THE STOUT YEOMEN of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a morn,
more especially when the summertime had come, for then in the freshness
of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and the song of the small
birds the sweetest.
Quoth Robin, "Now will I go to seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey of
whom we spake yesternight, and I will take with me four of my good men,
and these four shall be Little John, Will Scarlet, David of Doncaster,
and Arthur a Bland. Bide the rest of you here, and Will Stutely shall be
your chief while I am gone." Then straightway Robin Hood donned a fine
steel coat of chain mail, over which he put on a light jacket of Lincoln
green. Upon his head he clapped a steel cap, and this he covered by one
of soft white leather, in which stood a nodding cock's plume. By his
side he hung a good broadsword of tempered steel, the bluish blade
marked all over with strange figures of dragons, winged women, and what
not. A gallant sight was Robin so arrayed, I wot, the glint of steel
showing here and there as the sunlight caught brightly the links of
polished mail that showed beneath his green coat.
So, having arrayed himself, he and the four yeomen set forth upon their
way, Will Scarlet taking the lead, for he knew better than the others
whither to go. Thus, mile after mile, they strode along, now across a
brawling stream, now along a sunlit road, now adown some sweet forest
path, over which the trees met in green and rustling canopy, and at the
end of which a herd of startled deer dashed away, with rattle of leaves
and crackle of branches. Onward they walked with song and jest and
laughter till noontide was passed, when at last they came to the banks
of a wide, glassy, and lily-padded stream. Here a broad, beaten path
stretched along beside the banks, on which path labored the horses that
tugged at the slow-moving barges, laden with barley meal or what not,
from the countryside to the many-towered town. But now, in the hot
silence of the midday, no horse was seen nor any man besides themselves.
Behind them and before them stretched the river, its placid bosom
ruffled here and there by the purple dusk of a small breeze.
"Now, good uncle," quoth Will Scarlet at last, when they had walked for
a long time beside this sweet, bright river, "just beyond yon bend ahead
of us is a shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh,
and upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage
hidden amidst the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth the
Friar of Fountain Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know the way;
albeit it is not overhard to find."
"Nay," quoth jolly Robin, stopping suddenly, "had I thought that I
should have had to wade water, even were it so crystal a stream as this,
I had donned other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for
after all a wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be, must.
But bide ye here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry adventure alone.
Nevertheless, listen well, and if ye hear me sound upon my bugle horn,
come quickly." So saying, he turned and left them, striding onward
alone.
Robin had walked no farther than where the bend of the road hid his
good men from his view, when he stopped suddenly, for he thought that
he heard voices. He stood still and listened, and presently heard words
passed back and forth betwixt what seemed to be two men, and yet the two
voices were wondrously alike. The sound came from over behind the bank,
that here was steep and high, dropping from the edge of the road a half
a score of feet to the sedgy verge of the river.
"'Tis strange," muttered Robin to himself after a space, when the voices
had ceased their talking, "surely there be two people that spoke the one
to the other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make
my vow that never have I heard the like in all my life before. Truly, if
this twain are to be judged by their voices, no two peas were ever more
alike. I will look into this matter." So saying, he came softly to the
river bank and laying him down upon the grass, peered over the edge and
down below.
All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not
straight upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with
its soft foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide
and nestle in cool places, and up to Robin's nostrils came the tender
odor of the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams.
Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree,
and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny
fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round as a ball, and
covered with a mat of close-clipped, curly black hair that grew low down
on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one's
hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads,
showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a friar.
His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were
nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin
and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country
bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e'en a match for
those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a
pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery
of humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings
tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap,
which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His
legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great
pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender
young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy.
In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he
munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into
the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he would take a mighty pull
at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him.
"By my faith," quoth Robin to himself, "I do verily believe that this
is the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the
merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here,
but it must have been this holy man talking to himself."
So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he
was so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and,
having first wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and
sweeter napkin ne'er had king in all the world), he took up his
flask and began talking to himself as though he were another man, and
answering himself as though he were somebody else.
"Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee
as a lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to
me in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me
say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take a
drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech thee,
sweeten the draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from his
right hand to his left). An thou wilt force it on me so, I must needs
do thy bidding, yet with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very
great health (here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad,
'tis thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand back
again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here's wishing thee as
much good as thou wishest me." Saying this, he took another draught, and
truly he drank enough for two.
All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his
stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm
across his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would
not have spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire.
Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking
again in this wise: "Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La,
I know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost
thou not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet
as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing
than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that
can pipe so well and hath heard so many goodly songs and ballads,
ne'ertheless, an thou wilt have it so, I will do my best. But now
methinks that thou and I might sing some fair song together; dost thou
not know a certain dainty little catch called 'The Loving Youth and the
Scornful Maid'? Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost
thou not think that thou couldst take the lass's part if I take the
lad's? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I will
follow with the lass."
Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high
and squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of