“Take what you will,” answered the Bishop, impatiently, “and let me go.”

  “Is the money still in the same place?” asked Little John.

  “It is here,” replied the Bishop, showing a little leathern bag attached to his saddle-bow.

  “It feels heavier than at your last visit, my Lord.”

  “I should well think so,” responded the Bishop, making a desperate effort to appear cool and calm; “it contains a much larger sum.”

  “You shall watch me take it away, my Lord; and may I ask how much there is in this elegant saddle-bag?”

  “Five hundred pieces of gold...”

  “Admirable! What generosity to come here with such a treasure!” said the young man, ironically.

  “This treasure,” stammered the Bishop “shall we not divide it? You dare not utterly despoil me rob me of so large a sum?”

  “Rob you!” repeated Little John, disdainfully. “What do you mean by such a word? Do you not comprehend the difference between robbing and taking from a man what is not his? You have obtained this money on false pretences; you took it from those who needed it, and I shall return it to them. Thus you see, my Lord, I do not rob you.”

  “We call our way the woodland philosophy,” said Robin, with a laugh.

  “The legality of such philosophy is doubtful,” returned the Bishop; “but having no means of defence, I must submit to anything you may exact. Therefore, take my purse.”

  “I have another request to make, my Lord,” Little John continued.

  “What is it?” questioned the Bishop, anxiously.

  “Our spiritual adviser,” replied Little John, “is not at Barnsdale just now, and as it is long since we have profited by his pious instructions, we would beg of you, my Lord, to say a Mass for us.”

  “What profane request is this you dare make to me?” cried the Bishop. “I would liever die than do aught so impious.”

  “Nevertheless, it is your duty, my Lord,” replied Robin, “to help us at all times to adore the Lord. Little John is right; for long weeks we have not been able to take part in the Holy Office of the Mass, and we would not lose this fortunate opportunity; I pray you, therefore, be so kind as to prepare yourself to satisfy our very proper demands.”

  “It would be a mortal sin, a crime, and I should expect to be struck by the hand of God, did I commit this unworthy sacrilege!” replied the Bishop, purple with rage.

  “My Lord,” continued Robin, gravely, “we reverence with the most Christian humility the divine symbols of the Catholic faith, and, believe me, you will never find, even within the walls of your vast Cathedral, a more attentive or more select congregation than the Outlaws of Sherwood Forest.”

  “Can I put any faith in your words?” asked the Bishop, doubtfully.

  “Yea, my Lord, and you will soon recognise the truth of them.”

  “Then I will believe you. Conduct me to the Chapel.”

  “This way, my Lord.”

  Robin, followed by the Bishop, made for an enclosure at a short distance from the Trysting Tree. There, in the centre of a declivity appeared an altar of earth embellished with a thick layer of moss sprinkled with flowers. All the vessels necessary for the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice were disposed on the high altar with exquisite taste, and His Reverence marvelled at the beauty of this natural shrine.

  It was a touching spectacle to see the band of 150 or 200 men kneeling in prayer with bared heads.

  After Mass the Merrie Men testified their gratitude to the Bishop, and he had been so astonished at their respectful attitude during the celebration of the Holy Office that he could not resist putting a host of questions to Robin as to his manner of life beneath the trees of the old Forest.

  Whilst Robin responded with a charming courtesy to the Bishop’s questions, the foresters placed before the soldiers a substantial repast, and Much looked after the preparation of the most delicate feast that had ever been served in the greenwood.

  Led insensibly toward the merry revellers by Robin, the Bishop watched them with an envious eye, and the sight of their gaiety dissipated the last vestiges of his bad temper.

  “Your men employ their time well,” said Robin, pointing out the most voracious group amongst them.

  “They certainly eat with a good appetite.”

  “They must be hungry, my Lord; it is two o’clock, and I myself feel the need of something. Will you play your part in a little unceremonious dinner?”

  “Thank you, my dear host,” replied the Bishop, trying to remain deaf to the repeated appeals of his stomach; “I wish for nothing, absolutely nothing, although I am a little hungry.”

  “You should never disregard the calls of nature, my Lord,” replied Robin, gravely. “Mind and body alike suffer thereby, and the health is injured. Come, let us take our places on this green turf; they will bring us something, and you need only eat a little bread, an if you be afraid of retarding your departure.”

  “Am I obliged to obey you?” said the Bishop, with a vainly dissimulated expression of joy.

  “You are not constrained, my Lord,” said Robin, maliciously, “and if you are not pleased to taste of this delicious venison pasty or the exquisite wine contained in this bottle, abstain, I pray you; for it is even more dangerous to force the stomach to receive food than to deprive it of all nourishment for several hours.”

  “Oh, I do not force my stomach,” replied the Bishop, laughing. “I am endowed with an excellent appetite, and as I have been long fasting, why, I think I will e’en accept your kind invitation.”

  “To table, then, my Lord, and a good appetite!”

  The Bishop of Hereford dined well. He was fond of the bottle, and the wine Robin Hood poured out for him was so heady that at the end of the repast the Bishop was quite drunk, and towards evening he returned to St. Mary’s Abbey in a condition of mind and body which drew forth fresh cries of horror and indignation from the pious Monks of that Monastery.

  CHAPTER VI

  “I should much like to know how the Bishop of Hereford finds himself to-day,” said Will Scarlett to his cousin Little John, who, followed by Much, was accompanying Will to Barnsdale.

  “The poor Prelate’s head must be a little heavy,” replied Much, “though one would think that his Lordship was accustomed to the abuse of wine.”

  “Your observation is very just, my friend,” replied John; “my Lord of Hereford doth possess the faculty of drinking heavily without losing his senses.”

  “Robin treated him right pleasantly,” said Much. “Does he act thus toward every Ecclesiastic he encounters?”

  “Yea, when these same Ecclesiastics, like the Bishop of Hereford, do abuse their spiritual and temporal power to rob the Saxon people; it hath even happened to Robin not only to await the arrival of these pious travellers, but eke to go out of his own way to put himself in theirs.”

  “What do you mean by ‘go out of his way’?” said Much.

  “I will tell you a story as we go along which will explain my words. One morning Robin Hood learned that two Black Friars, carrying a large sum of money to their Abbey, would traverse a part of Sherwood Forest. This was good news for Robin, as our funds were on the decline, and the arrival of the money would be most opportune. Without a word to any one (the waylaying of two Monks was but a small affair), Robin, dressed in a long pilgrim’s robe, posted himself in the road the two Friars must take. He had not long to wait, for the Monks soon appeared, two large men sitting squarely in their saddles.

  “Robin advanced to meet them, bowed to the ground, and, seizing as he rose the bridles of the two horses, which were pacing side by side, said in pitiable accents, Bless you, holy brethren, and let me tell you how glad I am to have met you; ‘tis a great happiness for me, and one for which I humbly give thanks to Heaven!

  “What means this deluge of words?” asked one of the Monks.

  “It expresseth my joy, Father. You are the representatives of the God of goodness, you are the reflection of Divine mercy. I need help, I am unhappy, I am hungry; brothers, I die of hunger, give me the charity of some food.”

  “We have no provisions with us” replied the Monk who had first spoken, “therefore cease your useless demands, and let us pursue our way in peace.”

  Robin Hood, who still held the bridles of the horses in his hands, prevented the Monks from escaping him.

  “Brothers,” he went on in a still sadder and weaker voice, “have pity on my misery, and as you have no bread to give me, give me instead a small piece of money. I have wandered in this wood since yesterday morning, and have neither eaten nor drunk. Good brothers, in the name of the Holy Mother of Christ, grant me, I conjure you, this small charity.”

  “See here, foolish babbler, let go our bridles; leave us in peace; we do not wish to waste our time with a witless loon like you.”

  “Yea,” added the second Monk, repeating word for word the speech of his companion, “we do not wish to waste our time with a witless loon like you.”

  “For mercy’s sake, good Monks, a few pence to keep me from dying of hunger.”

  “Even supposing that I were fain to give you an alms, thick-headed mendicant, ‘twould be impossible, for we do not possess a farthing.”

  “All the same, brothers, you have not the appearance of men deprived of all resources; you are well mounted, well equipped, and your jovial faces shine with good cheer.”

  “We had some money a few hours agone, but we have been despoiled by robbers.”

  “They have not left us a penny piece,” added the Monk, whose mission seemed to be to repeat the words of his superior like an echo.

  “I verily believe,” said Robin, “that ye both lie with a rare impudence.”

  “Thou dost dare to accuse us of falsehood, thou miserable rogue?” cried the fat Monk.

  “Yea, first because ye have not been robbed, for there are no robbers in the old Forest of Sherwood; and then ye tried to deceive me in saying that ye had no money. I hate falsehood, and I love to know the truth. So you will see it is but natural I should assure myself by mine own investigations of the falseness of your words.”

  As he finished speaking, Robin let fall the bridles of the horses and put his hand on a bag which hung from the firsl Monk’s saddle-bow, who, startled, put spurs to his horse and made off at a gallop, closely followed by his companion Robin, who, as you know, is fleet as a deer, overtook the travellers, and at a stroke unhorsed them both.

  “Spare us, worthy mendicant,” murmured the fat Monk; “have pity on your brethren. I assure you we have neither money nor food to offer you, wherefore it is a sheer impossibility to exact immediate help from us.”

  “We have naught, worthy mendicant,” added the Father Superior’s echo a poor lean devil, now livid with fear. “We cannot give you what we have not ourselves!”

  “Well, Fathers,” Robin continued, “I would fain put faith in the sincerity of your words. Therefore will I point out to you both a means of obtaining a little money. We will all three kneel down and ask the Holy Virgin to help us. Our Lady hath never abandoned me in the time of my need, and I am sure she will hearken favourably to my supplications. I was engaged in prayer when ye appeared at the end of the road, and, thinking that Heaven had sent you to my assistance, I put my modest request to you. Your refusal hath not discouraged me. Ye are not the emissaries of Providence, that is all; but ye are or should be holy men: we will pray, and our united voices will the better carry our invocations to the feet of the Lord.”

  “The two Monks refused to kneel, and Robin Hood could only constrain them to do so by threatening to search their pockets.”

  “What,” interrupted Will Scarlett, “they all three fell on their knees to ask Heaven to send them money?”

  “Yea,” replied the story-teller, “and they prayed, by Robin’s orders, aloud and in an audible voice.”

  “It must have made a funny picture,” said Will.

  “Very funny indeed. Robin had enough self-control to remain serious, and listened gravely to the Monks’ prayers. ‘Holy Virgin,’ said they, ‘send us some money to save us from harm.’ It is unnecessary to tell you that the money came not. The Monk’s voices took every minute sadder and more lamentable accents, so that at length Robin could control himself no longer, but broke into a hearty peal of laughter.

  “The Monks, reassured by this transport of mirth, attempted to rise, but Robin raised his staff and asked, ‘Have ye received any money?’”

  “No,” they replied, “none.”

  “Then pray once more.”

  “The Monks bore this wearisome torture for an hour; then they began to wring their hands in despair, to tear their hair and weep with rage. They were spent with fatigue and humiliation, but they still protested that they possessed nothing.

  “The Holy Virgin hath never abandoned me,” quoth Robin, to console them. “I have not the proofs of her goodness as yet, but I shall not have much longer to await them. Therefore, my friends, be not disheartened, but, on the contrary, pray the more fervently.”

  “The two Monks groaned so dismally that at length Robin got tired of listening to them.

  “Now, my dear brothers,” he said to them, “let us see how much money Heaven hath sent us.”

  “Not a farthing,” cried the fat Friar.

  “Not a farthing?” repeated Robin. “How is that? My good brothers, tell me, could ye be quite sure I had no money, even though I did affirm the emptiness of my pockets?”

  “No, certainly we could not be quite sure,” said one of the Monks.

  “There is always a means of ascertaining.”

  “What is that?” asked the fat Monk.

  “It is quite simple,” replied Robin; you would have to search me. But it doth not concern you greatly whether I have money or no, that question interesting myself alone. Now I am e’en going to take the liberty of searching your pockets.’

  “We cannot submit to such an outrage,” cried both Monks with one voice.

  “It is not an outrage, my brothers; I only wish to prove to you that if Heaven hath heard my prayers, it hath sent me succour through your holy hands.”

  “We have nothing, nothing!”

  “It is of that I wish to assure myself. Whatever sum of money hath fallen to you jointly, we will divide, one part for you and the other for myself. Search yourselves, I pray you, and tell me what you possess.”

  “The Monks obeyed mechanically; each put a hand into his pocket, but brought nothing whatever out.

  “I see,” said Robin Hood, “that you would fain give me the pleasure of searching you myself; so be it, then.”

  The Monks objected strenuously, but Robin Hood, armed with his terrible staff, threatened so seriously to beat them unmercifully that they resigned themselves to a close search. After seeking for some minutes, Robin got together 500 golden crowns. In despair at the loss of all this pelf, the fat Monk asked Robin, anxiously, “Will you not share the money with us?”

  “Do you really think it was sent you by Heaven since we have been together?” replied Robin, looking at the Monk sternly. The Monks were silent, “You have lied; you protested that you had no money when you carried in your pockets the ransom of a good man; you refused an alms to one who said that he was famished and dying. Do you think, either of you, this was the conduct of a Christian? However, I pardon you. I will keep the promise I made you; here are fifty gold crowns for each of you. Go, and if upon your way ye should meet with a poor beggar, remember that Robin Hood hath left you the means of helping him.”

  At the name of Robin Hood the Monks trembled, and gazed stupidly at our friend. Without taking any notice of their affrighted looks, Robin saluted them and disappeared into the glade. Hardly had the sound of his footsteps died away, ere the Monks threw themselves upon their horses without a glance and fled behind.

  “Robin must have been very skilfully disguised not to have been recognised by the Monks,” said Much.

  “Robin Hood is wonderfully clever at that, as you have seen for yourself in the way he counterfeited the old woman. I could cite hundreds of examples in which he was disguised and not recognised, and I assure you it was a merry jest he played upon the Town-Reeve of Nottingham.”

  “Yea,” said Much, “it was a pretty jest, and it made a noise; every one laughed at the Reeve and applauded Robin’s audacity.”

  “What was that?” asked William. “I have never heard of it.”

  “What, know you not of Robin’s adventure as a butcher?”

  “Nay; but tell me the tale, Little John.”

  “Willingly.”

  About four years agon a great dearth of meat was felt in Nottinghamshire. The butchers kept the price of meat so high that only the rich could furnish their tables withal. Robin Hood, who is alway on the look-out for news, learned of this state of things, and resolved to find a remedy for the sufferings of the poor. One market day he lay in wait upon the road through the Forest to be taken by a cattle-dealer, who was the chief purveyor to the town of Nottingham. Robin met his man mounted upon a thoroughbred and driving before him an immense herd of cattle, and he at once bought the herd, the mare, the butcher’s consent and his secrecy, and as a guarantee of the last purchase, he confided the man to our care until his own return to the Forest.

  Robin, who intended to sell his meat at a very low price, thought that if he neglected to procure protection for instance, that of the Reeve the butchers might combine against him, and defeat his good intentions toward the poor. The Reeve kept a large Inn, where the dealers of the neighbourhood and the other dealers met together when they came to Nottingham to prevent any strife. Robin knew this, and betwixt himself he took his beasts to the Market Place, picked out the fattest animal, and led it to the Town Reeve’s Inn.