So at last I stole some food and a broadsword and took one of the scullions’ Sunday clothes, and came to look for you.’
‘Dear love,’ said Robin gravely, ‘I have sent you no word in all these years because I thought it best that you should forget me—wolfshead as I am. But now that you have come to me, why, Friar Tuck shall wed us this very day.’
So they set out for Dunwold Scar, walking hand inhand, and as blithe as birds on a tree, though both of them were very weary. And as they went, they talked together joyously, for they had many things to say to each other after the years they had been parted.
The sun was yet low in the blue sky of early morning when they came into the long forest-ride below the caves of the Scar, and the few outlaws who had been left there were moving about, collecting arrows and unstringing bows after the morning’s target practice. They came running to their leader—then, seeing his companion, checked a little shamefacedly, uncertain how to greet a lady (for Marian’s long hair still streamed loose about her shoulders and her face was no longer shadowed by her hood).
Robin saw their uncertainty and called his tall lieutenant out from the others. ‘Little John,’ said he, ‘this is my dear lady.’
Little John came forward and dropped on one knee before Marian, raising to his lips the hand which she held out to him. She looked down at him very kindly, saying: ‘So you are Little John? I have heard much of you already, though ’tis scarcely two hours since Robin found me.’
Little John flushed with pleasure beneath his tan, and from that moment was her staunch friend and devoted slave.
Then came the others, one by one, to bend the knee to her; and Marian turned from one to another, gravely, as Robin told her their names. Lastly came the gigantic friar, with his ban-dogs thrusting around him as usual. He took her hand, very kindly, in his, while the dogs stood round with stiff legs and quivering noses. They were enough to scare any maid, those great hounds, andLittle John would have whistled them off; but Marian was used to dogs, and of a good courage, and she held out her hands to them, speaking to them softly. With pricked ears they came forward to sniff at her hands; the pack leader began to wag his tail, Orthros whined deep in his throat. They had accepted her into the band.
Robin turned away, and calling out three of his men, sent them off: Roger Lightfoot southward, George-a-Green westward, and Hob-o’-the-Hoar-Oak to the north, to begin the recall of his scattered band from their search.
‘And now,’ cried he, as the three men sank into the forest in their different directions, ‘food, Little John! Food—and a great deal of it!’
So Marian and Robin sat down side by side on the soft turf below the caves: he still in his bedraggled minstrel’s finery, she in the scullion’s Sunday clothes; and Little John brought them cold venison and manchet bread in a napkin of fine linen. They ate hungrily, while in the glade before them the outlaws continued with their daily tasks—though they often paused to glance aside at the lady.
The pale February sunshine dappled the turf, where the tiny green rosettes of the primroses were beginning to uncurl; the little brook which ran down one side of the glade sparkled between its rushy banks; a robin sang his heart out from the topmost branch of an oak tree, and in all broad Sherwood there were no happier people than Maid Marian and Robin Hood.
6
Robin Hood and the Potter of Wentbridge
ONCE AGAIN THE forest was a place of rustling leaves, and dancing sun-splashes on turf and tree-bole. The hawthorn trees were in bloom, and in the open parts of the forest the gorse flamed golden as though all the furze was afire.
Three months had passed since Marian came to the Greenwood. At first the outlaws had been shy of her, and shy of having a woman among them—‘And her a fine lady, too!’ as Hob-o’-the-Hoar-Oak said to
‘Dear love,’ said Robin gravely, ‘I have sent you no word in all these years because I thought it best that you should forget me—wolfshead as I am. But now that you have come to me, why, Friar Tuck shall wed us this very day.’
So they set out for Dunwold Scar, walking hand inhand, and as blithe as birds on a tree, though both of them were very weary. And as they went, they talked together joyously, for they had many things to say to each other after the years they had been parted.
The sun was yet low in the blue sky of early morning when they came into the long forest-ride below the caves of the Scar, and the few outlaws who had been left there were moving about, collecting arrows and unstringing bows after the morning’s target practice. They came running to their leader—then, seeing his companion, checked a little shamefacedly, uncertain how to greet a lady (for Marian’s long hair still streamed loose about her shoulders and her face was no longer shadowed by her hood).
Robin saw their uncertainty and called his tall lieutenant out from the others. ‘Little John,’ said he, ‘this is my dear lady.’
Little John came forward and dropped on one knee before Marian, raising to his lips the hand which she held out to him. She looked down at him very kindly, saying: ‘So you are Little John? I have heard much of you already, though ’tis scarcely two hours since Robin found me.’
Little John flushed with pleasure beneath his tan, and from that moment was her staunch friend and devoted slave.
Then came the others, one by one, to bend the knee to her; and Marian turned from one to another, gravely, as Robin told her their names. Lastly came the gigantic friar, with his ban-dogs thrusting around him as usual. He took her hand, very kindly, in his, while the dogs stood round with stiff legs and quivering noses. They were enough to scare any maid, those great hounds, andLittle John would have whistled them off; but Marian was used to dogs, and of a good courage, and she held out her hands to them, speaking to them softly. With pricked ears they came forward to sniff at her hands; the pack leader began to wag his tail, Orthros whined deep in his throat. They had accepted her into the band.
Robin turned away, and calling out three of his men, sent them off: Roger Lightfoot southward, George-a-Green westward, and Hob-o’-the-Hoar-Oak to the north, to begin the recall of his scattered band from their search.
‘And now,’ cried he, as the three men sank into the forest in their different directions, ‘food, Little John! Food—and a great deal of it!’
So Marian and Robin sat down side by side on the soft turf below the caves: he still in his bedraggled minstrel’s finery, she in the scullion’s Sunday clothes; and Little John brought them cold venison and manchet bread in a napkin of fine linen. They ate hungrily, while in the glade before them the outlaws continued with their daily tasks—though they often paused to glance aside at the lady.
The pale February sunshine dappled the turf, where the tiny green rosettes of the primroses were beginning to uncurl; the little brook which ran down one side of the glade sparkled between its rushy banks; a robin sang his heart out from the topmost branch of an oak tree, and in all broad Sherwood there were no happier people than Maid Marian and Robin Hood.
6
Robin Hood and the Potter of Wentbridge
ONCE AGAIN THE forest was a place of rustling leaves, and dancing sun-splashes on turf and tree-bole. The hawthorn trees were in bloom, and in the open parts of the forest the gorse flamed golden as though all the furze was afire.
Three months had passed since Marian came to the Greenwood. At first the outlaws had been shy of her, and shy of having a woman among them—‘And her a fine lady, too!’ as Hob-o’-the-Hoar-Oak said to
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