How Pertinax fell out with Robin and with Friar, Yet, in that very hour, came by his heart's desire.

The sinking sun had set the West aflame, When our three riders to the wild-wood came, Where a small wind 'mid sun-kissed branches played, And deep'ning shadows a soft twilight made; Where, save for leafy stirrings, all was still, Lulled by the murmur of a bubbling rill That flowed o'ershadowed by a mighty oak, Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke. Here Robin checked his steed. “Good friends,” quoth he,

“Safe, quotha?” said Sir Pertinax, scowling back over shoulder. “Not so! Surely we are close pursued—hark! Yonder be horsemen riding at speed—ha, we are beset!”

“Content you, sir!” answered Robin. “Think you I would leave behind good booty? Yonder come ten noble coursers laden with ten goodly armours the same won a-jousting to-day by this right wondrous Fool, my good gossip—”

“Thy gossip, forsooth!” snorted Sir Pertinax. “But tell me, presumptuous fellow, how shall these ten steeds come a-galloping hither!”

“Marry, on this wise, Sir Simple Innocence—these steeds do gallop for sufficient reason, namely—they are to gallop bidden being ridden, bestridden and chidden by whip and spur applied by certain trusty men o' my company, which men go habited, decked, dressed, clad, guised and disguised as smug, sleek citizens, Sir Innocent Simplicity—”

“Par Dex!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax, scowling. “And who 'rt thou, sirrah, with men at thy beck and call?”

“Behold!” said Robin, unhelming. “Behold the king of all masterless rogues, and thy fellow gallow's-bird, Sir High Mightiness!”

“Ha, is 't thou?” cried Sir Pertinax. “Now a plague on thy kingdom and thee for an unhanged, thieving rogue—”

“E'en as thyself,” nodded Robin, “thou that flaunted thy unlovely carcass in stolen armour.”

“Ha!” roared Sir Pertinax, clapping hand on sword. “A pest—a murrain! This to me, thou dog's-meat? Malediction! Now will I crack thy numbskull for a pestilent malapert—”

“Nay, Sir Grim-and-gory,” laughed Robin, “rather will I now use thee as thou would'st ha' served me on a day but for this generous and kindly Fool, my good comrade!” And speaking, Robin sprang nimbly to the great oak tree and thrusting long arm within the jagged fissure that gaped therein drew forth a hunting-horn and winded it loud and shrill. And presently was a stir, a rustle amid the surrounding brushwood and all about them were outlaws, wild men and fierce of aspect, and each and every grasped long-bow with arrow on string and every arrow was aimed at scowling Sir Pertinax.

“Per Dex!” quoth he, “and is this death, then?”

“Verily!” nodded Robin, “an I do speak the word.”

“So be it—speak!” growled Sir Pertinax. “Come, Death—I fear thee not!” And out flashed his long sword; but even then it was twisted from his grasp and Lobkyn Lollo, tossing the great blade aloft and, catching it very neatly, laughed and spake:

“Nay, hold a while, sweet lads!” laughed Robin, “the surly rogue shall sing for his life and our good pleasaunce.”

“Sing?” roared Sir Pertinax. “I sing! I? Ha, dare ye bid me so, base dog? Sing, forsooth? By Og and Gog! By the Seven Champions and all the fiends, rather will I die!” And here, being defenceless, Sir Pertinax clenched mighty fists and swore until he lacked for breath.

Then spake Jocelyn, gentle-voiced.

“Sing, Pertinax,” quoth he.

“Ha—never! Not for all the—”

“I do command thee, Pertinax. As Robin once sang for his life, now must thou sing for thine. Song for song, 't is but just! Sing, Pertinax!”

“Nay,” groaned the proud knight, “I had rather drink water and chew grass like a rabbit. Moreover I ha' no gift o' song—”

“Do thy best!” quoth Robin.

“I'm harsh o' voice—knave!”

“Then croak—rogue!” quoth Robin.

“No song have I—vermin!”

“Make one—carrion! But sing thou shalt though thy song be no better than hog-song which is grunt. Howbeit sing thou must!”

Hereupon Sir Pertinax gnashed his teeth and glaring balefully on Robin lifted hoarse voice and burst forth into fierce song:

“Hold there—hold!” cried Robin, stopping his ears. “Thy voice is unlovely as thy look and thy song as ill as thy voice, so do we forgive thee the rest. Ha' done thy bellowing and begone—”

“Ha—not so!” quoth Sir Pertinax. “For troth I do sing better than methought possible, and my rhyming is none so ill! So will I rhyme thy every knavish part and sing song till song and rhyme be ended. Have at thee again, base fellow!

Ha, plague on't, hast put me out, rogue! I was about to hang thy every roguish part in rhyme, but my rhymes halt by reason o' thee, rogue.”

“Forsooth!” laughed Robin. “Thus stickest thou, for thy part, at my every part, the which is well since I am man of parts. Thus then rhyme thou rhymes upon thyself therefore; thus, thyself rhyming rhymes of thee, thou shalt thyself, rhyming of thyself, thyself pleasure thereby, thou thus rhyming of thee, and thee, thou. Thus thy thee and thou shall be well accorded. How think'st thou?”

But Sir Pertinax, astride his charger that cropped joyously at sweet, cool grass, sat chin on fist, lost in the throes of composition, nothing heeding, even when came the ten steeds with the ten suits of armour.

Now these ten horses bare eleven riders, tall, lusty fellows all, save one shrouded in hood and cloak and whom Jocelyn viewed with quick, keen eyes. And thus he presently whispered Robin who, laughing slyly, made signal to his followers, whereupon, by ones and twos they stole silently away until there none remained save only Sir Pertinax who, wrestling with his muse, stared aloft under knitted brows, all unknowing, and presently brake out singing on this wise:

“Except it be a woman!” sang a soft, sweet voice hard by, in pretty mockery. Hereat Sir Pertinax started so violently that his mail clashed and he stared about him eager-eyed but, finding himself quite alone, sighed and fell to reverie.

“A woman?” said he aloud. “'Except it be a woman—'”

THE VOICE: Aye—a woman, O craven soldier!

SIR PERTINAX: Why here is strange echo methinks and speaketh—with her voice!

THE VOICE: 'O voice so soft and full of sweet allure!'

SIR PERTINAX: O voice beloved that might my dolour cure!

THE VOICE: O craven soldier! O most timid wooer! SIR PERTINAX: Craven am I, yet lover—'t is most sure.

THE VOICE: But thou 'rt a man—at least meseemeth so.

“Ha, think ye so in verity, sweet voice!” cried Sir Pertinax, and springing lightly to earth, strode forward on eager feet. And lo! from behind a certain tree stepped one who, letting fall shrouding cloak and hood, stood there a maid, dark-haired and darkly bright of eye, very shapely and fair to see in her simple tire. And beholding her thus, the tender curve of scarlet lips, the flutter of slender hands, the languorous bewitchment of her eyes, Sir Pertinax halted.

My daughter GILLIAN interpolateth:

Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head abashed.

My daughter GILLIAN persisteth:

Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head, abashed by her beauty.

“Melissa!” he whispered, “O Melissa!” and so stood mute.

“O Pertinax!” she sighed. “Art dumb at sight of me? O Pertinax, and wherefore?”

“All have I forgot save only thy loveliness, Melissa!”

“Methinks such—forgetfulness becometh thee well. Say on!”

“Ah, Melissa, I—do love thee.”

“Why this I knew when thou didst sit a-fishing!”

“But, indeed, then I dreamed not of loving thee or any maid.”

“Because thou art but a man.”

“Verily, and being man, now came I seeking thee for Love's sweet sake yet, finding thee, know not how to speak thee. Alas, I do fear I am but sorry wooer!”

“Alas, Pertinax, I do fear thou art! Yet thou shalt learn, perchance. How—art dumb again, canst speak me no more?”

“Nought—save only this, thou art beyond all maids fair, Melissa!”

“Why, I do think thou'lt make a wooer some day mayhap, by study diligent. 'T will take long time and yet—I would not have thee learn too soon! And hast thought of me? A little?”

“I have borne thee ever within my heart.”

“And wherefore wilt love maid so lowly?”

“For that thou art thyself and thyself—Melissa. And O, I love thy voice!”

“My voice? And what more?”

“Thine eyes. Thy little, pretty feet. Thy scarlet mouth. Thy gentle, small hands. Thy hair. All of thee!”

“O,” she murmured a little breathlessly, “if thou dost so love me—woo me—a little!”

“Alas!” he sighed, “I know not how.”

“Hast ne'er wooed maid ere this, big soldier?”

“Never!”

“Thou poor Pertinax! How empty—how drear thy life. For this do I pity thee with pity kin to love—”

“Love?” he whispered. “Ah, Melissa, couldst e'en learn to love one so unlovely, so rude, so rough and unmannered as I?”

“Never!” she sighed, “O, never—unless thou teach me?”

“Would indeed I might, Melissa. Ah, teach me how I may teach thee to love one so unworthy as Pertinax!”

Now hearkening to his harsh voice grown soft and tremulous, beholding the truth in his honest eyes, Melissa smiled, wondrous tender, and reaching out took hold upon his two hands.

“Kneel!” she commanded. “Kneel here upon the grass as I do kneel. Now, lay by thy cumbrous helmet. Now fold thy great, strong hands. Now bow thy tall, grim head and say in sweet, soft accents low and reverent: 'Melissa, I do love thee heart and soul, thee only do I love and thee only will I love now and for ever. So aid me, Love, amen!'” Then, closing his eyes, Sir Pertinax bowed reverent head, and, humbly folding his hands, spake as she bade him. Thereafter opening his eyes, he saw her watching him through gathering tears, and leaning near, he reached out eager arms, yet touched her not. Quoth he: “O maid beloved, what is thy sorrow?”

“'Tis joy—joy, and thou—thou art so strong and fierce yet so gentle and simple of heart! O, may I prove worthy thy love—”

“Worthy? Of my love?” he stammered. “But O Melissa, I am but he thou didst name harsh of tongue.”

“Aye, I did!” she sobbed.

“Hard of heart, flinty of soul, rude, unmannered and unlovely.”

“Aye—I did and—loved thee the while!” she whispered. “So now do I pray that I prove worthy.”

“Worthy? Thou? O my sweet maid—thou that art kin to the holy angels, thou so high and far removed 'bove me that I do tremble and—fear to touch thee—“.

“Nay, fear me not, Pertinax,” she sighed, “for though indeed I am all this, yet maid am I also and by times—very human. So Pertinax, thou great, fearless man-at-arms, lay by thy so great fears a while—I do beseech thee.” Then Sir Pertinax, beholding the tender passion of her eyes, forgot his fear in glad wonderment and, reaching out hands that trembled for all their strength, drew her to his close embracement.

And thus, kneeling together upon the sun-dappled sward, they forgot all things in this joyous world save only their love and the glory of it. And when they had kissed each other—

Thus, cradled in his strong arms, she questioned him tenderly:

“Dost mind how, upon a day, my Pertinax, didst ask of me the amulet I bore within my bosom?”

“Aye,” he answered, “and sure 'tis charm of potent magic whose spell brought us out of the dungeon at Canalise—the which is great matter for wonder! But 'tis for thy dear sake I do cherish it—”

“Bear you it yet?”

“Here upon my heart.”

“And if I should ask it of thee again—wouldst render it back to me?”

“Never!” quoth he. “Never, until with it I give thee myself also!”

But presently she stirred in his embrace for upon the air was an approaching clamour, voices, laughter and the ring of mail.

“Come away!” whispered Melissa, upspringing to her feet. “Come, let thou and Love and I hide until these disturbers be gone and the sweet world hold but us three again.”

Now, as they stood, hand in hand, deep hidden 'mid the green, they beheld six merry woodland rogues who led an ambling ass whereon rode a friar portly and perspiring albeit he had a jovial eye. And as he rode he spake his captors thus in voice full-toned and deep:

“Have a care, gentle rogues and brethren, hurry not this ambulant animal unduly, poor, much-enduring beast. Behold the pensive pendulation of these auriculars so forlornly a-dangle! Here is ass that doth out-patience all asses, both four and two-legged. Here is meek ass of leisured soul loving not haste—a very pensive perambulator. So hurry not the ass, my brothers, for these several and distinct reasons or arguments. Firstly, dearly beloved, because I love haste no more than the ass; secondly, brethren, 't is property of Holy Church which is above all argument; and, thirdly, 't is bestridden by one Friar John, my very self, and I am forsooth weighty argument. Fourthly, beloved, 'tis an ass that—ha! O sweet vision for eyes human or divine! Do I see thee in very truth, thou damsel of disobedience, dear dame of discord, sweet, witching, wilful lady—is it thou in very truth, most loved daughter, or wraith conjured of thy magic and my perfervid imaginations—speak!”

“'T is I myself, Reverend Father!” laughed Melissa. “O my dear, good Friar John, methinks the kind Saints have brought thee to my need.”

“Saints, quotha!” exclaimed the Friar, rolling merry eye towards his several captors. “Call ye these—Saints? Long have I sought thee, thou naughty maid, and to-day in my quest these brawny 'saints' beset me with bow and quarterstaff and me constrained hither—but my blessing on them since they have brought me to thee. And now, sweet child and daughter, whiles the news yet runneth hot-foot or, like bird unseen, wingeth from lip to lip, I thy ghostly father have rare good news for thee—”

“Nay, Friar John, I will guess thy tidings: Sir Agramore of Biename lieth sorry and sore of a cudgelling.”

“How!” cried the Friar. “Thou dost know—so soon?”

“Verily, Reverend Father, nor have I or my worthy guardians aught to fear of him hereafter. And now have I right wondrous news for thee, news that none may guess. List, dear Friar John, thou the wisest and best loved of all my guardians ten; to-day ye are absolved henceforth all care of your wilful ward since to-day she passeth from the guardianship of ye ten to the keeping of one. Come forth, Pertinax, thou only one beloved of me for no reason but that thou art thou and I am I—as is ever the sweet, mad way of True-love—come forth, my dear-loved, poor soldier!” Out from the trees strode Pertinax but, beholding his face, Friar John scowled and, viewing his rich surcoat and goodly armour, fell to perspiring wonder and amaze.

“Now by the sweet Saint Amphibalus!” quoth he. “Surely these be the arms of Sir Agramore, dread Lord of Biename?”

“Most true, dear Friar John,” answered Melissa, “and by this same token Sir Agramore lieth sore bruised e'en now.”

“Aha!” quoth the Friar, mopping moist brow. “'T is well—'t is very well, so shall these two ears of mine, with eighteen others of lesser account, scathless go and all by reason of this good, tall fellow. Howbeit, I do know this same fellow for fellow of none account, and no fit mate for thee, noble daughter, love or no. A fierce, brawling, tatterdemalion this, that erstwhile tramped in company with long-legged ribald—a froward jesting fellow. Wherefore this fellow, though fellow serviceable, no fellow is for thee and for these sufficing reasons. Firstly—”

“Ha—enough!” quoth Sir Pertinax, chin out-thrust. “'Fellow' me no more, Friar—”

“Firstly,” continued Friar John, “because this out-at-elbows fellow is a rogue.”

“'Rogue,' in thy teeth, Churchman!” growled Sir Pertinax.

“Secondly,” continued Friar John, nothing abashed, “because this rogue-fellow is a runagate roysterer, a nameless knave, a highway-haunter, a filching flick-o'-the-gibbet and a—”

“Friar,” snorted Sir Pertinax, “thou 'rt but a very fat man scant o' breath, moreover thou 'rt a friar, so needs must I leave thee alive to make pestilent the air yet a little until thou chokest of an epithet. Meantime perform now one gracious act in thy so graceless life and wed me with this forest maiden.”

“Forest maiden, forsooth!” cried Friar John. “O Saints! O Martyrs! Forest maid, quotha! And wed her—and unto thee, presumptuous malapert! Ho, begone, thy base blood and nameless rank forbid—”

“Hold there, shaveling!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “Now mark me this! Though I, being very man, do know myself all unworthy maid so sweet and peerless, yet, and she stoop to wed me, then will I make her lady proud and dame of divers goodly manors and castles, of village and hamlet, pit and gallows, sac and soc, with powers the high, the middle and the low and with ten-score lances in her train. For though in humble guise I went, no nameless rogue am I, but Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene—”

“How!” cried Melissa, pouting rosy lip and frowning a little. “O Pertinax, art indeed a great lord?”

“Why, sooth—forsooth and indeed,” he stammered, “I do fear I am.”

“Then thou 'rt no poor, distressful, ragged, outlaw-soldier?”

“Alack—no!” he groaned, regardful of her frown.

“Then basely hast thou tricked me—O cruel!”

“Nay, Melissa—hear me!” he cried, and, forgetful of friar and gaping outlaws, he clasped her fast 'prisoned 'gainst his heart. “Thee do I love, dear maid, 'bove rank, or fame, or riches, or aught this world may offer. So, an thou wouldst have me ragged and destitute and outlaw, all this will I be for thy sweet sake since life were nought without thee, O maid I do so love—how say'st thou?”

“I say to thee, Pertinax, that thy so great love hath loosed thy tongue at last, Love hath touched thy lips with eloquence beyond all artifice since now, methinks, it is thy very soul doth speak me. And who shall resist such wooing? Surely not I that do—love thee beyond telling. So take me, my lord, thy right hand in mine, the talisman in thy left—so! Now, my Pertinax, speak thy heart's wish.”

“Friar,” quoth Sir Pertinax, holding aloft the Crystal Heart, “as her love is mine and mine hers, wed and unite us in our love—by the magic of this jewel I do command thee!”

Here, beholding the talisman, Friar John gasped and stared round-eyed and incredulous.

“By Holy Rood!” he whispered, “'t is indeed the Crystal Heart!”

“And O!” sighed Melissa, “O Friar John, thou dost mind the saying:

“Aye, truly—truly!” nodded the Friar.

So saying he got him down from the ass and, for all his corpulence, louted full low.

“Sir Knight of Shene,” quoth he, “by reason of this jewel potential thou dost bear, now must I perforce obey thy behest and wed thee unto this our gracious lady Benedicta, Duchess of Ambremont, Canalise, Tissingors, Fordyngstoke and divers other towns, villages and—”

“Duchess—a duchess?” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “Duchess say'st thou—this, the Duchess Benedicta! O Melissa—thou—thou—a duchess!”

“Sooth and forsooth,” sighed she in pretty mockery, “I do fear I am!”

“Then thou 'rt no humble maid, distressful and forlorn, Melissa?”

“Yea, Pertinax—all this am I indeed unless thou love me, and loving me, wed me, and wedding me love me the better therefor, and loving me ever the better, thou may'st learn a little some day how a woman may love a man.”

“Par Dex!” mumbled Sir Pertinax, kissing her rosy finger-tips, “be thou duchess or witch-maid o' the wood, I do love thee heart and soul, body and mind, now and for ever, Melissa.”

Then Friar John, beholding the radiant joy of their faces, reached forth his hands in blessing.

“Kneel ye, my children!” he sighed. “For here methinks is true-love such as brighteneth this world all too seldom. So here, within the forest, the which is surely God's cathedral, this your love shall be sanctified unto you and the world be the better therefor! Kneel ye, my children!”

And thus, kneeling upon the flower-sprent turf hand in hand and with heads reverently bowed, they were wed, while the six outlaws stared in silent awe and the meek ass cropped the grass busily.

“O Pertinax,” sighed the Duchess as they rose, “so greatly happy am I that I will others shall be happy likewise; let us make this indeed a day of gladness. I pray thee sound the bugle that hangeth within the great oak, yonder.”

So Sir Pertinax took the horn and sounded thereon a mighty blast, loud and long and joyous. And presently came the outlaws, thronging in from all directions, until the sunny glade was full of their wild company, while in the green beyond pike-head twinkled and sword-blades glittered; and foremost was Robin with Lobkyn Lollo beside him.

“Robin,” said the Duchess, beckoning him near with white, imperious finger, “Robin a' Green, thou whose tongue is quick and ready as thy hand, hast ever been gentle to the weak and helpless as I do know, in especial to two women that sought thy protection of late.”

“Why, verily, lady, I mind them well,” nodded Robin, “and one was a maid passing fair and one an ancient dame exceeding wise. To aid such is ever a man's joy—or should be.”

“Knew ye who and what this maid was, Robin?”

“Aye, lady, I knew her then as now for that proud and noble lady the Duchess Benedicta.”

“And yet, Robin, knowing this and having me in thy power didst suffer me to go without let or hindrance or single penny of ransom?”

“My lady Duchess,” answered Robin, glancing round upon his wild company, “we be outlaws, 't is true, and rogues—mayhap, yet are we men and thou a lady passing fair, wherefore—though I knew thee for the Duchess Benedicta, thou wert safe with us since we war not with women and harm no maids be they of high or low degree!”

“Spoke like a very knight!” exclaimed the Duchess. “How think'st thou, my lord?”

“Par Dex!” quoth Sir Pertinax. “Aye, by Our Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood I swear it—thou 'rt a man, Robin! So now do I sue pardon of thee for my song o' rogues since no rogue art thou. And thou didst aid and shield her—this my wife that is the very eyes of me! So, by my troth, my good friend art thou henceforth, Rob o' the Green!”

“Nay, my lord,” answered Robin slyly, “for I am but Robin, and outlaw, and thou art the Duke!”

“Forsooth—and so I am!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “Ha—yet am I still a man, and therefore—”

“Wait, my lord!” said Benedicta. “Robin, give me thy sword!” So she took the weapon and motioning Robin to his knees, set the blade across his shoulder. “Robin a' Green,” said she, “since thou art knightly of word and deed, knight shalt thou be in very truth. Sir Robin a' Forest I make thee and warden over this our forest country. Rise up, Sir Robert.” Then up sprang Robin, bright-eyed and flushed of cheek.

“Dear my lady,” cried he, “since knight hast made me, thy knight will I be henceforth in life or in death—” But here his voice was lost in the joyous acclamations of his followers who shouted amain until the Duchess quelled them with lifted hand.

“Ye men of the wild-wood,” said she, looking round upon them gentle-eyed, “all ye that be homeless and desolate, lying without the law, this day joy hath found me, for this is my wedding-morn. And as I am happy I would see ye happy also. Therefore upon this glad day do we make proclamation, my Lord Duke and I—this day we lift from you each and every, the ban of outlawry—free men are ye to go and come as ye list—free men one and all and good citizens henceforth I pray!” Now here was silence awhile, then a hoarse murmur, swelling to a jubilant shout until the sunny woodland rang with the joy of it, near and far.

“And now, Sir Robert,” laughed the Duchess, “pray you where is this noble Fool, this gentle Motley, this most rare singer of songs and breaker of lances? Bid him to us.”

“Ha—the Fool!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax, starting.

“My lady,” answered Robin, “true, he was here, but when I sought him, a while since, there was Sir Palamon's armour he had worn, but himself gone —”

“Gone—gone say'st thou?” cried Sir Pertinax, glancing about. “Then needs must I go seek him—”

“And wherefore, my lord?” cried the Duchess.

“'T is my—my duty, Melissa!” stammered Sir Pertinax. “He is my—my friend and—sworn brother-in-arms!”

“And am I not thy wife, Pertinax?”

“Aye, most dearly loved, and I, thy husband—and yet—needs must I seek this Fool, Melissa.”

“O Pertinax—wilt leave me?”

“Leave thee?” groaned Sir Pertinax. “Aye—for a while! Leave thee? Aye—though it break my heart needs must I! He, my—brother-in-arms. My duty calleth—”

“And what of thy duty to me?”

Now as Sir Pertinax wrung his hands in an agony of indecision, rose a whisper of sweet sound, the murmur of softly-plucked lute-strings, and into the glade, cock's-comb aflaunt and ass's ears a-dangle Duke Jocelyn strode and sang as he came a song he had made on a time, a familiar air:

“And love from heaven hath stooped thus low To me!” quoth Pertinax.

But here came Robin with certain of his men leading a snow-white palfrey richly caparisoned.

“Right noble lady,” said he, “behold here a goodly, fair jennet to thy gracious acceptance.”

“And indeed—'t is rare, pretty beast!” exclaimed Benedicta. “But Robin, Robin, O Sir Robert, whence had you this?”

“Lady, upon a time I was an outlaw and lived as outlaws may, taking such things as Fate bestowed, and, lady:

But now since we be free-men all, I and my fellows, fain would we march hence in thy train to thy honour and our joyance. Wilt grant us this boon, lady?”

“Freely, for 'tis rare good thought, Robin! Surely never rode duke and duchess so attended. How the townsfolk shall throng and stare to see our wild following, and my worthy guardians gape and pluck their beards for very amaze! How think you, good Friar John?”

“Why, verily, daughter, I, that am chiefest of thy wardens ten, do think it wise measure; as for thy other guardians let them pluck and gape until they choke.

I say 'tis wise, good measure, for these that were outlaws be sturdy fellows with many friends in town and village, so shall this thy day of union be for them re-union, and they joy with thee.”

Now being mounted the Duchess rode where stood Jocelyn, and looked down on him merry-eyed.

“Sir Fool,” said she, “who thou art I know not, but I have hunted in Brocelaunde ere now, and I have eyes. And as thou 'rt friend to my dear lord, friend art thou of mine, so do we give thee joyous welcome to our duchy. And, being thy friend, I pray thou may'st find that wonder of wonders the which hideth but to be found, and once found, shall make wise Fool wiser.”

“Sweet friend and lady,” answered Jocelyn, “surely man so unlovely as I may not know this wonder for his very own until it first seek him. Is 't not so? Let now thy woman's heart counsel me.”

“How, Sir Wise Folly, have I not heard thee preach boldness in love ere now?”

“Aye—for others!” sighed Jocelyn. “But for myself—I fear—behold this motley! This scarred face!”

“Why as to thy motley it becometh thee well—”

“Aye, but my face? O, 't is a hideous face!”

“O Fool!” sighed Benedicta, “know'st thou not that True-love's eyes possess a magic whereby all loved things become fair and beauteous. So take courage, noble Motley, and may thy desires be crowned—even as our own.”

“Gramercy, thou sweet and gentle lady. Happiness companion thee alway and Love sing ever within thee. Now for ye twain is love's springtime, a season of sweet promise, may each promise find fulfilment and so farewell.”

“Why then, Sir Fool, an thou wilt tarry here in the good greenwood a while, may Love guide thee. Now here is my counsel: Follow where thy heart commandeth and—fear not! And now, Sir Robert a' Forest, form thy company, and since this is a day of gladness let them sing as they march.”

“In sooth, dear my lady, that will we!” cried Robin. “There is song o' spring and gladness I made that hath oft been our solace, and moreover it beginneth and endeth with jolly chorus well beknown to all. Ho, pikes to van and rear! Bows to the flanks—fall in! Now trusty friends o' the greenwood, free-men all, henceforth—now march we back to hearth and home and love, so sing ye—sing!”

Hereupon from the ragged, close-ordered ranks burst a shout that swelled to rolling chorus; and these the words:

So they marched blithely away, a right joyous company, flashing back the sunset glory from bright headpiece and sword-blade, while Jocelyn stood watching wistful-eyed until they were lost amid the green, until all sounds of their going grew to a hush mingling with the whisper of leaves and murmurous gurgle of the brook; and ever the shadows deepened about him, a purple solitude of misty trees and tangled thickets, depth on depth, fading to a glimmering mystery.

Suddenly amid these glooming shadows a shadow moved, and forth into the darkling glade, mighty club on mighty shoulder, stepped Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, and his eyes were pensive and he sighed gustily.

“Alack!” quoth he:

“Nay, good Lobkyn, what know you of love?” Answered LOBKYN:

Quoth LOBKYN:

Now here Jocelyn sighed amain and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to sad and wistful thinking.

“Nath'less,” cried the Duke, leaping to his feet. “I will put Love to the test—aye, this very hour!”

And Lobkyn started about, club poised for swift action, for, out-stealing from the shadows crept strange and dismal sound, a thin wail that sank to awful groaning rumble, and so died away.

“O!” whispered Lobkyn:

But, as these dismal sounds brake forth again, Jocelyn stole forward, quarter-staff gripped in ready hand; thus, coming nigh the great oak, he espied a dim, huddled form thereby and, creeping nearer, stared in wonder to behold Mopsa, the old witch, striving might and main to wind the great hunting-horn.

“What, good Witch!” quoth he, “here methinks is that beyond all thy spells to achieve.”

“O Fool,” she panted, “kind Fool, sound me this horn, for I'm old and scant o' breath. Wind it shrill and loud, good Motley, the rallying-note, for there is ill work afoot this night. Sound me shrewd blast, therefore.”

“Nay, 't were labour in vain, Witch; there be no outlaws hereabout, free men are they henceforth and gone, each and every.”

“Out alas—alas!” cried the old woman, wringing her hands. “Then woe is me for the fair lady Yolande.”

“Ha! What of her, good Witch? Threateneth danger? Speak!”

“Aye, Fool, danger most dire! My Lord Gui yet liveth, and this night divers of his men shall bear her away where he lieth raging for her in his black castle of Ells—”

“Now by heaven's light!” swore Jocelyn, his eyes fierce and keen, “this night shall Fool be crowned of Love or sleep with kindly Death.”

“Stay, Fool, thy foes be a many! Wilt cope with them alone?”

“Nay!” cried a voice:

and Lobkyn stepped forward.

“Aha, my pretty poppet! Loved duck, my downy chick—what wouldst?”

“Why, then, my bantling—loved babe, fight thy fiercest, for these be wicked men and 't will be an evil fray. And she is sweet and good, so, Lobkyn, be thy strongest—”

Saith Lobkyn:

“Then come, trusty Lob, and my thanks to thee!” cried Jocelyn, catching up his quarter-staff. “But haste ye, for I would be hence ere the moon get high. Come!”

So Duke Jocelyn strode away with Lobkyn Lollo at his heels; now as they went, the moon began to rise.