  Tells how for Robin a good fight was fought And our old Witch a spell mysterious wrought.
Phoebus, the young and gladsome god of day, His fiery steeds had yoked to flaming car (By which, my Gill, you may surmise The sun was just about to rise) And that be-feathered, crook-billed harbinger, The rosy-wattled herald of the dawn, Red comb aflaunt, bold-eyed and spurred for strife, Brave Chanticleer, his strident summons raised (By which fine phrase I'd have you know, The cock had just begun to crow) And gentle Zephyr, child of Boreas, Stole soft the hush of dewy leaves, And passing kissed the flowers to wakefulness. Thus, laden with their sweetness, Zephyr came O'er hill and dale, o'er battlement and wall, Into the sleeping town of Canalise, Through open lattice and through prison-bars, To kiss the cheek of sleeping Innocence And fevered brows of prisoners forlorn, Who, stirring 'neath sweet Zephyr's soft caress, Dreamed themselves young, with all their sins unwrought. So, gentle Zephyr, messenger of dawn, Fresh as the day-spring, of earth redolent, Through narrow loophole into dungeon stole, Where Robin the bold outlaw fettered lay, Who, sighing, woke to feel her fragrant kiss, And, breathing in this perfume-laden air, He seemed to smell those thousand woodland scents He oft had known, yet, knowing, never heeded: Of lofty bracken, golden in the sun, Of dewy violets shy that bloomed dim-seen Beside some merry-laughing, woodland brook Which, bubbling, with soft music filled the air; The fragrant reek of smouldering camp-fire Aglow beside some dark, sequestered pool Whose placid waters a dim mirror made To hold the glister of some lonely star; He seemed to see again in sunny glade The silky coats of yellow-dappled deer, With branching antlers gallantly upborne; To hear the twang of bow, the whizz of shaft, And cheery sound of distant-winded horn. Of this and more than this, bold Robin thought, And, in his dungeon's gloomy solitude, He groaned full deep and, since no eye could see, Shed bitter tears. My daughter GILLIAN supplicateth: GILL: Poor Robin! Father, promise me To save him from the gallows-tree. He's much too nice a man to kill; So save him, father; say you will! MYSELF: But think of poor Ranulph with no one to hang! GILL: Ranulph's song was top-hole, but— MYSELF: You know I hate slang— GILL: Yes, father—but then I hate Ranulph much more, With his nasty great beard that in tangles he wore. So, father, if you must have some one to slay, Instead of poor Robin, hang Ranulph— MYSELF: Why, pray? GILL: In nice books the nasty folks only should die; Those are the kind of books nice people buy. I like a book that makes me glad, And loathe a book that makes me sad; So, as this Geste is made for me, Make it as happy as can be. MYSELF: And is it, so far, as you'd wish? GILL: Well, father, though it's rather swish, I think it needs a deal more love— MYSELF: Swish? How—what's this? Great heavens above! Will you, pray, miss, explain to me How any story “swish” may be? And why, my daughter, you must choose A frightful word like “swish” to use? What hideous language are you talking? GILL: Sorrow, father! “Swish” means “corking.” I think our Geste is “out of sight,” Except that, to please me, you might Put in more love— MYSELF: Now, how can Joc'lyn go love-making When his head is sore and aching? Besides, this is no place to woo; He'll love-make when I want him to. GILL: But, father, think—in all this time, In all this blank-verse, prose and rhyme, The fair Yolande he's never kissed, And you've done nothing to assist; And, as I'm sure they're both inclined, I think your treatment most unkind. MYSELF: This Geste I'll write in my own way, That is, sweet Prattler, if I may; When I'm ready for them to kiss, Then kiss they shall; I promise this. Now I'll to Rob return, if you, My Gillian, will permit me to! Thus in his prison pent, poor woeful Rob, Since none might see or hear, scorned not to sob, And mightily, in stricken heart, did grieve That he so soon so fair a world must leave. And all because the morning wind had brought Earth's dewy fragrance with sweet mem'ries fraught. So Robin wept nor sought his grief to stay, Yearning amain for joys of yesterday; Till, hearing nigh the warder's heavy tread, He sobbed no more but strove to sing instead. “A bow for me, a bow for me, All underneath the greenwood tree, Where slaves are men, and men are free; Give me a bow! “Give me a bow, a bow of yew, Good hempen cord and arrows true, When foes be thick and friends be few, Give me a bow!” Thus cheerily sang Robin the while he dried his bitter tears, as the door of his prison was flung wide and Black Lewin strode in and with him men-at-arms bearing torches. “What ho, rogue Robin!” cried he. “The cock hath crowed. Ha! Will ye sing, knave, will ye sing, in faith?” “In faith, that will I!” laughed Robin. “Here come we to bring ye to the gallows, Robin—how say ye?” “The more reason for singing since my singing must soon be done!” So, with pikemen before him and behind, bold Robin marched forth to die, yet sang full blithely as he went: “So lay my bones 'neath good yew-tree, Thus Rob and yew soon one shall be, Where all true men may find o' we A trusty bow!” “Ha' done!” growled Black Lewin, shivering in the chilly air of dawn. “Quit—quit thy singing, rogue, or by the foul fiend I—” “Who dareth name the fiend?” croaked an awful voice, whereat Black Lewin halted, gaped and stood a-tremble, while beneath steel cap and bascinet all men's hair stirred and rose with horror; for before them was a ghastly shape, a shape that crouched in the gloom with dreadful face aflame with smouldering green fire. “Woe!” cried the voice. “Woe unto thee, Lewin the Black, that calleth on fiend o' the pit!” And now came a fiery hand that, hovering in the air, pointed lambent finger at gaping Lewin and at each of the shivering pike-men in turn. “Woe—sorrow and woe to one and all, ye men of blood, plague and pest, pain o' flesh, and grief of soul seize ye, be accursed and so—begone! Hence ho—away! “Rommani hi! Avaunt, I say, Prendraxon! Thus direst curse on ye I lay Shall make flesh shrink and bone decay, To rot and rot by night and day Till flesh and bone do fall away, Mud unto mud and clay to clay. A spell I cast, Shall all men blast. Hark ye, Mark ye, Rommani hi—prendraxon!” Down fell pike and guisarme from nerveless fingers and, gasping with fear, Black Lewin and his fellows turned and fled nor stayed for one look behind; only Robin stood there (since he might not run away by reason of his bonds) babbling prayers between chattering teeth and with all his fingers crossed. “Oho, Fool, aha!” cried the voice. “Thus have I, a poor, feeble old woman, wrought better than all thy valiance or Lobkyn's strength. So, by potency of my spells and magic are we quits, thou and I. Bring, then, thy rogue outlaw and haste ye!” So saying the old Witch muffled her awful, fiery face in ragged mantle and turned away; and in that moment Robin was aware of three forms about him in the grey dawn-light, felt his bonds loosed off by quick, strong hands and drew a great, joyous breath. “How, Fool, thou brave and noble Motley,” quoth he, “is it thou again? And I to live?” “Aye, marry, Robin! But come apace, the day breaketh and the city is astir—hark to yon shouts! Follow!” So with the Tanner on one side and Lobkyn on the other, Robin ran, hard on Jocelyn's heels; and ever the dawn brightened until up came the sun chasing away sullen shadow and filling street and alley with his glory. But now, and just as they reached that narrow street where safety lay, they heard a shout, a scream, a rush of feet and roar of fierce voices and beheld, amid a surge of armed men, the old woman struggling in the cruel grip of Black Lewin who (like many others I wot of, my Gill) was brave enough by daylight. Vainly the old creature strove, screaming for mercy as Black Lewin whirled aloft his sword; but his blade clashed upon another as Jocelyn sprang, and for a while the air rang with the sound of fierce- smiting steel until, throwing up his arms, Black Lewin fell and lay there. But, roaring vengeance, the soldiery closed about Jocelyn who, beset by blows on every side, sank in turn, yet, even as he fell, two short though mighty legs bestrode his prostrate form and Lobkyn Lollo, whirling huge club, smote down the foremost assailant and, ever as he smote, he versified and chanted—thus: “I'm Lollo hight, Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I, I'm Lollo hight, 'Tis my delight By day or night In honest fight With main and might Good blows to smite, And where they light 'Tis sorry plight For that poor wight, Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I. “Bows, swords and staves, Come, lusty knaves, And fit for graves Brave Lobkyn soon will make ye; So fight, say I, Nor turn and fly, Or, when ye die, Then may old Horny take ye.” Fierce raged the conflict, but in that narrow street they made good play against their many assailants, the valiant Dwarf's mighty club, backed by the Tanner's darting pike and Robin's flashing sword, which he had snatched from a loosened grasp. But Jocelyn lay prone upon his face, between Lobkyn's firm-planted feet, and stirred not. So club whirled, sword flashed and pike darted while, high above the tumult, rose Lobkyn's fierce chant: “Hot blood I quaff, At death I laugh, Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I. Come all that may, And all I'll slay, And teach ye how to die.” “Lob—Lobkyn!” screamed the Witch. “Thou that drinkest nought but milk—talk not of blood, thou naughty poppet. Back now—stand back, I do command thee!” Lobkyn smote a man to earth and, sighing regretful, stepped aside. “Back!” screamed the Witch. “Stand back, I say, all three, And leave this wicked rabblement to me. Now shall they learn the terror of my curse, Black magic shall they feel—and something worse!” Then uttered she a sudden, hideous cry, And, leaping, whirled her bony hands on high, And lo! a choking dust-cloud filled the air; That wreathed in whirling eddies here and there. “Perendewix!” she cried. “Oh Radzywin— Thraxa! Behold, my witchcraft doth begin!” Back shrank their foes, back reeled they one and all, They choked, they gasped, they let their weapons fall; And some did groan, and some did fiercely sneeze, And some fell prone, some writhed upon their knees; Some strove to wipe the tears from blinded eyes, But one and all gave voice to awful cries. “Come!” cried the Witch, “to the door—the door. Lobkyn, bear ye the brave Fool—and tenderly! Haste, naughty bantling, haste—I hear the tread of more soldiers!” So Lobkyn stooped and, lifting Jocelyn's inanimate form, tucked it beneath one arm, and with Robin and Will the Tanner, followed the old Witch into the house. My daughter GILLIAN commandeth: GILL: Go on, father, do; why will you keep stopping? I think the old Witch is just perfectly topping. And what frightful words she uses for curses! MYSELF: Very frightful, indeed, though your slang still much worse is, With your “topping,” “top-holing,” your “swishing” and “clipping,” GILL: Well, I merely intended to say it was ripping; But, if you object to my praises— MYSELF: I only object to your phrases, For there's no author but will own He “liveth not by bread alone.” As for myself, if what I write Doth please—then praise with all your might. GILL: Well, then, the Witch is splendid, though I'm very curious to know Just how her face all fiery grew, And what the stuff was that she threw— The stuff that made the soldiers sneeze And brought them choking to their knees It sounds as though it might be snuff. MYSELF: My dear, they'd not found out such stuff. But grisly witches long ago Did many strange devices know. Indeed, my Gill, they knew much more Than wise folk gave them credit for. GILL: Well, what was it? You haven't said. MYSELF: I'll get on with our Geste instead.
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