“What is thy name?” then said Robin Hood,
“Come tell me, without any fail!”
“By the faith o’ my body,” then said the young man,
“My name it is Allan-a-Dale.”
Friar Tuck and Much the miller’s son soon became right good friends over the steaming stew they jointly prepared for the merry men that evening. Tuck was mightily pleased when he found a man in the forest who could make pasties and who had cooked for no less person than the High Sheriff himself. While Much marveled at the friar’s knowledge of herbs and simples and woodland things which savored a stew greatly. So they gabbled together like two old gossips and, between them, made such a tasty mess that Robin Hood and his stout followers were like never to leave off eating. And the friar said grace too, with great unction, over the food; and Robin said Amen! and that henceforth they were always to have mass of Sundays.
So Robin walked forth into the wood that evening with his stomach full and his heart, therefore, in great contentment and love for other men. He did not stop the first passer-by, as his manner often was, and desire a fight. Instead, he stepped behind a tree, when he heard a man’s voice in song, and waited to behold the singer. Perhaps he remembered, also, the merry chanting of Will Scarlet, and how he had tried to give it pause a few days before.
Like Will, this fellow was clad in scarlet, though he did not look quite as fine a gentleman. Nathless, he was a sturdy yeoman of honest face and a voice far sweeter than Will’s. He seemed to be a strolling minstrel, for he bore a harp in his hand, which he thrummed, while his lusty tenor voice rang out with—
“Hey down, and a down, and a down!
I’ve a lassie back i’ the town;
Come day, come night, Come dark or light,
She will wed me, back i’ the town!”
Robin let the singer pass, caroling on his way.
“‘Tis not in me to disturb a light-hearted lover, this night,” he muttered, a memory of Marian coming back to him. “Pray heaven she may be true to him and the wedding be a gay one ‘back i’ the town!”’
So Robin went back to his camp, where he told of the minstrel.
“If any of ye set on him after this,” quoth he in ending, “bring him to me, for I would have speech with him.”
The very next day his wish was gratified. Little John and Much the miller’s son were out together on a foraging expedition when they espied the same young man; at least, they thought it must be he, for he was clad in scarlet and carried a harp in his hand. But now he came drooping along the way; his scarlet was all in tatters; and at every step he fetched a sigh, “Alack and a well-a-day!”
Then stepped forth Little John and Much the miller’s son.
“Ho! do not wet the earth with your weeping,” said Little John, “else we shall all have lumbago.”
No sooner did the young man catch sight of them than he bent his bow, and held an arrow back to his ear.
“Stand off! stand off!” he said; “what is your will with me?”
“Put by your weapon,” said Much, “we will not harm you. But you must come before our master straight, under yon greenwood tree.”
So the minstrel put by his bow and suffered himself to be led before Robin Hood.
“How now!” quoth Robin, when he beheld his sorry countenance, “are you not he whom I heard no longer ago than yesternight caroling so blithely about ‘a lassie back i’ the town’?”
“The same in body, good sir,” replied the other sadly; “but my spirit is grievously changed.”
“Tell me your tale,” said Robin courteously. “Belike I can help you.”
“That can no man on earth, I fear,” said the stranger; “nathless, I’ll tell you the tale. Yesterday I stood pledged to a maid, and thought soon to wed her. But she has been taken from me and is to become an old knight’s bride this very day; and as for me, I care not what ending comes to my days, or how soon, without her.”
“Marry, come up!” said Robin; “how got the old knight so sudden vantage?”
“Look you, worship, ‘tis this way. The Normans overrun us, and are in such great favor that none may say them nay. This old returned Crusader coveted the land whereon my lady dwells. The estate is not large, but all in her own right; whereupon her brother says she shall wed a title, and he and the old knight have fixed it up for to-day.”
“Nay, but surely—” began Robin.
“Hear me out, worship,” said the other. “Belike you think me a sorry dog not to make fight of this. But the old knight, look you, is not come-at-able. I threw one of his varlets into a thorn hedge, and another into a water-butt, and a third landed head-first into a ditch. But I couldn’t do any fighting at all.”
“‘Tis a pity!” quoth Little John gravely. He had been sitting cross-legged listening to this tale of woe. “What think you, Friar Tuck, doth not a bit of fighting ease a man’s mind?”
“Blood-letting is ofttimes recommended of the leeches,” replied Tuck.
“Does the maid love you?” asked Robin Hood.
“By our troth, she loved me right well,” said the minstrel. “I have a little ring of hers by me which I have kept for seven long years.”
“What is your name?” then said Robin Hood.
“By the faith of my body,” replied the young man, “my name is Allan-a-Dale.”
“What will you give me, Allan-a-Dale,” said Robin Hood, “in ready gold or fee, to help you to your true love again, and deliver her back unto you?”
“I have no money, save only five shillings,” quoth Allan; “but—are you not Robin Hood?”
Robin nodded.
“Then you, if any one, can aid me!” said Allan-a-Dale eagerly. “And if you give me back my love, I swear upon the Book that I will be your true servant forever after.”
“Where is this wedding to take place, and when?” asked Robin.
“At Plympton Church, scarce five miles from here; and at three o’ the afternoon.”
“Then to Plympton we will go!” cried Robin suddenly springing into action; and he gave out orders like a general: “Will Stutely, do you have four-and-twenty good men over against Plympton Church ‘gainst three o’ the afternoon. Much, good fellow, do you cook up some porridge for this youth, for he must have a good round stomach—aye, and a better gear! Will Scarlet, you will see to decking him out bravely for the nonce. And Friar Tuck, hold yourself in readiness, good book in hand, at the church. Mayhap you had best go ahead of us all.”
The fat Bishop of Hereford was full of pomp and importance that day at Plympton Church. He was to celebrate the marriage of an old knight—a returned Crusader—and a landed young woman; and all the gentry thereabout were to grace the occasion with their presence. The church itself was gaily festooned with flowers for the ceremony, while out in the church-yard at one side brown ale flowed freely for all the servitors.
Already were the guests beginning to assemble, when the Bishop, back in the vestry, saw a minstrel clad in green walk up boldly to the door and peer within. It was Robin Hood, who had borrowed Allan’s be-ribboned harp for the time.
“Now who are you, fellow?” quoth the Bishop, “and what do you here at the church-door with you harp and saucy air?”
“May it please your Reverence,” returned Robin bowing very humbly, “I am but a strolling harper, yet likened the best in the whole North Countree. And I had hope that my thrumming might add zest to the wedding to-day.”
“What tune can you harp?” demanded the Bishop.
“I can harp a tune so merry that a forlorn lover will forget he is jilted,” said Robin. “I can harp another tune that will make a bride forsake her lord at the altar. I can harp another tune that will bring loving souls together though they were up hill and down dale five good miles away from each other.”
“Then welcome, good minstrel,” said the Bishop, “music pleases me right well, and if you can play up to your prattle, ‘twill indeed grace your ceremony. Let us have a sample of your wares.”
“Nay, I must not put finger to string until the bride and groom have come. Such a thing would ill fortune both us and them.”
“Have it as you will,” said the Bishop, “but here comes the party now.”
Then up the lane to the church came the old knight, preceded by ten archers liveried in scarlet and gold. A brave sight the archers made, but their master walked slowly leaning upon a cane and shaking as though in a palsy.
And after them came a sweet lass leaning upon her brother’s arm. Her hair did shine like glistering gold, and her eyes were like blue violets that peep out shyly at the sun. The color came and went in her cheeks like that tinting of a sea-shell, and her face was flushed as though she had been weeping. But now she walked with a proud air, as though she defied the world to crush her spirit. She had but two maids with her, finikin lasses, with black eyes and broad bosoms, who set off their lady’s more delicate beauty well. One held up the bride’s gown from the ground; the other carried flowers in plenty.
“Now by all the wedding bells that ever were rung!” quoth Robin boldly, “this is the worst matched pair that ever mine eyes beheld!”
“Silence, miscreant!” said a man who stood near.
The Bishop had hurriedly donned his gown and now stood ready to meet the couple at the chancel.
But Robin paid no heed to him. He let the knight and his ten archers pass by, then he strode up to the bride, and placed himself on the other side from her brother.
“Courage, lady!” he whispered, “there is another minstrel near, who mayhap may play more to your liking.”
The lady glanced at him with a frightened air, but read such honesty and kindness in his glance that she brightened and gave him a grateful look.
“Stand aside, fool!” cried the brother wrathfully.
“Nay, but I am to bring good fortune to the bride by accompanying her through the church-doors,” said Robin laughing.
Thereupon he was allowed to walk by her side unmolested, up to the chancel with the party.
“Now strike up your music, fellow!” ordered the Bishop.
“Right gladly will I,” quoth Robin, “an you will let me choose my instrument. For sometimes I like the harp, and other times I think the horn makes the merriest music in all the world.”
And he drew forth his bugle from underneath his green cloak and blew three winding notes that made the church—rafters ring again.
“Seize him!” yelled the Bishop; “there’s mischief afoot! These are the tricks of Robin Hood!”
The ten liveried archers rushed forward from the rear of the church, where they had been stationed. But their rush was blocked by the onlookers who now rose from their pews in alarm and crowded the aisles. Meanwhile Robin had leaped lightly over the chancel rail and stationed himself in a nook by the altar.
“Stand where you are!” he shouted, drawing his bow, “the first man to pass the rail dies the death. And all ye who have come to witness a wedding stay in your seats. We shall e’en have one, since we are come into the church. But the bride shall choose her own swain!”
Then up rose another great commotion at the door, and four-and-twenty good bowmen came marching in with Will Stutely at their head. And they seized the ten liveried archers and the bride’s scowling brother and the other men on guard and bound them prisoners.
Then in came Allan-a-Dale, decked out gaily, with Will Scarlet for best man. And they walked gravely down the aisle and stood over against the chancel.
“Before a maiden weds she chooses—an the laws of good King Harry be just ones,” said Robin. “Now, maiden, before this wedding continues, whom will you have to husband?”
The maiden answered not in words, but smiled with a glad light in her eyes, and walked over to Allan and clasped her arms about his neck.
“That is her true love,” said Robin. “Young Allan instead of the gouty knight. And the true lovers shall be married at this time before we depart away. Now my lord Bishop, proceed with the ceremony!”
“Nay, that shall not be,” protested the Bishop; “the banns must be cried three times in the church. Such is the law of our land.”
“Come here, Little John,” called Robin impatiently; and plucked off the Bishop’s frock from his back and put it on the yeoman.
Now the Bishop was short and fat, and Little John was long and lean. The gown hung loosely over Little John’s shoulders and came only to his waist. He was a fine comical sight, and the people began to laugh consumedly at him.
“By the faith o’ my body,” said Robin, “this cloth makes you a man. You’re the finest Bishop that ever I saw in my life. Now cry the banns.”
So Little John clambered awkwardly into the quire, his short gown fluttering gaily; and he called the banns for the marriage of the maid and Allan-a-Dale once, twice, and thrice.
“That’s not enough,” said Robin; “your gown is so short that you must talk longer.”
Then Little John asked them in the church four, five, six, and seven times.
“Good enough!” said Robin. “Now belike I see a worthy friar in the back of this church who can say a better service than ever my lord Bishop of Hereford. My lord Bishop shall be witness and seal the papers, but do you, good friar, bless this pair with book and candle.”
So Friar Tuck, who all along had been back in one corner of the church, came forward; and Allan and his maid kneeled before him, while the old knight, held an unwilling witness, gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; and the friar began with the ceremony.
When he asked, “Who giveth this woman?” Robin stepped up and answered in a clear voice:
“I do! I, Robin Hood of Barnesdale and Sherwood! And he who takes her from Allan-a-Dale shall buy her full dearly.”
So the twain were declared man and wife and duly blessed; and the bride was kissed by each sturdy yeoman beginning with Robin Hood.
Now I cannot end this jolly tale better than in the words of the ballad which came out of the happening and which has been sung in the villages and countryside ever since:
“And thus having end of this merry wedding,
The bride lookt like a queen;
And so they returned to the merry greenwood
Amongst the leaves so green.”
Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,
With a link a down and a down,
And there he met with the proud Sheriff,
Was walking along the town.
The wedding-party was a merry one that left Plympton Church, I ween; but not so merry were the ones left behind. My lord Bishop of Hereford was stuck up in the organ-loft and left, gownless and fuming. The ten liveried archers were variously disposed about the church to keep him company; two of them being locked in a tiny crypt, three in the belfry, “to ring us a wedding peal,” as Robin said; and the others under quire seats or in the vestry. The bride’s brother at her entreaty was released, but bidden not to return to the church that day or interfere with his sister again on pain of death. While the rusty old knight was forced to climb a high tree, where he sat insecurely perched among the branches, feebly cursing the party as it departed.
It was then approaching sundown, but none of the retainers or villagers dared rescue the imprisoned ones that night, for fear of Robin Hood’s men. So it was not until sunup the next day, that they were released. The Bishop and the old knight, stiff as they were, did not delay longer than for breakfast, but so great was their rage and shame—made straight to Nottingham and levied the Sheriff’s forces. The Sheriff himself was not anxious to try conclusions again with Robin in the open. Perhaps he had some slight scruples regarding his oath. But the others swore that they would go straight to the King, if he did not help them, so he was fain to consent.
A force of an hundred picked men from the Royal Foresters and swordsmen of the shire was gathered together and marched straightway into the greenwood. There, as fortune would have it, they surprised some score of outlaws hunting, and instantly gave chase. But they could not surround the outlaws, who kept well in the lead, ever and anon dropping behind a log or boulder to speed back a shaft which meant mischief to the pursuers. One shaft indeed carried off the Sheriff’s hat and caused that worthy man to fall forward upon his horse’s neck from sheer terror; while five other arrows landed in the fleshy parts of Foresters’ arms.
But the attacking party was not wholly unsuccessful. One outlaw in his flight stumbled and fell; when two others instantly stopped and helped to put him on his feet again. They were the widow’s three sons, Stout Will, and Lester, and John. The pause was an unlucky one for them, as a party of Sheriff’s men got above them and cut them off from their fellows. Swordsmen came up in the rear, and they were soon hemmed in on every side. But they gave good account of themselves, and before they had been overborne by force of numbers they had killed two and disabled three more.
The infuriated attackers were almost on the point of hewing the stout outlaws to pieces, when the Sheriff cried:
“Hold! Bind the villains! We will follow the law in this and take them to the town jail. But I promise ye the biggest public hanging that has been seen in this shire for many changes of the moon!”
So they bound the widow’s three sons and carried them back speedily to Nottingham.
Now Robin Hood had not chanced to be near the scene of the fight, or with his men; so for a time he heard nothing of the happening.
But that evening while returning to the camp he was met by the widow herself, who came weeping along the way.
“What news, what news, good woman?” said Robin hastily but courteously; for he liked her well.
“God save ye, Master Robin!” said the dame wildly. “God keep ye from the fate that has met my three sons! The Sheriff has laid hands on them and they are condemned to die.”
“Now, by our Lady! That cuts me to the heart! Stout Will, and Lester, and merry John! The earliest friends I had in the band, and still among the bravest! It must not be! When is this hanging set?”
“Middle the tinker tells me that it is for tomorrow noon,” replied the dame.
“By the truth o’ my body,” quoth Robin, “you could not tell me in better time. The memory of the old days when you freely bade me sup and dine would spur me on, even if three of the bravest lads in all the shire were not imperiled. Trust to me, good woman!”
The old widow threw herself on the ground and embraced his knees.
“‘Tis dire danger I am asking ye to face,” she said weeping; “and yet I knew your brave true heart would answer me. Heaven help ye, good Master Robin, to answer a poor widow’s prayers!”
Then Robin Hood sped straightway to the forest-camp, where he heard the details of the skirmish—how that his men had been out-numbered five to one, but got off safely, as they thought, until a count of their members had shown the loss of the widow’s three sons.
“We must rescue them, my men!” quoth Robin, “even from out the shadow of the rope itself!”
Whereupon the band set to work to devise ways and means.
Robin walked apart a little way with his head leaned thoughtfully upon his breast—for he was sore troubled—when whom should he meet but an old begging palmer, one of a devout order which made pilgrimages and wandered from place to place, supported by charity.
This old fellow walked boldly up to Robin and asked alms of him; since Robin had been wont to aid members of his order.
“What news, what news, thou foolish old man?” said Robin, “what news, I do thee pray?”
“Three squires in Nottingham town,” quoth the palmer, “are condemned to die. Belike that is greater news than the shire has had in some Sundays.”
Then Robin’s long-sought idea came to him like a flash.
“Come, change thine apparel with me, old man,” he said, “and I’ll give thee forty shillings in good silver to spend in beer or wine.”
“O, thine apparel is good,” the palmer protested, “and mine is ragged and torn. The holy church teaches that thou should’st ne’er laugh an old man to scorn.”
“I am in simple earnest, I say. Come, change thine apparel with mine. Here are twenty pieces of good broad gold to feast they brethren right royally.”
So the palmer was persuaded; and Robin put on the old man’s hat, which stood full high in the crown; and his cloak, patched with black and blue and red, like Joseph’s coat of many colors in its old age; and his breeches, which had been sewed over with so many patterns that the original was scarce discernible; and his tattered hose; and his shoes, cobbled above and below. And while as he made the change in dress he made so many whimsical comments also about a man’s pride and the dress that makes a man, that the palmer was like to choke with cackling laughter.
I warrant you, the two were comical sights when they parted company that day. Nathless, Robin’s own mother would not have known him, had she been living.
The next morning the whole town of Nottingham was early astir, and as soon as the gates were open country-folk began to pour in; for a triple hanging was not held there every day in the week, and the bustle almost equated a Fair day.
Robin Hood in his palmer’s disguise was one of the first ones to enter the gates, and he strolled up and down and around the town as though he had never been there before in all his life. Presently he came to the market-place, and beheld thereon three gallows erected.
“Who are these builded for, my son?” asked he of a rough soldier standing by.
“For three of Robin Hood’s men,” answered the other. “And it were Robin himself, ‘twould be thrice as high I warrant ye. But Robin is too smart to get within the Sheriff’s clutches again.”
The palmer crossed himself.
“They say that he is a bold fellow,” he whined.
“Ha!” said the soldier, “he may be bold enough out behind stumps i’ the forest, but the open market-place is another matter.”
“Who is to hang these three poor wretches?” asked the palmer.
“That hath the Sheriff not decided. But here he comes now to answer his own questions.” And the soldier came to stiff attention as the Sheriff and his body-guard stalked pompously up to inspect the gallows.
“O, Heaven save you, worshipful Sheriff!” said the palmer. “Heaven protect you! What will you give a silly old man to-day to be your hangman?”
“Who are you, fellow?” asked the Sheriff sharply.
“Naught save a poor old palmer. But I can shrive their souls and hang their bodies most devoutly.”
“Very good,” replied the other. “The fee to-day is thirteen pence; and I will add thereunto some suits of clothing for that ragged back of yours.”
“God bless ye!” said the palmer. And he went with the soldier to the jail to prepare his three men for execution.
Just before the stroke of noon the doors of the prison opened and the procession of the condemned came forth. Down through the long lines of packed people they walked to the market-place, the palmer in the lead, and the widow’s three sons marching firmly erect between soldiers.
At the gallows foot they halted. The palmer whispered to them, as though offering last words of consolation; and the three men, with arms bound tightly behind their backs, ascended the scaffold, followed by their confessor.
Then Robin stepped to the edge of the scaffold, while the people grew still as death; for they desired to hear the last words uttered to the victims. But Robin’s voice did not quaver forth weakly, as formerly, and his figure had stiffened bolt upright beneath the black robe that covered his rags.
“Hark ye, proud Sheriff!” he cried. “I was ne’er a hangman in all my life, nor do I now intend to begin that trade. Accurst be he who first set the fashion of hanging! I have but three more words to say. Listen to them!”
And forth from the robe he drew his horn and blew three loud blasts thereon. Then his keen hunting-knife flew forth and in a trice, Stout Will, Lester, and merry John were free men and had sprung forward and seized the halberds from the nearest soldiers guarding the gallows.
“Seize them! ‘Tis Robin Hood!” screamed the Sheriff, “an hundred pounds if ye hold them, dead or alive!”
“I make it two hundred!” roared the fat Bishop.
But their voices were drowned in the uproar that ensued immediately after Robin blew his horn. He himself had drawn his sword and leaped down the stairs from the scaffold, followed by his three men. The guard had closed around them in vain effort to disarm them, when “A rescuer” shouted Will Stutely’s clear voice on one side of them, and “A rescue!” bellowed Little John’s on the other; and down through the terror-stricken crowd rushed fourscore men in Lincoln green, their force seeming twice that number in the confusion. With swords drawn they fell upon the guard from every side at once. There was a brief clash of hot weapons, then the guard scattered wildly, and Robin Hood’s men formed in a compact mass around their leader and forced their way slowly down the market-place.
“Seize them! In the King’s name!” shrieked the Sheriff. “Close the gates!”
In truth, the peril would have been even greater, had this last order been carried out. But Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale had foreseen that event, and had already overpowered the two warders.
So the gates stood wide open, and toward them the band of outlaws headed.
The soldiers rallied a force of twice their number and tried resolutely to pierce their center. But the retreating force turned thrice and sent such volleys of keen arrows from their good yew bows, that they kept a distance between the two forces.
And thus the gate was reached, and the long road leading up the hill, and at last the protecting greenwood itself. The soldiers dared come no farther. And the widow’s three sons, I warrant you, supped more heartily that night than ever before in their whole lives.
Good Robin accost him in his way,
To see what he might be;
If any beggar had money,
He thought some part had he.
One bright morning, soon after the stirring events told in the last chapter, Robin wandered forth alone down the road to Barnesdale, to see if aught had come of the Sheriff’s pursuit. But all was still and serene and peaceful. No one was in sight save a solitary beggar who came sturdily along his way in Robin’s direction. The beggar caught sight of Robin, at the same moment, as he emerged from the trees, but gave no sign of having seen him. He neither slackened nor quickened his pace, but jogged forward merrily, whistling as he came, and beating time by punching holes in the dusty road with the stout pike-staff in his hand.
The curious look of the fellow arrested Robin’s attention, and he decided to stop and talk with him. The fellow was bare-legged and bare-armed, and wore a long shift of a shirt, fastened with a belt. About his neck hung a stout, bulging bag, which was buckled by a good piece of leather thong.
He had three hats upon his head,
Together sticked fast,
He cared neither for the wind nor wet,
In lands where’er he past.
The fellow looked so fat and hearty, and the wallet on his shoulder seemed so well filled, that Robin thought within himself,
“Ha! this is a lucky beggar for me! If any of them have money, this is the chap, and, marry, he should share it with us poorer bodies.”
So he flourished his own stick and planted himself in the traveler’s path.
“Sirrah, fellow!” quoth he; “whither away so fast? Tarry, for I would have speech with ye!”
The beggar made as though he heard him not, and kept straight on with his faring.
“Tarry, I say, fellow!” said Robin again; “for there’s a way to make folks obey!”
“Nay, ‘tis not so,” answered the beggar, speaking for the first time; “I obey no man in all England, not even the King himself. So let me pass on my way, for ‘tis growing late, and I have still far to go before I can care for my stomach’s good.”
“Now, by my troth,” said Robin, once more getting in front of the other, “I see well by your fat countenance, that you lack not for good food, while I go hungry. Therefore you must lend me of your means till we meet again, so that I may hie to the nearest tavern.”
“I have no money to lend,” said the beggar crossly. “Methinks you are as young a man as I, and as well able to earn a supper. So go your way, and I’ll go mine. If you fast till you get aught out of me, you’ll go hungry for the next twelvemonth.”
“Not while I have a stout stick to thwack your saucy bones!” cried Robin. “Stand and deliver, I say, or I’ll dust your shirt for you; and if that will not teach you manners, then we’ll see what a broad arrow can do with a beggar’s skin!”
The beggar smiled, and answered boast with boast. “Come on with your staff, fellow! I care no more for it than for a pudding stick. And as for your pretty bow—that for it!”
And with amazing quickness, he swung his pike-staff around and knocked Robin’s bow clean out of his hand, so that his fingers smarted with pain. Robin danced and tried to bring his own staff into action; but the beggar never gave him a chance. Biff! whack! came the pike-staff, smiting him soundly and beating down his guard.
There were but two things to do; either stand there and take a sound drubbing, or beat a hasty retreat. Robin chose the latter—as you or I would probably have done—and scurried back into the wood, blowing his horn as he went.
“Fie, for shame, man!” jeered the bold beggar after him. “What is your haste? We had but just begun. Stay and take your money, else you will never be able to pay your reckoning at the tavern!”
But Robin answered him never a word. He fled up hill and down dale till he met three of his men who were running up in answer to his summons.
“What is wrong?” they asked.
“‘Tis a saucy beggar,” said Robin, catching his breath. “He is back there on the highroad with the hardest stick I’ve met in a good many days. He gave me no chance to reason with him, the dirty scamp!”
The men—Much and two of the widow’s sons—could scarce conceal their mirth at the thought of Robin Hood running from a beggar. Nathless, they kept grave faces, and asked their leader if he was hurt.
“Nay,” he replied, “but I shall speedily feel better if you will fetch me that same beggar and let me have a fair chance at him.”
So the three yeomen made haste and came out upon the highroad and followed after the beggar, who was going smoothly along his way again, as though he were at peace with all the world.
“The easiest way to settle this beggar,” said Much, “is to surprise him. Let us cut through yon neck of woods and come upon him before he is aware.”
The others agreed to this, and the three were soon close upon their prey.
“Now!” quoth Much; and the other two sprang quickly upon the beggar’s back and wrested his pike-staff from his hand. At the same moment Much drew his dagger and flashed it before the fellow’s breast.
“Yield you, my man!” cried he; “for a friend of ours awaits you in the wood, to teach you how to fight properly.”
“Give me a fair chance,” said the beggar valiantly, “and I’ll fight you all at once.”
But they would not listen to him. Instead, they turned him about and began to march him toward the forest. Seeing that it was useless to struggle, the beggar began to parley.
“Good my masters,” quoth he, “why use this violence? I will go with ye safe and quietly, if ye insist, but if ye will set me free I’ll make it worth your while. I’ve a hundred pounds in my bag here. Let me go my way, and ye shall have all that’s in the bag.”
The three outlaws took council together at this.
“What say you?” asked Much of the others. “Our master will be more glad to see this beggar’s wallet than his sorry face.”
The other two agreed, and the little party came to a halt and loosed hold of the beggar.
“Count out your gold speedily, friend,” said Much. There was a brisk wind blowing, and the beggar turned about to face it, directly they had unhanded him.
“It shall be done, gossips,” said he. “One of you lend me your cloak and we will spread it upon the ground and put the wealth upon it.”
The cloak was handed him, and he placed his wallet upon it as though it were very heavy indeed. Then he crouched down and fumbled with the leather fastenings. The outlaws also bent over and watched the proceeding closely, lest he should hide some of the money on his person. Presently he got the bag unfastened and plunged his hands into it. Forth from it he drew—not shining gold—but handfuls of fine meal which he dashed into the eager faces of the men around him. The wind aided him in this, and soon there arose a blinding cloud which filled the eyes, noses, and mouths of the three outlaws till they could scarcely see or breathe.
While they gasped and choked and sputtered and felt around wildly for that rogue of a beggar, he finished the job by picking up the cloak by its corners and shaking it vigorously in the faces of his suffering victims. Then he seized a stick which lay conveniently near, and began to rain blows down upon their heads, shoulders, and sides, all the time dancing first on one leg, then on the other, and crying,
“Villains! rascals! here are the hundred pounds I promised. How do you like them? I’ faith, you’ll get all that’s in the bag.”
Whack! whack! whack! whack! went the stick, emphasizing each word. Howls of pain might have gone up from the sufferers, but they had too much meal in their throats for that. Their one thought was to flee, and they stumbled off blindly down the road, the beggar following them a little way to give them a few parting love-taps.
“Fare ye well, my masters,” he said finally turning the other way; “and when next I come along the Barnesdale road, I hope you will be able to tell gold from meal dust!”
With this he departed, an easy victor, and again went whistling on his way, while the three outlaws rubbed the meal out of their eyes and began to catch their breath again.
As soon as they could look around them clearly, they beheld Robin Hood leaning against a tree trunk and surveying them smilingly. He had recovered his own spirits in full measure, on seeing their plight.
“God save ye, gossips!” he said, “ye must, in sooth, have gone the wrong way and been to the mill, from the looks of your clothes.”
Then when they looked shamefaced and answered never a word, he went on, in a soft voice,
“Did ye see aught of that bold beggar I sent you for, lately?”
“In sooth, master,” responded Much the miller’s son, “we heard more of him than we saw him. He filled us so full of meal that I shall sweat meal for a week. I was born in a mill, and had the smell of meal in my nostrils from my very birth, you might say, and yet never before did I see such a quantity of the stuff in so small space.”
And he sneezed violently.
“How was that?” asked Robin demurely.
“Why we laid hold of the beggar, as you did order, when he offered to pay for his release out of the bag he carried upon his back.”
“The same I coveted,” quoth Robin as if to himself.
“So we agreed to this,” went on Much, “and spread a cloak down, and he opened his bag and shook it thereon. Instantly a great cloud of meal filled the air, whereby we could neither see nor breathe; and in the midst of this cloud he vanished like a wizard.”
“But not before he left certain black and blue spots, to be remembered by, I see,” commented Robin.
“He was in league with the evil one,” said one of the widow’s sons, rubbing himself ruefully.
Then Robin laughed outright, and sat him down upon the gnarled root of a tree, to finish his merriment.
“Four bold outlaws, put to rout by a sorry beggar!” cried he. “I can laugh at ye, my men, for I am in the same boat with ye. But ‘twould never do to have this tale get abroad—even in the greenwood—how that we could not hold our own with the odds in our favor. So let us have this little laugh all to ourselves, and no one else need be the wiser!”
The others saw the point of this, and felt better directly, despite their itching desire to get hold of the beggar again. And none of the four ever told of the adventure.
But the beggar must have boasted of it at the next tavern; or a little bird perched among the branches of a neighboring oak must have sung of it. For it got abroad, as such tales will, and was put into a right droll ballad which, I warrant you, the four outlaws did not like to hear.
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