—and looking whence came this sound, the Duke sat up and his wonder grew; for by light of a fire that glowed in a blackened fissure of rock he beheld himself couched on a bed of bracken within a roomy cave. Beside the fire leaned a mighty, iron-shod club, and beyond this, curled up like a dog, snored Lobkyn Lollo, the Dwarf. Hereupon Jocelyn reached out and shook Lob to wakefulness, who grunted sleepily, rubbed his eyes drowsily and yawned mightily:
“Ha, Lob!” growled a sleepy voice. “Now, as I'm a tanner, here's a-many I's! By Saint Crispin, meseemeth thou'rt all I's—for as thou fought I fought, or thought I fought, forsooth!”
“Hold there!” cried the Tanner. “I slew one or two, Lob, and Robin likewise. Thou'rt a lusty fighter, but what o' me and Robin—ha, what o' we?”
“Why, as to that,” quoth the Tanner, “'tis but you says so! As to me I think what I will, and I do think—”
But here Lobkyn started up and seized the great club; quoth he:
“Not I!” answered Will.
“Methought I heard an owl hoot,” said Jocelyn.
“Aye,” nodded Lobkyn:
Hereupon the Dwarf laid finger to lip and uttered an owl-cry so dismal, so tremulous and withal so true to nature that it was wonder to hear. Instantly, from the dimness beyond the cavern-mouth, the cry was repeated, and presently was heard a panting and 'plaining, a snuffling and a shuffling, and into the light of the fire hobbled the old Witch. Beholding Jocelyn sitting cross-legged on his couch of fern, she paused and, leaning on her crooked stick, viewed him with her wise, old eyes.
“Aha, Motley!” she croaked. “Oho, thou flaunting jackanapes, didst peril thy foolish flesh for me that am poor and old and feeble, and cursed by all for witchcraft! So have I with my potions ministered to thee in thy sickness, and behold thou'rt alive, hale and strong again. Give me thy hand! Aha, here's cool, unfevered blood! Show me thy tongue. Oho! Aha! A little sup o' my black decoction—roots gathered at full o' moon—a little sup and shall be thyself by to-morrow's dawn. But—as for thee, thou good-for-naught, thou wicked elf—aha! would'st dare leave thy poor old grannam weak and 'fenceless? Give me thy rogue-ear!” Obediently, the mighty Dwarf arose and sighfully suffered the old woman to grasp him by the ear and to tweak and wring and twist it as she would.
“What dost thou here i' the wild-wood, thou imp, thou poppet o' plagues, thou naughty wap-de-staldees?”
To which Lobkyn, writhing and watering at the eyes, answered thus:
“An outlaw, naughty one!” screeched the Witch, tweaking ear the harder. “Dare ye tell me so, elf?”
“Without thee, thou piece o' naughtiness?” screamed the old woman. “Now will I lay my stick about thee—hold still, Rogue!”
Saying which, she proceeded to belabour the poor Dwarf with her knotted stick, clutching him fast by his ear the while. Thus she be-thwacked him soundly until he roared for mercy.
“Why, how now—how now?” cried a merry voice, and Robin strode into the firelight. “Gentle Witch, sweet dame,” quoth he, “what do ye with poor Lob?”
“Thwack him shrewdly!”
“Which is, Witch, that which none but witch the like o' thee might do, for lustier fighter and mightier dwarf never was. Thus, but for thy witch-like witcheries, the which, Witch, witch do prove thee, but for this and the power and potency of thy spells, now might he crack out thy life 'twixt finger and thumb—”
“Ha, forest-rogue, 'tis a bad brat, a very naughty elf would run off into the wild to be rogue like thee—an outlaw, forsooth!”
“Forsooth, Witch,” laughed Robin, “outlaw is he in very truth, in sooth and by my troth! Outlaw is Lob, banned by Church and Council of Ten, and so proclaimed i' the market square of Canalise this very morn by sound o' trumpet and—”
“How? How?” cried the old woman, wringing her trembling hands. “My Lobkyn outlawed? My babe, my lovely brat, my pretty bantling, woe and alas! My dear ugly one an outlaw?”
“Aye, marry is he, Witch, outlaw proclaimed, acclaimed, announced, pronounced and denounced; as such described, ascribed and proscribed by Master Gregory Bax, the port-reeve, for the late slaying and maiming of divers of the city guard. So outlaw is Lobkyn, his life henceforth forfeit even as mine.”
“My Lobkyn an hairy outlaw i' the wild-wood! Out alas! And what of his poor old grannam? What o' me—?”
“Content thee, sweet hag, since thou'rt outlawed along with him and, as witch, doomed to die unpleasantly by fire and flame and faggot, if thou'rt caught.”
“Alack! Wala-wa! Woe 's me!” groaned the Witch, cracking her finger-bones. “And all this by reason o' the Fool yonder.”
“Why, the Fool is dubbed outlaw likewise, Witch,” quoth Robin. “Outlaw is he along o' thee and Tanner Will.”
“And all by reason that this Fool must needs peril our lives for sake of rogue-outlaw, of forest-robber, of knavish woodland-lurker—”
“Hight Robin!” laughed Robin, leaning on his long bow-stave. “Now, this brave Fool having saved Robin his life, Witch, the which, Witch, was good thing for Robin, our Fool next saved thee, Witch, which was nought to Robin, in the which, Witch, Robin did not joy; for thou, old Witch, being witch, art therefore full o' witcheries which be apt to be-devil a man and fright his reason, for the which reason, being reasonable man, I reason, for this reason, that, so reasoning, I love thee not. But thou art old, Witch, which is good reason to reasonably reason thou art wise, Witch, and, being wise, I on this wise would seek counsel of thy wisdom, Witch. Imprimis, then—”
“Hold!” commanded the Witch; “here's a whirl o' windy wind! Hast more of such-like, forester?”
“Some little, Witch, which I will now, Witch—”
“Nay, then, Robin-a-Green, suffer me to rest my old bones whiles thy mill clacks.” Hereupon the old Witch seated herself beside the fire, with bony knees up-drawn to bony chin. “Speak, outlaw Robin,” she croaked, blinking her red eyes, “and speak ye plain.”
“Why, then, wise Witch, look 'ee: since we be outlaws each and every, with all men's hands against us, with none to succour, and death watchful for us, 'tis plain, and very plain, we, for our harbourage and defence, must in the wild-wood bide—”
“Ho!” cried Lobkyn:
“Roar not, toad!” cried the Witch. “Say on—Rogue-Robin!”
“Why, mark me, good Witch, here's where buskin chafeth! Not long since I ruled i' the wild-wood, a very king, with ten-score lusty outlaw-rogues to do my will. To-day is there never an one, and for this reasonable reason—to wit, I am hanged, and, being hanged, am dead, and, being dead, am not, and thus Robin is nobody; and yet again, perceive me, Witch, being Robin, I am therefore somebody; thus is nobody somebody, and yet somebody that nobody will believe anybody. The which, Witch, is a parlous case, methinks, for here am I, somebody, nobody and Robin altogether and at the same time; therefore, Witch, o' thy witchful wisdom—who am I, what and which, Witch?”
Here the Witch blinked and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones one after another. Quoth she:
“For thy first, thou'rt thyself; for the second, a rogue; and for the third, a wind-bag. I would thy second might tie up thy first in thy third.”
“So should Robin choke Robin with Robin. But hark 'ee again, good, patient dame. It seemeth that Ranulph the executioner betaketh him at cock-crow to hang poor me; but, finding me not, made great outcry, insomuch that the city guard, such as mighty Lob and Will had left alive, sought counsel together; and taking one of their slain fellows, Ranulph hanged him in my stead, and there he hangeth now, above the city gate, his face so marred that he might be me or any other.”
“Ha, Robin—well?”
“This day, at sunset, came I unto the trysting-oak, and by blast of horn summoned me my outlaw company. They came apace and in great wonderment, for, seeing me, they fell to great awe and dread, thinking me dead, since many had seen my body a-dangle on the gallows; wherefore, seeing me manifestly alive, they took me for ghoulish ghost 'stead o' good flesh and blood, and fled from me amain. So, by reason of my dead body, that is no body o' mine, yet that nobody will believe is no body o' mine, they believe that this my body is yet no body, but a phantom; the which is out of reason; yet thus unreasonably do the rogues reason by reason of the body that hangeth in place of my body above the city gate. Wherefore I reason there is yet reason in their unreason, seeing this body was somebody, yet no body o' mine, but which nobody among them can swear to. Which, Witch, is a matter which none but wise witch may counsel me in. How say'st thou, Witch?”
But for a while the old Witch scowled on the fire, bony chin on bony knees, and dreamily cracked her finger-joints.
“Oho!” she cried suddenly. “Aha—a body that nobody's is, yet body that everybody knoweth for body o' thine—aha! So must nobody know that nobody's body is not thy body. Dost see my meaning, Robin-a-Green?”
“No whit, Witch! Thou growest involved, thy talk diffuse, abstruse and altogether beyond one so obtuse as simple Rob—”
“Then hark 'ee again, Addlepate! Everybodymust believe nobody's body thy body, so by dead body will I make thy live body of so great account to everybody that nobody henceforth shall doubt dead body made live body, by my witchcraft, and thou be feared, therefore, of everybody. Dost follow me now, numskull?”
“Aye, truly, mother! And truly 'tis a rare subtlety, a notable wile, and thou a right cunning witch and wise. But how wilt achieve this wonder?”
“Since dead thou art, I to life will bring thee. Oho, I will summon thee through fire and flame; aha, I will make thee more dreaded than heretofore; thy fame shall fill the wild-wood and beyond. Know'st thou the Haunted Wood, hard by Thraxby Waste?”
Now here Robin's merry smile languished, and he rubbed nose with dubious finger.
“Aye, I do,” quoth he sombrely; “an ill place and—demon-rid, they say—”
“Come ye there to-morrow at midnight.”
“Alone?” says Robin, starting.
“Alone!”
“Nay, good Witch, most gentle, potent dame, I—though phantom accounted, I love not phantoms, and Thraxby Waste—”
“Come ye there—at midnight!”
“Why, then, good Witch, an come I must, suffer that I bring the valiant Fool and mighty Lob—prithee, now!”
At this the old Witch scowled and mumbled and crackled her finger-bones louder than ever.
“Oho!” cried she at last, “thou great child, afraid-o'-the-dark, bring these an ye will—but none other!”
“Good mother, I thank thee!”
“Tchak!” cried the Witch, and, struggling to her feet, hobbled to Jocelyn and laid bony finger on wrist and brow, nodded, mumbled, and so, bent on her staff, hobbled away; but, reaching the cave-mouth, she paused, and smote stick to earth fiercely.
“To-morrow!” she croaked. “Midnight! Re—member!”
“What lads, are ye there forsooth? Is't Myles I see with lusty Watt and John and Hal o' the Quarterstaff? God den t' ye, friends, and merry hunting to one and all, for by oak and ash and thorn here stand I to live with thee, aye, good lads, and to die with ye here in the good greenwood—”
But now and all at once from that grim and silent company a mighty shout went up:
“'Tis Robin—'tis Robin, 'tis bold Robin-a-Green! 'Tis our Robin himself come back to us!”
And fearful no longer, they hasted to him and clasped him in brawny arms, hugging him mightily and making great rejoicing over him.
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: