Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 98 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

_ —- --——— =o eww eee _ — -—— —- — — — —— — — the road at a slow trot, carrying the staf over his shoulder, while the bishop ambled along be- hind him, thinking principally of his own im- vortance as be went. The monks in his train, not being so high in rank, had less to think about, and began to look decidedly uneasy as they advanced. The little road on which they were, soon ceased to have evn the semblance of a track, and became narrower and narrower till it was a mere bridle-path, wandering here, there and everywhere, and seeming to go all around the compass. Still the Bishop of Hereford did not suspect any harm, till the stout friar in front led the party down into the bed of a swamp, through which the road undulated over quaking ground, and finally disappeared. Then at last he drew rein and angrily asked: ‘* Where are we going now, brother? Where ‘is this chapel?” u weet on the other side the bog, father,” responded the friar, coolly. ‘‘’Tis but a few steps further, and we are out of all trouble. Your reverence has to celebrate a wedding to- day I believe.” ‘How know’st thou that?’ demanded the bishop, sharply, and for the first time looking uneasily round him. **Oh, the birds and I are old friends,” re- sponded Friar Tuck (for it was he) with a chuckle. ‘' They told me all about it and how the Abbot of Fountain Abbey had shorn his mephew, Robin, of all the fleece on his back. Marry, if Robin Hood sees him, the Bishop of liereford may go home shorn.” “What means all this?” again cried the bishop im a tone of querulous anxiety. ‘*‘ Where am I?’ ‘‘In the heart of Sherwood Forest, and close to St. Hubert’s chapel,” answered the friar, with a laugh. ‘*Come, master bishop, Robin Hood has ©“ vorn thou shalt dance at his wedding to-day. ‘et us on, for there is no turning back.” ‘*Seize this insolent knave,” cried the angry ‘shop, his face turning ashy pale as he wheeled hig mule to flee. ‘‘ We are betrayed and un- one. As the serving-men ran to obey the order, the arly friar suddenly threw off his brown robe ind cowl, making his appearance in a close-fit- mg suit of dark greeu, and raised both hands +o his mouth, blowing a high shrill whistle of re- ,varkable keenness. Assoon as he had done so, he \vas answered by the baying of hounds, and one might hear the distant rustle of brushwood at che rapid approach of a great pack of dogs, “wes in all colors, as they came tearing along, oll ery. Then the burly friar sent his huge staff whirl- ing round his head like a mill-wheel, and in- efead of waiting for the bishop’s servants to at- tack him he ran at them, dealing such tremen- cous blows with his mighty weapon that he knocked over the foremost like ninepins, and ‘ent the rest back in a clump, afraid to advance eny more. Presently, while they halted, half _—= ofraid, up came the dogs, fifty or more in num- ber, baying savagely and enough to frighten any saneman. This capped the climax, for in- stantly the bishop’s servants began to climb the nearest trees, like sensible men. As for the hishop’s monks, they were quite bewildered with terror, and soon began to imitate the ser- vants, as best they knew how, making a very Indicrous figure in their long gowns as they shinned up the trunks. At last it happened that when the dogs arrived on the scene they ‘ound nothing but the Bishop of Hereford him- self, sitting on his mule, very pale, but too proud to show terror, while Friar Tuck was roaring out his stentorian laugh at the sudden scatterment. ‘*Methinks we had best now, master bishop,” he sai coolly laying his oand on the churchman’s bridle. ‘ The hounds will take care of thy men, or I mistake me mnuch.” The bishop made no reply, in the extremity ef his mortification, and the jolly friar quietly ‘sd away the mule along the boggy path, till ‘hey reached higher ground and saw before ‘hem the low timber walls and thatched roof of | his daughter?” he asked, sarcastically, e. tiny chapel, buried in the heart of the forest. ‘Tere is St. Hubert’s, your reverence,” observed “riar Tuck. “Tis but a small place, but then, vou know, St. Hubert was a born huntsman, ond he can- put up with a lodgein the woods. harm. \Vill it-please your eminence to dismount? The wedding train will soon be here.” **f can do nothing without my robes and the _ eeotytes for the service,” answered the bisho gullenly. ‘‘If these robbers harm me, I will url the curse of the church on them.”’ The big friar laughed again, and pointed be- Lobin Hood. hind the bishup. There were all the mules be- longing to the party, in a long file, patiently following the si without riders or leaders, — ee. eeeeOoOOOEEEEEEO EE EeOEOEEEOEOEOEOEOEOEOEee —E | | | | | | | | | | | | as mules always will in a caravan, if left alone. ‘The dumb beasts have a feeling for the church, father,” observed Frias Tuck with a chuckle. ‘‘They have brought along your wardrobe, so that the ceremony may lack noth- ing of dignity. I myself will be your assistant and help you put on your robes, while I can promise you as handsome a lot of boys for acolytes as you ever saw. Come, father, dis- mount.” ‘“‘T cannot till I know that my men are safe,” responded Bishop Gilbert sullenly. ‘‘Safe! Marry, they are safe enough as long as they keep up their trees,” said the jolly friar, with a chuckle, “An they come down too soon, I'll not insure them from my hounds, who are, sc to say, hungry this morning. But Pll answer for it, your reverence, the men will not come down. Once more, will you not dismount and enter the chapel?” There was something in the tones of Friar r ’ >a 2 Tuck’s voice, as he spoke the last words, that sounded so menacing that the bishop slowly dis- mounted from his mule before the door of the chapel, which was ornamented with the head of a stag, bearing a gold cross between its antlers, the emblem of the patron saint of the edifice. As the churchman dismounted, he gazed all round him into the silent woods, and beheld not a living being, save his own men, down in the swamp, surrounded by the hounds, who had couched themselves expectantly under the trees, Friar Tuck observed his glance and said in a tone of peculiar meaning: , ‘Your reverence is looking for the congrega- tion. It will soon be here, wedding train and all. We expect a prince of the blood to-day. Come in, father.” As he spoke he led the way into the chapel. CHAPTER IX, PRINCE JOHN, PRINCE JOHN of England was up betimes that morning and dressed himself with unusual care, while his face wore an expression of conceited satisfaction that told of his good fortune. Re- ginald the page had brought him the message from Marian, and the prince was beside himself with joy. He was to ride into the forest, where a page would conduct bim to meet her, and they would be married at St. Hubert’s snare. O be sure, there was one little obstacle in the way: John had a wife already. In those days, how- ever, the laws of bigamy had little force against princes of the blood, and still less against John, who was regent of all England. All he needed was an accommodating churchman to shut his eyes and perform the ceremony, and for this the new bishop of Hereford was peculiarly well- fitted, from gratitude and interest alike. ‘ Only one thing John would not do, spite of Reginald’s hints. He would not countermard the order to send out Sir Roger Warman with all his posse to scour the woods. The sheriff of Nottingham had gone away at daybreak, full of his project to raise at least a thousand men and clear the forest of the outlaw ear!, ‘‘Nay, nay, sir page,” said the prince, when he was told Marian’s words. “If she wishes to save the life of her late suitor, she must beg it of me after we are wed, and heis taken. I will celebrate our wedding night by his pardon an she will, but not else. Come, gentlemen, ’tis time we were to horse.” He was about leaving the room when he was arrested by a message, sent from Baron Fitz Walter, in great distress, to beg the assistance of the prince and the sheriff’s posse. The Lady Marian Fitz Walter had disappeared o on tothe chapel | from the castle, and even her bower-maidens knew not whither she had gone. Her little Arab horse, a present from a crusading uncle, had been taken from the stable; and that was all that was known of her. She must have gone on. horseback. Prince John took the news very coolly, not to say in a cavalier manner. ‘What have I to do with this old ap oe of the old steward who brought the tidings. I can- not be hunting distressed damsels for other men. Let her father rest content. This Lady Marian ' knows well where she goes, and will come to no If I see her, I will tell her that her father wishes her to return home. Farewell, gentlemen of tbe castle. . Bid Lord Fitz Walter adieu forme. I shall stay no longer, now that the Lady Marian is gone.” So saying, with hardly even the semblance of courtesy for his late host, the dissolute prince rode out of the court-yard, followed by all his es — — - _ — . —* — train, ordered his baggage sent on to Notting: ham, and struck off into the forest almost alone, only three courtiers following bim. Al) wore their richest habits, and were lightly armed, for John anticipated no danger, owing to the patrols that had been ordered into the forest. This prince was so fond of pleasure as to be quite reckless of results when following it, and his imagination was so much inflamed by the pistes of Marian yielding to his advances that 1e rode rapidly on by the same road that the bishop had followed some hours before, and thought of no danger whatever. He felt sure that the flight of the girl from the castle was to meet him, and he made haste to the rendezvous, which was at the same by-road where Friar. Tuck met the bishop. But John saw no burly friar when he arrived at the entrance of the wood-path. A much more pleasing apparition met his eyes, in the shape of the same saucy page who had come to the friar, early that morning, asking to be taken to Robin Hood. In a moment John’s eyes lighted up with plea- sure,as he thought that he recognized under the gay dress of the page the slender figure of Marian. He rode up hurriedly, and was about to greet her, when he paused in surprise. The forest page was something like the baron’s daughter in the face, but he had glossy black hair and eyebrows, while Marian’s curls were of the palest gold. Moreover, there was some- thing in the peculiarly saucy and impudent loox of this page that belied the supposition that he could be Marian in disguise. “Well, gay knight, whither bound?’ asked the little saucebox, independently twirling a slender staff in his hand, as he surveyed the prince. ‘* Thou look’st a laggard to thy tryst, to make a lady wait for thee, on thy wedding- day and hers.” ‘Fair page, I cry you mercy,” responded John,in a tone of doubtful gayety. He could not quite make out in his own mind whether the page was Marian or not. ‘Will you not ride on my horse before me to the chapel?” he continued. ‘‘’Tis ill that one so young and tender should have to walk afoot.” ‘*T mount before no man,” said the boy, sau- cily. ‘‘If thou wilt give up thy horse to me and go afoot thyself, I will ride, but not else.” “T will, blithely,” responded the prince, leaping from his saddle. ‘‘ Let me help you up, fair youth.” As he endeavored to touch the little page, still half doubtful, but thinking to determine his doubts, the boy slipped away from him into the woods, where a horse could not follow, and ran off, crying: ‘‘Catch who catch can, is the rule here. If you would have a bride, she must be won, fair sir. (Juite certain now that he was right, John eagerly followed the fast-vanishing boy or girl, as it might prove, into the depths of the wood, so intent on the pursuit that he forgot all about his followers, who, on their part, discreetly re- mained at the entrance of the wood-road, not to interfere with the pleasures of their mas ter. John was a strong and active man, but he was no match for the little page before him in fleet- ness or in knowledge of the ground, and his high living had impaired his wind. Before they had been running ten minutes he was pretty well ex- hausted and quite out of breath, while the page kept about the same distance before him, appa- rently without effort. They were in the heart of the dense forest of Sherwood, and not a living being seemed to be near them, for John’s fol lowers were long out of sight, when the prince called: : “Stay a moment, sweet Marian. Why flec from me thus?) Why should we not go quietl to St. Hubert’s chapel together, as beseemet bridegroom and bride?” The page halted and allowed the prince te come alittle closer, when he said, warningly:> ‘No nigher, or ’twill be the worse for thee.” But John, trusting that all this previous re-] sistance had been mere coyness, moved on de- pple the warning, till nearly close enough to clasp the slender figure of the disguised girl, for Marian it was indeed. ’ He never was destined to place his arm quite around her. Just as his foot pressed the moss by hers, he felt. a strong hand on his own shoul- der, and found himself jerked back, with more force than ceremony, to be confronted by a tall, strapping young fellow, in bright scarlet clothes, who cried: | ‘How. now, Jack o’ the town? Leave the boy alone. He is one of us, now.” COTM JOOKS.cOoMm