Much-the-Miller’s-Son. But Marian had shown herself a worthy comrade. When Roger Lightfoot had cut his hand half off she had neither shrieked nor swooned, but held the edges of the gash together while Robin stitched it. Shehad not been afraid when there was an alarm of an attack, but had calmly strung her bow and taken her place beside Robin. She had not complained when the nights were cold. She took her turn at cooking and cleaning, and her place among the younger outlaws at the daily target-practice. Above all, she was friendly: laughing with them, sharing their joys and sorrows; and so, little by little, they grew to accept her as one of themselves, especially Friar Tuck’s dogs, who loved her dearly.
On this particular morning she had gone up with Robin to visit the pickets watching the Nottingham road for a rich merchant who they had heard was to pass that day. She stood looking away down the road: tall and slender as a birch tree in her long green gown, with her russet hair bound closely round her head. Her gown was of the same Lincoln cloth as the tunics of the wood-rangers, and the skirt was caught up through her belt so that it should not get in her way; under it she wore men’s long hose and rawhide shoes. There were four clothyard shafts in her belt, and she carried a bow which Will Scarlet had built for her. It was a light bow with a pull of thirty pounds—very different from the great bows with their lateral pull of a hundred pounds which none but Robin and Little John could bend—but already she could use it well.
It was very pleasant among the nut trees by the wayside, and very quiet, so that they heard the trit-trot of pony’s hooves and the trundling of cart wheels while they were yet a long way off.
‘Now, who comes here?’ said Robin softly, as the outlaws rose and moved back into the deeper shadows of the trees.
Little John remained where he was, gazing northwardthrough a little opening between the nut trees. Then, as the trit-trot and the trundling drew nearer he laughed, and stepped back.
‘It is the proud Potter of Wentbridge. I know him of old—a stiff-necked creature, and he has never, to my knowledge, paid any toll for passing through the forest.’
‘Has he not?’ replied Robin. ‘By the powers, he shall do so now!’
A moment later he parted the nut bushes and stepped out into the road. A fat little pony was coming along the Nottingham road at a fast trot, drawing behind him a neat, small cart. Seated in the cart, among a pile of gaily coloured earthenware pots, was a large, burly man with a brown smock, a red face, and a jaunty pheasant’s feather in his slouch hat.
Robin stood waiting at the side of the road, and caught the pony’s bridle as it drew level with him. The fat little creature came to a docile halt at once, and Robin laughed up into the indignant face of the potter above him.
‘Come, Master Potter,’ said he. ‘Why such a surly visage? All I ask is that you pay me my just toll of silver; then you may go on your way unmolested.’
The potter’s usually pleasant face grew dark with rage. ‘Not a piece of my good silver do you see!’ he cried; and then, leaning down to look more closely at the tall man in green, demanded with sudden suspicion: ‘What might
your
name be?’
‘Men call me—Robin Hood,’ answered Robin, warily watching the potter’s face.
‘
Do
they?’ asked the man. ‘Do they indeed?’ And he leapt down from his little cart and hurled himself upon the outlaw.
Robin was ready for him, and the two came together in the middle of the road. The potter was a powerful man and, though he was a little shorter than Robin, he had a grip like the hug of a brown bear, and a face which did not seem to feel the blows which the other planted on it.
For a while they reeled to and fro, sometimes locked together, sometimes smiting joyously at arm’s length. At last Robin got in a strong left to the point of the jaw. The potter sagged for a moment,
On this particular morning she had gone up with Robin to visit the pickets watching the Nottingham road for a rich merchant who they had heard was to pass that day. She stood looking away down the road: tall and slender as a birch tree in her long green gown, with her russet hair bound closely round her head. Her gown was of the same Lincoln cloth as the tunics of the wood-rangers, and the skirt was caught up through her belt so that it should not get in her way; under it she wore men’s long hose and rawhide shoes. There were four clothyard shafts in her belt, and she carried a bow which Will Scarlet had built for her. It was a light bow with a pull of thirty pounds—very different from the great bows with their lateral pull of a hundred pounds which none but Robin and Little John could bend—but already she could use it well.
It was very pleasant among the nut trees by the wayside, and very quiet, so that they heard the trit-trot of pony’s hooves and the trundling of cart wheels while they were yet a long way off.
‘Now, who comes here?’ said Robin softly, as the outlaws rose and moved back into the deeper shadows of the trees.
Little John remained where he was, gazing northwardthrough a little opening between the nut trees. Then, as the trit-trot and the trundling drew nearer he laughed, and stepped back.
‘It is the proud Potter of Wentbridge. I know him of old—a stiff-necked creature, and he has never, to my knowledge, paid any toll for passing through the forest.’
‘Has he not?’ replied Robin. ‘By the powers, he shall do so now!’
A moment later he parted the nut bushes and stepped out into the road. A fat little pony was coming along the Nottingham road at a fast trot, drawing behind him a neat, small cart. Seated in the cart, among a pile of gaily coloured earthenware pots, was a large, burly man with a brown smock, a red face, and a jaunty pheasant’s feather in his slouch hat.
Robin stood waiting at the side of the road, and caught the pony’s bridle as it drew level with him. The fat little creature came to a docile halt at once, and Robin laughed up into the indignant face of the potter above him.
‘Come, Master Potter,’ said he. ‘Why such a surly visage? All I ask is that you pay me my just toll of silver; then you may go on your way unmolested.’
The potter’s usually pleasant face grew dark with rage. ‘Not a piece of my good silver do you see!’ he cried; and then, leaning down to look more closely at the tall man in green, demanded with sudden suspicion: ‘What might
your
name be?’
‘Men call me—Robin Hood,’ answered Robin, warily watching the potter’s face.
‘
Do
they?’ asked the man. ‘Do they indeed?’ And he leapt down from his little cart and hurled himself upon the outlaw.
Robin was ready for him, and the two came together in the middle of the road. The potter was a powerful man and, though he was a little shorter than Robin, he had a grip like the hug of a brown bear, and a face which did not seem to feel the blows which the other planted on it.
For a while they reeled to and fro, sometimes locked together, sometimes smiting joyously at arm’s length. At last Robin got in a strong left to the point of the jaw. The potter sagged for a moment,
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