It was Will o' th' Green, with stained face and horse-hair beard. His eyes challenged Robin's in ironical defiance, as he moved to take his turn. His aim seemed to be made without skill or desire to better Robin's shot; yet his arrow found resting-place side by side with the other.
The mob cheered and applauded themselves hoarse; while the markers scored the points evenly to these first two archers.
These two stood apart, silent amidst the din. Once Will seemed to be about to speak: then changed his mind. He glanced sidelong at young Stuteley and Warrenton; then hummed a ballad-tune under his breath.
The contest went on and the first round came to an end. Out of twenty and three rivals nineteen had scored bulls at this range. The markers gave the signal to the heralds, and these announced the results with loud flourishings.
The target was taken down and the range increased. The range of the mark from the archers for the second round was fixed at forty ells--the same distance as had chanced before between Robin and Master Will when in the greenwood together. The outlaw offered to shoot first; but the heralds requested them to keep in the same order as in the preceding round.
Robin fitted his arrow quietly and with some confidence to his bow, then sped it unerringly towards the target. "A bull! Another bull to Locksley!" cried out Warrenton, in stentorian tones, and the fickle mob took up the cry: "Locksley! A Locksley!" with gusto.
Will aimed with even more unconcern than before. His arrow took the center fairly and squarely, however; and was in reality a better shot than Robin's. The shafts were withdrawn; then the other contestants followed. This round brought down the number of competitors to five. The markers carried back the target to a distance of five-and-fifty ells; and truly the painted circles upon it seemed to be now very small.
Robin again took his stand, but with some misgiving. The light was uncertain, and a little fitful wind frolicked across the range in a way very disturbing to a bowman's nerves. His eyes half-anxiously addressed themselves to that box wherein he had spied Mistress Fitzwalter.
His heart leaped--she had returned, and her strange gaze was fixed upon him! Robin drew his bow and flew his shaft. Unconsciously he used the arrow plucked from his own shoulder by Warrenton.
Again did he gain the center, amid the cries and jubilations of Stuteley and the old retainer.
"Now Master Roughbeard, better that!" shouted Warrenton.
The outlaw smiled scornfully and made ready. He drew his bow with ease and a pretty grace, and made a little gesture of confidence as his agile fingers released the arrow. It leaped forth rushingly towards the target, and all eyes followed it in its flight.
A loud uproar broke forth when the markers gave their score--an inner circle, and not a bull. Master Will made an angry signal of disbelief; and strode forward down the lists to see for himself. It was true: the wind had influenced a pretty shot just to its undoing, and Will had to be content with the hope that the same mischance might come to Robin or any of the other bowmen before the round was ended.
The outlaw wished especially to win--that he might have the satisfaction of vexing the Sheriff of Nottingham. Will had intended to send back this prize--a golden arrow--from his stronghold of Sherwood, snapped into twenty pieces, with a letter of truculent defiance wrapped about the scraps. He wished to make it plain to Master Monceux that the free archers of Sherwood were better men than any he might bring against them, and that they despised him very heartily. Now that he saw a likelihood of his being beaten his heart grew hot within him.
"Be not too sure of it, stripling," said he, as he returned to Robin's side. "Fortune may mar your next shot, as she has mine----"
"'Tis like enough, friend," answered Robin, smiling; "and yet I do hope that the arrow may be won by my hand. This is our second test, Master Will," he added, in a low voice. "Forget it not--the freedom of the greenwood is the reward that I do seek even more than my lord the Sheriff's golden arrow."
The outlaw's anger went suddenly from him.
"Then I do wish you God-speed, youngling," he said, brightly. "You have in truth beaten me right honestly--for mine was an ill-judged shot."
With Will out of it, the contest came to an easy conclusion; and presently the Sheriff's arrow was duly awarded to Robin of Locksley by the markers.
