorrow he will be taken to Doncaster, where the king's
justice sits, to lose his right hand for shooting the king's deer."

"By the Virgin!" cried Robin, "that shall not be. For I will take him
from the pit this night." He started off, but many hands held him
back.

"Master, we will go with thee!" cried the others.

"See here, Master Robin," said Will the Bowman, speaking
quietly, but with a hard ring in his voice. "We be fourteen men
who are wearied of the ill we suffer daily. If we do naught now
against the evil lord who grinds us beneath his power we shall be
for ever slaves. I for one will rather starve in the greenwood than
suffer toil and wrongful ruling any more. What say you, lads all?"

"Yea, yea! We will go to the greenwood!" they cried.

"Whether Master Robin leads us or not, we will go!" Robin's
resolution was quickly taken.

"Lads," he cried, "I will be one with you. Already have I done a
deed which I knew would be done ere long, and I am doubly
outlaw and wolf's-head. The abbot's men-at-arms came hither
while! was away and claimed my lands. Scadlock and my good
lads resisted them, and were like to suffer death for doing so. With
my good bow I shot five of the lord's men, and their bodies lie in a
row beneath that wall."

"I saw them as I entered," said Will the Bowman, "and a goodly
sight it was. Had you not slain Hubert of Lynn, I had an arrow
blessed by a goodly hermit for his evil heart, for the ill he caused
my dear dead lad Christopher. Now, lads, hold up each your hand
and swear to be true and faithful till your death day to our brave
leader, Robert of Locksley."

All held up their hands, and in solemn tones took the oath.

"Now, lads, quickly follow," said Robin.

In a few moments the garth was empty, and the dark forms of
Robin and his men were to be seen passing over the fields under
the starlit sky.

There was not one backward look as the men passed through
Fangthief Wood and came out on the wold behind the village.
From here they could dimly see the little group of hovels lying
huddled beside the church, the dull water of the river gleaming
further still, and the burble and roar of the stream as it flowed
through the millrace came faintly up to their ears.

In those days, whenever the villein raised his bended back from the
furrows, and his eyes, sore with the sunglare or the driving rain,
sought the hut he called home with thoughts of warmth and food,
he was also reminded that for any offence which he might commit,
his lord or the steward had speedy means of punishment. For,
raised on a hill as near as possible to the huts of the serfs, was the
gaunt gallows, and, near by, lay the pit. Gallows or Galley Hill is
still the name which clings to a green hill beside many a pretty
village, though the dreadful tree which bore such evil fruit has
long since rotted or been hewn down. In the village street itself
were the stocks, so that he who was fastened therein should escape
none of the scorn, laughter, or abuse of his familiars.

 It was thus with the village of Birkencar. On the wold to the north
were the gallows and the pit, only a few yards from the
manor-house, in the parlor of which Guy of Gisborne dealt forth
what he was pleased to term "justice." The manor-house was now
dark and silent; doubtless Guy was sleeping on the good stroke of
business he had done in getting rid of his most unruly, stiff-necked
serfs.

Over the thick grass of the grazing fields the steps of Robin and his
men made no noise, and, having arrived at a little distance from
where the gallows stood, Robin bade the others wait until he
should give them a sign. Then, passing on as quietly as a ghost,
Robin approached the prison built under ground, in which serfs
were confined when they awaited even sterner justice than that
which the lord of the manor could give.

The prison was entered by a door at the foot of a flight of steps dug
out of the soil. Robin crept to the top of the steps and looked
down. He did not expect to find any guard at the door, since the
steward would not dream that anyone would have so much
hardihood as to attempt a rescue from the lord's prison.

As Robin scanned keenly the dark hole below him, down which
the starlight filtered faintly, he was surprised to see a small figure
crouching at the door. He heard a groan come from within the
prison, and the form beneath him seemed to start and cling closer
to the door.

"O uncle," said a soft voice, which he knew was that of little
Gilbert of the White Hand, "I thought thou didst sleep awhile, and
that thy wounds did not grieve thee so much. Therefore I kept
quiet and did not cry. Oh, if Master Robin were but here!"

"Laddie, thou must go home," came the weak tones of Scarlet from
within the prison. "If Guy or his men catch thee here they will beat
thee. That I could not bear. Laddie, dear laddie, go and hide thee
somewhere."

"O Uncle Will, I can't," wailed the little lad. "It would break my
heart to leave thee here -- to think thou wert lying here in the dark
with thy poor back all broken and hurt, and no one near to say a
kind word. Uncle, I have prayed so much this night for thee -- I am
sure help must come soon. Surely the dear sweet Virgin and good
Saint Christopher will not turn deaf ears to a poor lad's prayers."
"But, laddie mine, thou art sick thyself," came Scarlet's voice. "To
stay there all night will cause thee great ill, and -- "

"Oh, what will it matter if thou art taken from me," cried the little
boy, all his fortitude breaking down. He wept bitterly, and pressed
with his hands at the unyielding door. "If they slay thee, I will
make them slay me too, for my life will be all forlorn without thee,
dear, dear Uncle Will!"

"Hallo, laddie, what's all this coil about?" cried Robin in a hearty
voice, as he rose and began to descend the steps.

Little Gilbert started up half in terror; then, as he realized who it
was, he rushed toward Robin, and seizing his hands covered them
with kisses. Then, darting back to the door, he put his lips to a
crack and cried delightedly:

"I said so! I said so! God and His dear Saints and the Virgin have
heard me. Here is Robin come to take you out."

"Have they scored thee badly, Will?" asked Robin.

"Ay, Robin, dear man," came the answer with a faint laugh; "worse
than a housewife scores her sucking pig."

"Bide quiet a bit, lad," replied Robin, "and I'll see if what axe has
done axe can't undo."

With keen eyes he examined the staples through which the
ring-bolt passed. Then with two deft blows with his axe and a
wrench with his dagger he had broken the bolt and pulled open the
door. The little lad rushed in at once, and with a knife began
carefully to cut his uncle's bonds.

Robin gave the cry of a plover, and Scadlock with two of his own
villeins hurried up.

"Quick, lads," he said. "Bring out Will Scarlet; we must take him
to Outwoods and bathe and salve his wounds."

In a few moments, as gently as was possible, they brought poor
Scarlet forth and laid him on the grass. A hearty but silent
handgrip passed between him and Robin, while little Gilbert, his
eyes bright, but his lips dumb with a great gratitude, kissed Robin's
hand again and again.

"Where are the others?" asked Robin of Scadlock, when two of the
men had raised Scarlet on their shoulders and were tramping down
hill.

"I know not," said Scadlock. "They were whispering much among
themselves when you had gone, and suddenly I looked round and
they were not there. I thought some wizard had spirited them away
for the moment, but soon I saw some of them against the stars as
they ran bending over the hill."

"Whither went they?" asked Robin, a suspicion in his mind.

"Toward the manor-house," was the reply.

"Go ye to Outwoods," Robin commanded. "Do all that is needed
for Scarlet, and await me there."

With rapid strides Robin mounted the down, while the others with
their burden wended their way toward Fangthief Wood. When
Robin reached the top of the down the manor-house stood up
before him all black against the stars. He ran forward to the high
bank which surrounded it, but met no one. Then he found the great
gate, which was open, and he went into the garth and a few steps
along the broad way leading up to the door.

Suddenly a form sprang up before him -- that of Much, the Miller's
son.

"Ay, 'tis Master Robin," he said in a low voice, as if to others, and
from behind a tree came Will Stuteley and Kit the Smith.

"What's toward, lads?" asked Robin. "Think ye to break in and slay
Guy? I tell ye the manor-house can withstand a siege from an
armed troop, and ye have no weapons but staves and your knives."
"Master Robin," said Will the Bowman, "I would that ye stood by
and did naught in this matter. 'Tis a villein deed for villein fowk to
do. 'Tis our right and our deed; in the morn when we're in the
greenwood we'll do thy biddin' and look to no one else."

A flame suddenly shot up from a heap of dried brush laid against a
post of the house before them, then another near it, and still
another. The sun had been shining fiercely the past two weeks, and
everything was as dry as tinder. Built mainly of wood the
manor-house would fall an easy prey to the flames.

"But at least ye must call out the women," urged Robin. "There is
the old dame, Makin, and the serving-wench-would ye burn
innocent women as well?"

Already the inmates were aware of their danger. A face appeared
at a window shutter. It was that of Guy. A stone hit the frame as he
looked out and just missed him as he dodged back.

Huge piles of brushwood had been heaped round the house, and
these were burning furiously in many places, and the planks of the
walls had caught fire, and were crackling and burning fiercely.

"Guy of Gisborne!" came the strong voice of Will the Bowman,
"thy days are ended. We have thee set, like a tod [fox] in his hole.
But we've no call to burn the women folk. Send 'em out, then, but
none o' thy tricks."

They heard screams, and soon the front door was flung open and
two women stood in the blazing entrance. One of the men with a
long pole raked the blazing brushwood away to give them space to
come out. They ran forward and the door closed. Next moment it
had opened again, and a spear came from it. It struck the villein
with the pole full in the throat, and without a groan he fell.

A yell of fury rose from the others who were standing by, and
some were for rushing forward to beat down the door.

"Ha' done and keep back!" came the stern level tones of Will the
Bowman. "There's nobbut the steward in the house and he'll burn.
Heap up the wood, and keep a keen watch on the back door and
the windows."

An arrow came from an upper window and stuck in a tree near
which Will was standing. Will plucked out the quivering shaft and
looked at it coolly.

"Say, Makin," he said to the old woman who had come from the
house, "are there any of the abbot's archers in th' house?"

"Noa," replied the old housekeeper; "nobbut the maistet."

"I thought 'twas so," replied Will. "Yet he should shoot a bolt
better than that."

"You're no doomed to die by an arrow," said the old dame, and
laughed, showing her yellow toothless gums.

"No, maybe so," replied Will, "and maybe not. I lay no store by thy
silly' talk, Makin."

"Nor will the maistet die by the fire ye've kindled so fine for un,"
went on the old woman, and laughed again.

Will the Bowman looked at the fiercely burning walls of the house
and made no answer. But he smiled grimly. Who could escape
alive from this mass of twisting and whirling flames?

Suddenly from the rear of the house came cries of terror. Robin,
followed by Will, quickly ran round, and in the light of the burning
house they saw the villeins on that side with scared faces looking
and pointing to a distance. They turned in the direction indicated,
and saw what seemed to be a brown horse running away over the
croft.

Glancing back they saw that the door of a storehouse which
adjoined the manor-house was open, though its wood and flame
were burning. With a cry of rage Will the Bowman suddenly
started running toward the horse.

"Come back! come back!" cried the villeins in terrified voices.
"'Tis the Spectre Beast! 'Twill tear thee to pieces!"

But he still ran on, and as he ran they could see him trying to notch
an arrow to the bow he held in his hand.

"Whence did it come?" asked Robin of the villeins.

"It burst on a sudden from the house, with a mane all of fire and its
eyes flashing red and its terrible mouth open," was the reply. "It
ran at Bat the Coalman there, and I thought he was doomed to be
torn to pieces, but the Bargast turned and dashed away over the
croft."

"I think Guy has escaped you," said Robin, who suspected what
had happened.

"How meanst tha?" asked Bat the Charcoal-burner.

"I doubt not that Guy of Gisborne has wrapped himself in some
disguise and frightened you, and has now got clear away," replied
Robin.

"But 'twas the Spectre Mare!" the villeins asserted. "We saw its
mane all afire, and its red flashing eyes and its terrible jaws all
agape."

Robin did not answer. He knew it was in vain to fight against the
superstition of the poor villeins. Instead, he went back to where he
had left Makin, the old woman.

"Makin," he said, "did thy master flay a brown horse but lately?"

"Ay, but two days agone."

"And where was the hide?"

"In th' store beyond the house."

"Thou saidst thy master should not die by fire, Makin?"

"Ay," replied the old woman, and her small black eyes in a
weazened yellow face looked narrowly into Robin's.

"Will the Bowman hath gone to shoot thy master," went on Robin;
"but I think he will not catch him. I think thou shouldst not bide
here till Will comes back, Makin. He will be hot and angry, and
will strike blindly if he guesses."

The old woman smiled, and gave a little soft laugh. Then, with a
sudden anger and her eyes flashing, she turned upon Robin, and in
a low voice said:

"And could I do aught else? A hard man he's been and a hard man
he'll be to his last day -- as hard to me as to a stranger. But these
arms nursed him when he was but a wee poor bairn. 'Twas I told
him what to do wi' the hide of the old mare. Could I do aught
else?"

"Ay," said Robin, "I know thou'st been mother to a man who has
but a wolf's heart. But now, get thee gone ere Will of Stuteley
comes."

Without another word, the old woman turned and hurried away in
the darkness.

A little while later Will the Bowman returned, and full of rage was
he.

"The dolterheads!" he cried. "Had ye no more sense in thy silly
heads as not to know that so wily a man would be full of tricks?
Spectre in truth and in deed! Old women ye are, and only fitten to
tend cows and be sold like cows! Could ye not see his legs beneath
the hide of the horse which he'd thrown over himself? -- wolf in
horse's skin that he is. Go back to thy villein chores; ye're no
worthy to go to the greenwood to be free men."

He went off in great anger, and would say no word to anyone.

It was only later that he told Robin that he had run after the
horse-like figure, and had distinctly seen the human legs beneath
the hide. He had tried a shot at it, but had missed, and the figure
ran forward to the horse pasture on the moor. There his suspicions
had been proved to be true, for he had seen Guy of Gisborne pull
the hide off himself, and jump on one of the horses in the field and
ride away, taking the hide with him.

"Now, lads," said Robin to the villeins, "'tis no use wasting time
here. The wolf hath stolen away, and soon will rouse the country
against us. You must to the greenwood, for you have done such a
deed this night as never hath been done by villeins against their
lord's steward as far back as the memory of man goeth."

"Thou'rt right, maister," they said. "'Tis for our necks now we must
run. But great doltheads we be, as Will said truly, to let the evil
man slip out of our hands by a trick!"

No more, however, was said. All made haste to leave the burning
manor-house, most of which was now a blackening or smouldering
ruin. Rapidly they ran downhill, and having picked up Scadlock
and the other villeins with Scarlet and the little lad, Robin led the
way under the waning stars to the deep dark line of forest which
rose beside his fields.

Chapter II HOW LITTLE JOHN STOLE THE FORESTER'S
DINNER, AND OF HIS MEETING WITH ROBIN HOOD

"AY, lads, but this be bliss indeed!"

The speaker was Much, the Miller's son. He gave a great sigh of
satisfaction, and rolled himself over on the grass to make himself
even more comfortable than he was. Grunts or sighs of satisfaction
answered him from others of the twenty forms lying at full length
under the deep shadow of the trees. Some, however, answered with
snores, for the buck they had eaten had been a fine one, and the
quarterstaff play that morning had been hard, and for ringing heads
slumber is the best medicine.

It was in a small glade deep in the heart of Barnisdale Forest where
the outlaws lay, and was known to them as the Stane Lea or
Stanley. At one side of it a little rivulet gurgled over its pebbles,
and at the other end stood a great standing stone, green with moss,
where, doubtless, ages before, the skin-clad warriors of the forest
had come with their prayers to the spirit of the great chief who was
buried beneath it. Beside the brook knelt Scadlock and his fellow
cook, cleaning the wooden platters which had just been used, by
the simple process of rubbing them with sand in the clear running
water.

The sunlight of the hot July day fell on the water through spaces
between the slowly bending leaves, and in the deep green gloom
the rays shone like bars of gold. Most of the villeins lay on their
backs, feeling pure enjoyment in looking up into the weaving
masses of leaves above their heads, through which, like flaming
spear-heads, the sunlight slid now and then as the gentle summer
breeze stirred the deeps of the trees. After a full meal, and with the
soft air blowing upon their cheeks, these poor outlaws tasted such
happiness as had never before been their lot. Little Gilbert, his
cheek now ruddy with health, sat beside Scarlet shaping arrows
with a knife.

Seated with his back against the trunk of a fallen elm was Robin,
his bearing as bold, his eye as keen and fearless and his look as
noble now as when a short month ago he was not an outlaw, a
"wolf's-head" as the phrase was, whom any law-abiding man could
slay and get a reward for his head.

Strict had been his rule of these twenty men who had come to the
greenwood with him and had chosen him as their leader. Slow of
step and of movement they were, but he knew that the lives of all
of them depended upon their learning quickly the use of the
quarterstaff, the sword, and the longbow. Every day, therefore, he
had made them go through set tasks. Chapped and hard with toil at
the plow, the mattock, and the hedge knife, their hands took slowly
to the more delicate play with sword, quarterstaff, and bow; but
most of them were but young men, and he had hopes that very
soon they would gain quickness of eye and deftness of hand,
besides the lore that would tell them how to track the red deer, and
to face and overcome the fierce wolf and the white-tusked boar in
his wrath.

"What should us be doin' now," murmured Dickson the Carpenter,
"if we were still bondsmen and back in the village?''

"I should be feeding the lord's gray swine or ploughing his domain
lands," said Long Peter, "while my own fields grew rank with
weeds."

"I," said Will Stuteley bitterly, "should be cursing the evil abbot
who broke my poor lad's heart. When I feel I should be happiest, I
think and grieve of him the most. Oh, that he were here!"

No one spoke for a few moments. All felt that although all had
suffered, Will the Bowman had suffered most bitterly from the
heartlessness of the lord abbot of St. Mary's and Sir Guy of
Gisborne's treacherous dealing. Will had had a son, a villein, of
course, like himself. But the lad had run away to Grimsby, had
lived there for a year and a day in the service of a shipman, and
thus had got his freedom. Then he had saved all he could, toiling
manfully day and night, to get sufficient money to buy his father's
freedom. He had scraped and starved to win the twenty marks that
meant the end of his father's serfdom. At length he had saved the
amount, and then had gone to the lord abbot and offered it for his
father's freedom. The abbot had seized him and cast him into
prison, and taken the money from him. Then witnesses were found
to swear in the manor court that the young man had been seen in
his father's hut during the year and a day, and by this the abbot
claimed him as his serf. As to the money he had saved -- "All that
a serf got was got for his lord" was an old law that none could
deny. The young man, broken in health and spirit, had been
released, had worked in the manor fields dumb and dazed with
sorrow, and at length one night had been found dead on his pallet
of straw.

"And I," said Scarlet, leaning on his left elbow and raising his
clenched right hand in the air, "I should be reaping the lord's
wheat, and with every stroke of my sickle I should be hungering
for the day when I should sink my knife in the evil heart of Guy of
Gisborne, who made me a serf who was once a socman, because of
the poverty which came upon me."

This, too, was true. Scarlet had been a freeman, but harvests had
failed, the lord's steward had forced him to do labor which it had
never been the custom for a freeman to do, and gradually his fields
had run to waste, and Scarlet had lost his land, and sunk to the
level of a common serf.

"Master," said Much, the Miller's son, "it seemeth to me that we be
all poor men who have suffered evil from those who have power.
Surely now that we are outlaws thou shouldst give us some rule
whereby we may know, whom we shall beat and bind, and whom
we shall let go free? Shall we not let the rich and the lordly know
somewhat of the poor man's aching limbs and poverty?"

"It was in my mind to speak to you of such things," said Robin.
"First, I will have you hurt no woman, nor any company in which a
woman is found. I remember the sweet Virgin, and will ever pray
for her favor and protection, and I will, therefore, that you shield
all women. Look to it, also, that ye do not any harm to any honest
peasant who tilleth his soil in peace, nor to good yeomen,
wherever you meet them. Knights, also, and squires who are not
proud, but who are good fellows, ye shall treat with all kindness.
But I tell thee this, and bear it well in mind-abbots and bishops,
priors, and canons, and monks -- ye may do all your will upon
them. When ye rob them of their gold or their rich stuffs ye are
taking only that which they have squeezed and reived from the
poor. Therefore, take your fill of their wealth, and spare not your
staves on their backs. They speak the teaching of the blessed Jesus
with their mouths, but their fat bodies and their black hearts deny
Him every hour."

"Yea, yea!" shouted the outlaws, moved by the fire which had been
in Robin's voice and in his eyes. "We will take toll of all such who
pass through our greenwood roads."
    "And now, lads," went on Robin, "though we be outlaws, and
beyond men's laws, we are still within God's mercy. Therefore I
would have you go with me to hear mass. We will go to Campsall,
and there the mass-priest shall hear our confessions, and preach
from God's book to us."

In a little while the outlaws in single file were following their
leader through the leafy ways of the forest, winding in and out
beside the giant trees, across the fern-spread glades whence the red
deer and the couching doe sprang away in affright, wading across
brooks and streams, skirting some high cliff or rocky dell; but yet,
though the way was devious and to most unknown, all felt
confidence in the leadership of Robin.

Suddenly Much, who walked beside Robin, stopped as they
entered a small glade.

"Look!" he said, pointing to the other side. "'Tis an elf -- a
brownie! I saw it step forth for a moment. 'Tis no bigger than a
boy. It is hiding behind that fern. But this bolt shall find it if 'tis
still there?

He raised his bow and notched an arrow, but Robin struck down
his wrist, and the arrow shot into the earth a few yards ahead of
them.

"The brownies are my friends," said Robin, laughing, "and will be
yours, too, if you deserve such friendship. Hark you, Much, and all
my merry fellows. Shoot nothing in the forest which shows no
desire to hurt thee, unless it is for food. So shall ye win the service
of all good spirits and powers that harbor here or in heaven."

The men wondered what Robin meant, and during the remainder
of their walk they kept a keen lookout for a sight of Much's
brownie. But never a glimpse did they get of it, and at length they
began to chaff Much, saying he had eaten too much venison, and
took spots before his eyes to be fairies. But he persisted in
asserting that he had seen a little man, "dark of face and hair, no
bigger than a child. A sun-ray struck him as he moved," he said,
"and I saw the hairy arm of him with the sunlight on him."

"'Twas no more than a squirrel!" said one; "and Much took his
brush for a man's arm."

"Or else Much is bewitched," said another. "I said he slept in a
fairy ring the other night."

"I tell thee it was Puck himself, or Puck's brother!" said Much with
a laugh, who now began almost to doubt his own eyes, and so
stopped their chaffing by joining in the laughter himself.

At the little forest village, set in its clearing in the midst of giant
elms and oaks, the men went one by one and made confession to
the simple old parish priest, and when this was done, at Robin's
request the mass service was said. Before he knelt Robin looked
around the little wooden church, and saw a young and handsome
man kneeling behind him, dressed in a light hauberk. In one hand
he held a steel cap, and a sword hung by his side. He was tall and
graceful, yet strongly built, and was evidently a young squire of
good family. Robin looked at him keenly, and liked the frank gaze
that met his eyes.

Mass was but half done when into the church came a little man,
slight of form, dark of face. With quick looks his eyes swept the
dim space, and then, almost as by instinct, they rested on Robin,
where in the front row of his men he kneeled before the priest.
Swiftly and with the stealthy softness of a cat, the little man crept
along the aisle past the kneeling outlaws. As their bent eyes caught
the lithe form stealing by, they looked up, some with wonder in
their eyes, while others gazed almost with terror on the uncanny
dwarfish figure.

They watched it creep up to Robin and touch his elbow. Then their
master bent his head, and the little man whispered a few quick
words into his ear.

"Two of the four grim knights have followed thee, Maister," were
the words he said. "They are within a bowshot of the kirk door. A
churl hath spied upon thee these last days. There are twenty
men-at-arms with the knights."

"Go and keep watch at the door," said Robin in a whisper. "Evil
men must wait till God's service be done."

The little man turned and crept quietly back the way he had come,
and the outlaws nudged each other as he passed, and gazed at him
in wonder. Much, the Miller's son, smiled with triumph.

The mass went on, and the outlaws responded in due manner to the
words of the priest; the last words were said, and the men were just
rising from their knees, when, with a hum like a huge drone, an
arrow came through one of the narrow window slits, and speeding
across the church, twanged as it struck in the wall at the opposite
side.

"Saint Nicholas shield us!" said the priest in affright, and shuffled
away through a door at the back of the church.

"Now, lads," said Robin, "today will prove whether ye have at
heart those daily lessons with the long-bow. To the window slits
with you! The knights of the Evil Hold have run us down, and
would dearly like to have our bodies to torture in their
crucet-house."

The faces of the outlaws went grim at the words. Throughout the
length and breadth of the Barnisdale and Peak lands the tales of
the cruelties and tortures of the robber lords of Wrangby had been
spread by wandering beggars, jugglers, and palmers. The blood of
the villeins and poor folk whom the evil knights had hurt, maimed,
or slain had long cried out for vengeance. The outlaws flew to the
window slits, while Robin and Scarlet, having shut the big oaken
door, kept their eyes to the arrow slits in the thick oak panels.
Every church in those hard days was as much a fortress as a place
of worship, and Robin saw that this little wooden building could
be held for some hours against all ordinary enemies save fire.

The young squire went up to Robin, and said:

"Who are these folk, good woodman, who wish thee harm?"

"They are lords of high degree," replied Robin, "but with the
manners of cutpurses and tavern knifers. Niger le Grym, Hamo de
Mortain "

"What!" interrupted the knight hotly; "the evil crew of Isenbart de
Belame, grandson of the fiend of Tickhill?"

"The same," said Robin.

"Then, good forester," said the young man, and eager was his
speech, "I pray thee let me aid thee in this. Isenbart de Belame is
the most felon knight that ever slew honest man or oppressed weak
women. He is my most bitter enemy, and much would I give to
slay him."

"Of a truth," replied Robin, "ye may help me as you may, seeing
your anger is so great. Who may ye be?"

"I am Alan de Tranmire, squire to my father Sir Herbrand de
Tranmire," replied the other. "But I love most to be called by the
name which my friends give me -- Alan-a-Dale."

While he talked the outlaw had kept one eye on the arrow slit
before him, and saw how the men-at-arms on the borders of the
forest were forming in a body, headed by two knights on
horseback, to make a dash at the door of the church to beat it
down.

"I hope, young sir," said Robin, "that thy sword may not be needed.
For I hope with my good fellows to keep those rascals from
coming so near as to let them use their swords, of which, I admit,
my men are as yet but sorry masters."

"But I love the bow," said Alan, "and in the forest near my father's
manor I have shot many a good bolt."

"Good!" said Robin, and his eyes showed that his appreciation of
the young squire was increased by what he had said. "Ho, there,
Kit the Smith! Give this gentleman, Alan-a-Dale here, one of the
spare bows thou hast, and a bunch of arrows. Now," went on the
outlaw, when this had been done, "do you all, my lads, stand at the
arrow slits which command that group of rascals there at the
woodside. They plot to beat down this door, thinking we are but
poor runagate serfs with no knowledge of weapons, whom they
can butcher as a terrier doth rats in a pit. Prove yourselves this day
to be men of the good yew-bow. Mark each your man as they
advance, and let them not reach the door."

Eagerly the outlaws crowded to the arrow slits which commanded
the place where, in the shade of the shaw, the men-at-arms seemed
busy about something. At length they could be seen to lift some
weight from the ground, and then their purpose was seen. They
had felled a young oak, which, having lopped off its branches, they
intended to use as a battering-ram wherewith to beat down the
door.

Soon they were seen advancing, some dozen of the twenty ranged
beside the trunk which they bore. Two outlaws stood at each
window slit, a short man in front and a tall man behind, and each
man squinted through the slit with a grim light in his eyes, and
held his arrow notched on the string with the eagerness of dogs
held in leash who see the quarry just before them.

"Much, Scadlock, Dickon, and you twelve fellows to the right,
mark each your man at the tree," came the low stern tones of
Robin, "and see that you do not miss. You other eight, let your
arrows point at the breasts of the others. By the rood!" he
exclaimed, marking how confidently the knights' men advanced
over the open ground, "they think the hunting of runaway serfs is
like hunting rabbits. Hold your bolts till I give the word!" he said.
"Ye will forgive me this day the sweating I ha' given thee, good
lads, when I made thee shoot at the mark nigh day-long these last
weeks."

"O master!" cried one man, quivering with excitement, "a murrain
on this waiting! If I shoot not soon, the arrow will leap from my
hand."

"Shoot not till I say!" said Robin sternly. "Forty paces is all I trust
thee for, but not eight of the rascals should be standing then.
Steady, lads!"

For one tremendous moment all nerves were taut as they waited
for the word. The men-at-arms, coming now at a trot, seemed
almost at the door when Robin said "Shoot!"

Twenty-one arrows leaped from the slits in the wooden walls, and
hummed across the space of some sixty feet. To the men in the
church peering out, bated of breath, the effect seemed almost one
of wizardry. They saw eight of the men who ran with the tree-trunk
suddenly check, stagger, and then fall. Of the others, three dashed
to the ground, one got up and ran away, and two others, turning,
pulled arrows from their arms as they too fled back to the wood.
One of the horses of the knights came to the ground with a clatter
and a thud, throwing his master, who got up, and, dazed with the
blow or the utterly unexpected warmth of the defence, gazed for a
moment or two at the church.

The other knight, who was untouched, yelled something at him,
and fiercely pulling his horse round, rode swiftly back to the
shelter of the forest, whither all the men who could run had
already fled. Suddenly the unhorsed knight seemed to wake up,
and then turning, ran as swiftly as his armor would allow him
toward the forest. An arrow came speeding after him, but missed
him, and soon he had disappeared.

On the worn grass before the church lay ten motionless forms and
the dead horse, who had been struck to the heart by an arrow.

"Now, lads," said Robin, "to the forest with you quickly, and
follow them."

Quickly the door was unbarred, and the outlaws gained the forest
at the spot where their attackers had disappeared. The traces of
their hurried flight were easily picked up as the outlaws pushed
forward. Alan-a-Dale came with them, and Robin thanked him for
the aid he had given them.

"If at any time," said Robin, "you should stand in need of a few
good bowmen, forget not to send word to Robert of Locksley, or
Robin of Barnisdale, for by either name men know me."

"I thank thee, Robin of Barnisdale," said Alan, "and it may be that
I may ask thy help at some future time."

"What," said Robin with a laugh, "has so young and gallant a
squire as thou seemest already an enemy?"

"Ay," replied Alan, and his handsome face was gloomy. "And little
chance as yet do I see of outwitting my enemy, for he is powerful
and oppressive."

"Tell me thy tale," said Robin, "for I would be thy friend, and aid
thee all I can."

"I thank thee, good Robin," replied Alan. "It is thus with me. I love
a fair and sweet maiden whose father has lands beside Sherwood
Forest. Her name is Alice de Beauforest. Her father holds his
manor from that great robber and oppressor, Isenbart de Belame,
who wishes him to marry the fair Alice to an old and rich knight
who is as evil a man as Isenbart himself. The knight of Beauforest
would rather wed his daughter to myself, whom she hath chosen
for the love I bear to her; but the lord of Belame threatens that if
he doth not that which he commands, he will bring fire and ruin
upon him and his lands. Therefore I know not what to do to win
my dear lady. Brave is she as she is fair, and would face any ill for
my sake, but she loveth her father, who is past his fighting days
and desires to live in peace. Therefore her loyalty to him fights
against her love for me."

"Is any time fixed for this marriage?" asked Robin. "Belame
swears that if it be not done within a year, Beauforest shall cook
his goose by the fire of his own manor-house," was the reply.

"There is time enow," said Robin. "Who knows? Between this and
then much may happen. I am sure thou art brave. Thou must also
have patience. I shall be faring south to merry Sherwood ere long,
and I will acquaint myself of this matter more fully, and we shall
meet anon and speak of this matter again. But see, who are these --
knight and churl, who speak so privily together?"

Robin and Alan had separated from the main body of outlaws, and
were about to enter a little glade, when at the mouth of a ride at
the other end they saw a man in armour, on foot, speaking to a
low-browed, sinister-looking man in the rough tunic of a villein --
his only dress, except for the untanned shoes upon his feet. As
Robin spoke, the knight turned and saw them, and they instantly
recognized him as the man who had been unhorsed before the
church. The churl pointed at them, and said something to the
knight.

"Ha, knaves!" said the latter, advancing into the glade toward
them. "Thou art two of those company of run slaves, as I guess."

"Run slaves we may be," said Robin, notching an arrow to his
string, "but, sir knight, they made you and your men run in a way
you in no whit expected."

"By Our Lady," said the knight, with a harsh laugh, "thou speakest
saucily, thou masterless rascal. But who have we here," he said,
glancing at Alan; "a saucy squire who would be the better of a
beating, as I think."

Alan-a-Dale had already dressed his shield, which hitherto had
hung by a strap on his back, and drawing his sword, he stepped
quickly toward the other.

"I know thee, Ivo le Ravener," he said in a clear ringing voice, "for
a false knight -- a robber of lonely folk, an oppressor of women,
and a reiver of merchants' goods. God and Our Lady aiding me,
thou shalt get a fall from me this day."

"Thou saucy knave!" cried the other in a rage; and with great fury
he sprang toward Alan, and the clash of steel, as stroke came upon
guard or shield, arose in the quiet glade.

Fast and furious was that fight, and they thrust at each other like
boars or stags in deadly combat. Alan was the nimbler, for the
other was a man of a foul life, who loved wine and rich food; and
though he was the older man and the more cunning in sword-craft,
yet the younger man's swiftness of limb, keenness of eye and
strength of stroke were of more avail. Alan avoided or guarded his
opponent's more deadly strokes, and by feinting and leaping back,
sought to weary the other. Yet he did not escape without wounds.
He had but a light hauberk on his body, and on his head a steel cap
with a nasal piece, while the other had a shirt of heavy mail and a
vizored helm laced to his hauberk.

At last Sir Ivo's shield arm drooped, for all his efforts to keep it
before him, and his sword strokes waxed fainter, and his breath
could be heard to come hoarsely. Suddenly Alan leaped in upon
him, and with an upward thrust drove his sword into the evil
knight's throat.

At the same moment Robin, who had been watching intently the
fight between Alan and the knight, heard the hiss as of a snake
before him and then a footstep behind him. He stepped swiftly
aside, and a knife-blade flashed beside him. Turning, he saw the
churl who had been speaking with the knight almost fall to the
ground with the force of the blow he had aimed at Robin's back.
Then the man, quickly recovering, dashed away toward the trees.

As he did so a little dark form seemed to start up from the bracken
before him. Over the churl tripped and fell heavily, with the small,
pixie-like figure gripping him. For a moment they seemed to
struggle in a deadly embrace, then suddenly the big body of the
churl fell away like a log, the brownie rose, shook himself, and
wiped a dagger blade upon a bracken leaf.

"I thank thee, Hob o' the Hill, both for the snake's warning and thy
ready blow," said Robin. "I should have kept my eyes about me.
Who is the fellow, Hob?"

"'Tis Grull, the churl from the Evil Hold," said Hob. "He hath
haunted the forest by the Stane Lea where was thy camp these
three days past. I thought he was a serf that craved his freedom,
but he was a spy."

Hob o' the Hill was brother to Ket the Trow or Troll, but in build
and look he differed greatly. He was no taller than his bigger
brother, but all his form was in a more delicate mold. Slender of
limb, he had a pale face, which set off the uncanny blackness of
his eyes, black curly hair, and short beard. His arms were long, and
the hands, as refined almost as a girl's, were yet strong and
rounded. He, too, was dressed in a laced leather tunic and breeches
of doe-skin that reached the ankles, while on his feet were stout
shoes.

Robin went to Alan, whom he found seated on the ground beside
his dead enemy. He was weary and faint from a wound in his
shoulder. This Robin bound up with cloth torn from Alan's shirt of
fine linen, after which the outlaw asked him what he would do
now.

"I think I will take me home to Werrisdale," said Alan. "I am
staying at Forest Hold, the house of my foster-brother, Piers the
Lucky, but there will be hue and cry raised against me ere long for
the slaying of this rascal knight, and I would not that harm should
happen to my brother for my fault."

"I have heard of Piers," said Robin, who knew indeed something of
everyone who dwelt in or near the wide forests which he loved,
"and I think he would not wish thee to avoid him if he could help
thee."

"I know it," said Alan, "but I would not that Belame and his evil
crew should burn my foster-brother in his bed one night in revenge
upon me. Nay, I will get me home if I can come at my horse,
which I left at a forester's hut a mile from here."

Together Robin and Alan went on their way toward the hut of the
forester.

While the events just described had been taking place a man had
been passing along a path in a part of the forest some mile and a
half distant. He was a tall man, with great limbs, which gave
evidence of enormous strength, and he was dressed in the rough
homespun garb of a peasant. He seemed very light-hearted.
Sometimes he , twirled a great quarterstaff which he held in his
hands, and again he would start whistling, or begin trolling a song
at the top of a loud voice.

"John, John," he said suddenly, apostrophising himself, "what a
fool thou art! Thou shouldst be as mum as a fish, and shouldst
creep like a footpad from bush to bush. Thou singest like a
freeman, fool, whereas thou art but a runaway serf into whose silly
body the free air of the free forest has entered like wine. But
twenty short miles separate thee from the stocks and
whipping-post of old Lord Mumblemouth and his bailiff, and here
thou art trolling songs or whistling as if a forester may not
challenge thee from the next brake and seize thee for the chance of
a reward from thy lord. Peace, fool, look to thy ways and -- Saints!
what a right sweet smell!" He broke off, and lifting up his head,
sniffed the sunlit air of the forest, casting his bright brown eyes
humorously this way and that. "Sure," he went on, "I have hit upon
the kitchen of some fat abbot! What a waste, to let so fat a smell
be spent upon the air. Holy Virgin, how hungry I am! Let me seek
out the causer of this most savory odor. Maybe he will have
compassion upon a poor wayfarer and give me some little of his
plenty."

Saying this, John pushed aside the bushes and stole in the direction
of the smell. He had not gone far before he found himself peering
into a glade, in the midst of which was a tree, to which was
tethered a horse, while not far from the bushes where he stood was
a hut of wood, its roof formed of turves in which grew bunches of
wallflower, stitchwort, and ragged robin. Before the door of this
abode a fire was burning brightly without flame, and on skewers
stuck in the ground beside it were cutlets of meat. These spluttered
and sizzled in the genial heat of the fire, and gave forth the savory
smell which had made John feel suddenly that he was a very
hungry man, and had walked far without food.

John eyed the juicy steaks, and his mouth watered. For a moment
he thought no one watched the spluttering morsels, and he was
thinking that for a hungry man to take one or even two of them
would be no sin; but as he was thinking thus a man came from the
hut, and bending down, turned two of the skewers so that the meat
upon them should be better done.

John's face gloomed. The man was one of the king's rangers of the
forest, as was shown by his tunic of green and his hose of brown,
and the silver badge of a huntinghorn upon his hat. Moreover, his
face was surly and sour -- the face of a man who would sooner see
a poor man starve than grant him a portion of his meal.

It was Black Hugo, the forester who had accosted Robin and
Scarlet in so surly a manner when he had met them in the forest.

John thought for a few moments, and then, backing gently away so
that he made no noise, he reached a spot at some distance from the
glade. Then, casting caution aside he tramped forward again, and
reaching the glade, burst into it, and then stopped, as if surprised at
what he saw before him. He had dropped his quarterstaff in the
bushes before he issued from them.

The surly forester glared at him from the other side of the fire.

"How now?" said he; "thou lumbering dolt! Who art thou to go
breaking down the bushes like some hog? Hast thou no fear of the
king's justice on all who disturb his deer?"

"I pray your pardon, master ranger," said John, pulling a forelock
of his hair, and pretending to be no more than a rough oaf. "I knew
not whither I was going, but I smelt the good smell of your meat,
and though it might be that some good company of monks or a
lord's equipage was preparing their midday meal, and might spare
a morsel for a poor wayfarer who hath eaten naught since dawn."

"Go thy ways, churl," said the ranger, and his face looked more
surly than ever when he heard John ask for a portion of his meat.
"Thou seest I am no monk or lord, but I prepare my own meal. So
get thee gone to the highway ere I kick thee there. Knowest thou
that thou hast no right to leave the road? Get thee gone, I say!"

Black Hugo spoke in angry tones, looked fiercely at the apparently
abashed churl, and started forward as if about to put his threat into
action. John, pulling his lock again, retreated hurriedly as if
thoroughly frightened. Black Hugo stood listening for a few
moments to the peasant's heavy footsteps as he crashed through the
bushes toward the highway again, and then, turning to the hut,
drew from a chest a huge piece of bread, from which he cut a thick
slice. Then, going to the fire, he bent down and took up one of the
skewers, and pushed off the meat with a knife on the slice. He did
the same to the second, and then bent to the third.

Suddenly a small pole seemed to leap like a lance from the bush
nearest to him, and flying across the space to the fire, one end
caught the bending forester a sounding thwack on the side of the
head. He fell sideways almost into the fire, stunned, and the
skewer with the meat upon it flew up into the air.

John, leaping from the bush, caught the skewer as it fell, saying: "I
like not dust on my food, surly ranger."

He deposited the meat on the bread beside the others, and then,
going to the prostrate ranger, turned him over and looked at the
place where the pole had struck him.

"'Twas a shrewd throw!" said John, with a chuckle, "and hit the
very spot! An inch lower would have slain him, perhaps, and an
inch higher would have cracked his curmudgeon skull. As 'tis, he'll
get his wits again in the turn of a fat man's head, just in time to see
me eating my dinner."

He lifted the forester as easily as if he were a child, and propping
him in a sitting position against one of the posts of the hut, he
lashed him securely to it with a rope which he found inside. Then,
with his quarterstaff beside him, he sat down beside the fire and
began demolishing the three juicy venison steaks.

In a few moments Black Hugo, with a great sigh, opened his eyes,
lifted his head, and looked in a dazed manner before him. At sight
of John biting huge mouthfuls out of the bread, all his wits
returned to him.

"Thou runagate rogue!" he said, and his face flushed with rage. He
strove to pull his hands from the rope, but in vain. "I will mark
thee, thou burly robber. Thou shalt smart for this, and I will make
thee repent that thou didst ever lay me low with thy dirty staff. I
will crop thy ears for thee, and swear thy life away, thou
hedge-robber and cutpurse!"

"Rant not so, thou black-faced old ram!" said John, with a laugh,
"but think thee how sweeter a man thou wouldst have been hadst
thou shared thy meat with me. See, now, surly old dog of the
woods, thou hast lost all because thou didst crave to keep all. Thy
cutlets are done to a turn; thou'rt a good cook -- a better cook, I
trow, than a forester; and see, here is the last morsel. Look!"

Saying which, John perched the remaining piece of meat on the
last piece of bread, and opening his huge mouth popped them both
in, and gave a great laugh as he saw the black looks in the other's
eyes.

"I thank thee, forester, for the good dinner thou didst cook for me,"
went on John. "I feel kindly to thee, though thou dost look but
sourly upon me. I doubt not thou dost ache to get at me, and I
would like to try a bout with thee. Say, wilt thou have a turn with
the quarterstaff?"

"Ay," said Black Hugo, his eyes gleaming with rage. "Let me have
at thee, thou masterless rogue, and I will not leave one sound bone
in thy evil carcass."

"By Saint Peter!" said John, with a laugh, "art thou so great with
the quarterstaff? Man, I shall love to see thy play. Come, then, we
will set to."

Rising, John approached the ranger for the purpose of unloosing
his bonds, when the sound of voices was borne to him through the
forest. He stopped and listened, while the eyes of Black Hugo
glared at him in triumph. Doubtless, if, as was probable, the
travelers who were approaching were law abiding, he would soon
be released, and could wreak his vengeance on this rogue. The
sounds of steps and voices came nearer, until from the bushes
midway on one side of the glade there issued Alan-a-Dale and
Robin, who looked at the tall form of the serf and then at the
ranger tied to the post.

John bent and took up his staff, and turning to Black Hugo, said:

"I doubt thy honesty, good ranger, if, as thy evil face seems to say,
these are thy friends. But fear not I shall forget. We will have that
bout together ere long. Thanks for thy dinner again."

Saying this, John disappeared among the bushes and noiselessly
stole away.

Robin and Alan-a-Dale came up, and could not forbear laughing
when they saw the sour looks of Black Hugo. "What is this?" asked
Robin. "The king's forester bound to a post by some wandering
rogue! What, man, and has he taken thy dinner too!"

The gloomy silence of the forester confirmed what they had
gathered from the parting words of the big churl, and both Robin
and Alan laughed aloud at the discomfiture of the ranger, who
writhed in his bonds.

"Have done with thy laughter, thou wolf's-head!" he cried to
Robin. But Robin laughed the more, until the glade re-echoed.
"Unloose me," cried Black Hugo, in a rage, "and I will let thee
know what 'tis to laugh at a king's forester, thou broken knave and
runagate rascal!"

Still Robin laughed at the futile anger of the ranger, whose face
was flushed as he stormed.

"I think, friend," said Alan gently, in the midst of his laughter,
"thou dost foolishly to threaten this bold woodman whilst thou art
in bonds. 'Twere more manly to stay thy threats till thou art free.
Thou'rt over bold, friend."

"Knowest thou not who this rogue is?" cried Hugo. "He is the
leader of a pack of escaped serfs, and for their crimes of firing
their lord's house and slaying their lord's men they are food for the
gallows or for any good man's sword who can hack their wolves'
heads from their shoulders."

"Whatever you may say of this my friend," said Alan coldly, "I can
say that both he and his men are bold and true men, and if they
have fled from a tyrant lord I blame them not."

Alan with a haughty look went toward his horse. Robin ceased his
laughter, and now addressed the forester:

"My heart warms to that long-limbed rascal who tied thee up and
ate thy dinner," he said. "Thou who with others of thy sort live on
poorer folk by extortion and threats, hast now had a taste of what
thou givest to those unable to withstand thee. I will give thee time
to think over thy sins and thy punishment. Bide there in thy bonds
until the owl hoots this night."

Together Robin and Alan-a-Dale moved from the glade, and the
forester was left to cool his anger. The sun poured down its heat
upon his naked head, and the more he strained at his bonds the
more the flies settled upon him and tormented him. Then he
shouted for help, hoping that one of his fellow-foresters might be
near, or that some traveler on the highway would hear and come
and release him.

But no one came, and he grew tired of shouting. The sunlight
burned through his hose, his tongue and throat were dry, and his
arms, pinned to his side and bound by ropes, were almost
senseless. The forest about him seemed sunk in silence.
Sometimes across the glade a flash of jewel-like light would come.
It was a dragon fly, and in the rays of the sun it would hover and
swerve before the bushes, like a point of living flame. Then birds
came down and hopped and pecked among the embers of his fire,
and even at his feet, or from a hole beneath a tree a ferret would
peep forth, and encouraged by the silence would steal forth and
across the glade, running from cover to cover, until he disappeared
in the forest beyond.

The afternoon wore to a close, the sun went behind the trees on the
western verge of the glade, and the shadows stretched along until
the gray light lay everywhere. Then the forest seemed to wake up.
Bird called to bird across the cool deeps of the trees, the evening
wind rustled the leaves, and a great stir seemed to thrill through
the woods.

The blue of the sky became slowly gray, the darkness deepened
under the trees, and strange things seemed to be moving in the
gloom. There came a great bird flying with noiseless wings, and
hovered over the glade. Then it sank, and a sudden shriek rose for
a moment as of something from which life was being torn. Then
came the weird cry of "To whee -- to whee -- to whoo!"

The ranger shivered. Somehow the cry seemed like that of a fiend;
besides, the cold air was creeping along the ground. He pulled at
his arms, which seemed almost dead, and to his wonder his bonds
fell away and he found that he was free. He looked behind and
inside the hut, but he could see no one. Then with lifeless fingers
he picked up the rope which had bound him to the post, and found
that it had been cut by a keen knife.

He looked round affrighted, and crossed himself. Robin the
Outlaw had said he should be free when the owl hooted, but who
had crept up and cut his bonds so that he had not been aware of it?

Black Hugo shook his head and wondered. He believed in
brownies as much as he believed in his own existence, but hitherto
he had not thought that brownies used knives. He shook his head
again, and began to chafe his cold limbs, and as the blood began to
run through them again he could have cried aloud with the pain.

He decided that some day ere long he would be revenged upon that
seven-foot rascal who had stolen his dinner and tied him up. As for
Robin the Outlaw, he would earn four marks by cutting off his
head and taking it to the king's chief justice in London.

Meanwhile, Robin and Alan-a-Dale had pursued their way,
discoursing on many things. Both found that they loved the forest,
and that never did they find more delight than when with bow in
hand they chased the king's deer, or with brave dogs routed the
fierce boar from his lair. Robin put Alan upon a short route to his
home in Werrisdale, and when they parted they shook hands, and
each promised the other that soon they would meet again.

Then Robin turned back toward the meeting-place at the Stane
Lea, where he knew his men would be waiting for him after their
chase of the men-at-arms, to share the evening meal together.

Robin was almost near the end of his journey when he came to the
brook which, further up stream, ran beside the very glade where
his men would be busy round a big fire cooking their evening
meal. At this place, however, the stream was broad, with a rapid
current, and the forest path was carried across it on a single narrow
beam of oak. It was only wide enough for one man to cross at a
time, and of course had no railing.

Mounting the two wooden steps to it, Robin had walked some two
or three feet along it, when on the other bank a tall man appeared,
and jumping on the bridge, also began to cross it. Robin
recognized him at once, by his height, as the fellow who had tied
the forester to his door-post and stolen his dinner. He would have
been content to hail the big man as one he would like to know, but
that he had a very stubborn air as he walked toward him, as one
who would say: "Get out of my way, little man, or I will walk over
thee."

Robin was some twelve or fourteen inches shorter than the other,
and being generally reckoned to be tall, and strong withal, he
deeply resented the other's inches and his bragging air.

They stopped and looked frowningly at each other when they were
but some ten feet apart.

"Where are thy manners, fellow?" said Robin haughtily. "Sawest
thou not that I was already on the bridge when thou didst place thy
great splay feet on it?"

"Splay feet yourself, jackanapes," retorted the other. "The small
jack should ever give way to the big pot."

"Thou'rt a stranger in these parts, thou uplandish chucklehead!"
said Robin; "thy currish tongue betrayeth thee. I'll give thee a good
Barnisdale lesson, if thou dost not retreat and let me pass."

Saying which, Robin drew an arrow from his girdle and notched it
on his string. 'Twas a stout bow and long, and one that few men
could bend, and the tall man, with a half-angry, half-humorous
twinkle in his eye, glanced at it.

"If thou dost touch thy string," he said, "I'11 leather thy hide to
rights."

"Thou ass," said Robin, "how couldst thou leather any one if this
gray goose quill were sticking in thy stupid carcas?"

"If this is thy Barnisdale teaching," rejoined John, "then 'tis the
teaching of cowards. Here art thou, with a good bow in thy hand,
making ready to shoot me who hath naught but this quarterstaff."

Robin paused. He was downright angry with the stranger, but there
was something honest and manly and good-natured about the giant
which he liked.

"Have it thy way, then," he said. "We Barnisdale men are not
cowards, as thou shalt see ere long. I will e'en lay aside my bow
and cut me a staff. Then will I test thy manhood, and if I baste thee
not till thou dost smoke like a fire, may the nicker who lives in this
stream seize me."

So saying, Robin turned back and went to the bank, and with his
knife he cut a stout staff from as fine a ground oak as could be
found anywhere in Bamisdale. Having trimmed this to the weight
and length he desired, he ran back on the bridge where the stranger
was still waiting for him.

"Now," said Robin, "we will have a little play together. Whoever is
knocked from the bridge into the stream shall lose the battle. So
now, go!"

With the first twirl of Robin's staff the stranger could see that he
had no novice to deal with, and as their staves clanged together as
they feinted or guarded he felt that the arm of Robin had a strength
that was almost if not quite equal to his own.

Long time their staves whirled like the arms of a windmill, and the
cracks of the wood as staff kissed staff were tossed to and fro
between the trees on either side of the stream. Suddenly the
stranger feinted twice. Quickly as Robin guarded, he could not
save the third stroke, and the giant's staff came with a smart rap on
Robin's skull.

"First blood to thee!" cried Robin, as he felt the warmth trickle
down his face.

"Second blood to thee!" said the giant, with a goodnatured laugh.

Robin, thoroughly angry now, beat with his staff as if it were a
flail. Quick as lightning his blows descended, now here, now there,
and all the quickness of eye of his opponent could not save him
from getting such blows that his very bones rattled.

Both men were at the great disadvantage of having to keep their
footing on the narrow bridge. Every step made forward or
backward had to be taken with every care, and the very power with
which they struck or guarded almost threw them over one side or
the other.

Great as was the strength of the big man, Robin's quickness of
hand and eye were getting the better of him. He was indeed
beginning "to smoke," and the sweat gathered on his face and ran
down in great drops. Suddenly Robin got a blow in on the big
man's crown; but next moment, with a furious stroke, the stranger
struck Robin off his balance, and with a mighty splash the outlaw
dived into the water.

For a moment John seemed surprised to find no enemy before him;
then, wiping the sweat from his eyes, he cried: "Hallo, good laddie,
where art thou now?"

He bent down anxiously, and peered into the water flowing rapidly
beneath the bridge. "By Saint Peter!" he said, "I hope the bold man
is not hurt!"

"Faith!" came a voice from the bank a little further down, "here I
am, big fellow, as right as a trivet. Thou'st got the day," Robin
went on with a laugh, "and I shall not need to cross the bridge."

Robin pulled himself up the bank, and, kneeling down, laved his
head and face in the water. When he arose, he found the big
stranger almost beside him, dashing the water over his own head
and face.

"What!" cried Robin, "hast not gone forward on thy journey? Thou
weft in so pesty a hurry to cross the bridge just now that thou
wouldst not budge for me, and now thou'st come back."

"Scorn me not, good fellow," said the big man, with a sheepish
laugh. "I have no whither to go that I wot of. I am but a serf who
hath run from his manor, and tonight, instead of my warm nest
[hut], I shall have to find a bush or a brake that's not too draughty.
But I would like to shake hands with thee ere I wend, for thou'rt as
true and good a fighter as ever I met."

Robin's hand was in the other's big fingers at once. and they gave a
handshake of mutual respect and liking. Then John turned away,
and was for crossing the bridge.
 
With a furious stroke, the stranger 
struck Robin off his balance. 

"Stay awhile," said Robin; "perhaps thou wouldst like supper ere
thou goest a-wandering." With these words, Robin placed his horn
to his lips and blew a blast that woke the echoes, made the
blackbirds fly shrieking away from the bushes, and every animal
that lurked in the underwood to dive for the nearest cover. The
stranger looked on marveling, and Robin stood waiting and
listening. Soon in the distance could be heard sounds as if deer or
doe were hurrying through the bushes, and in a little while
between the trees could be seen the forms of men running toward
them.

Will Stuteley the Bowman was the first to reach the bank where
Robin stood.

"Why, good master," said he, "what hath happened to thee? Thou'rt
wet to the skin!"

Will looked at the stranger, and glared angrily at him. "'Tis no
matter at all," laughed Robin. "You see that tall lad there. We
fought on the bridge with staves, and he tumbled me in."

By this time Much, the Miller's son, Scarlet, and the others had
reached the bank, and at Robin's words Scarlet dashed at the
stranger, and by a quick play with foot and hand tripped up the big
man. Then the others threw themselves upon the stranger, and
seizing him cried: "Swing him up and out, lads! Duck him well!"

"Nay, nay," shouted Robin, laughing. "Forbear, lads. I have no
ill-will -- I've put my hand in his, for he's a good fellow and a bold.
Get up, lad," he said to the stranger, who had been powerless in the
hands of so many, and would next moment have been swung far
out into the stream. "Hark ye, seven footer," said Robin. "We are
outlaws, brave lads who have run from evil lords. There are
twenty-two of us. If thou wilt join us, thou shalt share and share
with us, both in hard knocks, good cheer, and the best that we can
reive from the rich snuffling priests, proud prelates, evil lords, and
hard-hearted merchants who venture through the greenwood.
Thou'rt a good hand at the staff; I'll make thee a better hand at the
longbow. Now, speak up, jolly blade!"

"By earth and water, I'll be thy man," cried the stranger, coming
eagerly forward and holding out his hand, which Robin seized and
wrung. "Never heard I sweeter words than those you have said, and
with all my my heart will I serve thee and thy fellowship."

"What is thy name, good man?" asked Robin.

"John o' the Stubbs," replied the other; "but" -- with a great laugh --
"men call me John the Little."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the others, and crowded round shaking
hands with him and crying out: "John, little man, give me thy great
hand!"

"His name shall be altered," said stout Will the Bowman, "and we
will baptize him in good brown ale. Now, shall we not go back to
camp, master, and make a feast on it?"

"Ay, lads," replied Robin, "we will be merry this night. We have a
new fellow to our company, and will e'en bless him with good ale
and fat venison."

They raced back to camp, where over the fire Scadlock had a great
cauldron, from whence arose the most appetizing odors for men
grown hungry in greenwood air. Robin changed his garments for
dry ones, which were taken from a secret storeplace in a cave near
by, and then, standing round John the Little, who overtopped them
all,