“Lilias is very like her mother,” replied the Monk, “and the sight of her adds to my sorrow; she takes my mind from heavenly things and carries back my thoughts to the sweet creature sleeping yonder within the cold tomb. Adopt my sweet child, Sir Richard; you will never regret your charitable action. Lilias doth possess excellent qualities and a good temper; she is pious, sweet, and good.”

  “I will be a father to her, a tender father,” I replied with emotion.

  The poor little girl heard us with an air of surprise, and looking anxiously from her father to me with her large blue eyes, she said “Father, you wish...”

  “I only wish your happiness, my darling child,” replied the Monk. “Our separation hath become imperative.”

  “I will not attempt to depict the painful scene which followed or the long explanations given by the Monk to his heart-broken child. He wept with her, until, at a sign from the unhappy man, I took Lilias in my arms and bore her from the Monastery.

  During the first days after her arrival, at the Castle, Lilias was sad and troubled, then time and the companionship of my son Herbert appeared to calm her sorrow. The two children grew up together, and when Lilias had attained her sixteenth, and Herbert his twentieth year, I could plainly see that they loved each other with a more tender love.

  “These young hearts,” I said to my wife, after having made this discovery, “have never known sorrow; let us protect them against its attacks. Herbert adores Lilias, and on her part Lilias loves our dear son passionately. What matters it to us thai Lilias is of lowly birth? Though her father was once only a poor Saxon peasant, he is now a holy man. Thanks to our care, Lilias possesses all the qualities which are an appanage of her sex; she loves Herbert, and will make him a good wife.”

  My wife consented with all her heart to the marriage of her two children, and we betrothed them that same day.

  The day fixed for the happy union was approaching, when a Norman Knight, owner of a small fief in Lancashire, came to pay a visit to the Abbey of St. Mary. This Norman had seen and admired my house, and was seized with a desire to possess it himself. Without disclosing this covetousness, he learned that I had under my paternal care a pretty girl of marriageable age; and rightly supposing that a portion of my wealth would be given to Lilias as her dowry, the Norman appeared at my gate, and under pretext of visiting the Castle, he managed to gain an entrance into our family circle. As I told you, Robin, Lilias was very beautiful, and the sight of her fired my guest’s imagination; he repeated his visit, and confided to me his love for my son’s betrothed. Without rejecting the Norman’s honourable proposal, I told him of the engagement already made by the maiden, adding at the same time that Lilias was free to bestow her hand where she would.

  He then spoke to the girl herself. Lilias’ refusal was kind but firm; she loved Herbert.

  The Norman left the Castle in a rage, swearing to have his revenge for what he called our insolence.

  At first we only laughed at his threats, but we learnt by experience how serious they were. Two days after the departure of the Norman, the eldest son of one of my vassals came to tell me that he had met, some four miles from the Castle, the stranger who had lately been my guest, carrying in his arms my poor unhappy child. This news caused us terrible distress. I could hardly believe it, but the young man gave me irrefutable proofs of the calamity.

  “‘Sir Richard,’ he said to me, ‘my words are only too true, and it was thus that I became assured that Mistress Lilias had been abducted. I was seated at the side of the road when a horseman, bearing before him a weeping woman and followed by his squire, stopped a few paces from me. The harness of his horse was broken, and with angry threats he called me to his assistance. I approached; Mistress Lilias wrung her hands. ‘Arrange this bridle,’ said the Knight, gruffly to me. I obeyed, and without being perceived, I cut the girths of the saddle; then, whilst pretending to examine the horse’s shoes, I managed to slip a pebble into his hoof. Having done which, I fled to warn you.’”

  My son Herbert could tarry to listen to no more, but away to the stables, saddled a horse, and set off at topmost speed.

  The young peasant’s trick had been successful. When Herbert overtook the Norman, he had dismounted. Then there was a terrible fight between the villain and my son, in which right conquered, and my son killed the ravisher.

  Soon as ever the Norman’s death became known, a troop of soldiers was sent to arrest Herbert. I hid him and sent a humble petition to the King. I made known to His Majesty the Norman’s infamous conduct; I pointed out to him that my son had fought with his enemy, and had killed him while exposing himself to a like fate. The King made me buy my son’s pardon at the price of a considerable ransom. Only too happy to obtain mercy, I hastened to satisfy the King’s demands. My coffers emptied, I appealed to my vassals, and sold my plate and furniture. My last resources exhausted, I still required four hundred gold crowns. The Abbot of Saint Mary’s then offered to lend the required sum on mortgage, and it is hardly necessary to add that I gladly accepted his kind offer. The conditions of the loan were as follows: A pretended sale of my estates would give him the rents for one year. If on the last day of the twelfth month of this year I do not repay him the four hundred gold crowns, all my goods will remain his. That is my position, good host,” added the Knight “the day of reckoning approaches, and my whole fortune consists of ten pistoles.”

  “Do you think that the Abbot of Saint Mary’s will not give you time to free yourself?” asked Robin Hood.

  “I am unfortunately but too sure that he will not give me an hour, a minute. If he be not reimbursed to the last crown, my estates will remain in his hands. Alas! I am indeed in a sorry plight; my beloved wife will have no home, my children no food. Could I suffer alone, I should take courage; but to watch the sufferings of those I love is too great a trial of my strength. I have asked help from those who called themselves my friends in the day of prosperity, and have received an icy refusal from some, indifference from others. I have no friends, Robin Hood; I am alone.”

  As he finished speaking, the Knight hid his face in his trembling hands, and a convulsive sob escaped him.

  “Sir Richard,” said Robin Hood, “your story is a sad one; but you must not despair of God’s goodness; He watcheth over you, and I believe you are on the point of obtaining heavenly succour.”

  “Alas!” sighed the Knight, “could I but obtain a delay, I might be able to pay off the debt. Unfortunately the only security I can offer is a vow to the Virgin.”

  “I will take that security,” replied Robin Hood; “and, in the revered name of the Mother of God, our holy patroness,

  I will lend you the four hundred golden crowns you lack.”

  The Knight uttered a cry.

  You, Robin Hood! Ah! bless you a thousand times. I swear with all the sincerity of a grateful heart loyally to repay the money.”

  “I will count on it, Sir Knight. Little John,” Robin added, “you know where to find our horde, since you are treasurer of the Forest; go seek me four hundred crowns. As for you, Will, go look in my wardrobe and see whether there be not a garment worthy of our guest there.”

  “In truth, Robin Hood, your goodness is so great...” cried the Knight.

  “Peace, peace,” interrupted Robin, laughingly. “We have just entered upon an agreement, and I must honour you as the envoy of the Holy Virgin. Will, add to the clothes some ells of fine cloth; put new harness on the grey horse which the Bishop of Hereford committed to our care; and, Will, my friend, add to these modest gifts all that your inventive mind can think of as necessary to a Knight.”

  Little John and Will hastened to accomplish their mission.

  “Cousin,” said John, “thy hands be nimbler than mine, count the money whilst I measure the cloth; my bow will serve for yard measure.”

  “Certes,” replied Will, with a laugh,

  “the measure will be good.”

  “It will, as thou shalt see.”

  Little John took his bow in one hand, unrolled the piece of cloth with the other and set himself to measure, not by ells’ but exactly by bow lengths.

  Will burst out laughing.

  “Go on, friend John, go on; wilt soon come to an end of the whole piece, an thou go on giving three yards for one. Well done!”

  “Hold thy tongue, thou prating fool. Dost not know that Robin would give even more, an he were in our place?”

  “Then will I add a few crowns,” said William.

  “A few handfuls, cousin; we will recover it from the Normans.”

  “Well, I have finished.”

  When Robin saw the generosity of John and Will, he smiled, and thanked them by a look.

  “Sir Knight,” said Will, putting the gold into the Knight’s hand, “each roll contains one hundred crowns.”

  “But there are six rolls, my young friend.”

  “You are mistaken, Sir Guest; there are but four. And, after all, what matter? Put the money in your purse, and say no more on’t.”

  “When shall I repay it?” asked the Knight.

  “One year from this, day for day, an that will suit you, and I am still of this world,” said Robin.

  “Agreed.”

  “Beneath this tree.”

  “I will attend punctually, Robin Hood,” replied the Knight, as he wrung the young Chief’s hand with effusive gratitude. “But ere we part, let me tell you that all the praises lavished on you cannot equal those which fill my heart; you have saved more than my life; you have saved my wife and children.”

  “Master,” replied Robin Hood, “you are a Saxon, and that name alone doth give you a claim upon my friendship; beside which, you have another interest for me that of distress. I am what men call a robber, a thief so be it! But an I extort money from the rich, I take naught from the poor. I detest violence, and I shed no blood; I love my country, and the Norman race is odious to me because to usurpation they have added tyranny. Nay, never thank me; I have done but my duty; you had naught, and I gave to you, ‘tis only just.”

  “Say what you will, your conduct toward me is noble and generous; you, a stranger, have done more for me than all they which call themselves my friends. May God bless you, Robin, for you have brought joy to my heart. At all times and in every place I shall be your debtor, and I pray Heaven to enable me to prove my gratitude some day. Farewell, Robin Hood! farewell, true friend! In one year I will return to pay my debt.”

  “Farewell, Sir Knight,” replied Robin, shaking his guest warmly by the hand; “and should fate bring me to a pass where I need your help, believe me, I shall not fail to ask it without compunction or reserve.”

  “May God hear you! My greatest hope is that I may be able to assist you.”

  Sir Richard wrung the hands of Will and Little John, and bestrode the Bishop of Hereford’s dapple grey. The Knight’s own mount, laden with Robin Hood’s presents, was to follow its master.

  As Robin Hood watched his temporary guest disappear at a bend of the road, he said to his companions, “We have made a man happy; the day hath been well spent.”

  CHAPTER V

  Marian and Maude had been living at Barnsdale Hall for a month past, and they could not return to their old mode of life until their health was quite re-established, for it must not be forgotten that the young women had become mothers.

  But Robin Hood could not endure the prolonged absence of his beloved companion, and one day, carrying with him part of his band, he took up his abode in Barnsdale Forest. William, who had naturally followed his young chief, soon declared that the subterranean dwelling, constructed hastily in the neighbourhood of the Hall, was infinitely preferable to that in the great Forest of Sherwood; or, at least, if it wanted certain things to complete the well-being of the troop, the proximity of Barnsdale Hall was a very agreeable compensation.

  Robin and William were enchanted at their change of abode, and two young people of our acquaintance shared in their unreserved satisfaction for the same reason; these two young men were Little John and Much Cockle, the miller’s son. Kobin soon perceived that Little John and Much were absent at all hours of the day without apparent motive. These absences became so frequent that Robin wished to know the cause of them. He made inquiries, and learnt that his cousin Winifred, being very fond of walking, had asked Little John to show her the most noteworthy parts of the Forest. “Good!” said Robin. “So much for Little John; now for Much.” He was told that Barbara, sharing her sister’s curiosity as to the beauties of the country, had wished to accompany her in these woodland rambles; but that Little John, with praiseworthy prudence, had told the young girl that the responsibility of looking after the one lady was already very great, and that it was impossible for him to accept her company and the extra responsibility involved thereby. Consequently, Much offered his protection to Mistress Barbara, and she accepted it. So the two couples wandered among the trees and into the most mysterious and gloomy recesses of the woods, talking the while of no one knows what. They forgot to look at the objects they had come to see; and the old gnarled oaks, the beeches with their graceful boughs, the secular elms, passed before their eyes without attracting the least attention. Then a coincidence, stranger even than this indifference to the beauties of nature, always led them to remote paths, and they never met till they came to the gate of the Hall as the stars began to peep out.

  These walks, repeated daily, sufficiently explained to Robin the absence of his two companions.

  It was the evening of a scorching day, and a warm zephyr fanned the air, when Marian and Maude, leaning on the arms of Robin and William, set out from the Hall to take a long walk in the fragrant glades of the Forest. Winifred and Barbara followed the two young couples, while Little John and his inseparable friend Much shadowed the two sisters.

  “Here I can breathe,” said Marian, holding up her pale face to the breeze. “There seems no air in a room, and I long to return to the Forest once again.”

  “Then life in the woods is very pleasant?” questioned Mistress Barbara.

  “Yea,” replied Marian; “there is so much sunshine, light, shade, flowers, and foliage.”

  “Much told me yesterday,” continued Barbara, “that Sherwood Forest doth surpass Barnsdale in beauty; but if that is so, it must contain all the marvels of creation, for here we have the most bewitching spots.”

  “You think Barnsdale Wood very pretty, then, Barbara?” said Robin, concealing a smile.

  “It is charming,” replied the girl, vivaciously; “there are such beautiful views in it.”

  “Which part of the wood particularly attracts your attention, cousin?”

  “I cannot well reply to your question, Robin; but I think I prefer a valley, which I am certain hath not its equal in old Sherwood Forest.”

  “And where is this valley?”

  “Some distance from here. But you can imagine nothing fresher, more still, or more fragrant than that little spot. Picture to yourself, cousin, a large lawn with sloping sides, on the summit of which all kinds of trees grow in profusion. The different varieties of leaves lit up by the sunshine take on marvellous aspects; now you see before you a curtain of emeralds, anon a veil of multitudinous colours unrolls itself beneath your gaze. The turf which covers this dell is like a large green carpet without a wrinkle to break its smooth surface. Scatter flowers of purple and gold and all the colours of the rainbow over the declivities beneath the trees, imagine a slender thread of water rippling through the shady ravine, and you will have before you the oasis of Barnsdale Forest. And then,” continued the girl, “the stillness is so great in this delicious spot, the air one breathes so pure, that the heart swells with joy in very truth I have never in all my life seen so ravishing a place.”

  “And where is this enchanted valley, Barbara?” asked Winifred, innocently.

  “Oh! then you do not always, walk about together?” interrupted Robin, with a smile.

  “Yea,” added Winifred; “only we always lose each other no, I mean to say very often at least sometimes. I mean to say that Little John loses the way, and then we get separated; we seek for each other, but I do not know how it happens that we never meet until we arrive at the Hall. This continual separation is quite accidental, I assure you.”

  “Yea, truly; quite accidental,” Robin returned mockingly; “and no one supposes the contrary. Then why blush, Barbara? Why look down, Winifred? Look at John and Much, neither of them is embarrassed; they know so well that you get lost in the wood without meaning it.”

  “Yea, i’faith!” answered Much; “and knowing Mistress Barbara’s fancy for quiet and retired spots, I took her to the little valley which she hath just described.”

  “I am forced to believe,” said Robin, “that Barbara doth possess a great talent for observation to have been able to take in at one glance all the charming details which she hath just depicted. But tell me, Barbara, did you not find in this oasis of Barnsdale, as you call the vale discovered by Much, something still more charming yet than the trees with varied green, the verdant sward, the murmuring stream and the many-hued flowers?”

  Barbara blushed.

  “I do not know what you mean, cousin.”

  “Oh, indeed! Much will understand better than you, I hope. Come now, Much, answer frankly: Hath not Barbara forgotten to tell us of some charming episode connected with your visit to this terrestrial paradise?”

  “What episode, Robin?” asked the young man, with the shadow of a smile.

  “My discreet friend,” replied Robin, “have you never known two young people, attracted by one another, go alone to this delicious retreat, the memory of which is engraved on Barbara’s heart?”

  Much blushed painfully.

  “Well,” continued Robin, “two young people, intimate acquaintances of mine, visited your terrestrial paradise a few days ago. Arrived on the flowering banks of the little stream, they seated themselves side by side. At first they admired the landscape, listened to the song of the birds; then for some minutes they remained blind and dumb; then the youth, emboldened by the solitude, the stirring silence of his trembling companion, took her two little hands in his. The maiden did not raise her eyes, but she blushed, and this blush spoke for her. Then, in a voice which to the girl sounded sweeter than the song of birds, more melodious than the murmur of the breeze, the young man said to her, ‘There is no one in all the world I love so much as you; I would rather die than lose your love; and if you will be my wife, you will make me the happiest of men.’ Tell me, Barbara,” added Robin, with a smile, “do you know whether the maiden granted her lover’s fervent prayer?”