Deep-hidden in the trackless wild the outlaws had made them a haven of refuge, a camp remote and well sequestered. Here were mossy, fern-clad rocks that soared aloft, and here green lawns where ran a blithesome brook; it was indeed a very pleasant place shut in by mighty trees. Within this leafy boskage stood huts of wattle, cunningly wrought; beneath the steep were many caves carpeted with dried fern and fragrant mosses, while everywhere, above and around, the trees spread mighty boughs, through which the sun darted golden beams be-dappling the sward, and in whose leafy mysteries the birds made joyous carolling.

And here beneath bending willows arched over this merry brook, one sun-bright morning riotous with song of birds, sat Jocelyn with Robin a-sprawl beside him.

“O brother,” says Robin, “O brother, 't is a fair place the greenwood, a fair, sweet place to live—aye, or to die in methinks, this good greenwood, whereof I have made a song—hark 'ee!”

“So there it is, brother—and life and death in a nutshell, as 'twere. Now, wherefore wilt not join us and turn outlaw, good Fool?”

“For that I am a fool belike, Robin. Howbeit, I'm better Fool than outlaw.”

“Say, rather, greater fool, Fool, for foresters' life is better than life o' folly, and payeth better to boot, what with booty—ha! Moreover, I do love thee, since, Fool, though fool, art wise in counsel and valiant beyond thought—so 'tis I would not lose thee. Stay, therefore, and live my comrade and brother, equal with me in all things. How say'st thou?”

“Why, Robin, I say this: True friendship is a goodly thing and a rare in this world, and, therefore, to be treasured; 'tis thing no man may buy or seek, since itself is seeker and cometh of itself; 'tis a prop—a staff in stony ways, a shield 'gainst foes, a light i' the dark. So do I love friendship, Robin, and thou'rt my friend, yet must leave thee, though friendship shall abide.”

Quoth ROBIN: How abide an we be parted?

“In heart and mind and memory, Robin. Moreover, though I go, yet will I return anon, an life be mine.”

“And wherefore go ye, brother?”

“First to seek my comrade.”

“Thy comrade—ha! I mind him, a fierce great fellow with hawk's beak and a fighting eye. And whither trend ye?”

“To Canalise.”

“Art crazed, brother? 'Tis there death waiteth thee!”

“Yet must I go, Robin, since there my heart waiteth me.”

“A maid, brother?”

“A maid, Robin.”

“Heigho! So wilt thou go, come joy, come pain, come life or death, since a maid is made to make man saint or devil, some days glad and some days sad, but ever and always a fool. And thou art Fool by profession, and, being lover professed and confessed, art doubly a fool; and since, good Folly, love's but folly and thou, a Fool, art deep in folly, so is thy state most melancholy.”

“And dost think love so great folly, Robin?” said a soft voice, and, looking round, they beheld the lovely, dark-tressed Melissa, who viewed them bright-eyed and pouted red mouth, frowning a little.

“Aye, verily, lady,” laughed Robin, as she sank on the grass beside them. “Forsooth, 'tis a madness fond. For see, now, a man being in love is out of all else.”

“As how, Sir Outlaw?”

“Marry, on this wise—when man's in love he mopeth apart and is ill company, so is he out o' friends; he hangeth humble head abashed, so is he out o' countenance; he uttereth frequent, windy, sighful suspirations, so is he out o' breath; he lavisheth lucre on his love, so is he out o' pocket; he forsweareth food, despiseth drink, scorneth sleep, so is he out o' health—in fine, he is out of all things, so is he out of himself; therefore he is mad, and so may go hang himself!”

MELISSA: And hast thou loved, Robin?

ROBIN: Ever and always, and none but Robin!

MELISSA: And none more worthy, Robin?

ROBIN: And none more, as I am worthy Robin.

MELISSA: Lovest thou not Love, Robin?

ROBIN: Love, love not I.

MELISSA: Then Love canst thou know not.

ROBIN: Then if I love Love for Love's sake, must Love then love me, therefore?

MELISSA: If thy love for Love be true love, so shall Love love thee true.

ROBIN: Then if Love should love me for my sake, then would I love Love for Love's sake; but since Love ne'er hath sought me for my sake, ne'er will I seek Love for Love's sake for my sake, since Love, though plaguy sweet, is a sweet plague, I judge and, so judging, will by my judgment stand.

MELISBA: And how think you, Sir Fool?

JOCELYN: I think if Love find Robin and Robin, so found of Love, shall learn to love Love for Love's sake, Love shall teach Robin how, hi loving Love—Love, if a plague, doth but plague him lovingly to his better judgment of Love, till, being on this wise, wise—he shall judge of Love lovingly, loving Love at last for Love's own lovely sake, rather than for his own selfish self. For as there is the passion of love, the which is a love selfish, so there is the true Spirit of Love, the which forgetteth self in Love's self, thus, self-forgotten, Love is crowned by Love's true self.

MELISSA: How think ye of this, Robin?

ROBIN: By Cupid, we are so deep in love that we are like to drown of love and we be not wary. Here hath my lovely jowlopped-crested brother so beset poor Robin with Love and self and Robin, that Robin kens not which is Love, Love's self or himself.

MELISSA: And yet I do think 'tis very plain! Yet an thou canst express this plainer, prithee do, Sir Fool.

“Blithely, sweet lady, here will I frame my meaning in a rhyme, thus:

ROBIN: Aye, verily, there's Love and yet such a love as no man may find methinks, brother.

JOCELYN: Never, Robin, until it find him. For true love, like friendship, cometh unsought, like all other good things.

ROBIN: 'Las! then needs must I be no good thing since I am sought e'en now of old Mopsa the Witch yonder!

And he pointed where the old creature hobbled towards them bent on her crooked staff. Up rose Robin and, hasting to meet her, louted full low, since she was held in great respect of all men by reason of her potent spells. Chuckling evilly, she drew down Robin's tall head to whisper in his ear, whereupon he laughed, clapped hand to brawny thigh, and taking old Mopsa's feeble arm, hastened away with her. But Melissa, reclining 'neath the willow-shade, gazed down into the murmurous waters of the brook with eyes of dream whiles Jocelyn struck soft, sweet chords upon his lute. And presently she turned to view him thoughtfully—his strange, marred face; his eyes so quick and keen 'neath battered cock's-comb; his high, proud bearing despite his frayed and motley habit; and ever her wonder grew until, at last, she must needs question him:

“Fools, Sir Fool, have I seen a-many, both in the motley and out, but thou art rare among all fools, I do think.”

JOCELYN: Gramercy, lady! Truly fool am I of all fools singular.

MELISSA: Thou'rt he I heard, upon a day, sing strange, sweet songs, within the marketplace of Canalise!

JOCELYN: The same, lady.

MELISSA: That soused my lord Gui head over ears in a lily-pool?

JOCELYN: Verily, lady.

MELISSA: O! Would one might do as much for Sir Agramore of Biename!

JOCELYN: One doubtless will, lady.

MELISSA: Thyself?

JOCELYN: Nay—one that loveth the disputatious bickering of sharp steel better than I—one had rather fight than eat, and rather fight three men than one—

“Three men?” cried Melissa, starting.

“Aye, lady—and six men than three!”

“There was such an one, Fool, in truth a very brave man, did fight three of my Lord Agramore's foresters on my behalf. Dost know of such an one, Fool?”

“Methinks he is my comrade, Lady.”

“Thy comrade—in truth? Then, pray you, speak me what seeming hath he.”

“Ill, lady.”

“How so, Fool?”

“A great, fierce rogue is he, unlovely of look, bleak of eye, harsh of tongue, hooked of nose, flinty of soul, stony of heart, of aspect grim and manners rude!”

“Then, verily, thy comrade have I never seen!” quoth Melissa, flushing and with head up-flung. “He that saved me is nothing the like of this.”

“And yet,” said Jocelyn slyly, “'tis thus he hath been named ere now!”

“Nay, Fool, indeed he that saved me was tall and seemly man, very fierce and strong in fight, but to me wondrous gentle—in truth, something timorous, and, 'spite rusty mail, spake and looked like a noble knight.”

“Then forsooth, lady, thy champion is no comrade of mine, for he is but a poor rogue, ill-beseen, ill-kempt, ill-spoken, ill-mannered and altogether ill, save only that he is my friend—”

“And thou speakest ill of thy ill friend, the which is ill in thee—ill Fool!” and the fair Melissa rose.

“And pray, lady, didst learn thy preserver's name?”

“Indeed, for I asked him.”

“And it was—?”

“Pertinax!” she sighed.

“Pertinax!” said Jocelyn, both in the same moment; the dark-browed Melissa sat down again.

“So thy comrade and—he are one, Fool?”

“Indeed, lady. Yet here we have him, on the one hand, a man noble and seemly, and, on the other, a poor rogue, hook-nosed, ill-beseen, ill—”

“'Tis thou hast miscalled him, Fool!” said she, frowning.

“Not I, lady.”

“Who, then?”

“A maid—”

“Ah!” said Melissa, frowning blacker than ever. “A maid, Fool? What maid?”

“A wandering gipsy o' the wood, lady—a dark-eyed damsel with long, black curling hair and 'voice of sweet allure'—'tis so he named her—”

“This was belike some wicked witch!” said Melissa, clenching white fist.

“Aye, belike it was, lady, for she bestowed on him a strange jewel, a heart in heart of crystal, that wrought for us in Canalise marvels great as our wondrous Witch herself.”

Now here the lovely Melissa's frown vanished, and her red lips curved to sudden smile.

“Belike this was no witch after all!” said she gently.

“Howbeit, lady,” quoth Jocelyn slyly, “my poor comrade is surely bewitched by her none the less. She hath wrought on him spell so potent that he groweth mopish and talketh of her eyes, her hair, her sweet and gentle voice, her little foot, forsooth.”

“And doth he so, indeed?” said Melissa softly, and, twiddling one of her own pretty feet, she smiled at it. “Doth he sigh o'er much?” she questioned.

“Consumedly! By the minute!”

“Poor soldier!” she murmured.

“Aye, poor rogue!” said Jocelyn; whereupon she frowned again, and turned her back upon him.

“And he is thy comrade.”

“Even so—poor knave!”

“And destitute—even as thou?”

“Aye, a sorry clapper-claw—even as I, lady.”

“Then, pray thee, why doth he wear gold chain about his neck?”

“Chain, lady—?”

“Such as only knights do wear!”

“Belike he stole it, lady—”

“Aye—belike he did!” said she, rising; then she sighed and laughed, and so turned and left him.

And in a while Jocelyn rose also, and went on beside the brook; but as he walked deep in thought, there met him Robin, he full of mirth and laughter.

“Oho, brother, good brother!” cried he joyfully, clapping hand on Jocelyn's broad shoulder, “come away, now, and see what the good wind hath blown hither—come thy ways and see!”

So came they where rose a great tree of huge girth, whose gnarled branches spread far and wide, a veryforest of leaves, beneath whose shade were many of the outlaws grouped about one who crouched miserably on his knees, his arms fast bound and a halter about his neck; and, as obedient to Robin's words the fierce company fell back, Jocelyn saw this torn and pallid captive was none other than Ranulph the Hangman.

“Woe's me, my masters!” quoth he 'twixt chattering teeth. “'Tis pity poor Ranulph must die before his time, for ne'er shall be found hangman, headsman or torturer the like o' Ranulph—so dainty i' the nice adjustment o' noose! So clean and delicate wi' the axe! So tender and thoughtful wi' pincers, thumbscrew, rack or red-hot iron! A hangman so kindly o' soul, so merry o' heart, alack, so free, so gay, so merry—forsooth a very wanton, waggish, jovial bawcock-lad—”

“Why, then, good, merry wag,” laughed Robin, “now shalt thou cut us an antic aloft in air, shalt caper and dance in noose to our joyance! Up with him, bully lads, and gently, that he may dance the longer!”

But as Ranulph was dragged, shivering, to his feet, Jocelyn stepped forward.

“Stay!” he cried. “Look, now, here's hangman did but hang since hang he must; must he hang therefore?”

ROBIN: Aye, marry, since hanging shall his hanging end!

JOCELYN: But if to hang his duty is, must he for duty hang? Moreover, if ye hang this hangman, unhanged hangmen shall hang still, and since ye may not all hangmen hang, wherefore should this hangman hang?

ROBIN: Brother, an this hangman hang, fewer hangmen shall there be to hang, forsooth.

JOCELYN: Not so, Robin, for hangman dead begetteth hangman new; this hangman hanged, hangman in his place shall hang men after him. Shall this hangman hang for hanging as in duty bound, whiles other hangmen, unhanged, hang still? Here, methinks, is small wisdom, little reason, and less of justice, Robin.

ROBIN: Beshrew me, brother—but here's so much of hanging hanging on hanging plaguy hangman that hang me if I get the hang on't—

JOCELYN: Plainly, Robin—wilt hang a man for doing his duty?

ROBIN: Plainly, brother—no. But—

JOCELYN: Then canst not hang this hangman, since hanging his duty is—

ROBIN: Yet 'tis base, vile duty—

JOCELYN: Yet duty it is—wherefore, an there be any justice in the good greenwood, this hangman unhanged must go.

Now here Robin scowled, and his brawny fellows scowled likewise, and began to mutter and murmur against Jocelyn, who, leaning back to tree, strummed his lute and sang:

“So bethink thee, bold Robin, and, as thou 'rt king o' the wild-wood, be thou just king and merciful—”

“Now out upon thee, brother!” cried Robin, forgetting to scowl. “Out on thee with thy honied phrases, thy quipsome lilting rhymes! Here go I to do a thing I ha' no lust to do—and all by reason o' thee! Off—off wi' the halter, lads—loose the hangman-claws of him! Hereafter, since he can pay no ransom, he shall be our serf; to have a hangman fetch and carry shall be rare, methinks!”

Quoth JOCELYN: How much should hangman's flesh be worth i' the greenwood, Robin?

“Why, brother, 'tis poor, sad and dismal knave; five gold pieces shall buy him, aye—halter and all, and 'tis fair, good halter, look you!”

“Why, then,” said Jocelyn, opening his wallet, “behold the monies, so do I buy him of thee—”

“Now, by Saint Nick!” cried Robin, amazed. “Nay, brother, an thou'lt buy so sorry a thing, give thy money to the merry lads; I'll none on't. And now,” said he, the money duly paid, “what wilt do wi' thy hangman?”

“Sir Fool,” cried Ranulph, falling on his knees at Jocelyn's feet, “fain would I serve thee—e'en to the peril o' the life thou hast saved. Bid me labour for thee and in labour shall be my joy, bid me fight for thee and I will fight whiles life is in me; bid me follow thee and I will follow even unto—”

“Nay, hangman,” said Jocelyn, “I bid thee rise and sing for us, and so be gone wheresoever thou wilt.”

Then Ranulph arose and glancing round upon the fierce company, from the noose at his feet to Jocelyn's scarred face, he drew a great breath; quoth he:

“Sir Fool, since 'tis thy will fain would I give thee song blithe and joyful since joy is in my heart, but alack, though my songs begin in merry vein they do grow mournful anon; howbeit, for thy joy now will I sing my cheeriest;” whereupon Ranulph brake into song thus:

“Out!” cried Robin. “Here forsooth is dolorous doleful dirge—out on thee for sad and sorry snuffler!”

“Aye, verily,” sighed Ranulph, “'tis my curse. I begin with laugh and end in groan. I did mean this for merry song, yet it turned of itself sad song despite poor I, and there's the pity on't—”

“Enough!” growled Robin, “away with him. Brand, do you hoodwink him in his 'kerchief and give him safe conduct to beyond the ford, and so set Master Hangman Grimglum-grief on his road—”

“Sir Fool,” cried Ranulph, “God den t'ye and gramercy. Should it be e'er thy fate to die o' the gallows, may I have thy despatching—I will contrive it so sweetly shalt know nought of it—oho! 'twould be my joy.”

“Off!” cried Robin. “Off, thou pestiferous fungus lest I tread on thee—hence, away!”

So the outlaws blindfolded Ranulph and led him off at speed.

“Away,” quoth Jocelyn, nodding, “so now in faith must I, Robin—”

“What, is't indeed farewell, brother?”

“Aye, Robin.”

“Why, then, what may I give thee in way o' love and friendship?”

“Thy hand.”

“Behold it, brother! And what beside? Here is purse o' good pieces—ha?”

“Nay, Robin, prithee keep them for those whose need is greater.”

“Can I nought bestow—dost lack for nothing, brother?”

“What thou, methinks, may not supply—”

“And that?”

“Horse and armour!” Now at this, Robin laughed and clapped hand to thigh; quoth he:

“Come with Robin, brother!” So he brought Jocelyn into a cave beneath the steep and, lighting a torch from fire that burned there, led him on through other caves and winding passages rough-hewn in the rock, and so at last to a vasty cavern.

And here was great store of merchandise of every sort,—velvets, silks, and rich carpets from the Orient; vases of gold and silver, and coffers strong-clamped with many iron bands. And here also, hanging against the rocky walls, were many and divers suits of armour with helms and shields set up in gallant array; beholding all of which Jocelyn paused to eye merry Robin askance; quoth he soberly:

“Sir Rogue, how came ye by all this goodly furniture?”

“By purest chance, brolher,” laughed Robin, “for hark 'ee—

“Aye,” said Jocelyn, “but what of all those knights and squires whose armour hangeth here?”

“Here or there, brother, they come and they go. Ha, yonder soundeth Ralfwyn's horn—three blasts which do signify some right fair windfall. Come, let us see what this jolly wind hath blown us this time!” So saying, Robin laughed and led the way out into the sunny green. And here, surrounded by a ring of merry forest rogues, they beheld a knight right gallantly mounted and equipped, his armour blazing in the sun, his gaudy bannerole a-flutter from long lance, his shield gaudy and brave with new paint; beholding which, Robin chuckled gleefully; quoth he:

“Oho! On a field vert three falcons gules, proper, charged with heart ensanguined—aha, here's good booty, methinks!”

Now, as this splendid knight rode nearer, contemptuous of his brawny captors, Robin stared to see that on his helmet he wore a wreath of flowers, while lance and sword, mace and battle-axe were wreathed in blooming roses.

“Ho, Jenkyn, Cuthbert!” cried Robin, “what Sir Daintiness have ye here?” But ere his grinning captors could make reply, the knight himself spake thus:

“And how a plague, Sir Gentleness,” questioned Robin, “may eye caress eye?”

“E'en as lips voiceless may wooing speak, Sir Roguery, and tongue unwagging tell tales o' love, Sir Ferocity.”

ROBIN: Then had I the trick o' voiceless speech, now would I, with silly tongue, tell thee thou art our prisoner to ransom, Sir Silken Softness.

SIR PALAMON: And I joy therefore, Sir Forest Fiend.

ROBIN: And wherefore therefore?

SIR PALAMON: For that therefore I need not to the joust, to that bone-shattering sport of boastful, brutal braggadocios, but here, lapped soft in the gentle green, woo the fair Yolande—

JOCELYN: How, knight, the fair lady Yolande, say'st thou?

SIR PALAMON: Even she.

JOCELYN: But here she is not and thou art, how then may one that is, woo one is not?

SIR PALAMON: Gross mountebank, by thought—I woo in thought, breathe my thought upon the balmy air and air beareth it to her feet.

ROBIN: And she treadeth on't, so there's an end o' thy love! But pray you, Sir Downy Daintiness, how come ye that are so gentle so ungently dight? Discourse, Sir Dove!

SIR PALAMON: In two words then, thou lewd lurcher o' the thickets; I ride thus in steely panoply—the which doth irk me sore—by reason of the tongue of my mother (good soul!) the which doth irk me more. For she (worthy lady!) full-fed o' fatuous fantasies and fables fond, fuddled i' faith o' faddling fictions as—gestes of jongleurs, tales told by tramping troubadours, ballades of babbling braggarts, romances of roysterous rhymers, she (good gossip!) as I say, having hearkened to and perused the works of such-like pelting, paltry prosers and poets wherein sweep of sword and lunge o' lance is accompted of worthier repute than the penning of dainty distich and pretty poesies pleasingly passionate. She, I say—my mother (God rest her!), e'en she with tongue most harsh, most bitter and most unwearying, hath enforced me, her son (whom Venus bless!)—e'en I that am soul most transcendental—I that am a very wing-ed Mercury—me, I say she hath, by torrential tongueful tumult (gentle lady!), constrained to don the habit of a base, brawling, beefy and most material Mars! Wherefore at my mother's behest (gracious dame!) I ride nothing joyful to be bruised and battered by any base, brutal braggart that hath the mind to try a tilt with me. Moreover—

ROBIN: Hold! Take breath, gentle sir, for thine own sweet sake draw thy wind.

SIR PALAMON: 'Tis done, fellow, 'tis done! And now in three words will I—

ROBIN: Cry ye mercy, sir, thy two words do yet halloo “Buzz-buzz” in mine ears.

SIR PALAMON: Faith, robber-rogue, since I a tongue possess—

ROBIN: Therein thou art very son o' thy mother (whom St. Anthony cherish!).

SIR PALAMON: With this rare difference, outlaw—for whereas her tongue (honoured relict!) is tipped with gall, wormwood, henbane, hemlock, bitter-aloes and verjuice, and stingeth like the adder, the asp, the toad, the newt, the wasp, and snaky-haired head of Medusa, mine—

ROBIN: Buzzeth, buzz, O buzz!

SIR PALAMON: Mine, thou paltry knave, I say mine—

ROBIN: Buzz—ha—buzz!

JOCELYN: I pray you, Sir Knight, doth the Red Gui tilt at to-morrow's joust?

SIR PALAMON: Base mime, he doth! My Lord Gui of Ells, Lord Seneschal of Raddemore, is myfriend, a very mirror of knightly prowess, the sure might of whose lance none may abide. He is, in very truth, the doughtiest champion in all this fair country, matchless at any and every weapon, a-horse or a-foot, in sooth a very Ajax, Achilles, Hector, Roland and Oliver together and at once, one and indivisible, aye—by Cupid a very paladin!

“'Tis so I've heard,” said Jocelyn thoughtfully.

SIR PALAMON: Two knights only there are might cope with him, and one Sir Agramore and one Jocelyn of the Helm, Duke of Brocelaunde. The fame of which last rumour hath so puffed up that thrice my Lord Gui hath sent his cartel of defiance, but the said Duke, intent on paltry battles beyond his marches, hath thrice refused, and wisely—so 'tis said.

“Aye me, messire,” quoth Jocelyn, strumming his lute, “and so bloweth the wind. Yet mayhap these twain shall meet one day.”

ROBIN: And heaven send me there to see! Now as to thee, Sir Softly Sweet, fair Lord of Tong, thy goodly horse and armour are mine henceforth, first because thy need of them is nothing, secondly because thou art my prisoner—

SIR PALAMON: And thirdly, Sir Riotous Roughness, I do freely on thee bestow them, hide and hair, bolt and rivet.

ROBIN: Now as to thy ransom, Sir Mildly-Meek, at what price dost rate thy value, spiritual and corporeal?

SIR PALAMON: Fellow, though youthful, well-favoured and poet esteemed, I am yet marvellous modest! 'Tis true I am knight of lineage lofty, of patrimony proud, of manors many—

ROBIN: Even as of thy words, Sir Emptiness.

SIR PALAMON: 'Tis also true, thou ignorant atomy, I, like Demosthenes, am blessed with a wonder o' words and glory o' sweet phrase, and yet, and here's the enduring wonder—I am still but man, though man blessed with so much profundity, fecundity, and redundity of thought and expression, and therefore a facile scribe or speaker, able to create, relate, formulate or postulate any truth, axiomatic, sophistry subtle, or, in other words, I can narrate—

ROBIN: Verily Sir Windbag thou dost, to narrate, thyself with wind inflate, and, being thus thyself inflate of air, thou dost thyself deflate of airy sounds which be words o' wind, and windy words is emptiness—thus by thy inflatings and deflatings cometh nought but wind bred o' wind, and nought is nothing, so nought is thy relation or narration; whereof make now a cessation, so will I, in due form, formulate, postulate and deliberate. Thus, with my good rogues' approbation and acclamation, I will of thy just valuation make tabulation, and give demonstration in relation to thy liberation from this thy situation, as namely, viz. and to-wit: First thou art a poet; in this is thy marketable value to us nought, for poets do go empty of aught but thought of sort when wrought, unbought; thus go they short which doth import they're empty, purse and belly. Second, upon thy testimony thou'rt a man. Go to! Here we be out again, for on the score of manliness thou art not. Yet thou art flesh and blood— good! for here we deal in such. Not that we yearn for thy flesh and blood, but, being thine, they are to thee dear, perchance, and thou would'st fain keep them alive a little longer; wherefore thou shalt for thy loved flesh and blood pay—purchasing the same of us. And, as flesh varies, so do our prices vary; we do sell a man his own flesh and blood at certain rateable values. Thus unto a hangman we did of late sell a hangman, in fair good halter, and he a hangman brawny, for no more than five gold pieces, the which was cheap, methinks, considering the goodly halter, and he a lusty, manly rogue to boot. Now as for thee, thou'rt soft and of a manlihood indifferent, so would I rate thee at one gold piece.

SIR PALAMON: Ignorant grub! Am I less than base hangman—I, a knight—

ROBIN: True, Sir Knight, thou'rt a knight for no reason but that thou art knight born and thus, by nought but being born, hath won to thyself nobility, riches and honours such as no man may win either by courage, skill, or learning, since highborn fool and noble rogue do rank high 'bove such. So thou art knight, Sir Knight, and for thy knighthood, thy lineage lofty, thy manors many, mulcted thou shalt be in noble fashion. For thy manhood I assess thee at one gold piece, but, since thou'rt son o' thy dam (whom the Saints pity!) we do fine thee five thousand gold pieces—thy body ours until the purchase made. Away with him, lads; cherish him kindly, unarm him gently, and set him a-grinding corn till his ransom be paid—away!

Now here was mighty roar of laughter and acclaim from all who heard, only Sir Palamon scowled, and, for once mute and tongue-tied, was led incontinent away to his labours.

“And now, brother,” quoth Robin, turning where Jocelyn stood smiling and merry-eyed, “what o' this armour dost seek, and wherefore?”

“Art a lovely robber, Robin,” said he; “a very various rogue, yet no rogue born, methinks!”

“I was not always outlaw, brother—howbeit, what would a Fool with horse and knightly arms?”

Now Jocelyn, bending close, whispered somewhatin Robin's ear, whereon he clapped hand to thigh, and laughed and laughed until the air rang again.

“Oho, a jape—a jape indeed!” he roared. “O lovely brother, to see proud knight unhorsed by prancing motley Fool! Hey, how my heart doth jump for gladness! An thou wilt a-tilting ride, I will squire thee—a Fool of a knight tended by Rogue of a squire. O, rare—aha! oho! Come thy ways, sweet brother, and let us set about this joyous jape forthwith!”

And thus it was that, as evening fell, there rode, through bowery bracken and grassy glade, two horsemen full blithe and merry, and the setting sun flashed back in glory from their glittering armour.