“Then cock be curstThat croweth first!
As for thee, good Motley, peradventure when, by hangman's noose, our souls enfranchised go, they shall company together, thine and mine! Till then —farewell, Folly!”
So Robin was led forth of the dungeon and the heavy door crashed shut; but when Jocelyn looked for Hugo—lo! he was gone also.
Evening was come and the light began to fail, therefore Jocelyn crouched beneath the narrow loophole and taking from his bosom the wallet, found therein good store of money together with the charm or philtre: and bowing his head above this little wallet, he fell to profound meditation.
But presently, roused by hoarse laughter, he glanced up to find the three plaguing the helpless prisoner with sundry kicks and buffets; so Jocelyn crossed the dungeon, and putting the tormentors aside, stood amazed to behold in this latest captive none other than Sir Pertinax. Straightway he loosed off the gag, whereupon the good knight incontinent swore a gasping oath and prayed his limbs might be loosed also; the which done, he forthwith sprang up, and falling on the astonished three, he beat and clouted them with fist and manacles, and drave them to and fro about the dungeon.
“Ha, dogs! Wilt spurn me with they vile feet, buffet me with thy beastly hands, forsooth!” roared he and kicked and cuffed them so that they, thinking him mad, cried aloud in fear until Sir Pertinax, growing a-weary, seated himself against the wall, and folding his arms, scowled indignant upon Jocelyn who greeted him merrily:
“Hail and greeting to thee, my Pertinax; thy gloomy visage is a joy!”
Sir Pertinax snorted, but spake not; wherefore the Duke questioned him full blithe: “What fair, good wind hath blown thee dungeon-wards, sweet soul?”
“Ha!” quoth the knight. “Fetters, see'st thou, a dungeon, and these foul knaves for company—the which cometh of thy fool's folly, messire! So prithee ha' done with it!”
“Stay, gentle gossip, thou'rt foolish, methinks; thou frettest 'gainst fate, thou kickest unwisely 'gainst the pricks, thou ragest pitifully 'gainst circumstance—in fine, thou'rt a very Pertinax, my Pertinax!”
“Aye troth, that am I and no dog to lie thus chained in noisome pit, par Dex! So let us out, messire, and that incontinent!”
“Why here is a bright thought, sweet lad, let us out forthwith—but how?”
“Summon the town-reeve, messire, the burgesses, the council, declare thy rank, so shall we go free—none shall dare hold thus a prince of thy exalted state and potent might! Declare thyself, lord.”
“This were simple matter, Pertinax, but shall they believe us other than we seem, think ye?”
Quoth Pertinax: “We can try!”
“Verily,” said Jocelyn, “this very moment!” So saying, he turned to the three who sat in a corner muttering together.
“Good brothers, gentle rogues,” said he, “behold and regard well this sturdy cut-throat fellow that sitteth beside me, big of body, unseemly of habit, fierce and unlovely of look—one to yield the wall unto, see ye! And yet—now heed me well, this fellow, ragged and unkempt, this ill-looking haunter of bye-ways, this furtive snatcher of purses (hold thy peace, Pertinax!). I say this unsavoury-seeming clapper-claw is yet neither one nor other, but a goodly knight, famous in battle, joust and tourney, a potent lord of noble heritage, known to the world as Sir Pertinax of Shene Castle and divers rich manors and demesnes. Furthermore, I that do seem a sorry jesting-fellow, I that in antic habit go, that cut ye capers with ass's ears a-dangle and languish here your fellow in bonds, am yet no antic, no poor, motley Fool, but a duke and lord of many fair towns and rich cities beyond Morfeville and the Southward March. How say ye, brothers?”
“That thou'rt a fool!” quoth Rick.
“True!” nodded Jocelyn.
“Most true!” sighed Sir Pertinax.
“And a liar!” growled Gurth.
“And a murderous rogue!” cried Will, “and shall hang, along of us—as I'm a tanner!”
“Alack, Sir Knight,” smiled Jocelyn, “of what avail rank or fame or both 'gainst a motley habit and a ragged mantle. Thus, Pertinax, thou art no more than what thou seemest, to wit—a poor, fierce rogue, and I, a beggarly stroller.”
“And like to have our necks stretched, lord, by reason of a fond and foolish whim!”
“Unless, Pertinax, having naught to depend on but our native wit we, by our wit, win free. Other poor rogues in like case have broke prison ere now, and 'tis pity and shame in us if thou, a knight so potent and high-born, and I, a prince, may not do the like.”
“Messire, unlearned am I in the breaking o' prisons so when my time cometh to die in a noose I can but die as knight should—though I had rather 't were in honest fight.”
“Spoken like the very fool of a knight!” quoth Jocelyn. “So now will I show thee how by the wit of a brave and noble lady we may yet 'scape the hangman. Hearken in thine ear!”
But, when Jocelyn had told him all and shown money and sleeping-charm, Sir Pertinax grew thoughtful, sighing deep and oft, yet speaking not, wherefore the Duke questioned him.
“Good gossip, gasp not!” quoth he. “How think'st thou of prison-breaking now—expound!”
“Why, sir, I think when all do charmed and spellboundsnore,Then will we shrewdly choke them that they wakeno more!”
“Nay, Pertinax, here shall be no need of choking, forsooth!” Sir Pertinax bowed chin on fist and sighed again.
“Pertinax, prithee puff not! Yet, an puff ye will, pronounce me then the why and wherefore of thy puffing.”
“Lord, here is neither gasp nor puff, here is honest sighing. I can sigh as well as another.”
“Since when hast learned this so tender art, my Pertinax?”
“And I do sigh by reason of memory.”
“As what, Pertinax?”
“Eyes, lord—her eyes so darkly bright and, as I do think—black!”
“Nay, blue, Pertinax—blue as heaven!”
“Black, messire, black as—as black!”
“Blue, boy, blue!”
“Lord, they are black!”
“Speak'st thou of Yolande?”
“Messire, of one I speak, but whom, I know not. She came to me i' the greenwood as I sat a-fishing. Her hair long and black—ay, black and curled, her eyes dark, and for beauty ne'er saw I her like.”
“And yet hast seen my Lady Yolande oft!”
“Her voice, messire, her voice soft and sweet as the murmur of waters, and very full of allure.”
“Why, how now!” cried Jocelyn. “Art thou—thou, my Pertinax, become at last one of Cupid's humble following? All joy to thee, my lovely lover—here in truth is added bond betwixt us! For since thou dost love a maid, even as I do love a maid, so being lovers twain needs must we love each other the better therefore.”
“Nay, out alack, my lord!” sighed Sir Pertinax. “For though I do love her, she, by reason o' my ill-favoured looks, the which, woe's me, I may not alter, loveth not me, as I do judge.”
“How judge ye this?”
“Lord, she giveth me hard names. She, all in a breath, hath pictured me thus: 'Hooked of nose, fierce-eyed, of aspect grim—ungentle, unlovely, harsh o' tongue, dour o' visage, hard o' heart, flinty o' soul and of manners rude.'”
“Good! But was this all, my Pertinax?”
“Nay, lord, and with a wannion—there was more to like purpose.”
“Excellent, my lovely knight—let hope sing in thee. For look now, if she named thee hooked of nose, fierce-eyed and of aspect grim—she speaketh very truth, for so thou art, my Pertinax. Now truth is a fair virtue in man or maid, so is she both virtuous and fair! Nay, puff not, sighful Pertinax, but for thy comforting mark this—she hath viewed and heeded thy outward man narrowly—so shall she not forget thee soon; she with woman's eye hath marked the great heart of thee through sorry habit and rusty mail, and found therein the love thy harsh tongue might not utter; and thus, methinks, she hath thee in mind—aye, even now, mayhap. Lastly, good, lovely blunderbore—mark this! 'Tis better to win a maid's anger than she should heed thee none at all. Let love carol i' thy heart and be ye worthy, so, when ye shall meet again, 'tis like enough, despite thy hooked nose, she shall find thine eyes gentle, thy unloveliness lovely, thy harsh tongue wondrous tender and thy flinty soul the soul of a man.”
“Why, faith, lord,” quoth Pertinax, his grim lips softening to a smile, “despite her words, she spake in voice full sweet, and her eyes—ah, messire, her eyes were wondrous kind—gentle eyes—aye, her eyes were—”
“Eyes, my Pertinax—black eyes!”
“And gentle! By which same token, lord, she did give to me this token—this most strange trinket.”
But all at once, was the creak of hinges, and the ponderous door opening, Ranulph o' the Axe appeared, followed by divers of the warders bearing torches.
“Oho!” sighed Ranulph, doleful of visage. “Aha, good bawcocks, here come I, and these my fellows, for love o' thee, good Fool, thy quips, thy quirks, thy songs and antics capersome. For troth I'm a merry dog, I—a wanton wag, a bully boy and jovial, though woeful o' look!”
“Wherefore woeful!”
“For that I am not joyous, good Motley. Look 'ee—here's me born with a rare, merry heart, but sad and sober of head! Here's a heart bubbling with kindliness and soft and tender as sucking lamb, wedded to head and face full o' gloom! Here's laughter within me and woe without me, so am I ever at odds with myself—and there's my sorrow. Regarding the which same I will now chaunt ye song I made on myself; 'twas meant for merry song and blithe, but of itself turned mournful song anon as ye shall hear.”
So saying, Ranulph o' the Axe threw back grim head and sang gruff, albeit plaintive, thus:
“O! merry I am and right merry I'll be,Ho-ho for block, gibbet and rack—oho!To hang or behead ye there's none like to me,For I'm headsman, tormentor, and hangman, all three,And never for work do I lack—oho!“I live but to torture since torment's my trade,But my torment well meant is, I trow;If I hang or behead ye, it can't be gainsaid,Though my head for the head of a headsman was made,Still I'm all loving-kindness below.“But if ever I strive merry story to tell,Full of japeful and humorsome graces,'T is as though I were tolling a funeral bellAs if dismally, dolefully tolling a knell,So solemn and sad grow all faces.“I hang, burn and torture the best that I may,Ho pincers and thumbscrews and rack—oho!And all heads I cut off in a headsmanlike way;So I'll hang, burn and torment 'till cometh the dayThat my kind heart within me shall crack—oho!Well-a-wey! Well-a-wey!Woe is me for the dayThat my poor heart inside me shall crack! Oho!
“So there's my song! 'T is dull song and, striving to be merry song, is sad song, yet might be worse song, for I have heard a worse song, ere now—but 't is poor song. So come, Fool, do thou sing us merry song to cheer us 'gainst my sad song.”
“Why truly, Sir Headsman,” said Jocelyn, “here be songs a-many, yet if thou 'rt for songs, songs will we sing thee, each and every of us. But first, behold here is money shall buy us wine in plenty that we may grow merry withal in very sooth.”
“Oho!” cried Ranulph. “Spoken like a noble Motley, a fair, sweet Fool! Go thou, Bertram, obey this lord-like Fool—bring wine, good wine and much, and haste thee, for night draweth on and at cock-crow I must away.”
“Aye,” nodded Jocelyn, “in the matter of one—Robin?”
“Verily, Fool. A cheery soul is Robin, though an outlaw, and well beloved in Canalise. So is he to hang at cock-crow lest folk make disturbance.”
“Where lieth he now?”
“Where but in the watch-house beside the gallows 'neath Black Lewin's charge. But come, good Motley, sing—a pretty song, a merry ditty, ha!”
So forthwith Jocelyn took his lute and sang:
“With dainty dittyQuaint and prettyI will fit ye,So heed and mark me well,And who we beThat here ye seeNow unto yeExplicit I will tell:“Then here first behold one Gurth, a worthy, dyingDyer,Since he by dyeing liveth, so to dye is his desire:For being thus a very Dyer, he liveth but to dye,And dyeing daily he doth all his daily wantssupply.Full often hath he dyed ere now to earn hisdaily bread,Thus, dyeing not, this worthy Dyer must soon,alas! be dead.“Here's Rick—a saintly ploughman, heHath guided plough so well,That here, with rogues the like of me,He pines in dungeon cell.“Here's Red-haired Will—O fie!That Will should fettered lieIn such base, cruel manner!For though his hair be red,Brave Will, when all is said,Is—hark 'ee—Will's a tanner!”
“Enough, Fool!” cried Will. “An thou must sing, sing of thyself, for thyself, to thyself, and I will sing of myself an' need be!”
Laughed JOCELYN:
Why then, brave Will,Come, sing thy fill.
Whereupon Will cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and rumbling a note or so to fix the key, burst into songful roar:
“A tanner I, a lusty man,A tanner men call Will,And being tanner true, I tan,Would I were tanning still;Ho derry, derry down,Hey derry down,Would I were tanning still.”
“Aye, verily!” growled Sir Pertinax. “And choked in thy vile tan-pit, for scurvier song was never heard, par Dex!”
“Why 'tis heard, forsooth,” said Jocelyn, “and might be heard a mile hence! Chant on, brave Will.”
The Tanner, nothing loth, wiped his mouth, clenched his fists and standing square and rigid, continued:
“How gaily I a-tanning went,No tanner blithe as I,No tanner e'er so innocent,Though here in chains I lie.Ho derry down,Hey derry down,In grievous chains I lie.“No more, alack, poor Will will tan,Since Will will, all unwilling,Though tanner he and proper man,A gloomy grave be filling.Hey derry down,Ho derry down,A gloomy grave be filling.”
“Now out upon thee, Tanner!” sighed Ranulph. “Here's sad song, a song o' graves, and therefore most unlovely, a song I—Saints and Angels!” he gasped:
And pointed where Sir Pertinax did stand,The Heart of Crystal shining in his hand.“The Heart-in-Heart! The Crystal Heart!” cried he,And crying thus, sank down on bended knee,While jailers all and scurvy knaves, pell-mell,Betook them to their marrow-bones as well;Whereat Sir Pertinax oped wond'ring eyes,And questioned him 'twixt anger and surprise.Then answered Ranulph, “Sir, though chained ye go,Yet to thee we do all obedience oweBy reason of that sacred amulet,That crystal heart in heart of crystal set:'For he that holdeth Crystal HeartHoldeth all and every part,And by night or eke by dayThe Heart-in-Heart all must obey!”'“Obey?” quoth Pertinax. “Ha! Let us seeIf in thy vaunt there aught of virtue be:For by this Heart of Crystal that I bear,I charge ye loose the chains the Fool doth wear,Then off with these accursèd gyves of mine,Or—”Ranulph to the warders gave a sign,And they to work did go with such good speed,That Joc'lyn soon with Pertinax stood freed,“Now by my halidome!” quoth Pertinax,“This talisman methinks no magic lacks,So knaves, I bid ye—by this magic Heart,Draw bolt and bar that hence we may depart—”But now the scurvy knaves made dismal cry.“Good sir!” they wailed, “Ah, leave us not to die!”“Aye, by Heav'n's light!” fierce quoth Sir Pertinax,“Ye're better dead by gibbet or by axe,Since naught but scurvy, coward rogues are ye,And so be hanged—be hanged to ye, all three!”“Knight!” Joc'lyn sighed, “'neath Heaven's lightsomewhereDoth live a dark-eyed maid with black-curled hair—Her voice is soft and full of sweet allure,And thou, perchance, one day may humbly woo her;So these poor rogues now woo their lives of thee,Show mercy then and mercy find of she.”At this Sir Pertinax rubbed chin and frowned,Red grew his cheek, his fierce eyes sought the ground,Then, even as he thus pinched chin and scowled,“Loose, then, the dismal knaves!” at last hegrowled.But now grim Ranulph tangled beard toreAnd wrung his hands and sighed and groaned andsworeWith loud complaints and woeful lamentations,With muttered oaths and murmured objurgations,With curses dire and impious imprecations.
“Beshrew me, masters all!” quoth he. “Now here's ill prank to play a poor hangman, may I ne'er quaff good liquor more, let me languish o' the quartern ague and die o' the doleful dumps if I ever saw the like o' this! For look 'ee now, if I set these three rogues free, how may I hang 'em as hang 'em I must, since I by hanging live to hang again, and if I don't hang 'em whom shall I hang since hang I must, I being hangman? Bethink ye o' this, sirs, and show a little pity to a poor hangman.”
“Why then, mark ye this, hangman,” said Jocelyn, “since on hanging doth thy hangman's reputation hang, then hang thou must; therefore, an ye lack rogue to hang, go hang thyself, so, hanging, shall thy hanging be done with and thou having lived a hangman, hangman die, thus, hangman hanging hangman, hangman hanging shall be hangman still, and being still, thus hanging, shall hang no more.”
“Aye, verily!” quoth Sir Pertinax, “there it is in a nutshell—hangman, be hanged to thee! So off with their fetters, Master Gallows, by Crystal Heart I charge thee!”
Hereupon the scurvy knaves were freed, to their great joy, and following the bold knight, made haste to quit their gloomy dungeon. Reaching the guardroom above, Sir Pertinax called lustily for sword and bascinet, and thereafter chose divers likely weapons for his companions who, with axe and pike and guisarme on shoulder, followed him out into the free air.
Now it was night and very dark, but Gurth, who was a man of the town, brought them by dim and lonely alleys and crooked ways until at last they halted within a certain dark and narrow street.
“Whither now?” questioned Sir Pertinax.
“Verily,” said Jocelyn, “where but to the gatehouse—”
“Not so,” muttered Gurth, “'tis overly well guarded—”
“Aye,” growled Will, “which is true, as I'm a tanner!”
“Howbeit,” said Jocelyn, “I'm for the gatehouse!”
“And wherefore?” demanded Sir Pertinax.
“In cause of one Rob, a robber.”
“Aye, but,” said Gurth, “he is to hang at crow-o'-cock and 'tis nigh cock-crow now.”
“The more need for haste,” said Jocelyn.
But, even now, as they together spoke,A sullen tramp the sleeping echoes woke,Behind them in the gloom dim forms they saw,While others grimly barred the way before;And so, by reason that they could not fly,They grasped their weapons and prepared to die.Then in the darkness of that narrow street,Broad axe and pike and flashing sword did meet.Duke Jocelyn full many a thrust drave home,Till whirling pike-staff smote him on cock's-comb,And staggering back to an adjacent wall,In deep-sunk doorway groaning he did fall.
My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:
GILL: Now, father, please don't let him die—MYSELF: No, no, indeed, my Gill, not I,My heroes take a lot of killing—GILL: Then go on quick, it's very thrilling!I hope he vanquishes his foes,And let him do it, please, in prose.
“O woe!” said a quavering voice. “Alack, and well-a-wey—”
My daughter GILLIAN demurreth:
GILL: No, father—that's not right at all.You'd got to where you'd made him fall.MYSELF: Well, then, Duke Joc'lyn, from his swoon awaking,Found that his head confoundedly was aching;Found he was bruised all down from top to toe—GILL: A bruise, father, and he a duke? No, no!Besides, you makeA frightful mistake—A hero's head should never ache;And, father, now, whoever knewA hero beaten black and blue?And then a bruise, it seems to me,Is unromantic as can be.He can't be bruised,And shan't be bruised,For, if you bruise him,And ill-use him,I'll refuse him—No reader, I am sure, would chooseA hero any one can bruise.So, father, if you want him read,Don't bruise him, please—MYSELF: Enough is said!
At this, Jocelyn sat up and wondered to find himself in a small chamber dim-lit by a smoking cresset. On one side of him leaned an ancient woman, a very hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as thoughIt fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below;
and upon his other side a young damsel of a wondrous dark beauty.
“Lady,” said he, “where am I?”
“Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid. “Thou didst fall 'gainst the door yonder. But speak low, they that seek thy life may yet be nigh.”
“Nay, then,” quoth Jocelyn, reaching for his sword, “I must out and aid my comrades.”
“Alack!” sighed the old woman. “Thy comrades do without lie all slain save one that groaneth—hearken!”
“O, woe!” mourned a quavering voice beyond the door. “O, woe, sore hurted I be, and like to die—and I a tanner!”
Very heedfully, Jocelyn unbarred the door, and peering into the narrow street, found it deserted and empty save for certain outstretched forms that stirred not; looking down on these dim shapes he knew one for Rick the Ploughman, whose ploughing days were sped and, huddled in a corner hard by, he found Will the Tanner, who groaned fitfully; but of Sir Pertinax and Gurth he saw nothing. So Jocelyn made shift to bear the Tanner within the house, and here Will, finding his hurts of small account, sat up, and while the wise old woman bandaged his wound, answered Jocelyn's eager questions, and told how Sir Pertinax and Gurth the Dyer had broken through their assailants and made good their escape.
Now, when the old woman had thus cherished their hurts, Jocelyn would fain have given her money, but she mumbled and mowed and cracked her finger-joints and shook grey head.
“Not so, good Fool!” she croaked, “for I do know thee for that same gentle Motley did save me from Black Lewin—a murrain seize him! So now will I save thee—behold!” So saying she set bony hand to wall; and lo! in the wall yawned a square opening narrow and dark, whence issued a cold wind. “Begone, thou brave merryman!” quoth she. “Yonder safety lieth; this darksome way shall carry thee out beneath the city wall!”
“Gramercy, thou kindly Witch!” said Jocelyn. “Yet first must I to the watch-house beside the gate for one Robin that lieth 'prisoned there.”
“How, Fool, dost mean Robin-a-Green that is to hang?”
“In truth!”
“But Rob o' the Green is outlawed, banned o' Church, a very rogue!”
“But a man, wherefore I would save him alive.”
“Nay, Fool, o' thy folly be wise and seek ye safety instead. Would'st peril thy body for a thief?”
“Verily, dame, even as I did for a Witch.”
Now, here the old woman scowled and mumbled and cracked her finger-bones angrily. But the beauteous young maid viewed Jocelyn with bright, approving eyes:
“But, Fool,” cried she, “O wondrous Fool, wilt adventure thyself in cause so desperate?”
“Blithely, fair lady!”
“But, alas! the guards be many and thou but one—”
“Nay!” cried a voice:
“For thou may'st seeThat two are we!”
And forth of the dark opening in the wall strode Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, his great, spiked club on brawny shoulder. Jocelyn viewed the monstrous little man in awed wonder; but beholding his mighty girth and determined aspect, wonder changed to kindliness; quoth he:
“Fair greeting, comrade! If thou'rt for a little bickering and disputation with that goodly club o' thine, come thy ways for methinks I do smell the dawn.”
“Aha, thou naughty little one!” cried the Witch, shaking bony fist. “Art for fighting for rogue's life along of a Fool, then?”
Quoth LOBKYN:
Aye, grannam, though ye slap me, still,Fight and aid this Fool I will—
“And talking o' Will,” quoth Will, “what o' me, for though I'm a tanner I'm a man, aye, verily, as I'm a tanner.”
“And methinks a better man than tanner!” said Jocelyn. “So here we stand three goodly wights and well armed. Let's away—”
“Nay, then, wild Madcap,” croaked the Witch, “an my Lobkyn go I go, and, though I be old and feeble, shalt find my craft more potent than sword or club—wait!”
Here the old woman, opening a dingy cupboard, took thence a small crock over which she muttered spells and incantations with look and gesture so evil that Lobkyn eyed her askance, Will the Tanner cowered and whispered fragments of prayers, and even Jocelyn crossed himself.
“Come!” croaked the Witch. “Now do I go to save rogue from gallows for sake of thee, tall Fool. Come ye, come and do as I bid ye in all things—come!”
Tells how for Robin a good fight was foughtAnd our old Witch a spell mysterious wrought.
Phoebus, the young and gladsome god of day,His fiery steeds had yoked to flaming car(By which, my Gill, you may surmiseThe sun was just about to rise)And that be-feathered, crook-billed harbinger,The rosy-wattled herald of the dawn,Red comb aflaunt, bold-eyed and spurred for strife,Brave Chanticleer, his strident summons raised(By which fine phrase I'd have you know,The cock had just begun to crow)And gentle Zephyr, child of Boreas,Stole soft the hush of dewy leaves,And passing kissed the flowers to wakefulness.Thus, laden with their sweetness, Zephyr cameO'er hill and dale, o'er battlement and wall,Into the sleeping town of Canalise,Through open lattice and through prison-bars,To kiss the cheek of sleeping InnocenceAnd fevered brows of prisoners forlorn,Who, stirring 'neath sweet Zephyr's soft caress,Dreamed themselves young, with all their sins unwrought.So, gentle Zephyr, messenger of dawn,Fresh as the day-spring, of earth redolent,Through narrow loophole into dungeon stole,Where Robin the bold outlaw fettered lay,Who, sighing, woke to feel her fragrant kiss,
And, breathing in this perfume-laden air,He seemed to smell those thousand woodland scentsHe oft had known, yet, knowing, never heeded:Of lofty bracken, golden in the sun,Of dewy violets shy that bloomed dim-seenBeside some merry-laughing, woodland brookWhich, bubbling, with soft music filled the air;The fragrant reek of smouldering camp-fireAglow beside some dark, sequestered poolWhose placid waters a dim mirror madeTo hold the glister of some lonely star;He seemed to see again in sunny gladeThe silky coats of yellow-dappled deer,With branching antlers gallantly upborne;To hear the twang of bow, the whizz of shaft,And cheery sound of distant-winded horn.Of this and more than this, bold Robin thought,And, in his dungeon's gloomy solitude,He groaned full deep and, since no eye could see,Shed bitter tears.
My daughter GILLIAN supplicateth:GILL: Poor Robin! Father, promise meTo save him from the gallows-tree.He's much too nice a man to kill;So save him, father; say you will!MYSELF: But think of poor Ranulph with no one to hang!GILL: Ranulph's song was top-hole, but—MYSELF: You know I hate slang—GILL: Yes, father—but then I hate Ranulph much more,With his nasty great beard that in tangles he wore.So, father, if you must have some one to slay,Instead of poor Robin, hang Ranulph—MYSELF: Why, pray?GILL: In nice books the nasty folks only should die;Those are the kind of books nice people buy.I like a book that makes me glad,And loathe a book that makes me sad;So, as this Geste is made for me,Make it as happy as can be.MYSELF: And is it, so far, as you'd wish?GILL: Well, father, though it's rather swish,I think it needs a deal more love—MYSELF: Swish? How—what's this? Great heavensabove!Will you, pray, miss, explain to meHow any story “swish” may be?And why, my daughter, you must chooseA frightful word like “swish” to use?What hideous language are you talking?GILL: Sorrow, father! “Swish” means “corking.”I think our Geste is “out of sight,”Except that, to please me, you mightPut in more love—MYSELF: Now, how can Joc'lyn go love-makingWhen his head is sore and aching?Besides, this is no place to woo;He'll love-make when I want him to.GILL: But, father, think—in all this time,In all this blank-verse, prose and rhyme,The fair Yolande he's never kissed,And you've done nothing to assist;And, as I'm sure they're both inclined,I think your treatment most unkind.MYSELF: This Geste I'll write in my own way,That is, sweet Prattler, if I may;When I'm ready for them to kiss,Then kiss they shall; I promise this.Now I'll to Rob return, if you,My Gillian, will permit me to!Thus in his prison pent, poor woeful Rob,Since none might see or hear, scorned not to sob,And mightily, in stricken heart, did grieveThat he so soon so fair a world must leave.And all because the morning wind had broughtEarth's dewy fragrance with sweet mem'ries fraught.So Robin wept nor sought his grief to stay,Yearning amain for joys of yesterday;Till, hearing nigh the warder's heavy tread,He sobbed no more but strove to sing instead.“A bow for me, a bow for me,All underneath the greenwood tree,Where slaves are men, and men are free;Give me a bow!“Give me a bow, a bow of yew,Good hempen cord and arrows true,When foes be thick and friends be few,Give me a bow!”
Thus cheerily sang Robin the while he dried his bitter tears, as the door of his prison was flung wide and Black Lewin strode in and with him men-at-arms bearing torches.
“What ho, rogue Robin!” cried he. “The cock hath crowed. Ha! Will ye sing, knave, will ye sing, in faith?”
“In faith, that will I!” laughed Robin.
“Here come we to bring ye to the gallows, Robin—how say ye?”
“The more reason for singing since my singing must soon be done!” So, with pikemen before him and behind, bold Robin marched forth to die, yet sang full blithely as he went:
“So lay my bones 'neath good yew-tree,Thus Rob and yew soon one shall be,Where all true men may find o' weA trusty bow!”
“Ha' done!” growled Black Lewin, shivering in the chilly air of dawn. “Quit—quit thy singing, rogue, or by the foul fiend I—”
“Who dareth name the fiend?” croaked an awful voice, whereat Black Lewin halted, gaped and stood a-tremble, while beneath steel cap and bascinet all men's hair stirred and rose with horror; for before them was a ghastly shape, a shape that crouched in the gloom with dreadful face aflame with smouldering green fire.
“Woe!” cried the voice. “Woe unto thee, Lewin the Black, that calleth on fiend o' the pit!”
And now came a fiery hand that, hovering in the air, pointed lambent finger at gaping Lewin and at each of the shivering pike-men in turn.
“Woe—sorrow and woe to one and all, ye men of blood, plague and pest, pain o' flesh, and grief of soul seize ye, be accursed and so—begone! Hence ho—away!
“Rommani hi! Avaunt, I say,Prendraxon!Thus direst curse on ye I layShall make flesh shrink and bone decay,To rot and rot by night and dayTill flesh and bone do fall away,Mud unto mud and clay to clay.A spell I cast,Shall all men blast.Hark ye,Mark ye,Rommani hi—prendraxon!”
Down fell pike and guisarme from nerveless fingers and, gasping with fear, Black Lewin and his fellows turned and fled nor stayed for one look behind; only Robin stood there (since he might not run away by reason of his bonds) babbling prayers between chattering teeth and with all his fingers crossed.
“Oho, Fool, aha!” cried the voice. “Thus have I, a poor, feeble old woman, wrought better than all thy valiance or Lobkyn's strength. So, by potency of my spells and magic are we quits, thou and I. Bring, then, thy rogue outlaw and haste ye!”
So saying the old Witch muffled her awful, fiery face in ragged mantle and turned away; and in that moment Robin was aware of three forms about him in the grey dawn-light, felt his bonds loosed off by quick, strong hands and drew a great, joyous breath.
“How, Fool, thou brave and noble Motley,” quoth he, “is it thou again? And I to live?”
“Aye, marry, Robin! But come apace, the day breaketh and the city is astir—hark to yon shouts! Follow!”
So with the Tanner on one side and Lobkyn on the other, Robin ran, hard on Jocelyn's heels; and ever the dawn brightened until up came the sun chasing away sullen shadow and filling street and alley with his glory.
But now, and just as they reached that narrow street where safety lay, they heard a shout, a scream, a rush of feet and roar of fierce voices and beheld, amid a surge of armed men, the old woman struggling in the cruel grip of Black Lewin who (like many others I wot of, my Gill) was brave enough by daylight. Vainly the old creature strove, screaming for mercy as Black Lewin whirled aloft his sword; but his blade clashed upon another as Jocelyn sprang, and for a while the air rang with the sound of fierce- smiting steel until, throwing up his arms, Black Lewin fell and lay there. But, roaring vengeance, the soldiery closed about Jocelyn who, beset by blows on every side, sank in turn, yet, even as he fell, two short though mighty legs bestrode his prostrate form and Lobkyn Lollo, whirling huge club, smote down the foremost assailant and, ever as he smote, he versified and chanted—thus:
“I'm Lollo hight,Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I,I'm Lollo hight,'Tis my delightBy day or nightIn honest fightWith main and mightGood blows to smite,And where they light'Tis sorry plightFor that poor wight,Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.“Bows, swords and staves,Come, lusty knaves,And fit for gravesBrave Lobkyn soon will make ye;So fight, say I,Nor turn and fly,Or, when ye die,Then may old Horny take ye.”
Fierce raged the conflict, but in that narrow street they made good play against their many assailants, the valiant Dwarf's mighty club, backed by the Tanner's darting pike and Robin's flashing sword, which he had snatched from a loosened grasp. But Jocelyn lay prone upon his face, between Lobkyn's firm-planted feet, and stirred not. So club whirled, sword flashed and pike darted while, high above the tumult, rose Lobkyn's fierce chant:
“Hot blood I quaff,At death I laugh,Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.Come all that may,And all I'll slay,And teach ye how to die.”
“Lob—Lobkyn!” screamed the Witch. “Thou that drinkest nought but milk—talk not of blood, thou naughty poppet. Back now—stand back, I do command thee!”
Lobkyn smote a man to earth and, sighing regretful, stepped aside.
“Back!” screamed the Witch. “Stand back, I say, all three,And leave this wicked rabblement to me.Now shall they learn the terror of my curse,Black magic shall they feel—and something worse!”Then uttered she a sudden, hideous cry,And, leaping, whirled her bony hands on high,And lo! a choking dust-cloud filled the air;That wreathed in whirling eddies here and there.“Perendewix!” she cried. “Oh Radzywin—Thraxa! Behold, my witchcraft doth begin!”Back shrank their foes, back reeled they one and all,They choked, they gasped, they let their weapons fall;And some did groan, and some did fiercely sneeze,And some fell prone, some writhed upon their knees;Some strove to wipe the tears from blinded eyes,But one and all gave voice to awful cries.
“Come!” cried the Witch, “to the door—the door. Lobkyn, bear ye the brave Fool—and tenderly! Haste, naughty bantling, haste—I hear the tread of more soldiers!”
So Lobkyn stooped and, lifting Jocelyn's inanimate form, tucked it beneath one arm, and with Robin and Will the Tanner, followed the old Witch into the house.
My daughter GILLIAN commandeth:
GILL: Go on, father, do; why will you keep stopping?I think the old Witch is just perfectly topping.And what frightful words she uses for curses!MYSELF: Very frightful, indeed, though your slang still much worse is,With your “topping,” “top-holing,” your “swishing” and “clipping,”GILL: Well, I merely intended to say it was ripping;But, if you object to my praises—MYSELF: I only object to your phrases,For there's no author but will ownHe “liveth not by bread alone.”As for myself, if what I writeDoth please—then praise with all your might.GILL: Well, then, the Witch is splendid, thoughI'm very curious to knowJust how her face all fiery grew,And what the stuff was that she threw—The stuff that made the soldiers sneezeAnd brought them choking to their kneesIt sounds as though it might be snuff.MYSELF: My dear, they'd not found out such stuff.But grisly witches long agoDid many strange devices know.Indeed, my Gill, they knew much moreThan wise folk gave them credit for.GILL: Well, what was it? You haven't said.MYSELF: I'll get on with our Geste instead.