“Make no reply to such a very indiscreet question, Barbara!” cried Marian.

  “Speak for Barbara, Much,” said Robin.

  “You ask us such strange questions,” replied the young man, strongly inclined to believe that Robin had overheard his tete-a-tete with Barbara, “that it is impossible to gather what they mean.”

  “In faith, Much,” said William, “meseemeth Robin speaks truth, and, judging by your abashed looks and the brilliant colour which o’erspreads my sister’s face, you are the lovers of the vale. Upon my word, Barbara, if they call me Will Scarlett because of my ruddy locks, they might e’en call thee Barbara Scarlett, for thy face is well-nigh purple. Is’t not so, Maude?”

  “Master William,” said Barbara, with an air of displeasure, “if thou wert within reach of mine hand, I would have much pleasure in pulling out a handful of thine ugly locks.”

  “Thou mightest well behave so, an those same locks grew on any head save mine,” said William, throwing a look at Much; “but thy brother’s head is unassailable. It hath its own particular tyrant eh, Maude?”

  “Yea, Will; but I never pull your hair out.”

  “That will come, little wife.”

  “Never,” said Maude, with a laugh.

  “Then, Much, thou wilt not tell me what answer the maiden gave thee?”

  “If you should e’er meet that maiden, you can ask her yourself, Robin.”

  “I will not fail. And you, Little John, do you know any youth who loves a tete-a-tete with a charming lady?”

  “Nay, Robin, but if you wish to know these lovers, I will strive to discover them for you,” replied Little John, naively.

  “I have just thought of something, John,” cried Will, bursting out a-laughing. “These lovers of whom Robin speaks are not unknown to thee, and I dare wager what thou wilt that the young man in question might be called my cousin, while the maiden is a sweet lady of this neighbourhood.”

  “Art wrong, Will,” answered John; “it is naught to do with me.”

  “Certes, I am on the wrong track,” returned Will, with a smile; “it could not have been thou, for thou hast never been in love.”

  “I beg thy pardon, Will,” replied the giant, tranquilly. “I love with all my heart, and have long done so, a beautiful and charming maid.”

  “Ha! ha!” cried Will. “Little John in love; here’s something new!”

  “And why should not Little John be in love?” asked the youth, goodhumouredly. “I ween there is naught extraordinary in that.”

  “Naught at all, my good friend. I like to see all the world happy, and love is happiness; but, by St. Paul! I should very much like to see thy lady love.”

  “My lady love!” exclaimed the other. “But who could that be save thine own sister Winifred, Cousin Will? Thy sister, whom I have loved from childhood as you love Maude, or Much loves Barbara.”

  A general shout of laughter greeted John’s frankness, and Winifred, overwhelmed with congratulations, threw a look of tender reproach at the young giant.

  “Ah, ha! Much,” Robin resumed, “sooner or later truth will out. I hit the mark in fixing upon thee as the hero of the little scene enacted in Barnsdale Wood.”

  “You witnessed it, then?” asked Much.

  “Nay; but I guessed it, or, rather, I recalled mine own impressions. The same thing happened to me a year agone; Marian had enticed me...”

  “What, enticed you?” cried the young wife. “I would have you remember that it was you, Robin, and had I foreseen then how you would treat me after our marriage...”

  “What would you have done in that case?” interrupted Barbara.

  “I should have married all the sooner, dear Barbara,” replied the young wife, smiling at her husband.

  “There, I hope that is an answer which will encourage the confidence of which you have already given secret proof, saucy Barbara. Come, make a clean breast of it; we are all one family. Tell us that you love Much, and Much on his part will avow the same.”

  “Yea, I will avow it,” cried Much, with deep emotion. “I will cry aloud, ‘I love Barbara Gamwell with all my strength.’ I will say to all who will listen, ‘Barbara’s eyes are the light of my day, her sweet thrilling voice echoes in mine ears like the harmonious notes of singing birds; I prefer the company of my dear Barbara to the pleasures of the feast and the elation of the dance beneath the green leaves of spring; I would rather a tender look from her eyes, a smile from her lips or the pressure of her little hand, than all the riches of the world. I am entirely devoted to Barbara, and sooner than do anything to annoy her, I would e’en ask the Sheriff of Nottingham to send me to the gallows.’ Yea, good friends, I love the dear maid, and I call down all the holy blessings of Heaven upon her fair head. If she will give me the happiness of protecting her with my name and life, she shall be happy and very, very tenderly beloved.”

  “Hurrah!” cried Will, throwing his cap into the air, “‘tis right well spoken. Dry your eyes, little sister, and I give you permission to present your pink nay, scarlet cheeks to this brave wooer. If, instead of being a lusty lad, I were but a feeble maiden, and I had heard such sweet things said, I should have already given my hand and heart to my lover. Would you not have done the same, Maude? You know you would.”

  “Nay, Will, modesty...”

  “We are a family party, there is no need to blush at so natural an action. I am assured, Maude, that you are of mine own opinion. If I were Much and you were Barbara, you would be already in mine arms, and I should embrace you with all my heart.”

  “I am on William’s side,” said Robin, smiling a little maliciously. “Barbara must give us a proof of her affection for Much.”

  Thus called on, the maiden advanced to the centre of the merry group, and said timidly “I sincerely believe in the love which Much doth bear me, and I am very grateful to him for it. In return I must avow that... that...”

  “That you love him as much as he loves thee,” added Will, quickly. “Your speech is slow to-day, little sister. I assure you it took me much less time to make Maude understand that I loved her with my whole heart, did it not, Maude?”

  “That is true, Will,” replied the young wife.

  “Much,” continued William, more seriously, “I give thee sweet Barbara to wife; she doth possess all the qualities of a true heart, and thou wilt be a happy husband. Barbara, my love, Much is a good man, a brave Saxon, true as steel. He will never disappoint thy tender hopes; he will love thee for ever.”

  “For ever and ever,” cried Much, taking the hands of his betrothed in his.

  “Embrace thy future wife, friend Much,” said Will.

  The young man obeyed, and, despite Mistress Gamwells pretended resistance, he touched her crimson cheeks with his lips.

  The Knight gave his consent to the marriage of his daughters, and the date of the double wedding was fixed forthwith.

  Next morning Robin Hood, Little John, and Will Scarlett were gathered, with about a hundred of their Merrie Men, beneath the old trees of Barnsdale Forest, when a young man, who appeared to have come from a distance, presented himself before Robin.

  “Noble master,” said he, “I bring you good tidings.”

  “Very good, George,” replied the young man. “Let us hear them quickly. What is it all about?”

  “It is about a visit of the Bishop of Hereford. His Lordship, accompanied by a score of his servants, will traverse Barnsdale Wood this very day.”

  “Bravo! This is indeed good tidings. Dost know at what hour my Lord Bishop will give us the honour of his company?”

  “About two o’clock, Captain.”

  “Good. How didst learn of his Lordship’s journey?”

  “From one of our men, who, in passing through Sheffield, learnt that the Bishop of Hereford proposed paying a visit to St. Mary’s Abbey.”

  “Art a good lad, George, and I thank thee for thy kind thought in putting me on my guard. My sons,” added Robin, “pay heed to my words, and we will have a merry jest. Will Scarlett, take with thee a score of men, and go guard the road near thy father’s house. Thou, Little John, go with a like number of companions to the path leading to the north of the Forest. Much, thou wilt post thyself at the eastern side of the wood with the rest of the band. I will take up my position on the high-road. We must not give his Lordship an opportunity of escaping, for I am fain to invite him to take part in a right royal feast; he will be treated nobly, but he must pay for it. As for thee, George, thou wilt choose a deer of good growth and a fine fat roe, and thou wilt prepare two joints to receive the honours of my table.”

  When his three lieutenants had set out with their little band of men, Robin ordered those who were left to dress themselves as shepherds (the outlaws kept every kind of disguise in their stores), and himself donned a modest smock-frock. This transformation complete, they planted sticks in the ground, to which they suspended the deer, and the flames of a goodly fire, fed with dry branches, soon began to lick the savoury venison.

  Towards two o’clock, as George had announced, the Bishop of Hereford and his suite appeared at the end of the road, in the middle of which sat Robin and his men disguised as shepherds.

  “The prey approaches,” said Robin, with a laugh. “Come, merry friends, baste the meat; here is our guest.”

  The Bishop, accompanied by his suite, moved quickly, and the noble company soon came up with the shepherds.

  At sight of the gigantic spit turning slowly above the fire, the Prelate gave vent to an outburst of violent anger.

  “How is this, rogues? what means...?”

  Robin Hood raised his eyes to the Bishop, and looked at him stolidly, but made no reply.

  “Do ye not hear me, villains?” repeated the Bishop. “I ask for whom do ye prepare this noble feast?”

  “For whom?” repeated Robin, with an admirably affected expression of simplicity.

  “Yea, for whom? The deer of this Forest belong to the King, and I deem you mighty insolent varlets in daring to lay hands upon it. Answer my question. For whom is this repast prepared?”

  “For ourselves, my Lord,” replied Robin.

  “For you, fool? for you? What a jest! Never think to make me believe that this profusion of food is for your repast.”

  “My Lord, I speak truth; we be hungry men, and since the roast is cooked to a turn, we will e’en sit down to it.”

  “To what estate do ye belong? Who are ye?”

  “Simple shepherds who guard our flocks. To-day we wished to seek repose from our labours and to amuse ourselves a little, with which idea we killed the two fine roes you see before you.”

  “Of a truth, ye wished to amuse yourselves! This is but an artless answer. Come, say, who gave you permission to hunt the King’s game?”

  “No one.”

  “No one, varlet! and think ye to calmly enjoy the product of so shameless a theft?”

  “Of a surety, my Lord; but an if your Lordship would take your share, we should hold ourselves highly honoured.”

  “Thine offer is an insult, insolent shepherd; I decline it with scorn. A not aware that poaching is punishable death? Peace; enough of these useless words. Prepare to follow me to prison, from whence ye will all be conducted to the gallows.”

  “The gallows!” cried Robin, with an air of despair.

  “Yea, my lad, to the gallows.”

  “I have no wish to be hanged,” groan Robin Hood, in doleful accents.

  “Of that I am very sure, but it matters little; thou and thy companions deserve the noose. Come, fools, prepare to follow me; I have no time to waste.”

  “Pardon, my Lord, a thousand pardons, if we have sinned in ignorance; be merciful to poor wretches who are more deserving of pity than of blame.”

  “Poor wretches who eat such good roast meat are not to be pitied. Ah, my fine fellows, you feed yourselves on the King’s venison; it is well very well! Together will we go into the presence of His Majesty, and we shall see if he will grant you the pardon which I refuse.”

  “My Lord,” continued Robin, in a supplicating voice, “we have wives and children; be merciful, I implore you, in the name of their weakness and their innocence. What would happen to the poor creatures without our support?”

  “What care I for your wives and children?” returned the Bishop, harshly. “Seize the varlets,” he added, turning to his followers, “and if they attempt to escape, slay them without pity.”

  “My Lord,” said Robin Hood, “allow me to give you some good advice. Take back your unjust words; they breathe of violence, and are lacking in Christian charity. Believe me, it were wiser for you to accept the offer I have just made you, to partake of our dinner.”

  “I forbid you to address another word to me,” cried the Bishop, furiously. “Soldiers, seize the robbers!”

  “Stand back!” cried Robin, in a voice of thunder, “or, by Our Lady, you will repent it!”

  “Have at the vile serfs roundly,” repeated the Bishop, “and spare them not.”

  The Bishop’s servants hurled themselves upon the group of Merrie Men, and the melee threatened to become a bloody one, when Robin wound his horn, and instantly the rest of the band, who, warned of the Bishop’s presence, had stolen up quietly, made their appearance.

  The first task of the new-comers was to disarm the Bishop’s escort.

  “My Lord,” said Robin to the Prelate, who had fallen dumb with terror on finding into whose hands he had fallen, “you have shown yourself pitiless; we will show no pity neither. What is to be done to the man who would have sent us to the gallows?” asked Robin of his companions.

  “His dress must mitigate the severity of his sentence,” replied John, quietly; “he must not be made to suffer.”

  “Your speech is that of an honest man, good Forester.”

  “Think you so, my Lord?” replied John, quite unconcerned. “Well, I will further disclose to you my peaceful intentions. Instead of torturing you, both body and soul, and killing you by slow degrees, we will simply cut off your head.”

  “Simply cut off my head!” groaned the Bishop, in a voice of despair.

  “Yea,” replied Robin; “you must prepare for death, my Lord.”

  “Robin Hood, have pity on me, I do beseech you!” besought the Bishop, clasping his hands. “Grant me a few hours; I would fain not die without confession.”

  “Verily, your erstwhile haughtiness hath given place to very great humility, my Lord,” responded Robin, coldly; “but this humility doth naught affect me. You are condemned out of your own mouth, therefore prepare your soul to appear before God. Little John,” he added, making a sign to his friend, “see to it that the ceremony lacketh naught of due solemnity. Will you follow me, my Lord? I will lead you to the Court of Justice.”

  Half paralysed with fear, the Bishop dragged himself along, tottering, in the wake of Robin Hood.

  When they were arrived at the trysting-tree, Robin made his prisoner sit down on a grassy hillock, and bade one of his men bring some water.

  “Will you be pleased, my Lord, to lave your hands and face,” asked the young Chief, politely.

  Although very much surprised at receiving such a suggestion, the Bishop condescendingly acquiesced. This done, Robin added “Will you do me the honour of sharing my repast? I am about to dine, for I cannot administer justice fasting.”

  “I will dine, if you insist upon it,” replied the Bishop, in a tone of resignation.

  “I do not insist, my Lord; I pray you.”

  “Then I yield me to your prayer, Sir Robin.”

  “Good, my Lord; to dinner, then.”

  With these words, Robin led his guest to the banqueting hall that is to say, towards a green sward spangled with flowers, where the meal was already set out.

  The festive board, laden with dishes, presented a pleasing spectacle, and its appearance seemed to lighten the Prelate’s dismal forebodings. Having fasted since the night before, the Bishop was hungry, and the stimulating odour of the venison mounted to his head.

  “These,” he said, sitting down, “are admirably cooked viands.”

  “And of a delicious flavour,” added Robin, helping his guest to a choice morsel.

  By the middle of the feast the Bishop had forgotten his fears; by the time dessert came, he looked upon Robin only as an amiable companion.

  “My excellent friend, he said, “your wine is delicious, it warms my heart. A while agone I was cold, I was ill, sorrowful, anxious; now I feel quite lighthearted.”

  “I am very happy to hear you say so, my Lord, for you praise my hospitality. My guests are generally enchanted at the good cheer they are welcomed here withal. However, there comes a bad quarter of an hour with them when it; comes to the settlement of the account. They are very happy to receive, but they are very loth to give; it really seems quite disagreeable to them.”

  “True, very true,” replied the Prelate, not knowing in the least what he meant by this approval. “Yea, truly, such is the case. Give me another bumper, an it please you; meseemeth there is a fire in my veins. Ah! mine host, do you know you lead a very happy life here?”

  “That is why we are called the Merrie Men of the Forest.”

  “That is right, that is right. Now, Sir I do not rightly know your name allow me to bid you farewell; I must continue my journey.”

  “Naught could be more reasonable, my Lord. I pray you, pay your reckoning, and prepare to drink the stirrup-cup.”

  “Pay my reckoning!” grumbled the Bishop. “Am I, then, in an inn? I believed myself to be in Sherwood Forest.”

  “My Lord, you are in an inn; I am master of the house, and these men around us are my drawers.”