As he crossed the apartment adjoining Maude’s, Robin met Marian.

  “What is a-foot in the Castle, Robin dear?” asked the girl, when her lover’s tender greeting was over. “Just now I heard what methought were shouts of joy.”

  “And so they were, dear Marian, to celebrate the return of one ardently longed for.”

  “Whose return?” asked the girl, tremulously “not my brother’s?”

  “Alas! no, dear Marian,” returned Robin, taking the girl’s hand; “as yet God hath not sent Allan back to us; but Will you remember Will Scarlett, merry William?”

  “Of course I do, and I am right glad to hear that he is back again safe and sound. Where is he?”

  “With his mother; when I left the hall his brothers were fighting to embrace him. I am looking for Maude.”

  “She is in her room. Shall I tell her to come down?”

  “No, I must go to her, for the poor child must be prepared for William’s visit. My mission is not easy to fulfil,” Robin went on with a laugh, “for the labyrinths of Sherwood Forest are much better known to me than the mysterious recesses of a woman’s heart.”

  “Why so modest, Master Robin?” replied Marian, gaily. “You know better than any one how to set about fathoming a woman’s heart.”

  “Really, Marian, I do believe that my cousins, you and Maude, are all in league to try and make me vain; you vie with one another in showering compliments upon me.”

  “There is no doubt about it, Master Robin,” said Marian, shaking her finger at the young man. “You lay yourself out to make Winifred and Barbara fond of you. What? you are trying to break your little cousins’ hearts? Very well, then, I am delighted to hear it, and I will in my turn try the effect of my eyes on handsome Will Scarlett.”

  “I give my consent, dear Marian, but I warn you that you will have a dangerous rival. Maude is devotedly loved, she will defend her own honour; and poor Will will blush sorely when he finds himself betwixt two such charming women.”

  “If William cannot blush better than you do, Robin, I need not be afraid of causing him that embarrassing emotion.”

  “Hah! hah!” laughed Robin, “you mean, Mistress Marian, that I know not how to blush?”

  “Nay! I mean that you have forgotten how, which is quite a different matter. Once upon a time, I remember, a brilliant scarlet tinted your cheeks.”

  “When did that memorable event take place?”

  “The day when first we met in Sherwood Forest.”

  “May I tell you why I blushed, Marian?”

  “I am afraid to say yea, Robin, for I see a twinkle in your eye and the outline of a wicked smile on your lips.”

  “You dread my reply, but at the same time you await it impatiently, Marian.”

  “Not at all.”

  “That’s a pity, for I thought I should please you by divulging the secret of my first and last blush.”

  “You always please me when you talk about yourself, Robin,” said Marian, with a smile.

  “That day when I had the happiness of taking you to my father’s house, I had the greatest desire to behold your face, which was hidden within the folds of a great hood, leaving visible only the limpid brightness of your eyes. Walking shyly beside you, I said to myself, ‘If yonder wench’s face be as sweet as her eyes, I will e’en be her lover.’”

  “What, Robin, at sixteen you dreamt of making a woman love you?”

  “I did i’faith; and just as I was contemplating devoting my whole life to you, your adorable face, shaking off the sombre veil which had hidden it from mine eyes, appeared in all its radiant splendour. So ardently did I gaze upon you that your cheeks became suffused with blushes. Something within me cried, ‘This maid shall be thy wife.’ The blood which had rushed to my heart mounted to my face, and I felt that I must love you. There, dear Marian, that is the story of my first and last blush. Since that day,” Robin went on after a moment of affecting silence, “this hope, heaven-born promise of a happy future, hath been the consolation and support of mine existence, I hope and I believe.”

  Sounds of merriment from the Great Hall below reached the room above, where hand-in-hand the two young people continued to exchange tender whispered confidences.

  “Quick, dear Robin,” said Marian, pressing her lovely forehead to the young man’s lips, “go to Maude; I must go to welcome Will, and tell him that you are with his betrothed.”

  Robin soon reached Maude’s room, and found the girl within.

  “I felt almost sure I heard the shouts of joy which announced your arrival, dear Robin,” she said, as she offered him a seat. “Excuse me for not having come down to the withdrawing room, but I feel ill at ease and almost an intruder amongst the general rejoicings.”

  “How is that, Maude?”

  “Because I am the only one for whom you never have any good news.”

  “Your turn will come, dear Maude.”

  “I have lost courage, Robin, and I am filled with a feeling of deadly sadness. I like you with all my heart, I am very glad to see you, and yet I give you no proof of my affection, nor do I convey to you how agreeable your presence is; sometimes, dear Robin, I even try to avoid you.”

  “To avoid me?” cried the young man, in a tone of surprise.

  “Yea, Robin, for when I hear you giving Sir Guy news of his sons, or giving a message from Little John to Winifred, or one from her brothers to Barbara, I say to myself, ‘I am always forgotten; I am the only one to whom Robin never brings anything.’”

  “Never anything, Maude?”

  “Oh, I am not speaking of the charming presents which you bring, and a very large proportion of which you always give to your sister Maude, thinking thus to compensate her for the lack of news. Your kind heart wishes to console me, dear Robin, but alas! I cannot be comforted.”

  “You are a naughty little girl,” said Robin, in a bantering tone. “What, do you complain that you never receive from any one tokens of friendship or remembrance? Ungrateful girl, do I not bring you news from Nottingham at each of my visits? Who was it, who, at the risk of losing his head, paid frequent visits to your brother Hal? Who, at the still greater risk of losing his heart, exposed himself bravely to the murderous fire of two beautiful eyes? In order to please you, Maude, I brave the danger of a tete-a-tete with the lovely Grace, I submit to the charms of her gracious smile, I suffer the touch of her pretty hand, I even kiss her beautiful brow; and for whom, I ask you, do I thus endanger my peace of mind? For you, Maude, and for you alone.”

  Maude began to laugh.

  “I must indeed be of an ungrateful nature,” said she, “for the pleasure I feel in hearing you speak of Halbert and his wife doth not satisfy the desire of my heart.”

  “Very well, then, Madam, I will not tell you that I saw Hal last week, that he charged me to kiss you on both cheeks; nor will I tell you that Grace loves you with all her heart, and that her little daughter Maude an angel of goodness wishes her pretty godmother a very good day.”

  “Thank you a thousand times, dear Robin, for your charming manner of telling me nothing. I am quite content to remain thus in ignorance of what is happening at Nottingham; but, by the way, have you told Marian of the attention you paid to Halbert’s charming wife?”

  “What a spiteful question, Maude! Well, to give you a proof my conscience hath naught to reproach itself withal, I will tell you that I have confided to Marian but a small part of my appreciation of the charms of the beautiful Grace. However, as I have a great admiration for her eyes, I was very careful not to be too expansive upon the subject.”

  “What! you deceived Marian? It would serve you right were I to go at once and reveal to her the full extent of your wickedness.”

  “We will go together presently, and I will offer you my arm; but before we go to Marian, I wish to talk to you.”

  “What have you to tell me, Robin?”

  “Something very nice, and which, I am sure, will give you great pleasure.”

  “Then you have news of... of...” And the young girl looked at Robin with questioning eyes and an expression of mingled doubt, hope, and joy, while the blood rushed into her face.

  “Of whom, Maude?”

  “Ah! you are teasing me,” said the poor girl, sadly.

  “No, dear little friend, I really have something very good to tell you.”

  “Tell me quick, then.”

  “What do you think of a husband?” asked Robin.

  “A husband? What a strange question!”

  “Not at all, if that husband were...”

  “Will! Will! You have heard news of Will! For mercy’s sake, Robin, never play with my heart; it beats with such violence as to pain me. I am listening. Speak, Robin; is dear William sound and well?”

  “Without a doubt, since he wishes to call you his dear little wife at the earliest possible moment.”

  “You have seen him? Where is he? When will he be here?”

  “I have seen him; he will soon come.”

  “Holy Mother of God, I thank thee!” cried Maude, clasping her hands and raising her tearful eyes to heaven. “How glad I shall be to see him!” added the girl. “But...” continued Maude, as her eyes turned irresistibly towards the door, on the threshold of which stood a young man, “it is he! it is he!”

  Maude, with a cry of intense delight, threw herself into William’s arms and swooned away.

  “Poor dear girl!” murmured the young man, in a trembling voice, “the emotion hath been too much for her, too sudden; she hath fainted. Robin, hold her up a little; I am weak as a child, I can hardly stand.”

  Robin took Maude gently from William’s arms and carried her to a couch. As for poor William, with his head hidden in his hands, he wept bitterly. Maude soon came to herself, and her first thought was for Will, her first look for him. He knelt at her feet, and, putting his arms round her waist, murmured tenderly the name of his beloved

  “Maude! Maude!”

  “William! dear William!”

  “I want to speak to Marian,” said Robin, smiling. “Good-bye; I will leave you together. Do not quite forget others who love you.”

  Maude held out her hand to the young man, and William looked gratefully at him.

  “Here I am, back at last, dear Maude,” said Will. “Are you glad to see me?”

  “How can you ask, William? Oh yes, I am glad, and, more than that, I am happy, very happy.”

  “You don’t want me to go away again?”

  “Did I ever want you to?”

  “No; but it depends on you alone whether I stay here for good or only as a visitor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember the last conversation we had together?”

  “Yea, William dear.”

  “I left you with a heavy heart that day, dear Maude; I was in despair. Robin noticed my distress, and, urged by his inquiries, I told him everything. I thus learned the name of him you once loved...”

  “Do not let us speak of my girlish follies,” interrupted Maude, twining her arms round William’s neck; “the past belongs to God.”

  “Yea, dear Maude, to God alone, and the present to us, is it not so?”

  “Yea, to us and to God. Perhaps it might be as well for your peace of mind, dear William,” added the young girl, “to have a clear, frank, and decided idea of my relations with Robin Hood.”

  “I know as much as I desire to know, dear Maude; Robin told me all that had passed betwixt you.”

  A delicate pink flooded the girl’s face.

  “If your departure had been less hurried,” she replied, hiding her blushing face on the young man’s shoulder, “you would have learnt that, deeply touched by the patient tenderness of your love, I longed to return it. During your absence I got into the habit of regarding Robin as a brother, and to-day I ask myself, Will, if my heart ever beat for any one but you.”

  “Then it is quite true that you love me a little, Maude?” said William, clasping his hands, and with tears in his eyes.

  “A little! No; but very much.”

  “Oh, Maude, how happy you make me! You see, I was right to hope, to wait, to be patient, to say to myself, ‘The day will come when I shall be loved.’ We are going to be married, are we not?”

  “Dear Will!”

  “Say yea, or say, rather, ‘I want to marry my good William.’”

  “‘I want to marry my good William,’” repeated the girl, obediently.

  “Give me your hand, dear Maude.”

  “Here it is.”

  William kissed the little hand of his betrothed passionately.

  “When shall our wedding be, Maude? he asked.

  “I do not know, my dear, some day.”

  “Of course, but it must be settled; suppose we say to-morrow?”

  “To-morrow, Will! You don’t mean it; ‘tis impossible.”

  “Impossible! Why impossible?”

  “Because it is too unexpected, too soon.”

  “Happiness never comes too soon, dear Maude; and could we be married at this very moment, I should be the happiest of men. As we must wait until tomorrow, why, I resign myself to it. But it is settled, is it not, that to-morrow you will be my wife?”

  “To-morrow!” cried the girl.

  “Yea; and for two reasons, the first being that we shall keep my father’s seventy-sixth birthday, the second that my mother wishes to celebrate my return with great rejoicings. The merrymaking would be quite complete, if still further brightened by the accomplishment of our mutual desires.”

  “Your family, dear William, are not prepared to receive me as one of their number, and your father would perhaps say...”

  “My father,” interrupted Will “my father will say that you are an angel, that he loves you, and that you have long been his daughter. Ah, Maude! you do not know the good and kind old man, if you doubt his joy at the happiness of his son.”

  “You have such a gift of persuasion, my dear Will, that I agree with you entirely.”

  “Then you consent, Maude?”

  “I suppose I must, dear Will.”

  “You are not forced to do so, Madam.”

  “Really, William, you are very difficult to please; probably you would prefer to hear me reply, ‘I consent with all my heart.’”

  “To marry you to-morrow,” added Will.

  “‘To marry you to-morrow,’” repeated Maude, laughing.

  “Very well; I am content. Come, dear little woman, let us go and announce our approaching marriage to our friends.”

  William took Maude’s arm, drew it through his own, and, kissing the girl, he led her towards the Great Hall, where the whole family was still assembled.

  Lady Gamwell and her husband gave Maude their blessing, Winifred and Barbara greeted her by the sweet name of sister, and Will’s brothers embraced her enthusiastically.

  The preparations for the wedding now occupied the ladies, who, all animated by the same desire of ministering to the happiness of Will and to the beauty of Maude, set themselves at once to make a charming dress for the young girl.

  The morrow came slowly, as do all impatiently expected to-morrows. From early morning the courtyard of the Castle had been furnished with innumerable casks of ale, which, festooned with garlands of leaves, were to wait patiently until their presence was discovered. A splendid banquet was in preparation, armfuls of flowers strewed the halls, the musicians tuned their instruments, and the expected guests came thronging in.

  The hour fixed for the celebration of the wedding of Mistress Lindsay and William Gamwell was about to strike; Maude, dressed with exquisite taste, awaited William’s arrival in the Great Hall, but William did not come.

  Sir Guy sent a servant to look for his son.

  The servant looked all over the pleasaunce, searched the Castle, called the young man, and got no reply, save the echo of his own voice.

  Robin Hood and Sir Guy’s sons mounted their horses and searched the neighbourhood; they could find no trace of the bridegroom, nor hear any tidings of him.

  The guests divided into parties, and explored the country in other directions, but their search was equally futile.

  At midnight, the whole family gathered round Maude, who had been unconscious for the last hour.

  William had disappeared.

  CHAPTER II

  As we have already mentioned, Baron Fitz-Alwine had brought his beautiful and charming daughter, the Lady Christabel, back with him to Nottingham Castle.

  Some days before the disappearance of poor Will, the Baron was sitting in one of his apartments opposite to a little man, splendidly dressed in a robe laden with golden embroidery.

  If it were possible to be rich in ugliness, one would have said that Lord Fitz-Alwine’s guest was immensely rich.

  Judging by his face, this old beau should have been much older than the Baron, but he did not seem to recall the antiquity of his birth himself.

  With wrinkled and grimacing faces, like two old monkeys, the men talked together in low voices, and it was evident that they were trying to obtain from one another, by dint of cunning and flattery, a definite conclusion to some important business.

  “You are too hard on me, Baron,” said the hideous old man, wagging his head.

  “Faith, no,” replied Lord Fitz-Alwine, briskly. “I wish to secure my daughter’s happiness, that is all, and I challenge you to discover any ulterior motive in me, my dear Sir Tristan.”

  “I know that you are a good father, Fitz-Alwine, and that the happiness of the Lady Christabel is your only thought... And what dowry intend you to give this dear child?”

  “I have told you already, five thousand pieces of gold on her wedding day, and the same amount later.”

  “The date must be stated precisely, Baron; the date must be precisely stated,” grumbled the old man.

  “Let us say in five years, then.”

  “The delay is long, and the dowry you give your daughter is very small.”

  “Sir Tristan,” said the Baron, dryly, “you put my patience to too great a trial. I pray you to remember that my daughter is young and beautiful, and that you yourself no longer possess the physical advantages you may have had fifty years ago.”