“Father,” she said in a faltering voice, “have pity on me; this marriage will be my death.”

  A severe look from the Baron silenced the poor girl.

  “Sir Knight,” added Christabel, laying her trembling hand on Sir Tristan’s arm, “be not merciless; you can still restore me to life. Have pity on me!”

  “We will speak of that later,” said Sir Tristan; and he signed to the Bishop to enter the Church.

  The Baron took his daughter’s hand, and was about to conduct her to the altar, when a loud voice cried “Stay!”

  Lord Fitz-Alwine uttered a cry; Sir Tristan tottered, and had to lean for support against the great doorway of the Church. The stranger took the Lady Christabel’s hand in his.

  “Presumptuous caitiff!” said the Bishop, recognising the minstrel, “who gave thee permission to lay thy mercenary hands on this noble lady?”

  “‘Tis Providence sends me to succour her in her helplessness,” replied the stranger, haughtily.

  The Baron threw himself upon the minstrel.

  “Who are you?” he asked; “and why come you here to disturb a holy ceremony?”

  “Villain!” cried the stranger, “call you this shameful union of a young maiden with an old man a holy ceremony? My Lady,” he added, bowing respectfully to the Lady Christabel, who was half dead with anguish, “you are come into the House of the Lord to receive the name of an honest man, and that name you shall receive. Take courage! Divine Providence yet watcheth over your innocence.”

  The minstrel loosed with one hand the girdle which confined his robe, while with the other he raised to his lips a hunting-horn.

  “Robin Hood!” cried the Baron.

  “Robin Hood! the friend of Allan Clare!” murmured the Lady Christabel.

  “Yea, Robin Hood and his Merrie Men,” replied our hero, indicating by a glance a number of foresters, who had stolen up silently and surrounded the escort.

  At the same moment an elegantly clad young knight threw himself at the feet of Lady Christabel.

  “My Lord,” said Robin Hood, respectfully approaching the Bishop with bared head, “you were about to unite, contrary to all human and social laws, two beings never destined by Heaven to dwell beneath one roof. Behold this young maiden; look at the husband whom the insatiable avarice of her father would have given her. Since earliest childhood the Lady Christabel hath been betrothed to the Knight Allan Clare. Like herself he is young, rich, and noble; he loves her, and we are come to humbly beg you to bless their union.”

  “I formally oppose the marriage!” cried the Baron, striving to break from the grasp of Little John, to whom had fallen the lot of guarding him.

  “Peace, inhuman man!” cried Robin Hood. “Dost dare to raise thy voice on the threshold of this holy place, and give the lie to the promises thou hast made?”

  “I have made no promises,” roared Lord Fitz-Alwine.

  “My Lord,” continued Robin Hood, addressing the Bishop, “will you unite these young people?”

  “I cannot do it without the consent of Lord Fitz-Alwine.”

  “Which consent I will never give.”

  “My Lord,” continued Robin, taking no notice of the vociferations of the old man, “I await your final decision.”

  “I cannot take it upon me to do as you wish,” replied the Bishop; “the banns have not been published, and the law doth require...”

  “We will obey the law,” said Robin. “Friend Little John, confide his Lordship to the care of one of our men, and do you publish the banns.”

  Little John obeyed. Three times he announced the marriage of Allan Clare and the Lady Christabel Fitz-Alwinev but the Bishop again refused to give the young people his blessing.

  “Your decision is final, my Lord?” asked Robin.

  “It is,” replied the Bishop.

  “So be it. I had foreseen such an event, and am accompanied by a holy man, who hath the right to officiate. My father,” continued Robin, addressing an old man, who had remained unnoticed, “I pray you enter the Chapel; the young couple will follow you.”

  The pilgrim, the same who had connived at Will’s escape, advanced slowly.

  “I am here, my son,” he said; “I go to pray for the unfortunate and to beseech God to pardon the wicked.”

  Guarded by the merrie men, the party entered the Chapel quietly, and the ceremony began at once. The Bishop disappeared, Sir Tristan groaned dismally, and Lord Fitz-Alwine muttered deep oaths of vengeance.

  “Who giveth this woman?” asked the old palmer, laying his palsied hands on Christabel’s head, as she knelt before him.

  “Will you be so good as to answer, my Lord?” said Robin Hood.

  “Father, I pray you!” besought the girl.

  “No, no! a thousand times, no!” cried the Baron, beside himself with rage.

  “Since her father hath refused to keep the solemn promise he gave,” said Robin, “I will take his place. I, Robin Hood, do give the Lady Christabel as wife to the good Knight Sir Allan Clare.”

  The ceremony proceeded without further obstacle. Hardly were Allan Clare and Christabel wedded ere the Gamwell family appeared on the threshold. Robin Hood advanced to meet Marian, and led her to the altar, William and Maude following them. As he passed close to Robin, who knelt at Marian’s side, Will whispered “At length, Rob, the happy day hath arrived. Look at Maude; how beautiful she is, and her dear little heart is beating fast, I warrant you.”

  “Silence, Will; God is listening to us at this moment.”

  “Yea, I know, and I am going to pray with my whole soul,” replied the happy youth.

  The palmer blessed the new couples, and, raising his hands to Heaven, implored the divine mercy upon them.

  “Maude, dear Maude,” said William, as soon as he was able to lead the girl from the Church, “at last you are my wife my dear wife! Fate hath set so many obstacles in the way of our happiness, ‘tis difficult for me now to realise its full extent. I am mad with joy; thou art mine, and mine alone. Hast prayed, Maude, my darling? Hast asked the Holy Virgin to grant us for ever same radiant joy she doth bestow on this day?”

  Maude smiled and wept together, so full was her heart of love and gratitude to William.

  Robin’s marriage threw the band of merrie men into transports of delight, and on issuing from the Church they uttered deafening cheers.

  “The brawling ruffians,” growled Lord Fitz-Alwine, reluctantly following the form of Little John, who had politely requested him to leave the Chapel.

  A few minutes after the Chapel was deserted. Lord Fitz-Alwine and Sir Tristan, deprived of their horses, dolefully supporting each other, and in a state of mind which baffles description, set out for the Castle with halting steps.

  “Fitz-Alwine,” said the old man, stumbling as he spoke, “you will give me back the million pieces of gold which I confided to your care?”

  “Nay, faith! Sir Tristan, for it was not my fault that misfortune befell you. Had you followed my counsels, this disaster would never have occurred. By holding the wedding in the Castle Chapel, our mutual desires would have been assured; but you preferred broad daylight to obscurity, and behold the result! This rascal hath carried off my daughter; I must have compensation, therefore I keep the gold.”

  Returning to Nottingham in as sorry a plight as their masters, the servants of the two noblemen followed them at a distance, laughing behind their backs at the strange events of the day.

  The wedding party, escorted by the merrie men, soon gained the depths of the wood. The old Forest had decked itself out to receive the happy couples, and the trees, refreshed by the morning dew, bowed their green branches over the visitors. Long garlands of flowers and foliage were wreathed from tree to tree, and bound together secular oaks and sturdy elms and slender poplars. Here and there appeared in the distance a stag crowned with flowers like a classic god. A fawn, bedecked with ribbons, bounded across the path, or a deer, wearing its festive collar too, darted like an arrow along the greensward. In the midst of a wide clearing in the woods a table was spread, a dancing-green levelled, and sports prepared in short, all the pleasures that could add to the satisfaction of the guests were disposed around them. Most of the fair maids of Nottingham had come to grace with their presence the feast of Robin Hood, and the most frolic gaiety prevailed in the happy gathering.

  Maude and William, arm in arm, with smiling lips and joyous hearts, were wandering apart down a green avenue near the dancing-green, when Friar Tuck appeared before them.

  “Halloo, good Tuck, merry Giles, my fat brother,” cried Will, laughing, “art come to share our stroll? Welcome! Giles, my very good friend, and do me the honour to look at the treasure of my soul, my cherished wife, my most precious possession; look at this angel, Giles, and tell me if there doth exist beneath the skies a more charming being than my beautiful Maude. But methinks, friend Tuck,” added the young man, looking more closely at the Monk’s anxious face “methinks thou art ill at ease; what is it? Come, confide thy troubles to us; I will endeavour to cheer thee. Maude, my darling, let us be kind to him. Come, what is it, Giles? First, I will hear thy confidences, then I will speak to thee of my wife, and thine old heart will be young again in sympathy with mine.”

  “I have no confidences to make thee, Will,” replied the Monk, in a somewhat broken voice, “but I rejoice to know that all thy desires are fulfilled.”

  “That doth not prevent me, friend Tuck, from remarking with real sorrow the sad expression of thy countenance. Come, what is it?”

  “Naught,” replied the Monk, “naught, unless it were an idea which crossed my mind, a will o’ the wisp which burns into my brain, an elf which plagues my heart. Well, Will, I know not whether I should tell thee, but for many years I had hoped that the little witch whom thou dost hold so tenderly to thee would be my sunbeam, the joy of my existence, my dearest and most precious jewel.”

  “What, poor Tuck, until now thou hast loved my pretty Maude?”

  “Yea, William.”

  “If I am not wrong, thou hast known her longer than Robin?”

  “Than Robin? Yea, indeed.”

  “And hast loved her?”

  “Alas, yea!” sighed the Monk.

  “Could it be otherwise?” said Will, in a tender voice, kissing his wife’s hand “Robin loved her at first sight, I adored her from the first, and now, Maude, thou art mine.”

  Silence followed Will’s passionate exclamation. The Monk bowed his head and Maude blushed and smiled at her husband.

  “I do hope, friend Tuck,” continued William, in a tone of affection, “that my happiness is not thy pain; if I am happy to-day, it is by great tribulation that I have succeeded in making Maude my well-beloved wife. Thou hast not known the despair of rejected love; thou hast not known exile; thou hast not languished far from thy beloved; thou hast not lost thy strength, thy health, thy peace of mind.”

  As he enumerated the last of his sorrows, Will cast his eyes upon the rubicund countenance of the Monk, and a loud laugh burst from him. Friar Tuck weighed at least fifteen stone, and his expansive figure resembled a full moon. Maude, who had understood the cause of Will’s sudden laughter, shared in his mirth, and Tuck joined in unaffectedly.

  “I am quite well,” he said, with a charming good nature; “but that makes no odds... Well, no matter, I quite understand; and by’r lady, good friends,” he added, taking the clasped hands of the young people in his own large ones, “I wish you both perfect happiness. ‘Tis true, sweet Maude, your fawn-like eyes turned my head long ago; but there, I will not bear much thought. I have found a good moral to that chapter; I sought for a consolation in my cruel sorrow, and I found it.”

  “Found it!” cried William and Maude together.

  “Yea,” replied Tuck, with a smile.

  “A black-eyed maid?” asked the coquettish Maude; “a young girl who can appreciate your good sterling qualities, Master Giles?”

  The Monk began to laugh.

  “Yea, truly,” he said, “my consolation is a lady with brilliant eyes and ruby lips. You ask me, sweet Maude, if she appreciates my merits? That is a question difficult to resolve, for my consoler is truly a thoughtless creature, and I am not the only one to whom she renders kiss for kiss.”

  “And yet thou lovest her?” said Will, in a tone full at once of pity and reproach.

  “Yea, I love her,” replied the Monk; “albeit, as I have just told you, she is very free with her favours.”

  “But she must be a horrid woman,” cried Maude, flushing.

  “What, Tuck,” added Will, “as brave a heart and as honest a soul as thine to be caught in the toils of such an infatuation! As for me, sooner than bestow my love on such a creature, I...”

  “Tut! tut!” interrupted the Monk, mildly; “be careful, Will.”

  “Careful why?”

  “Because it ill becomes thee to speak evil of one whom thou hast oft embraced.”

  “You have embraced this woman!” cried Maude, in a reproachful voice.

  “Maude, Maude, it is a lie!” said Will.

  “It is not a lie,” replied the Monk, tranquilly; “thou hast embraced her not once, but ten times, twenty times.”

  “Will, Will!”

  “Never listen to him, Maude, he is deceiving you. Now, look here, Tuck, tell the truth. I have embraced the maid of thy love?”

  “Yea, and I can prove it.”

  “You hear him, Will,” said Maude, ready to weep.

  “I hear him, but I do not understand him,” replied the young man. “Giles, in the name of our good friendship, I adjure you to confront me with this maid, and we will see whether she hath the effrontery to sustain your imposture.”

  “I ask naught better, Will, and I wager that not only wilt thou be constrained to confess the affection thou dost bear her, but thou wilt eke give her fresh proofs of it, and thou wilt even embrace her.”

  “I do not wish him to do so,” said Maude, twining her arms round Will; “I do not wish him to speak to this woman.”

  “He will speak to her and he will embrace her,” replied the Monk, with strange persistency.

  “‘Tis impossible,” said Will.

  “Quite impossible,” added Maude.

  “Show me thy beloved, Master Giles. Where is she?”

  “What mean you, Will?” said Maude. “You cannot desire her presence, and beside... and beside, Will, methinks the person of whom you speak would not be a proper acquaintance for your wife.”

  “Thou art right, dear little wife,” said Will, kissing Maude’s brow; “she is not worthy to look at thee for a moment. My dear Tuck,” he continued, “thou wilt oblige me by ceasing a pleasantry which is so disagreeable to Maude. I have neither desire nor curiosity to see thy beloved, wherefore let us speak of her no more.”

  “But ‘tis necessary for the honour of my word, Will, that thou shouldest be confronted with her.”

  “Not at all, not at all!” said Maude. “William doth not desire this meeting, and it would be too painful for me.”

  “I wish thee to see her,” replied the obstinate Giles; “and here she is!” Saying which, Tuck drew from his robe a silver flask, and raising it to William’s eyes, he said, “Look at my pretty bottle, my sweet consolation, and dare to say again that thou hast ne’er embraced her.”

  The two young people laughed merrily.

  “I do confess my sin, good Tuck,” cried Will, taking the bottle, “and I ask my dear little wife’s permission to implant a kiss of friendship on the ruby lips of this old friend.”

  “Thou hast my consent, Will; drink to our happiness and the merry Monk’s prosperity.”

  Will sipped the rosy fluid and returned the flask to Tuck, who in his enthusiasm drained it completely. The three friends then strolled about with linked arms until at a call from Robin they rejoined the assembly.

  Robin had presented Much to Barbara, saying, that this handsome young man was the long-promised husband. But Barbara had shaken her fair curls, saying that she did not want to marry yet.

  Little John, who was not of a very expansive nature, was quite amiable that day. He showered attentions on his cousin Winifred, and it was easy to see that the two young people had many secrets to confide to each other, for they conversed in whispers, danced together all the time, and seemed unconscious of everything going on around them.

  As for Christabel, her sweet face was radiant with happiness, but she was still so much affected by her abrupt separation from her father, so much enfeebled by her recent sufferings, that it was impossible for her to mix in the games. Seated near Allan Clare beneath a canopy, upon a little hillock strewn with flowers, she looked like a young Queen presiding over a Royal feast given to her subjects.

  Marian, tenderly supported by the arm of her husband, was walking on the dancing-green with him.

  “I am coming to live near you, Robin,” said the young wife, “and until the happy moment when you are restored to favour, I shall share the vicissitudes and loneliness of your existence.”

  “It were wiser, my dearest, to live at Barnsdale.”

  “No, Robin, my heart is with you, and I cannot leave my heart.”

  “I am proud to accept thy courageous devotion, dear wife, my sweet love,” replied the young man with emotion, “and I will do all ever I can for thy satisfaction and happiness in thy new life.”

  In truth Robin Hood’s wedding day was one of happiness and joy.

  CHAPTER IV

  Marian kept her word, and, despite Robin’s mild objections, took up her abode under the great trees of Sherwood Forest. Allan Clare, who owned, as we have already said, a large house in the valley of Mansfield, could not prevail upon his sister to come and live in it with Christabel; for Marian was firmly resolved not to leave her husband.

  Immediately after his wedding, the Knight had offered to sell his Huntingdonshire estates to King Henry II. at two-thirds of their value, on condition of his marriage with Lady Christabel Fitz-Alwine being confirmed by letters patent. The King, who always seized with avidity any opportunity of acquiring the richest domains in England for the Crown, accepted the offer, and, by a special act, confirmed the marriage of the two young people. Allan Clare had made his application with such adroitness and promptitude, and the King was so eager to close the bargain, that all was completed by the time the Bishop of Hereford and Baron Fitz-Alwine arrived at Court.