The Squire listened, and slowly his face relaxed. Anything spirited or daring always appealed to him strongly. "You are a pretty page, I swear, Master Gilbert! Sure it will be hard for you to make fairer maid than man. Welcome either way to Gamewell. I'll keep you safe from Monceux; I have no love for him in any case. You have fasted to-day, no doubt; I'll have supper brought us here."
"We have already supped, sir," said Robin, relieved to find this easy way out of a difficult business. He had the hope that Marian would in some way bring about a reconciliation between him and the Squire.
"We will sup a second time," said Montfichet. "Ho there! bring us a pasty and a flagon! Hurry, knaves, bring us the best of our larder. Come, Robin, sit here at my right hand, and you, Gilbert, by his side. And so already it has come to this, Robin? Will not the greenwoods seem dull to-morrow?"
"Mayhap I might change them for a seat at your table on occasion, sir?" asked Robin.
"To see how badly I treat my guest? Is that it? Come when you will, Robin o' th' Hood. Tell me now, why did you choose this name? Another was offered you."
"Ask Master Gilbert here, sir--he is responsible for't. And, honestly, I do like the name--'tis uncommon. May I pledge you, sir? Here's to our friendship! May we grow old in it and ripe in it!"
"I have no wish, Robin, to grow either old or ripe," said Marian, settling herself. "Let us eat first, and make our speeches afterward. Help me to the pasty before you, and do not chatter so much."
Squire George nodded in approval. "Spoken like a man," cried he. "Robin is too full of words to-night. Ay, but I am right glad to see him here, for all that! Fill your glass, kinsman, and the lady's. Nay, look not so distressed at her; up to the top, man, up to the top! This is no time for half-measures."
* * * * *
In the morning when Robin came blithely from his bed--the first bed that he had known for many months--he found the Squire waiting for him in the hall. His face was grave. "I must speed you, Robin," said he; "I have news that Monceux is abroad, and will attack your company at Barnesdale."
Robin had told him all, and the Squire had neither approved nor disapproved. Working in his mind was jealous wonderment that Robin should prefer such a life to that which might have been his at Gamewell. The Squire made no show of this, however.
"I will guard Mistress Fitzwalter from all harm, rely upon me. And go, since you must. Here is our Master Gilbert--Gilbert no more. I should scarcely have known her."
Marian entered from the other end of the hall. The maids had found her a dress, grey-blue as her eyes. She bloomed like an early rose on this sweet spring morning.
"And you are going to leave me, Robin?" she said, mournfully.
The Squire had disappeared. Robin, approaching, took her hand. He looked up from it, and saw the golden arrow gleaming in her hair--that arrow which had so strangely marked the beginning of his troubles. Marian smiled, and her eyes invited him.
And so these two kissed each other frankly, mouth to mouth.
* * * * *
A little later Robin was speeding through the forest. His feet were light, and he sang softly to himself as he trod the springy grass.
Suddenly a sad song broke upon his ear. 'Twas a doleful song, full of tears; and Robin, in consternation, stopped short.
Along the woodland path there came towards him a minstrel carrying a harp and trailing a rope. "Marry, friend, but your harp is out of all harmony!" began Robin.
"I do not play upon it," retorted the minstrel.
"You sing a sad song," said Robin; "and I, who am happy, am put out of countenance by it. Therefore sing it not until I am far from you."
"My heart overflows with sorrow," said the minstrel, "and so I must sing of sadness and of death."
"Tell me your sorrow, friend," Robin begged, "and walk with me back upon the road. Like as not I can help you."
"I should not speak my grief to you," the minstrel told him, "for you are happy."
"One who lives in the greenwood cannot be otherwise," observed Robin. "Come, walk with me, and coil the rope."
"I had brought it," said the minstrel, "so that I might hang myself to some old oak, and thus fittingly end the wretched, misfortunate life of Allan-a-Dale."
