[A]Carfax was then actually in France, acting against Richard.
[A]Carfax was then actually in France, acting against Richard.
The two men gave Robin into her keeping, with a fury ofimpatience; then, with brandished swords, ran swiftly in search of the wizard. Robin had swooned, and lay a dead weight in the arms of the Prioress.
With amazing strength and tenderness she lifted his slight body and bore it to a little room, near to the entrance of the Priory. She laid the unconscious man upon a couch, then hastily bared his right arm.
She paused an instant to throw back her hood; then taking the scissors of her chatelaine, suddenly and resolutely gashed the great artery in his arm. He gave a cry of pain and started up. "Be still, be still," she muttered, soothing him. "The pain is naught, it will cure thee—lie back and sleep—sleep."
"Who are you?" he asked, feebly, and with swimming eyes. Then blackness came upon him again, and he fell back upon the couch. Out of the night of pain the cold face of the demoiselle Marie smiled mockingly at him!
She raised herself and softly withdrew. As she locked the door upon him she smiled thinly, wickedly. "So, Robin—at last, Robin," she murmured, "I am avenged."
Two hours later Little John returned. Behind him was Stuteley, anxious and ashamed. They had found a man in the woods, and had killed him instantly, in their blind rage, only to discover then that he was but a yeoman, and not him whom they sought.
"I did hear my master's horn, mother," cried Little John, when the Prioress had opened the wicket to them. "Three blasts it gave."
"'Twas the wind in the trees," said she, serenely. "Hesleeps." She prepared to close the wicket quietly. "Disturb him not."
THE PASSING OF ROBIN HOOD Leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of trees.THE PASSING OF ROBIN HOODLeaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of trees.
But Little John was alarmed and began to fear a trap. With his sword he hewed and hacked at the stout oak door, whilst Stuteley sought to prise it open.
When it yielded they rushed in upon a sorry scene. Robin lay by the window in a pool of blood, his face very white.
"A boon, a boon!" cried Little John, with the tears streaming from his eyes. "Let me slay this wretch and burn her body in the ruins of this place."
His master answered him with a voice from the grave: "'Twas always my part never to hurt a woman, John. I will not let you do so now. Look to my wishes, both of you. Marian's grave—it is to be kept well and honorably. And my two sons—but Geoffrey will care for them. For me, dear hearts, bury me near by, in some quiet grave. I could not bear another journey."
They sought to lift him up. "Give me my bow," said Robin, suddenly, "and a good true shaft." He took them from Stuteley's shaking hands, and, leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of the trees.
A swift remembrance lit up the dying man's face. "Ah, well," he cried, "Will o' th' Green—you knew! Marian, my heart ... and that day when first we met, beside the fallen deer! And she is gone, and my last arrow is flown.... It is the end, Will——" He fell back into Little John's arms. "Bury me, gossips," he murmured, faintly, "wheremy arrow hath fallen. There lay a green sod under my head and another beneath my feet, and let my bow be at my side."
His voice became presently silent, as though something had snapped within him. His head dropped gently upon Little John's shoulder.
"He sleeps," whispered Stuteley, again and again, trying to make himself believe it was so. "He is asleep, Little John—let us lay him quietly upon his bed."
So died Robin Fitzooth, first Earl of Huntingdon, under treacherous hands. Near by Kirklees Abbey they laid to his last rest this bravest of all brave men—the most fearless champion of freedom that the land had ever known.
Robin Hood is dead, and no man can say truly where his grave may be. At the least it but holds his bones. His name lives in our ballads, our history, our hearts—so long as the English tongue is known.