"'To seek silver to the king I my seed sold.'"
"'Wherefore my land lieth fallow and learneth to sleep,'"
joined in another voice.
"'Since they fetched my fair cattle in the fold:
When I think of my old wealth, well-nigh I weep.
Thus breedeth many beggars bold.'"
By the time the last line was reached the whole room took it up, and
the walls shook with the song:--
"'And there wakeneth in the world dismay and woe
For as good is death anon as so far to toil.'"
At the close of the song, Rugge looked about him, and singled out from
a dark corner, where he had been quietly looking on, a shy lad in the
garb of a minstrel, who, hugging his rebec under his arm, shambled
awkwardly up to his leader.
"Hither, my brave boy," cried Rugge, presenting him to Annys; "this is
Jack Nicol, a better friend to the Cause than those who swing a broad
axe or train an arrow against those who live only by labor of tongue.
This youth never opens his lips but he risks a broken pate, and indeed
he is very like to find himself clapped into gaol for his bold songs
which do stir the people up to ask for their freedom."
"Good!" cried Annys, clapping the boy upon his back; "we shall know
each other better before long, for I shall have need of thee."
"I am ready," replied the boy, yet rubbing his head somewhat ruefully
on the spot where the sheriff's stick had been all too familiar with it.
"Yea, these minstrels do wot well how to reach the heart of the
people," said Rugge, "and a good stirring rime can do more in a moment
than much preaching can do in many months."
"A rime, a rime, give us one now," they called to the minstrel.
"Yea, a rime, a rime, a geste!" ran through the room.
The boy hung back for an instant, and then, putting his rebec tenderly
to his chin, launched forth upon the song that of all others stirred
the blood the quickest, the song so dear to the people that scarce any
gathering would disperse until the rafters rang with its well-conned
words:--
"'Lithe and lysten, gentylmen,
That be of freebore blode;
I shall you tell of a good yeman,
His name was Robyn Hode.'"
The roisterers looked up and left their hands from the tankards, the
nodding heads first stiffened and then kept time to the rhythm, the
sodden faces brightened, while the young minstrel, in a peculiarly
sweet voice, sang on of Robyn's men asking for orders before they
should set out through the green woods:--
"'Where we shall take, where we shall leve,
* * * * *