Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 98 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

~~ - _ mone prince as I have said, and no more. If he ask what to do with his armed men, tell him that Marian Fitz Walter will be wooed in her own way, or not at all. If he cannot give up his vengeance for his love, for one day, he can never wed me.” “That he cannot do, as it is. ready,” suggested the page. “Do as I tell thee, and Jet him think mea fool,” she persisted. ‘‘ Remember, he and the Bishop of Hereford I will have, or stay in the castle. And I will be wed at St. Hubert’s chapel.” “T don’t understand,” muttered the boy. ‘Tt is not best that thou shouldst,” she re- torted. ‘‘Do asI tell thee and trust the rest to - He is wed al- me, ‘‘ And I have nothing to do but this?’ he asked. ‘‘ Nothing,” she answered. ‘‘ Thou seest I offer thee no risk. For all the prince knows, he will have succeeded in his suit. . “Then the quicker I am about it, the better,” said the boy, much relieved. Meeting no ob- reer from his cousin, who seemed to have re- apsed into a musing mood, he turned away and left her alone on the battlements. Marian, when she was quite alone, clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven. **Oh, dear Lady, protector of maidens,” she sighed in a low voice, “ thou knowest the great danger I am about to run, but thou wilt hel me, I know. If in aught I seem immodest an unmaidenly, lay it to the peril that surrounds me, and not to me.” Then she descended to her own chamber. CHAPTER VII. FRIAR TUCK, ‘* Hry, ho! for the owes! greenwood! And hey for the stag of ten! The town may do for the courtier crew, But the greenwood suits brave men,” Twas a roistering song, fit for a yeoman out after the king’s deer, yet the singer was a brown- frocked friar with bare feet. But sucha friar! He stood up six feet high on the green moss under a Cree oak tree, and his broad shoulders and sturdy limbs be- spoke him a manof great strength, while his open jolly face and bushy brown hair and beard indicated with equal plainness his Saxon blood. This stout friar bore in his hands a mighty quarter-staff, and looked anything but clerical, under the arches of Sherwood, singing his catch. As he stood there, he heard another voice an- swering his own—a clear, high voice, as sweet as the singing of a bird, echoing his own words. The jolly friar started and listened, and present- ly became aware of a slender boy, in the dainty dress of a page of some great house, coming tripping down the deer-paths toward him. This youngster did not seem to be over fifteen and small for his age, but for all that he bore a little steel buckler on his arm and worea sword at his side as proudly asa grown man, though his long black curls looked more like those ofa girl. His face was as saucy and impudent in its way as that of Scathelock had been when he picked the quarrel with Robin Hood, and he looked the embodiment of pluck as much asa game bantam The jolly friar stopped his singing and _ sur- veyed the new-comer with an air of half- amused wonder, as the ret fellow came saucily up and cried in his shrill tones: Ms Well met, bully friar. What dost thou here, so far from thy convent? Pi have thee unfrocked for this. Iknow thy ways. Thou’rt after the king’s deer, thou scapegrace.” The friar laughed good-naturedly. ‘*And an I be, Bop-o’-my-thumb, who shall save thee from a whipping, an thou tell’st on ‘‘This and this,” answered the boy saucily, throwing his buckler to the front and touching his little sword as he spoke. ‘“ Have at thee, friar, as soon as thou wilt.” Again the friar laughed aloud in great amuse- ment. _ ‘Why, flibbertigibbet, an thou wert to strike me with that toy, and I was ever to hear of it, fore St. Dunstan, I might be tempted to cut a birch rod to teach thee thy manners, But woe wouldst thou here in the greenwood, 9°? The boy flushed scarlet with anger and drew is sedhd, “‘Tll teach thee to talk to me of birvh rods,” he screamed, in his shrill tones. ‘‘ Have at thee!” eee ee ee ee ws Robin Hood. | ** Peace, peace!” cried the friar, hardly able _ to speak for laughing, as he parried the fierce as- _ sault of the saucy page with his great staff. “TI cry you mercy, fair sir. I would not offend _ your little worship for a hundred marks.” The boy desisted from his attack, perhaps the more readily that the friar’s careless parries with the huge staff nearly knocked the sword | out of his hand, He tossed up his head as he sheathed his weapon and turned away, saying, in a tone of ineffable grandeur: ‘*Oh, very well, if thou cravest pardon, ’tis the part of a MAN to grantit thee. I pardon thee this time, but have a care, malapert.” ‘“*T will, your little worship,” said the friar, humbly, with a twinkle of his eyes that belied his gravity. ‘‘And what brings you to the greenwood to-day, little gentleman?” ‘‘Hark ye, friar,” rephed the page, turnin on the other a pair of great blue eyes that sorted ill with his glossy raven hair; ‘‘ I will that thou hast not so many ‘littles’ in thy talk. I am none so small.” He elevated himself on his toes and squared his small figure before the friar, as he spoke, but the other only laughed aloud: ‘Your little worship is too peppery. We cannot help our sizes. What would ye here, once more,” ‘** Mine own business and none of thine,” re- heey the page, saucily. ‘‘ Who art thou that asks? ‘*Marry, men call me Friar Tuck, the curtal monk of Sherwood Forest, fair sir. As for my business, I am father confessor for a hundred as good fellows as ever bent bow on the king’s deer. Time was when I followed the Abbot of Fountain Abbey, but i’ faith I loved better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak, so I ran to the greenwood.” The boy looked curiously at him and asked: **Hast thou heard no news of late in the greenwood? Has not the banished Earl of Hunt- ington taken refuge here?” The friar started and bent his bushy brows, while his jolly face became stern. ‘*'Thou askest too many questions, lad,” he said, gruffly. ‘‘ For aught I know, thou mayest beaspy of the black bishop, Gilbert of Hereford, whom our captain wishes to catch.” The boy looked round asif to see that none were in hearing, and his face became rosy red as he answered: “*l have run away from home to join Robin Hood’s band. Take me to him, good friar, and L will reward thee well. See, l have gold.” Friar Tuck laughed in his old jolly tones. ‘I thought as much. Thou join our band, baby! Why thou couldst not bend a birding- bow. Get thee home, get thee home to thy mo- ther, child. We need none but good men and stout, here.” The page’s eyes filled with tears in a moment, and he approached the burly friar in anattitude of supplication. ‘*Good Friar Tuck, sweet Friar Tuck, thou know’st not what I would say to thy captain. I cannot, indeed, I cannot go home. I must see Robin Hood.” “Nay, nay, boy, thou know’st not what it is to live in the greenwood and see never a house,” answered the burly friar. ‘‘Go home, I say. What if they do warm thy jacket and hose with a good stout rod? *T'will make thee grow all the faster. Go home, I say.” ‘**T will not go home,” said the boy, stamping his little foot impatiently. ‘‘ Take me to Robin Hood at once, thou burly friar, or ‘twill be the worse for thee.” Friar Tuck shrugged his shoulders and grinned. ‘*Knowest thou the rules of our band?” he asked. ‘‘ Any man who enters it must be able to do something better than any other man. Canst wield a staff to beat me, baby? Canst shoot against the captain? Canst play sword and buckler with our Scathelock, or take a hug and a fall from Much the Miller? Canst run with Little John or sing with Allan-a-dale?” The boy listened to the catalogue of rustic ac- complishments enumerated by the friar, till he came to the close, when he brightened up and answered: “Pil runany man in the band, and Ill sing against your Allan-a-dale any time. Take me to Robin Hood.” Friar Tuck shrugged his shoulders resigned- Mie Nay, then, an thou wilt see him, indeed, come along with me. We'll see an thou canst indeed run as thou say’st.” / As he spoke, he started off through the woods at a dog trot, followed by the page. — ee eee ee re ee eee eel i ae a ee —g oe eee < See CHAPTER VIII. BISHOP GILBERT, Bishop GitBertT of Hereford mounted his mule and rode slowly out of the viliage of Loxs ley toward the Forest of Sherwood, followed by his train. Prince John had sent him his orders to proceed to the chapel of St. Hubert in the heart of the forest; and the bishop could not re- fuse, though he did not relish the ride. The prince had raised him from the dignity of abbot to that of bishop in a single day, and he had a shrewd notion that if he kept on good terms with the Regent of England, the ‘ime might: come when he would take the placeo. 4: ce Bishop of Ely as Lord Chancellor of the kinycc nm. Therefore, the nangniy bishop mde him ready to go as soon as be received thea st mmons sent him by the mouth of Reginald the He knew that Sherwood Forest was full of rob- bers, and more than half suspected that his nephew, Robin, had been well received by these outlaws and chosen their leader, but he trusted to the patrols of armed men promised by the new sheriff to make the woods too hot for the people he feared. The bishop’s train was large and well-ap- pointed. e had his steward and chaplain secretary and almoner, three or four monks of the buttery, and half a dozen lay brothers to lead along the sumpter mules, all heavily loaded with the bishop’s trunks and bags. Besides these, there was a little band of some twent well-armed serving-men, equipped with swo and long staves, steel caps and buckles, so that their master felt pretty secure as he ran his eye over his well-appoin following. Slowly, and with all the dignity that became his new office, the Bishop of Hereford ambled out of Loxley, scattering his benediction on the little urchins who ran out to flock around his path. Once out of the village and into the for- est, he followed the broad white road that led toward Nottingham, till he and his train were deep into the heart of the woodland, out of sight and hearing of aught save the birds. In fact, they were very soon surrounded by almost absolute silence, for the trampling of the mules and clatter of arms frightened away the birds from the vicinity of the road, and left them in solitude. The dust lay thick on the track and rose in white clouds over the train as they pass- ed along, and somehow it came about that the stillness of the woods produced a co! responding stillnessin the party. Very soon all of the ser- vants were dead silent, and the nici ks began to glance in a frightened manner into the leafy screen of woods on each side, as if fearing that something might come out on thm. : for Bishop Gilbert, he felt far from cssy, but he concealed his fears and rode slow:y on, relying on the promise of Prince Jolin and the sheriff, After several miles of this sort of travel, they came to a side-road, smail and grass-grown, where the old and nearly obliterated ruts show- | ed that country carts sometimes went. Under a great oak tree at the opening of this by-road sat a tall, heavy-built monk, industriously reacd- ing his breviary, and so busily engaged that he » did not notice them as they ‘came up, till the bishop almost rode over him, saying in his stern. disagreeable way: ‘What now, brother? Why so earnest? ‘Tell us the way to St. Hubert’s chapel.” The big monk looked up and seemed to be stricken with mortal terror at the sight of the bishop in his violet robes, for he jumped up and then fell on his knees, crying: ‘‘I have sinned, your holiness. Forgive me and let me have your blessing.” : The bishop carelessly extended his hand and pronounced the formula of benediction, after which he repeated his question: ‘‘What is the way to St. Hubert’s chapel?” ‘*Holy Father, ’m its unworthy custodian,” replied the big friar with a bow and a smirk. ‘Tf your eminence will be pleased to follow, 1 will show you.” ‘* Lead on,” said the bishop, not a a tiga, for the title of ‘‘ eminence” pleased him, show ing that this simple country friar took him for a cardinal. ! The monk, accordingly, with much solemnity closed his book and placed it in his bosom; anv then took up from under the tree a great staif that had anything but a peaceful appearance. ‘*Why dost thou carry such a staff, brothur « asked the bishop, in a sour tone. The friar sighed deeply. “Sinner that I am, your holiness, 'tis but . frail protection against the evil men that in habit these woods and sometimes seek to dis turb me at my devotions before the shrine of St. Hubert.” With these words the burly friar set 2 i. e ONE Eomichoo cs