On a September day—many hundred years ago—a boy, named Robin, was
playing alone in the great forest of Stoke and Sayes. He was perched on
a long branch of an oak tree, and balanced on his hands and knees so
still that not a leaf trembled. He looked like a large green squirrel
which had lost its tail; and, like a squirrel, he was listening, as if
his life depended on it, for every sound he could hear in the still
depths of the forest. Close above his head he heard the sound of a jay's
wing, as she wandered from one tree to another; and below, the rustle of
deer as they cropped the grass in a sunny glade near by. From far away,
echoing under the leaves, he heard the faint murmur of bird and beast,
broken now and again by the quick tap of a woodpecker on some distant
hollow trunk, and beyond all these sounds he seemed to hear for a moment
one unlike all the rest—one which puzzled and troubled him. The next
moment it had gone. But he still crouched, waiting to hear it again.
Meanwhile, the deer were coming slowly into sight, one after another,
step by step, eating their way nearer to his tree; and sometimes one,
sometimes another would throw up its head, listening like Robin for the
same strange sound. But after a while they seemed to think no more of
it, and then, when they were all grazing peacefully, and the nearest was
some fifty yards away, he played his first trick on them. He lowered
himself slowly from the branch, until he hung at arm's length, and then
just as slowly raised himself again, and then inch by inch crawled along
the branch, until he was hidden from the deer by the trunk. There he
lowered himself again, and this time dropped to the ground, and peering
round the trunk, saw that not one of the deer had raised its head, and
he smiled with sudden pleasure. He smiled, because he was sure that, if
the deer could not see or hear him, no man, not even the cleverest,
could track him down or find out the secret that was hidden in that oak
tree.
[Illustration: _But he still crouched, waiting to hear it again._]
To him it was a most important secret. For though he was still a boy,
scarce fourteen years old, and as light of heart as he was light of
foot, already in his life he had seen strong castles set on fire, and
soldiers without pity rob peaceful towns, and drive men, women, and
children out to die in winter snows. And so, though he was the son of an
Earl and page to the rich Baron of Sayes, he did not trust himself to
them; and he took great care that nobody at all knew where he went as
often as he slipped through the shadows of the forest; and on these
journeys sometimes he would carry with him a coil of rope, sometimes a
saw, sometimes a sheepskin, or a crock, or a knife, and many other
things besides; and he took them all to that great oak tree against
which he was now leaning; for above in the broad fork of its branches he
had made himself a hiding-place where he could sleep and, if need be,
store his food and live in perilous seasons. That was his forest secret.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of dense trees or a low
hedge with a small figure seated underneath the foliage on the right.]
The deer came still closer, and again he played a trick on them. This
time he laughed like a yaffle, and this time one or two heads rose in
quick suspicion, and he knew that his laugh was not as much like a
bird's as it should be, and he frowned, and for a long time he stood
leaning by the tree, thinking over the mistake he had made; and all the
while the deer were glancing round them anxiously. Then of a sudden in
the dark stillness beyond the sunny glade a twig snapped with a sharp
echo, and before the echo had gone, the deer one and all bounded past
him in full flight, and he crouched against the roots of the tree, to
watch.
The next minute a man came out from the shadows beyond the glade, and
after looking carefully round about him, began to run towards the tree.
“A poor runner for all he is a big man and wears a red beard,” thought
Robin, as he watched him lumbering over the grass. Nearer and nearer he
came, until at length he was close behind the tree. Then there was a
soft thud on the ground, and Robin, gliding a little way round the
trunk, saw the runner lying on his face, his big shoulders rising and
falling as he struggled for breath. Robin waited, suspiciously watching
every deep shadow round the glade.
Presently the man raised himself on his elbow, and sighed in weariness,
as though he was speaking to the ground, “I cannot go further. They must
take me.”
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a large leafy tree with a
person lying on the ground beneath it and another figure standing
nearby.]
When he heard those words, Robin stepped forward, burning with a boyish
pity for one who was being pursued. “By your grace, Sir,” he said
defiantly, “they must take me too then.”
The man stared, as dazed as if the oak itself had spoken aloud.
“How far are they behind?” asked Robin eagerly.
The man shook his head.
“Have they hounds with them?”
“I am not certain,” said the man, laying one hand on the knotted trunk
and rising slowly to his feet.
“Follow me then,” said Robin; “I can save you.”
The man smiled, and shook his head at this confident boy; but for all
that he followed him. Listening for every sound upon the air, Robin
glided away from his oak tree, and past another of great girth, whose
branches spread into those of the first, until he came to a little bank,
at the bottom of which under an archway of branches ran a stream. Into
this he stepped up to his knees.
“Come down to me and climb on my back,” he said, setting his arms
against the bank, as if he were playing leapfrog. The man obeyed in
silence. “And now swing up to the third branch above your head. Quick!”
The man looked up into the tree, and shook his head once again, but once
again he could not resist the eager boy who was trying to help him, and
praying that his strength would hold out yet a little while, he planted
his dripping foot on Robin's shoulders, and with much labour and
snapping of twigs hoisted himself into the tree. Robin waited, listening
impatiently to the noise, until the man had reached the third thick
bough, and then swung himself up too in his turn, and being nimbler of
foot and much lighter in weight, quickly took the lead. First they
climbed up and up, and then, when at last they reached a main stem, the
man saw what cunning was in the boy's plan. High above the lower
branches it was as though a pathway had been made from one tree to the
other, and along this they passed cautiously, listening lest at any
moment they might hear the sound of voices through the leaves below. So
they moved, foot by foot, towards the fork of that first big oak tree
where Robin had his forest home, and at length reached it, before the
pursuers had come in sight. There the stranger sank down, and nodding as
if to say, “I thank you,” closed his eyes in utter weariness. For three
days and three nights he had not slept, and his strength was spent.
[Illustration: _Hurrying along behind a large hound._]
Meanwhile, Robin was peering through the branches, and as he caught
sight of a flash of red and silver, he quivered with a new excitement.
These were serving-men of the proud Abbot of Dore, nearly a dozen, armed
with swords and bows, hurrying along behind a large hound, which ran
close to the earth straight towards the oak tree. There for a moment it
seemed to hesitate, and then, with a low cry, it headed fast for the
stream. What an age it seemed to Robin, as he heard the voices arguing
and shouting to one another round the shadows of the next tree, and what
a relief when he heard the sound of splashing water, and at length the
voices dying away into the forest! After much wrangling, the pursuers
had decided that the fugitive had gone along the stream to put them off
his scent, and get back into his old tracks again, and that way they
went also.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a person with short hair
holding a bowl from which steam or smoke rises.]
So once again stillness came over the great woodland. But now Robin's
secret was no longer his own. At first, as he watched the stranger
soundly sleeping among his own sheepskins, he felt rather jealous of
him; but then he remembered that it had all been his own plan, and he
became ashamed that he should grudge help to anyone, who was in danger
from the Abbot of Dore; for of the Abbot's evil ways he had heard many a
poor man tell. Then he grew inquisitive. For what had this stranger run
away? And at last, eager to know this mysterious thing, he crept over to
him, and tried to waken him; but the man only opened his eyes and smiled
sleepily and shut them again. He then looked at the slant of the
sunbeams through the trees, and knew he must go, if he would reach the
Castle in time to put on his livery and wait at supper; for waiting at
meals was one of his duties as a page, and supper in those days was at
five o'clock.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a landscape with a arched
bridge, buildings on the left, a castle on a hill, and a person
walking.]
So, making up his mind to come back at daybreak and question the
stranger then, he laid what little food he had left by his hand, and
stole away back across the stream, and thence through a mile of dense
trees, and came at length to open spaces on the brow of a hill, and from
there across the plain he could see, far down to the left, the three
towers of the Abbey of Dore, and three miles away to the right the grey
Castle keep of Sayes, guarding the long bridge that crossed the river
Ley.
Down the hill he began to run, skipping over fallen trunks and through
the high, golden bracken, until the woods ended, and he came on the
king's highroad, and along its wide green border he took his way to the
Castle.
He crossed the drawbridge over the moat. All was quiet within the great
courtyard, for messengers had come with the news that the Baron would
not arrive before sundown. Robin had even hoped that his master might be
kept at the King's Council for yet another day or more, for when he
returned the Castle would be filled again with guests, and then there
was little time for running away to the forest. But guest or no guest,
as he strode into the hall, where the servants were already making the
first preparations for a feast that evening, he made an oath with
himself that nothing would keep him at daybreak from the stranger he had
left in the forest.
Then he went up the hall, past the dais, and through a door leading to
the Baron's retiring room. There he found the chamberlain. The
chamberlain, who was old and fussy, and almost overcome with the thought
of his master's return, bade him straight begone to the kitchens and
learn his duties from the steward. So he went back the way he had come.
Serving in the kitchens was not one of his duties; he served only at the
high table, where he attended on his master or his guests, and carved
the trenchers and even now was allowed to carve the simpler meats, each
according to rule; and at times he played the harp also, but this not
often, for not even the threat of flogging would ever make him practise
enough in his leisure time. Still, he was ready enough now to go to the
kitchens for many reasons. He was hungry; he loved its bustle, as much
as he disliked the tedious ceremonies of the hall; and, more than all,
he wanted to gather a store of food for the morrow.
As he came singing to the passage that led from the hall to the
kitchens, he met coming from them the Baron's young niece, a girl of
twelve, named Marian. Gaily dressed she was, with scarlet gown and white
silk sleeves; and Robin, thinking that her nose was tipped too high with
pride, tweaked one of her long black plaits in tune to his singing; and
before she could scold him, had darted along the passage to the
kitchens. Here, under the high roof all the noise in the Castle was
gathered. There was the roar of the big fires, the clatter of pots and
pans, the hissing of the spits, as they turned roasting their many
meats, partridge, goose, and mallard, mutton, chickens, and venison.
Everywhere was heat and hurry and the pungent fumes of cookery. At the
thick wooden benches the cooks were preparing dish upon dish, and all
about them lay a plenty of materials: wines and spices, flour and
butter, almonds and nuts, saffron and ginger, eggs and onions, dates and
raisins, milk and vinegar, and countless other things.
[Illustration: _Had darted along the passage to the kitchens._]
As he roved about among all this plenty, keeping out of the way of the
steward, Robin gathered a store of food, and finding an empty crock, he
filled it, and setting it in a cupboard asked his favourite cook to take
great care that it was not touched that night.
At sundown the Baron and his company returned, and after he had washed
off the dust of the journey and arrayed himself in soft raiment, the
minstrels welcomed him to the hall, and the feast began. But it lasted
no longer than two hours, for the long journey had wearied the
new-comers, and so the Baron retired early to his chamber. Robin crept
up to the gallery over the hall, where in a little recess by the door of
the Baron's sleeping room he had his own couch, and there putting off
his gold and silver livery, and praying that the Saints would waken him
before the sun, he stretched himself on his mattress and fell asleep.
It was a sharp, frosty night, and the cold air, pouring through the
draughty gallery, made him restless long before the dawn; and while it
was yet a grey twilight, he woke, and taking a bag and a length of rope
from the chest in which he kept his clothes, he felt his way along the
gallery, and down the stairs into the hall. Here upon the rush-strewn
floor lay groups of sleeping servants, and such a snoring they set up,
that he was glad when he had threaded his way over their sprawling
bodies and out into the kitchens. There he filled his bag with the food
he had gathered the evening before, and then climbed through a window
out into the courtyard, and stole like a shadow along the dark
buttresses of the wall to the gatehouse. There, opening a door in one of
its thick towers he listened. The gatekeeper was breathing in a deep
sleep, and his dog tapped its tail once or twice gently, as a lazy sign
of friendship. So Robin tiptoed past them to a staircase leading up the
tower itself. Ten steps up he went and there came to a window, narrowing
to a slit, through which he could just squeeze his body. From this
window ran a ledge round the outside of the tower to the outside of the
gateway itself, and many a time had he used this ledge to pass in and
out, when the great gates were locked, and the bridge was not drawn up.
If the bridge was drawn up, it meant swimming the moat also, and for
that he had no mind in the bitter cold of the early morning. To his joy,
when he had come through the window, he saw the outline of the bridge
suspended across the water, and hanging the bag over his shoulder, he
quickly worked his way along the ledge, and came to the side of the
bridge, and then sprang down, and a minute after he was lost in the
white mist of the meadows by the river.
[Illustration: _He quickly worked his way along the ledge._]
The bag of food he knew would be too heavy to carry as fast as he wanted
to go to the forest, and so he had brought the length of rope with him;
for somewhere in the meadows grazed a horse called Saracen, that he
often rode and for whom he had made with his own hands a leathern
headstall. He would have whistled, but already he heard sounds of voices
through the mists. It was the swineherds driving the long-legged village
pigs to feed in the woods. So, keeping silence, he wandered unseen over
the drenching grass until he came upon his horse. He fastened the rope
to its headstall, leapt on its back, and after picking up the bag he had
left by the moat, he was away to the forest, as the first beams of the
sun broke crimson through the silver clouds.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a herd of pigs moving
across a landscape.]
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of an owl perched inside a
window frame with textured patterns above and around it.]
But for all his care he had not gone unseen. High in the keep slept
Marian with the two daughters of her uncle, the Baron of Sayes; and at
the time when Robin was down in the meadows, an owl had perched on the
sill of their window and hooted and startled them from their beds. And
after it was driven away, and the other two had fallen asleep again,
Marian still lingered by the window, wondering and downcast about many
things, which she did not understand. She wondered, why for many months
no news had come from her mother in the North; why her aunt never spoke
of her mother now; why her uncle no longer spoke of her father, who had
gone to the wars in France; and she was troubled too by the stern look
he had fixed on her when he was talking to his wife in their private
chamber that very night. She knew by his look that it must be herself
they were speaking of, but she had heard nothing, except once or twice
the words “the Lord Abbot of Dore.” It was all a mystery to her; and
only one thing she knew for certain, and that was, that she wished she
were riding fast to her home in the North.
And, as the wish was in her heart, and her eyes looked down on the bank
of mist that lay below round the river sides, she saw a tiny horse move
through it like a ghost, and then suddenly spring out into the dim
golden sunlight. That horse and rider, her eyes told her, could be no
other than Saracen and Robin. And with an angry sigh she left the
window. Why couldn't she too go free like a boy? Why should Robin
torment her thus again? She had not forgiven him for catching hold of
her plait that evening. He deserved to have all his tricks and escapades
told to her uncle. But she could not punish him even in that way. For
then she would be telling tales herself. Truly, she sighed, it was all
very tiresome.
Meanwhile, suspecting nothing, Robin had tethered his horse far within
the forest, and was tramping with his bag, as hot now as he had been
cold, down the deeply-wooded side of the hill, beyond which lay his
secret oak tree; and at last he came down to the stream near by it, his
heart beating with excitement. His quick eye glanced to the second
trunk, and saw something move in the branches above it. The stranger was
still there.
In less time than it would take to tell, Robin was in the tree, and the
stranger was making a meal; and as he ate, he glanced with an admiring
eye at the boy, who had thus helped him; and ever and anon he questioned
him. Robin, on his side, met his eye with a steady gaze. He liked the
man's rugged, bearded face, and answered him frankly. At last the man
seemed to be satisfied with his questioning, and putting his hand into
his tunic, he drew out the end of a chain, on which hung a little silver
ornament shaped like a ship, and he said simply:
“I am called Brian of the Bow.”—Robin started with surprise, for he had
heard foresters speak of that name with awe.—“You have once given me my
life to keep, if I can, and right glad I am, for I hope to teach my son
to loose a shaft better than his father before I die.”
“How old may he be?” said Robin.
“Sixteen years, and six feet high already, and he can shoot as straight
as I can,” said Brian of the Bow, with a proud nod of his head. Robin's
countenance fell; and he set his chin. He had himself shot with a man's
long bow, but the Baron's archers had laughed, as his arrow flew short
and wide of the mark. Even a stag would sit on his haunches and laugh
aloud, they had told him, if it saw the flight of such an arrow; and
here was news of one, but two years older, already a man in skill. He
was downcast.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a stag looking at an
arrow.]
“I shall teach him, too, one other thing,” said Brian, seeing the shadow
on Robin's face, “to remember that he would never have been John of the
Bow if his father had perished yesterday,” and then, knitting his brows,
he went on: “You have saved my life once. I shall put it once again in
your hands, and, it may be, the life of another also. You see this
silver ship. That was entrusted to me by the lady I serve and her name
you will have heard many a time, if you have been long at yonder Castle.
She is Catharine of Arlington, and her husband is the brother of your
master.”
“Marian——” said Robin.
“Her mother,” said Brian. “It is now many months since she had news of
her daughter, and all her messengers have been driven back and cruelly
used, and she is sick almost to death with fear that some evil may be
hanging over this same Marian. You saw the men who followed me
yesterday, and whose men they were. My mistress fears that their master,
the Lord Abbot, intends to trap her daughter into his power. Many are
his plottings, and time is too short to tell you them now. You will know
enough if I tell you but this: I was sent to carry this silver ship to
my lady's daughter. This ship says 'return'!” and he took it off the
chain, and held it up for Robin to see closely. “If I could give it my
lady's daughter this forenoon, she would be far into the forest by
nightfall, and six leagues to the north I know a woodman who would give
us rest and shelter, and again six leagues and we should be in a
friendlier country, by the forest of Barnwood.”
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a person standing beside
a dark horse in an outdoor landscape with trees.]
“Give it to me,” said Robin impetuously, holding out his hand, “and by
noon, if it be as you say, she will be here by this tree, and perchance
two horses with her.”
“Never make too high a promise,” said Brian, and Robin's cheeks flamed
at the rebuke; “but this I know,” he went on, “you may succeed now where
I am like to fail,” and with these words he gave Robin the silver ship,
and commended him to God. Robin had already swung out on a branch, and
dropped to the ground, when Brian called after him in a low voice, “Do
this for me, and in days to come I will teach you to loose a shaft as
well as any man.” Cheered by these words, Robin set off hot-foot for his
horse Saracen, and when he came to him, where he was still peaceably
grazing, he stood leaning by his shoulder and thought awhile, until
Saracen in his turn stopped grazing, and stood and seemed to think also.
Thus they stood and stared together into space, while Robin tried to
imagine what was likely to happen at the Castle of Sayes that day. At
length he seemed to make a decision, and jumping on Saracen, rode back
towards the Castle; but when he came to the wide common land that lay by
the bridge, he dismounted, and turning Saracen loose, made the rest of
the way on foot.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a person walking away
with arms crossed near a door.]
As he came to the gatehouse, a rider in the Abbot's livery thundered out
over the wooden planks of the drawbridge.
“Good day,” said Robin, with a twinkling eye, and wanting very much to
flourish the silver ship in front of his face. The man passed him
without answering.
Then through the gateway Robin saw the Baron striding up and down the
narrow lawn that lay under the shadow of the hall, and he saw, too, that
there was deep anger on his brow, and he trembled, as he drew near,
trying to swagger along with a bold step. Still the Baron strode to and
fro, and all the time watched Robin with a stern eye. Once that morning
already he had called for him to prepare his bath, and there had been no
answer. But still, as he strode to and fro, he did not speak. Dark and
gloomy secret thoughts were vexing his heart and making his tongue
silent. For he had just heard that the sister of the Abbot of Dore was
coming that day to go a-hawking, and he knew that she would return that
night with his niece Marian a captive in her train. He knew that it had
been planned that while Marian was out with the hawking party, she
should be drawn into the woods, in order that the Abbot's serving-men
might seem to rescue her, and carry her off for safety to the Abbey. All
this he knew, and yet he could do nothing; for he had consented to the
plot, unhappy man, afraid that the Abbot would ruin him in the King's
Councils. So without speaking, and with the least twist of a bitter
smile on his lips, he watched his truant page swagger past him to the
great hall door.
A deep sigh of relief came from Robin's heart as he swung the heavy door
of the hall back to its socket. But he was happy too soon. For, as he
shut the door, a small, commanding voice bade him open it again, and he
turned to meet Marian and one of the Baron's daughters, dressed for
riding. And worse still, they began to laugh at him, as though they had
a secret about him that amused them. Two girls foolishly laughing, and
Brian of the Bow waiting in desperate suspense!
For a moment he lost temper, and was tempted to swing the door open
again, and let them go. Instead, he stood fidgeting against it, and at
last he stammered with downcast eye:
“I have seen a silver ship this morning.”
Marian's lip fell, and the dimples fled from her cheek. Then the latch
of the door clattered and the Baron entered brushing Robin aside.
“Father,” cried his daughter, stepping forward to him with a mocking
laugh, “have you seen the silver ship this morning?” The Baron stopped
suddenly in his stride.
“Who has?” he growled.
“Robin,” faltered his daughter, frightened by the harsh change in his
voice.
The Baron for a moment stared at Robin, his face set as hard as stone,
and then he abruptly walked away. “Get them their ponies,” he called
over his shoulder, and again, in a still sterner tone, “Let me never
hear those words again.”
Scared by her mistake, his daughter hastened out into the courtyard,
calling Marian after her; but Marian did not move, for Robin had caught
her by the sleeve. He watched the Baron disappear through the further
end of the hall, and then whispering, “Brian of the Bow gave me that,”
he pushed the silver ship into her hand. For a moment she stood
speechless and amazed, as though she saw her mother actually standing
before her. Then her eyes turned from the ship to Robin's face, and from
his face to the ship. “Where is he? Tell me,” she begged.
“I'll tell you, as we saddle the ponies. Can you get some food, for it
will be a long journey?”
“A long journey! He is waiting!” she cried joyously, so joyously that
Robin's heart grew light too, as though all this serious adventure was
turning into a mischievous game of hide-and-seek.
It was then close upon nine, and at ten dinner would be served, and in
less than an hour the Abbot's sister would be coming into the hall with
her retainers. So the two rushed away to the pantry, and while for a few
breathless minutes they ate, Robin stuffed a pie into the fold of his
tunic and another into his hood, and then they fled after the Baron's
daughter, and a fine excuse it made for hurrying past the surly and
suspicious gatekeeper. As they crossed the moat, the Baron's daughter,
sauntering ahead, was already close to the long, level strip of turf
where the girls daily exercised their ponies under the eye of the
watchman on the walls. But Robin did not mean that Marian should follow
her there. Instead, he beckoned her after him into the main stables,
which stood across the highroad opposite the gatehouse. There the ponies
were quickly saddled, and Marian mounting hers, Robin took its bridle,
and bidding a groom lead the other before them, he and Marian followed
so slowly that when they came out on the highway, they were already some
way behind. There he stopped, and calling to the others that he wanted
to fetch his own horse Saracen from the common land over the bridge, he
turned that way.
“I can come with you,” called Marian, in a voice that all who wished to
hear might hear, and when she saw the groom bow his head in consent to
her call, she turned her pony slowly after Robin; and so the two passed
to the bridge, and still slowly moved out of sight.
As soon, as he saw their heads appear above the parapet, Saracen had
pricked up his ears, and with two or three flourishes with his heels,
and two or three boisterous circlings, he pranced up to them.
Straightway Robin unknotted the rope from his headstall, and the next
moment Marian and he were racing to the nearest point in the forest.
“How lovely!” she cried breathless, as they plunged under the
sun-dappled trees. “Robin, I'm free!”
[Illustration: _Next moment Marian and he were racing to the nearest
point in the forest._]
“Not yet,” he said soberly, his eyes looking eagerly for familiar marks
by which to guide their path. Steadily they moved up towards the crest
of the hills, and then threaded their way along just beneath it,
catching glimpses of the Castle, as it grew smaller and smaller in the
distance. And still they saw nobody setting out in pursuit. And thus at
length they came near the secret oak, and the only trouble Robin had was
to stop Marian startling everything around with her laughing voice. The
serious-eyed quiet Marian had gone, and a new, merry, jolly,
light-hearted Marian had appeared in her place. He was filled with
wonder. Her laughter was so gay that he felt that even the rabbits would
forget their cares, and all their holes would shake with silent jokes.
As they crossed the stream, Brian of the Bow rushed from his
hiding-place, and to Saracen's surprise threw himself on his knees
before them, tears of joy coursing down his brown cheeks, now that the
long suspense was over.
“The saints be praised, my little mistress!” he cried, and Marian jumped
from her pony and flung herself into his great arms, while Robin rescued
the pies, that had danced to many pieces in the folds of his tunic.
There was little time for all that they wished to say then. Every minute
they waited made their course more dangerous, and so all was soon
hurriedly prepared for setting out. All the stores that were of use from
the oak tree were put into two bundles and slung on a rope over
Saracen's back; for Robin, though it cost him a pang, bade Brian ride
him as far as the woodman's hut six leagues through the forest, and then
set him loose to find his own way back.
“God thank you always,” said Brian solemnly, before he mounted; “and
when we meet again I will string a bow for you.”
“Robin,” said Marian shyly in her turn, “I like you very much to-day,”
and he beamed at her with pleasure as she turned to ride away.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a person hiding behind a
large tree in a dense forest, with figures visible in the distance.]
So they started, and as he watched them disappear Robin wished that he
also had been starting with them on this new adventure, over the hills
and far away. But he had to bide his time; and all the way, as he
returned through the woods back towards the highway and kept watch
against the coming of the hawking party, lest he should be seen, he was
trying to plan how that good time might come to him.
There was hue and cry both in the Castle and in the Abbey that night.
Riders galloped this way and that. Rumours flew. But when midnight came,
only Saracen was on his way back through the dark trees; and Marian and
Brian, after a few hour's sleep in the woodman's hut were already
starting on the second stage of their journey, and no servant of the
Abbot had either seen or heard of them. And in the Castle at the same
time Robin was preparing his master's bed, so drowsy that sometimes for
a moment he dreamed that he was tossing in a silver ship, and sometimes
that he was riding in the forest under the stars. Suddenly a voice smote
his ears.
“I will do that for myself,” it said, and Robin, blinking in the
candlelight, saw the Baron standing in front of him.
“Go and rest, go and rest,” the Baron said, laying his hand in a kindly
way on his shoulder. “You have served me well enough already for one
day. Go and rest.”
Years after Robin came to understand how he had served the Baron well
that day; how he had done for the Baron what he could not do for
himself, and saved him from a mean and treacherous act; and years after
he used the bow as skilfully as Brian's great son, Little John. But that
was when men called him Robin Hood, the outlaw of Sherwood, and Marian
had become Maid Marian.
“THE ORDER OF THE BATH” _By MABEL MARLOWE_
Every Saturday night the gnomes all went down to the river to bathe.
They used the archway under the wooden bridge for a dressing-room,
putting their clothes in little heaps on the stones.
The gnomes that could swim wore red bathing drawers, and were very proud
of them, too. Those who could take one foot off the bottom wore blue
bathing drawers; and those who could only paddle and splash, wore white
ones.
At seven o'clock they all went into the water, where it was shallow at
the edge, and grew deep (but not too deep). For half an hour they
splashed and swam, and dived, and kicked. Then Humpy the Weather-gnome,
who was the Master-of-the-Bath, stood up, and clapped his hands.
“Ready,” he called, and he ran under the bridge and fetched a piece of
soap from his pocket. For “batheing” night was also bath night.
Then the gnomes all stood in a row in the water, where it was deep (but
not too deep). They stood in a row, with the tallest at the back, and
the shortest at the front, and all the others in their right places
according to size. Then Humpy gave the piece of soap to Lanky Tom, who
was always at the back, and scuttled to his place in front of Toby.
“All ready?” he said.
“Yes. All ready.”
“Then—Soap!”
Then Lanky Tom dipped the soap in the water to make it froth. He soaped
the back of Toby. Then Toby took the soap and soaped the back of Humpy.
Humpy soaped Sut. Sut soaped Barney. Barney soaped Lob. And Lob soaped
Dump the dwarf, who was always in the front. Then all the gnomes dipped.
Fizz! went the froth. The river sounded like sherbet, and grew the
colour of milk. The little wafer of soap that was left went floating
away down stream. After that, the gnomes all ran under the bridge, and
dried and dressed, chatting all the time.
But one Saturday night a fuss began. Lanky Tom, the ladder-gnome,
commenced to grumble.
“It isn't fair,” he said.
“What isn't fair?” asked Humpy.
“It isn't fair that I am always at the back. I never get any soap.”
“Why, you get the soap first of all.”
“Yes, I know. But I soap Toby, and Toby soaps Humpy—but nobody ever
soaps me. For twelve years I have had no soap. It isn't fair.”
“H'm! No, it doesn't seem fair,” mumbled Humpy. “It certainly is not
fair. But I do not see how we can help it. It isn't our fault that you
are the tallest one.”
“No, you can't blame us,” said the other gnomes, all talking at once.
Then they began to argue—and they grew so hot about it that they all
steamed dry.
At last Dump the dwarf (who was always in the front) raised his voice.
[Illustration: 'Black]
“Listen to me,” he cried. “I may be the littlest one here, but I have
got the most sense. Let's all go into the water again—but let's go the
other way round, with the tallest in the front.”
“OF COURSE!” said Humpy. “That is a very bright idea. Line up! Quick
March! Left, Right! Now, RIGHT-ABOUT-FACE!”
Solemnly the gnomes marched into the stream in their usual order, and
then faced about, so that Lanky Tom was in the front, and Dump the dwarf
was at the back. Then Humpy took another tablet of soap and gave it to
Dump.
Dump soaped Lob. Lob soaped Barney. Barney soaped Sut. Sut soaped Humpy.
Humpy soaped Toby. And Toby soaped Lanky Tom. He lathered his shoulders,
and rubbed his back, and gave him such a frothing that when he dipped
the whole river boiled and sizzled like a steam engine.
All the willows shook in the breeze, and the fishes gave their tails a
mighty flick, and were off.
Back scuttled the gnomes to the bridge, and began to dress.
“Well, are you satisfied now?” asked Humpy, towelling his head.
“Yes,” replied Lanky Tom. “Yes, I am satisfied now. I have had a good
wash at last.”
“So that's settled,” said Humpy, and he began to pull his socks on.
“No, indeed! It isn't settled! It isn't fair!” cried Dump the dwarf,
getting red in the face.
“What isn't fair?” asked all the others in chorus.
“I have only had one soaping, and the rest of you have had two.”
“I have only had one, and I am quite satisfied,” said Lanky Tom.
“One is quite enough,” said Barney.
“THAT'S NOT THE POINT,” cried Dump, growing excited. “The point is this.
ONE gnome was being treated unfairly before. We all admit that. But now
TWO gnomes have been treated unfairly. Matters are worse than they were
before.”
“It's your own fault. You suggested it. You have got us into a fine
muddle with your interference,” said Humpy.
“Yes, indeed!” said Lob. “I've got a complaint to make, too. I've been
washed twice.”
“So have all the rest of us,” cried the others, all speaking at once.
“What a waste of soap. Two pieces used instead of one!”
“H'm! That's a serious thing about the soap,” said Humpy. “If we use two
tablets each time the soap will only last for half a year, and we shall
have to stop grimy for six months at a time.”
“Let's bath once a fortnight,” said Sut.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a tall, thin man walking
in profile.]
“No! I don't like that idea at all,” said Barney. “There is no sense in
that—to have two washes in one day, and then none for two weeks.”
“We've done it to-day,” said Sut. “I've been washed when I was perfectly
clean.”
“I MAY BE THE LITTLEST ONE HERE,” shouted Dump, “BUT THAT IS NO REASON
WHY I SHOULD BE TREATED WORSE THAN ANYONE ELSE.”
“Tut-ut-tut!” said Toby. “What a fuss! What a silly commotion! And all
about nothing! I suggest that we go on the same way as we used to do. We
have done it for twelve years. We can do it for twelve years more.”
“OH! CAN WE?” said Lanky Tom, in an awful voice. “Can we INDEED!” And he
stumped up the bank and went off in a huff.
Oh, the consternation under that wooden bridge! The water chattered over
the stones; the rushes whispered together, and all the echoes of that
dim archway sounded like the moans of a gathering storm.
“Dear, dear! What shall we do?”
“Let's bath by ourselves.”
“No. We can't reach our own backs. Our arms are too short.”
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a small figure peering
from behind a wall while another bearded figure crouches on rocks
below.]
“I shall resign,” said Humpy, shaking his beard. “For twelve years I
have been Master-of-the-Bath, but now I shall resign.”
Gloomily, with many sighs, the gnomes dressed and went away. One by one
they disappeared along the lane, and at last Humpy was left alone.
He sat on a stone in the shadows, watching the water as it lapped at the
pebbly banks. Twilight settled over the land. Stars began to glimmer in
the sky. But Humpy sat under the bridge, and did not move.
He felt very sad, and very old.
Suddenly he heard a voice calling his name.
“Humpy! Humpy! Where are you?”
Mrs. Humpy came running down the bank, peering anxiously under the arch
of the bridge.
“I'm here.”
“Oh, I thought you must be drowned. I watched the other gnomes coming
home—and they looked very grave—no smiles or anything—and it made me
feel afraid that something had happened.”
[Illustration]
“Something has happened,” said Humpy, and he drew her down beside him,
and told her all about it.
She listened to the end without a sound. Then—she laughed aloud.
“Oh, you silly, foolish Humpy,” she cried. “You need not resign at all.
There is a much simpler way than that. Next week, when the gnomes come
down to bath—make them stand in a _ring_.”
“OF COURSE!” said Humpy slowly.
If you should pass by the stream on a Saturday evening, you will see a
happy sight. A ring of gnomes will be standing in the water, like a
clump of rushes, where it is deep, but not too deep.
Listen, and you will hear Humpy, the Master-of-the-Bath, give a loud,
clear order.
“SOAP!”
Then Lanky will soap Toby, and Toby will soap Humpy, and Humpy will soap
Sut, and all round the ring the soap will go. Each gnome will be soaped
fairly and well, and when they dip you will hear a fizzling, and see a
frothing. The stream will sputter, and the edges of the water will cream
and hump as if with snow. Rainbow bubbles will go sailing along under
the willows, like a fairy fleet, and the silver fish will hide in the
pools, keeping very still.
Not a word will there be of unfairness. Not a grumble. Not a single
complaint.
And Humpy the Weather-gnome is still the Master-of-the-Bath.
THE SHIP-BOY'S SONG (FOURTEENTH CENTURY) _By DOROTHY MARGARET
STUART_
[Illustration: Dropcap H]
High on the yard-arm here sit I,
A-swing to scan the sea and sky,
While far below the Ship-man stands
And shouts to me between his hands.
I make a sign to him
That now the coast grows dim
And sinks from sight;
Now from our dipping bows
The dark-blue water flows
All silver-bright.
Whither we steer I do not care,
Crete, Alicant or Finisterre,
For casks of wine or russet bales,
So we have fair winds for our sails.
The wind that I love best,
Blow it from east or west
Across the foam,
Is that which bears us toward
Grey tower and daisied sward,
Harbour and home.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration featuring a figure in
patterned robes and a tall hat leading a camel, viewed from behind, with
another person holding a stick in the foreground and a walled city with
towers in the background, topped with banners reading "STRANGE LANDS &
STRANGE FOLK" and "I BEHOLD".]
Strange lands and strange folk I behold,
Faces of bronze and domes of gold,
Green spires that clang with brazen sound
Above the temples of Mahound.[1]
But Dick my brother now
Jogs whistling by the plough
And marvelleth sore
That I should choose again
To brave the wind and rain
So far from shore.
I am no 'prentice, for I've made
Three voyages, thrice seen England fade
Astern, and thrice beheld it shine
Ahead on the horizon-line.
But Wat my brother sits
In school, and cracks his wits
O'er A and Z,
And envieth me much,
Me who have stuffed none such
Into _my_ head.
Salt beef and stiff, dry bread and brown,
Will be my meed when I climb down;
I dare not doze upon my perch—
A rope's no softer than a birch!
Yet not with Dick or Wat
I'd choose to change my lot,
Nor any boy;
Though I be fain, no doubt,
When homeward bound I shout—
Ho, Land Ahoy!
The boys ashore have some delights;
They need not wake and watch o' nights,
Nor clamber where the sharp winds blow
To hang the lanthorn on the bow;
No decks have they to scour
White as a lily-flower,
No chains to clean;
And orchard raids are theirs
For plums and sweet brown pears
And pippins green.
Yet rather than on shore to stay
And trudge a furrow half the day,
Or plod in school at clerkish craft,
I'd sail alone upon a raft!
Oh, it is brave to watch
Our great square mainsail catch
A humming breeze,
And golden amidst blue
To see our prow cleave through
The crested seas!
Five candles oft our Master vows
To St. Bartholomew his house;[2]
But to St. Nicholas[3] one will burn
This night, I know, for my return;
My Mother never yet
That candle did forget,
And never will;
Nor to that Saint to call
To guard me and us all
From every ill.
[Illustration: _A Humming Breeze._]
If after dusk I sit aloft
When waves are gentle and winds soft
I love to watch, between the spars,
The solemn kindling of the stars.
They look like candles faint
Holden in lanthorns quaint
Of silver glass;
Mayhap they are lit by thee,
Thou friend of boys at sea,
St. Nicholas!
Footnote 1:
Mahomet.
Footnote 2:
The Priory of St. Bartholomew the Great, Smithfield, where Kentish
seamen were wont to make offerings after their safe return to port.
Footnote 3:
Patron Saint of sailors and children.
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a medieval-style sailing
ship on choppy waves, featuring a castle-like tower at the stern, a
large sail decorated with checkerboards and fish designs, and several
shields hanging along the side.]
[Illustration: Black and white illustration of a house with a
vine-covered porch where a man and a child are standing, while a small
statue or figure stands on a pedestal under the veranda to the right.]