“Sir Rychard returned to his inn, gave away his old garments to the first
beggar that passed by, and after dismissing his gallant esquire with the
warmest thanks for his assistance, again started off with an attendant
whom Little John had procured for him. He rode on, singing merrily, until
he drew rein at his own gate in Wierysdale. His lady, with tears in
her eyes, had been watching his approach, but when she saw the joyful
countenance and proud bearing of her husband, she ran forth to clasp him
in her arms, and learn the cause of such unexpected joy. The story was
briefly told, and from that day to the end of their lives the good knight
and his lady did not fail to remember in their prayers the name of Robin
Hood.”
I had just finished this tale, when the chimes from the distant steeple
faintly reached our ears. The hour at which we were expected back had
arrived, and we were at least a quarter of an hour’s walk away. We
started to our feet, bounded through the wood, and over the low palings,
and made many a passenger laugh heartily as we chased past him to our
home.