It is hardly necessary to remark that the Bishop and the Norman Baron stirred up the Royal anger against Robin Hood to the utmost. At their urgent request, Henry gave the Bishop leave to seize the person of the hardy outlaw, and to put him to death without delay or mercy.

  Whilst the two Normans were conspiring thus against Robin Hood, the latter, at the height of his bliss, was living quietly and without a care beneath the good green trees of Sherwood Forest.

  Will Scarlett was the happiest man in all the world, in the possession of his well-beloved Maude. Gifted with a vivid imagination, Will had imagined eternal bliss as consisting in a wife like Maude, and in his eyes she was endowed with all the charms of an angel. Maude was aware of this flattering affection, and she strove to remain upon the pedestal to which her husband’s love had elevated her. Following the example set by Robin Hood and Marian, Will and his wife had made their home in the Forest, and they all lived there together in the greatest harmony.

  Robin Hood loved the fair sex, firstly from natural inclination, and secondly out of regard for the charming creature who bore his name. Robin Hood’s companions shared his feelings of respect and veneration towards women; and thus the maidens of the neighbourhood were able to traverse the Forest paths without fear of molestation. If by chance they encountered any of the band, they were asked to partake of refreshment, and afterwards they were given an escort through the wood, and no cause for complaint had ever arisen. When the kindly courtesy of the Foresters became known, its renown travelled afar, and many a bright-eyed maiden with light heart and tripping feet had ventured among the dells and glades of Sherwood.

  On Robin’s wedding day, a number of these young maidens joined in the festivities, and gazed admiringly at the handsome couple. As they danced, these fair daughters of Eve cast furtive glances at their gallant swains, and were only surprised to think that they had ever feared them for a single moment, whispering to each other that it must be very delightful to share the adventurous loves of the hardy outlaws. In the innocence of their young hearts they allowed these secret wishes to appear, and the enraptured Foresters, making the best use of their time, the beautiful maidens of Nottingham found that the language of Robin Hood’s Merrie Men was no less irresistibly eloquent than their eyes.

  The result of all this was that Friar Tuck became overwhelmed with work, being occupied from morning to night in solemnising marriages. Very naturally the good Monk was anxious to discover whether these multiple unions were not an epidemic of a peculiar character, and how many people would still succumb to it. But his question remained unanswered. Having attained its zenith, the rage for marriages abated, and the cases became fewer. Nevertheless, it is curious to observe that the symptoms are still as violent, and that they continue even to our own day.

  The little colony in the Forest lived very merrily. The cave of which we have spoken had been divided into cells and rooms which served only for bedchambers, the vast glades serving as drawing and dining-rooms, and it was only in winter that they had recourse to their subterranean retreat. It is difficult to imagine how quiet and peaceful was the life these men led. Nearly all were of Saxon origin and attached to one another like members of one family; most of them had suffered cruel oppression at the hands of the Norman invaders.

  Robin Hood’s band levied tribute most particularly upon two classes of society: the rich Norman nobles and the clergy. On the first because they had robbed the Saxons of their titles and patrimony, and on the second because they were continually augmenting their already considerable riches at the expense of the people. Robin Hood levied imposts on the Normans, and though such contributions were heavy, they were exacted without combat or bloodshed. The orders of the young Chief were strictly carried out, for disobedience meant death. The severity of this discipline had earned an excellent reputation for Robin Hood’s band, whose loyal and chivalrous character was well known. Many expeditions were undertaken vainly to try and oust the Merrie men from their retreat; but the authorities, wearied at last by their fruitless endeavours, ceased to harass them, and Henry II’s indifference finally compelled the Normans to submit to the dangerous vicinity of their enemies.

  Marian found her forest life even more agreeable than she had dared to hope; she was born (as she laughingly said) to be Queen of this merry tribe. The respectful homage, affection, and devotion lavished on Robin were extremely flattering to Marian, and she was proud to depend on the valiant young man’s protecting arm. If Robin Hood knew how to gain and keep the affection of his followers by showing towards every man a consistent kindness and sincere friendship, he could also exert absolute authority over them.

  The beautiful Forest held a thousand pleasures for Marian. Now she wandered with her husband through the picturesque windings of the wood, anon she found amusement in the sports and games then in vogue. Thanks to Robin’s care, she possessed a rare and valuable flock of falcons, and she learnt to fly them with a tried and skilful hand. But the sport which Marian loved best was archery; with indefatigable patience Robin initiated his young wife into all the mysteries of the art. Marian attended carefully to the lessons given her, and never was pupil more apt. She thus became in a short time an archer of the first rank. It was a pleasing sight to Robin and his Merrie Men to watch Marian, bow in hand, clad in a tunic of Lincoln green, her majestic and supple figure slightly bent, her left hand holding the bow, while her right, curving gracefully, drew the arrow to her ear. When Marian had mastered all the secrets of the art which had made Robin so famous, she acquired a like renown. The young woman’s inimitable skill roused the admiration and respect of the inhabitants of the Forest to the utmost, and the allies of the band and the citizens of the towns of Mansfield and Nottingham came in crowds to witness her prowess.

  A year slipped by a year of joy, happiness, bliss. Allan-a-Dale (we will now speak of the Knight by the name of his property) had become a father; Heaven had blessed him with a daughter. Robin and William each rejoiced in a handsome son, and a round of dances and general rejoicings celebrated these happy events.

  One morning Robin Hood with Will Scarlett and Little John met beneath a tree called the “trysting-tree,” because it served as the rallying-point of the band, when they heard a faint sound in the distance.

  “Hark!” said Robin, quickly. “‘Tis a horse I hear in the clearing; go see whether we may expect a guest. You take me, Little John?”

  “Perfectly. And I will bring back the rider, an he prove worthy to share your repast.”

  “He will be twice welcome,” laughed Robin, “for I begin to feel the pangs of hunger.”

  Little John and Will glided through the thicket toward the road taken by the traveller, and soon came near enough to distinguish him.

  “By the holy Mass, the poor devil hath a sorry look, and I dare swear his fortune causeth him but little embarrassment.”

  “I must e’en avow the Knight doth wear a grievous air,” replied Little John; “but perchance the poverty of his outer man is but a clever artifice. The traveller trusteth to his seeming misery to traverse the Forest with impunity. We will teach him that, an he incline to trickery, we are his match in cunning.”

  Though habited in the garb of a Knight, the traveller at a first glance inspired a feeling of pity. His clothes hung on him anyhow, as though adversity had made him careless of appearances; the hood of his cloak hung round his neck; and his head, bowed in thought, bore evidence of extreme wretchedness. The deep bass voice of Little John roused the stranger suddenly from his reverie.

  “Good day, Sir Stranger!” cried our friend, advancing to meet the traveller; “art welcome to the green wood. Thou hast been anxiously awaited.”

  “Awaited?” asked the stranger, fixing his sad gaze upon John’s broad countenance.

  “Yea, Sir Knight,” replied Will Scarlett; “our master bade us seek thee, and for three hours he hath awaited thine arrival, ere commencing his meal.”

  “No one doth expect me,” replied the stranger, with a troubled air, “You are mistaken; I am not the guest whom your master expects.”

  “I ask pardon, Master, but ‘tis indeed thou. He had learnt thou wouldst be coming through the Forest to-day.”

  “Impossible, impossible,” repeated the stranger.

  “We speak the truth,” returned Will.

  “May I ask the name of one who shows such courtesy toward a poor traveller?”

  “It is Robin Hood,” replied Little John, hiding a smile.

  “Robin Hood, the famous outlaw?” questioned the stranger, in evident surprise.

  “Himself, Master.”

  “I have long heard tell of him,” added the stranger, “and his noble conduct hath inspired in me a true regard for him. I am much pleased to have a chance of meeting Robin Hood; he hath a loyal and faithful heart. I will accept his kind invitation with pleasure, though I am at a loss to understand how he was aware of my journey through his domains.”

  “He will be glad to inform thee of that himself,” replied Little John.

  “As you will, brave Forester. Lead the way; I will follow in your steps.”

  Little John took the traveller’s horse by the bridle, and conducted him into the path leading to the cross-road where Robin still remained. Will followed as rear-guard.

  Little John did not doubt for a single moment but that this semblance of grief and poverty was a mask to serve as passport in case of an unwelcome encounter, whilst Will divined, more correctly perhaps, that the traveller was really and truly a poor man from whom they would obtain no other satisfaction than that of seeing him eat a right good dinner.

  The stranger and his guides soon found Robin Hood. The latter saluted the new-comer, and, struck by his dejected appearance, watched him narrowly, whilst the other strove to readjust in some measure his poor clothing. An air of the greatest distinction accompanied all his movements, and Robin soon arrived at the same conclusion as Little John, that the stranger affected this careworn melancholy and these tattered garments as a safeguard to his purse.

  Nevertheless, the young Chief received the dejected stranger with great kindness, offering him a seat, while he ordered one of his men to look after his guest’s horse.

  A delicious repast was spread upon the green turf, which is thus described in the words of an old ballad:

  “And then with wine and manchet bread

  And mumbrils of the roe,

  They feasted, while the Malmsey wine

  Around the board did flow.

  And many a sylvan guest was there,

  With feathered minstrels of the air.”

  As we have remarked, despite the miserable appearance of his guest, Robin did not fail in hospitality toward him. If sorrow sharpens the appetite, we must say that the stranger was full of woe. He attacked the dishes with all the ardour of a stomach that has been empty for twenty-four hours, and the meats disappeared with great draughts of wine which bore witness to the excellence of the liquid, or to the weakening effect of sorrow.

  After the repast Robin and his guest stretched themselves beneath the majestic shade of the great trees, and conversed without reserve. The Knight’s opinions of men and matters raised him high in Robin’s estimation, and, notwithstanding his miserable bearing, the young Chief could not believe in the sincerity of his apparent misery. Of all vices Robin most disliked dissimulation; his frank and open nature hated cunning. Therefore, in spite of the real esteem with which the Knight inspired him, he resolved to make him pay heavily for his repast. An opportunity for putting this determination into effect soon presented itself, for, after having railed against human ingratitude, the stranger added “I have so great a scorn for this vice that it doth no longer astonish me; but I can affirm that never in all my life have I been guilty of it myself. Allow me, Robin Hood, to thank you with all my heart for your friendly reception of me, and if ever a lucky chance should lead you into the neighbourhood of St. Mary’s Abbey, forget not that at the Castle of the Plain you will ever find a loving and cordial hospitality.”

  “Sir Knight,” replied the young man, “those whom I receive in the Forest never undergo the danger of a visit from me. To those who are really in need of a good meal I willingly give a place at my table; but I am less generous toward travellers who have the wherewithal to pay for my hospitality. I fear to wound the pride of a man favoured by fortune, an if I give him of my venison and wine for naught. I find it more pleasant both for him and myself to say, ‘This Forest is an inn, I am the host, my Merrie Men the servants. As noble guests, pay liberally for your refreshment.’”

  The Knight began to laugh.

  “That is,” said he, “a mighty pleasant way of looking at things, and an ingenious fashion of levying tribute. I heard tell, not many days agone, of the courteous way in which you eased travellers of their superfluous wealth, but I have never had so clear an explanation as this.”

  “Well, Sir Knight, I am about to complete the explanation,” saying which Robin took up a hunting horn and raised it to his lips. Little John and Will Scarlett appeared in answer to his summons. “Sir Knight,” Robin Hood went on, “the hospitality comes to an end; be so good as to pay the shot, my manciples stand ready to receive it.”

  “Since you consider the Forest as an inn, the charges are no doubt in proportion to its extent?” said the Knight, in a calm voice.

  “Just so, Master.”

  “You receive knights, barons, dukes, and peers of the realm at the same price?”

  “Yea, at the same price,” replied Robin Hood, “and it is but just. You would not wish, I imagine, that a poor peasant like myself should entertain gratuitously an emblazoned knight, an earl, a duke, or a prince; it would be contrary to all rules of breeding.”

  “You are perfectly right, good host, but you will have but a sad opinion of your guest, when he tells you that his entire fortune consists in ten pistoles.”

  “Permit me to doubt that assertion, Sir Knight,” replied Robin.

  “My dear host, I invite your companions to prove the truth of my statement by searching me.”

  Little John, who rarely allowed an opportunity of demonstrating his social position to escape him, hastened to obey.

  “The Knight speaks truth,” he cried, with a disappointed air; “he hath but ten pistoles.”

  “And that small sum doth represent all my fortune at present,” added the stranger.

  “Have you, then, consumed your inheritance?” asked Robin, with a laugh, “or was that inheritance of so little value?”

  “My patrimony was considerable,” replied the Knight, “and I have not squandered it.”

  “How, then, are you so poor? for you will own that your present situation looks hopeless enow.”

  “Appearances sometimes err, and to make you understand my misfortunes it would be necessary to recount to you a very sad story.”

  “Sir Knight, I will give you my best attention, and should it be in my power to help you, make use of me.”

  “I am aware, noble Robin Hood, that you generously extend your protection to the oppressed, and that they have claims on your warm sympathy.”

  “Spare me, Master, I pray you,” interrupted Robin, “and let us concern ourselves with your affairs.”

  “My name is Richard,” continued the stranger, “and my family is descended from King Ethelred.”

  “You are a Saxon, then?” said the young man.

  “Yea, and the nobility of my birth hath been the cause of much misfortune.”

  “Suffer me to shake a brother’s hand,” replied Robin, with a merry smile on his lips. “Saxons, rich or poor, are freely welcome to the Forest of Sherwood.”

  The Knight responded cordially to his host’s hand-clasp, and continued thus:

  “I was given the surname of Sir Richard of the Plain from the situation of my Castle in the centre of a vast moorland about two miles from St. Mary’s Abbey. While still quite young I was married to a maid whom I had loved from my earliest childhood. Heaven blessed our union and sent us a son. Never did parents love their child as we loved our little Herbert, and never was child more love-worthy. Our proximity to the Abbey had led to frequent intercourse, and a great intimacy had sprung up betwixt the Brothers and myself. One day a Brother toward whom I had shown much sympathy asked me for a few minutes’ conversation, and taking me aside spoke thus:

  “Sir Richard, I am about to take irrevocable vows. I am about to quit the world for ever. Beside her mother’s tomb I leave a poor orphan, defenceless and penniless. I am for ever dedicated to God, and I trust that the austerity of the Cloister will give me the courage to support the burden of life a few years longer. I come to ask you in the name of Divine Providence to have pity on my poor little daughter.”

  “My dear brother,” said I to the unhappy man, “I thank you for your confidence, and since you have placed your trust in me, that trust shall not be betrayed; your daughter shall become mine.”

  The Brother, moved to tears by what he called my generosity, thanked me warmly and, at my request, sent for his little daughter.

  I have never experienced any emotion like that produced by the sight of this child.

  She was twelve years old, with a willowy, graceful figure, and long blonde tresses covered her pretty shoulders with their silken curls. On entering the room where I was waiting, she greeted me prettily, fixing upon me two large blue eyes full of sadness. As you may imagine, good host, this charming little maid quite won my heart; I took her hands in mine, and implanted on her brow a fatherly kiss.

  “You see, Sir Richard,” said the Monk, “this sweet child is worthy of affection.”

  “Yea, truly, Brother, and I avow that never in my life have mine eyes rested upon so charming a being.”