“Send Black Peter to me,” said the Baron, gruffly.

  “Anon! my Lord.”

  Some minutes later the soldier in question appeared before Lord Fitz-Alwine.

  “Peter,” said the Baron, “thou hast under thee brave and trustworthy fellows that will execute, without comment, any orders given them?”

  “Yea, my Lord.”

  “They are courageous, and know how to forget the services they are able to render?”

  “Yea, my Lord.”

  “That is well. A knight, elegantly clad in a red tunic, hath just left here; follow him with two good men, and see that he is no longer able to trouble any one. Dost understand?”

  “Perfectly, my Lord,” replied Black Peter, with a frightful leer, and half drawing a huge dagger from its sheath.

  “Thou shalt be well rewarded, brave Peter. Go without fear, but act secretly and with prudence. An if this butterfly take the road through the wood, let him get well under the trees, and there you will have it all your own way. After he hath been despatched to another world, bury him at the foot of some old oak, and cover the spot with leaves and brushwood, so that his body is not likely to be discovered.”

  “Your orders shall be faithfully executed, my Lord; and when you see me again, the Knight will sleep beneath a carpet of green grass.”

  “I shall look out for thee. Now up and follow yonder impertinent fop without delay.”

  Accompanied by two men, Black Peter left the Castle, and soon found himself on the track of the young Knight.

  The latter, with pensive brow, his mind absorbed and his heart heavy with sorrow, paced slowly along the borders of Sherwood Forest. On seeing the young man enter under the covert of the trees, the assassins following him trembled with sinister joy. They hastened their steps, and took hiding behind a bush, ready to throw themselves upon the young man at an opportune moment.

  Allan Clare looked about for the guide promised by Robin Hood, and whilst he searched he reflected on the means necessary for tearing Christabel from the hands of her unworthy father.

  A sound of hurried footsteps roused the Knight from his sad reverie. Turning his head, he beheld three men with evil faces advancing towards him, sword in hand.

  Allan set his back against a tree, drew his sword from the scabbard, and said in a firm voice

  “Ho, caitiffs! what would you have?”

  “We would have thy life, thou gaudy butterfly!” cried Black Peter, throwing himself upon the young man.

  “Back, rogue!” said Allan, striking his aggressor in the face. “Back all!” he continued, disarming with incomparable skill the second of his adversaries.

  Black Peter redoubled his efforts, but he could not succeed in touching his adversary, who had not only rendered one of the assassins powerless by sending his sword up into the branches of a tree, but had likewise broken the skull of the third.

  Disarmed and mad with rage, Black Peter uprooted a young tree and again rushed upon Allan. He hit the Knight on the head with such violence that the latter let fall his weapon and fell senseless to the ground.

  “The quarry is pulled down!” Peter cried exultingly, as he assisted his wounded companions to their feet. “Get ye along to the Castle, and leave me alone; I will finish this fellow. Your presence here is a danger, and your groanings weary me. Begone; I will myself dig the hole in which to bury the young Lord. Give me the spade you brought.”

  “‘Tis here,” said one of the men. “Peter,” added the wretched varlet, “I am half dead, I cannot walk.”

  “Begone, or I will finish thee,” replied Peter, brutally.

  The two men, overcome with pain and fright, dragged themselves painfully out of the Forest.

  Left alone, Peter set to work; he had half finished his dreadful task when he received upon the shoulder a blow from a stick, so vigorously delivered that he fell full length at the edge of the hole.

  When the violence of the pain was a little spent, the wretch turned his eyes Jtowards the dealer of this very just retribution. He then perceived the rubicund visage of a robust fellow arrayed in the garb of a Dominican Friar.

  “How now, profane rascal with the black muzzle!” cried the Friar, in stentorian tones, “dost knock a gentleman on the head, and then, to hide thine infamy, bury thy victim? Answer me, robber, who art thou?”

  “My sword shall speak for me,” said Peter, leaping to his feet. “It shall send thee to another world, where thou mayest have leisure to ask Satan the name thou dost desire to know.”

  “I shall not need to give myself that trouble; an I have the bad luck to die before thee, insolent rogue, I can read on thy face thine infernal parentage. Now let me counsel thy sword to keep quiet, for an it attempt to wag its tongue, my cudgel will impose an eternal silence on it. Get thee hence, that is the best thing thou canst do.”

  “Not until I have shown thee that I know how to use a sword,” said Peter, striking at the Monk.

  The blow was so rapid, so violent, and so adroitly aimed that it struck the Brother on the left hand, cutting three fingers almost to the bone. The monk uttered a cry, fell upon Peter on the instant, and crushing him in his powerful embrace, applied a volley of blows from his cudgel.

  Then a strange sensation overcame the miserable assassin; he lost his sword, his eyes grew dim, his senses failed him, and he lost all power of defending himself. When the Brother ceased beating him, Peter fell dead.

  “The knave!” muttered the Monk, spent with pain and weariness, “the damned knave! Did he imagine that the fingers of poor Tuck were made to be cut about by a Norman dog? I think I have given him a good lesson; unfortunately, he will not derive much benefit from it, since he hath breathed his last breath. So much the worse; ‘twas all his fault, not mine. Why did he kill this poor boy? Ah!” cried the good Brother, placing his sound hand on the Knight’s breast, “he still breathes, his body is warm and his heart beats, feebly ‘tis true, but enow to show that there is still life in him. I will bear him on my shoulders to the retreat. Poor lad, ho is no great weight! As for thee, vile assassin,” added Tuck, pushing away Peter’s body with his foot, “lie there, and if the wolves have not yet dined, thou wilt serve them for a meal.”

  Saying which, the Monk took his way with a firm and rapid step in the direction of the retreat of the merry men.

  * * * * *

  A few words will suffice to explain Will Scarlett’s capture.

  The man who had seen him in company with Robin Hood and Little John in the Inn at Mansfield was under orders seeking the fugitive. Perceiving the young man accompanied by five strong fellows who might lend him a helping hand, the wary scout determined to await a more favourable moment to effect the capture. Quitting the Inn, he sent to Nottingham to ask for a company of soldiers, and these, guided by the spy, repaired to Barnsdale at midnight.

  Next morning a strange fatality led Will outside the Castle; the poor youth fell into the hands of the soldiers, and was carried off without being able to offer the smallest resistance.

  At first he was seized with utter despair; but the meeting with Much gave him some hope. He understood instantly that, once made aware of his unhappy plight, Robin Hood would do everything in the world to come to his aid, and if he could not succeed in saving him, at least he would allow no obstacle to deter him from avenging his death. He knew, moreover and this afforded some relief to his heavy heart that many tears would be shed over his cruel fate; he knew, too, that Maude, so happy in his return, would weep bitterly at the destruction of their mutual happiness.

  Imprisoned in his dark dungeon, Will awaited in agonies of fear the time fixed for his execution, and every hour brought him both hope and anguish. The poor prisoner listened with straining ears for every sound from without, hoping always to hear the echo of Robin Hood’s horn.

  The first streak of dawn found Will at his prayers; he had confessed piously to the good pilgrim, and with strengthened spirit, and confident in him whose succour he still expected, he made ready to follow the guards who came to seek him at sunrise.

  The soldiers set Will in their midst, and took the road to Nottingham.

  On entering the town, the escort was soon surrounded by a large concourse of the inhabitants, who, since dawn, had been on the look-out for the melancholy procession.

  However great the young man’s hopes might be, he felt his spirits fail at seeing around him not one single face he knew. His heart sank, and the tears, though manfully repressed, wetted his eyelashes; nevertheless, he still hoped, for a voice within him seemed to say, “Robin Hood is not far away, Robin Hood will come.”

  When they reached the hideous gallows erected by the Baron’s orders, William became livid; he had not expected to die so infamous a death.

  “I wish to speak to Lord Fitz-Alwine,” said he.

  In his capacity of Sheriff the latter was obliged to assist at the execution.

  “What dost want of me, wretch?” asked the Baron.

  “My Lord, may I not hope for pardon?”

  “No,” replied the old man, coldly.

  “Then,” said William, in a firm voice, “I implore a favour which it is impossible for a generous soul to refuse me.”

  “What favour?”

  “My Lord, I belong to a noble Saxon family, whose name is the synonym of honour, and never yet hath one of its members merited the scorn of his fellow-citizens. I am a soldier and a gentleman; I deserve the death of a soldier.”

  “Thou wilt be hanged,” said the Baron, brutally.

  “My Lord, I have risked my life on the field of battle, I do not deserve to be hanged like a thief.”

  “Ah, indeed!” sneered the old man. “And in what fashion, then, dost wish to expiate your crime?”

  “Give me but a sword, and command your soldiers to pierce me with their spears or pikes; I would die as dies an honest man, with free arms and face upturned to Heaven.”

  “Dost think I am fool enough to risk the life of one of my men to satisfy thy fancy? Not at all, not at all! Thou wilt be hanged.”

  “My Lord, I conjure you, I beseech you to have pity on me. I will not even ask for a sword, I will not defend myself, I will let your men hack me in pieces.”

  “Vile wretch!” said the Baron; “thou hast killed a Norman, and thou dost ask pity from a Norman. Art mad? Back, I say! Thou shalt die upon the gallows; and shalt soon have company, too, I trust the robber who with his band of rascals doth infest Sherwood Forest.”

  “An if he you speak of with such scorn were within earshot, I would laugh at your boasts, cowardly poltroon that you are. Remember this, Baron Fitz-Alwine, if I die, Robin Hood will avenge me! Beware of Robin Hood! Ere this week be gone, he will be at the Castle of Nottingham.”

  “Let him come, and eke his whole band with him! I will have two hundred gallows erected. Hangman, do your duty,” added the Baron.

  The hangman put his hand on William’s shoulder. The poor youth threw a glance of despair around him, and seeing only a silent and pitying crowd, commended his soul to God.

  “Stay,” said the trembling voice of the pilgrim “stay; I have one last benediction to give to my unhappy penitent.”

  “Your duties toward the wretched creature are ended,” cried the Baron, in a furious tone. “It is useless to retard his execution longer.”

  “Ungodly man,” cried the pilgrim, “would you deprive this young man of the succour of religion?”

  “Hurry, then,” said Lord Fitz-Alwine, impatiently; “I am aweary of all these delays.”

  “Soldiers, stand back a little,” said the old pilgrim; “the prayers of a dying man must not fall upon profane ears.”

  At a sign from the Baron the soldiers fell back a little way from the prisoner, and William was left alone with the pilgrim at the foot of the gallows.

  The hangman was listening respectfully to some orders from the Baron.

  “Do not move, Will,” said the pilgrim, leaning towards the young man; “I am Robin Hood, and I am going to cut the cords which fetter your movements. Then we will dash into the midst of the soldiers, and sheer surprise will rob them of their wits.”

  “Bless you, dear Robin, bless you!” murmured poor William, choking with joy.

  “Stoop down, William, and pretend to talk to me. Good! the cords are cut. Now take the sword which hangs beneath my gown. Can you feel it?”

  “Yea! here it is,” murmured Will.

  “Very well; now, put your back against mine, and we will show Lord Fitz-Alwine that you did not come into this world to be hanged.”

  With a movement quicker than thought, Robin Hood dropped his pilgrim’s gown, and revealed to the amazed gaze of the assembled crowd the well-known costume of the renowned outlaw.

  “My Lord,” cried Robin, in a firm and thrilling voice, “William Gamwell is one of our band of merry men. You took him from me. I am come to reclaim him, and in exchange I will send you the corpse of the rogue who had your orders foully to destroy the good Knight Allan Clare.”

  “Five hundred pieces of gold to the man who arrests this robber,” bellowed the Baron; “five hundred pieces of gold to the valiant soldier who will secure him.”

  Robin Hood flashed a glance at the crowd, who stood stupefied with fear.

  “I do not advise any one to risk his life,” said he; “my comrades will rally round me.”

  As he finished speaking, Robin blew his horn, and instantly a large body of foresters issued from the Forest, their bows ready strung in their hands.

  “To arms!” cried the Baron, “to arms, faithful Normans; exterminate these bandits!”

  A volley of arrows poured upon the Baron’s company. The latter, seized with terror, threw himself on his horse, and urged it with loud cries in the direction of the Castle. The citizens of Nottingham, distracted with fright, followed in the steps of their lord; and the soldiers, carried away by the terror of the general panic, took to their heels in headlong flight.

  “Ho for the good green wood! Ho for brave Robin Hood!” shouted the merry men, as they chased their foes before them with great shouts of laughter.

  Citizens, foresters, and soldiers dashed through the town, helter-skelter, the first dumb with fright, the second laughing, the last with rage in their hearts. The Baron was the first to gain the interior of the Castle, whither the others followed him, all except the merry men, who on arriving there took leave of their fainthearted adversaries with shouts of derision.

  When Robin Hood, accompanied by his band, had again taken the Forest road, the citizens who had suffered no hurt or loss through this strange encounter, sang the praises of the young Chief and his readiness to succour any in distress.

  The maidens blended their sweet voices in this chorus of eulogy, one of them even declaring she thought the Foresters appeared such kind and merry gentlemen, she would never more fear to cross the Forest alone.

  CHAPTER III

  Having assured himself that Robin Hood had no intention of besieging the Castle, Lord Fitz-Alwine, with aching body and mind torn by a thousand projects, each more impossible than the other, retired to his own apartments in the Castle.

  There the Baron reflected on the strange audacity of Robin Hood, who in broad daylight, with no other weapon save an inoffensive sword (for he had only drawn it from the scabbard to cut the prisoner’s bonds) had enough strength of mind to hold a large body of men in check. Remembering the shameful flight of his soldiers, and forgetting that he had been the first to set them the example, the Baron cursed their cowardice.

  “What craven terror!” he cried; “what silly panic! What will the citizens of Nottingham think of us? Their flight was permissible, for they had no means of defence, but well-disciplined soldiers, armed to the teeth! My reputation for valour and courage will be gone for ever by this unheard-of behaviour!”

  From this reflection, so humiliating to his self-esteem, the Baron passed to another train of thought. So greatly did he exaggerate the shame of his defeat, that he ended by making his soldiers entirely responsible for it; he imagined that instead of having shown the way for their stampede, he had covered their mad flight, and that with no protection save his own courage, he had cut a way through the ranks of the outlaws. Utterly confounding fact and fancy, this last thought brought the Baron’s indignation to a head; he dashed from his room and burst headlong into the Courtyard, where his men, gathered in little groups, were talking over their pitiful defeat, for which they blamed their noble lord. The Baron fell like a thunderbolt into the midst of the troop, and ordered them to form up around him, whilst he read them a lecture on their infamous cowardice. After this, he cited imaginary examples of senseless panics, adding that never in the memory of man had such cowardice been known as that which they had just exhibited. The Baron spoke with such vehemence and indignation, and adopted such an air of invincible and unappreciated courage, that the soldiers, influenced by the feeling of respect in which they held their Chief, at last came actually to believe that they alone were really guilty. The Baron’s rage appeared to them a righteous indignation; they bowed their heads, and fully believed that they were no better than poltroons frightened by their own shadows. When the Baron had terminated his pompous discourse, one of the men proposed to pursue the outlaws to their Forest retreat. This proposition was hailed with acclamation by the entire troop, and the soldier with whom had originated this bellicose notion, begged the valiant orator to put himself at their head. But the latter, little disposed to accede to this ill-timed demand, replied that though he was gratified at such a token of high esteem, it seemed to him for the moment far wiser to remain at home.

  “My brave fellows,” added the Baron, “prudence counsels us to await a more favourable opportunity of seizing Robin Hood; it will be wiser, I think, to abstain from any precipitate measures, at any rate, for the present. Patience now, and courage in the hour of battle, is all I ask of you.”

  Having thus said, the Baron, who feared that his men might insist more strongly, hastily left them to their dreams of victory. His mind at ease concerning his military reputation, the Baron forgot Robin Hood and turned his attention to his personal affairs, and the aspirants to his daughter’s hand. It is unnecessary to add that Lord Fitz-Alwine relied entirely on the proved skill of Black Peter for the realisation of his dearest hopes, and imagined that Allan Clare no longer existed. It is true that Robin Hood had informed him of the death of his blood-thirsty emissary, but it was of little consequence to the Baron that Peter had paid with his life the services rendered to his lord and master. Allan Clare disposed of, no obstacle could come between Christabel and Sir Tristan, and the latter was so near his grave that the young wife might exchange in a day her bridal veil for a widow’s weeds. Young and passing fair, free of all bonds, enormously rich, Lady Christabel might then make a marriage worthy of her beauty and her immense fortune. “But what marriage?” asked the Baron of himself; and, fired by an overpowering ambition, he sought for a husband who should fulfil his highest hopes. The elated old man had glimpses of the splendour of the Court, and he dreamt of the son of Henry II. At that moment of incessant strife between the two parties which divided the kingdom of England, necessity had made a great power of wealth, and the elevation of the Lady Christabel to the rank of Princess Royal was not quite impossible of realisation. The exciting hope which Lord Fitz-Alwine had conceived began to take the shape of a project on the eve of execution; already he looked upon himself as the father-in-law of the King of England, and he wondered to what nation it would be most advantageous to unite his grandsons and great-grandsons, when Robin’s words recurred to his mind, and shattered this castle in the air. Perhaps Allan Clare was still alive! “I must make certain of it at once,” cried the Baron, almost beside himself at the mere supposition. He rang the hand-bell, placed within his reach night and day, violently, and a servant appeared.