by Howard Pyle
“Then give me thy hand, Allan,” cried Robin, “and let me tell thee, I swear by the bright hair of Saint AElfrida that this time two days hence Ellen a Dale shall be thy wife. I will seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey tomorrow day, and I warrant I will get upon the soft side of him, even if I have to drub one soft.”
At this Will Scarlet laughed again. “Be not too sure of that, good uncle,” quoth he, “nevertheless, from what I know of him, I think this Curtal Friar will gladly join two such fair lovers, more especially if there be good eating and drinking afoot thereafter.”
But now one of the band came to say that the feast was spread upon the grass; so, Robin leading the way, the others followed to where the goodly feast was spread. Merry was the meal. Jest and story passed freely, and all laughed till the forest rang again. Allan laughed with the rest, for his cheeks were flushed with the hope that Robin Hood had given him.
At last the feast was done, and Robin Hood turned to Allan, who sat beside him. “Now, Allan,” quoth he, “so much has been said of thy singing that we would fain have a taste of thy skill ourselves. Canst thou not give us something?”
“Surely,” answered Allan readily; for he was no third-rate songster that must be asked again and again, but said “yes” or “no” at the first bidding; so, taking up his harp, he ran his fingers lightly over the sweetly sounding strings, and all was hushed about the cloth. Then, backing his voice with sweet music on his harp, he sang:
MAY ELLEN’S WEDDING
(Giving an account of how she was beloved by a fairy prince, who took her to his own home.)
“May Ellen sat beneath a thorn
And in a shower around
The blossoms fell at every breeze
Like snow upon the ground,
And in a lime tree near was heard
The sweet song of a strange, wild bird.
“O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet,
O lingering sweet the strain!
May Ellen’s heart within her breast
Stood still with blissful pain:
And so, with listening, upturned face,
She sat as dead in that fair place.
“‘Come down from out the blossoms, bird!
Come down from out the tree,
And on my heart I’ll let thee lie,
And love thee tenderly!’
Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low,
From where the hawthorn shed its snow.
“Down dropped the bird on quivering wing,
From out the blossoming tree,
And nestled in her snowy breast.
‘My love! my love!’ cried she;
Then straightway home, ‘mid sun and flower,
She bare him to her own sweet bower.
“The day hath passed to mellow night,
The moon floats o’er the lea,
And in its solemn, pallid light
A youth stands silently:
A youth of beauty strange and rare,
Within May Ellen’s bower there.
“He stood where o’er the pavement cold
The glimmering moonbeams lay.
May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes,
Nor could she turn away,
For, as in mystic dreams we see
A spirit, stood he silently.
“All in a low and breathless voice,
‘Whence comest thou?’ said she;
‘Art thou the creature of a dream,
Or a vision that I see?’
Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver
Through straining reeds beside the river.
“‘I came, a bird on feathered wing,
From distant Faeryland
Where murmuring waters softly sing
Upon the golden strand,
Where sweet trees are forever green;
And there my mother is the queen.’
. . . . . . .
“No more May Ellen leaves her bower
To grace the blossoms fair;
But in the hushed and midnight hour
They hear her talking there,
Or, when the moon is shining white,
They hear her singing through the night.
“‘Oh, don thy silks and jewels fine,’
May Ellen’s mother said,
‘For hither comes the Lord of Lyne
And thou this lord must wed.’
May Ellen said, ‘It may not be.
He ne’er shall find his wife in me.’
“Up spoke her brother, dark and grim:
‘Now by the bright blue sky,
E’er yet a day hath gone for him
Thy wicked bird shall die!
For he hath wrought thee bitter harm,
By some strange art or cunning charm.’
“Then, with a sad and mournful song,
Away the bird did fly,
And o’er the castle eaves, and through
The gray and windy sky.
‘Come forth!’ then cried the brother grim,
‘Why dost thou gaze so after him?’
“It is May Ellen’s wedding day,
The sky is blue and fair,
And many a lord and lady gay
In church are gathered there.
The bridegroom was Sir Hugh the Bold,
All clad in silk and cloth of gold.
“In came the bride in samite white
With a white wreath on her head;
Her eyes were fixed with a glassy look,
Her face was as the dead,
And when she stood among the throng,
She sang a wild and wondrous song.
“Then came a strange and rushing sound
Like the coming wind doth bring,
And in the open windows shot
Nine swans on whistling wing,
And high above the heads they flew,
In gleaming fight the darkness through.
“Around May Ellen’s head they flew
In wide and windy fight,
And three times round the circle drew.
The guests shrank in affright,
And the priest beside the altar there,
Did cross himself with muttered prayer.
“But the third time they flew around,
Fair Ellen straight was gone,
And in her place, upon the ground,
There stood a snow-white swan.
Then, with a wild and lovely song,
It joined the swift and winged throng.
“There’s ancient men at weddings been,
For sixty years and more,
But such a wondrous wedding day,
They never saw before.
But none could check and none could stay,
The swans that bore the bride away.”
Not a sound broke the stillness when Allan a Dale had done, but all sat gazing at the handsome singer, for so sweet was his voice and the music that each man sat with bated breath, lest one drop more should come and he should lose it.
“By my faith and my troth,” quoth Robin at last, drawing a deep breath, “lad, thou art — Thou must not leave our company, Allan! Wilt thou not stay with us here in the sweet green forest? Truly, I do feel my heart go out toward thee with great love.”
Then Allan took Robin’s hand and kissed it. “I will stay with thee always, dear master,” said he, “for never have I known such kindness as thou hast shown me this day.”
Then Will Scarlet stretched forth his hand and shook Allan’s in token of fellowship, as did Little John likewise. And thus the famous Allan a Dale became one of Robin Hood’s band.
Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal Friar
THE STOUT YEOMEN of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a morn, more especially when the summertime had come, for then in the freshness of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and the song of the small birds the sweetest.
Quoth Robin, “Now will I go to seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey of whom we spake yesternight, and I w
ill take with me four of my good men, and these four shall be Little John, Will Scarlet, David of Doncaster, and Arthur a Bland. Bide the rest of you here, and Will Stutely shall be your chief while I am gone.” Then straightway Robin Hood donned a fine steel coat of chain mail, over which he put on a light jacket of Lincoln green. Upon his head he clapped a steel cap, and this he covered by one of soft white leather, in which stood a nodding cock’s plume. By his side he hung a good broadsword of tempered steel, the bluish blade marked all over with strange figures of dragons, winged women, and what not. A gallant sight was Robin so arrayed, I wot, the glint of steel showing here and there as the sunlight caught brightly the links of polished mail that showed beneath his green coat.
So, having arrayed himself, he and the four yeomen set forth upon their way, Will Scarlet taking the lead, for he knew better than the others whither to go. Thus, mile after mile, they strode along, now across a brawling stream, now along a sunlit road, now adown some sweet forest path, over which the trees met in green and rustling canopy, and at the end of which a herd of startled deer dashed away, with rattle of leaves and crackle of branches. Onward they walked with song and jest and laughter till noontide was passed, when at last they came to the banks of a wide, glassy, and lily-padded stream. Here a broad, beaten path stretched along beside the banks, on which path labored the horses that tugged at the slow-moving barges, laden with barley meal or what not, from the countryside to the many-towered town. But now, in the hot silence of the midday, no horse was seen nor any man besides themselves. Behind them and before them stretched the river, its placid bosom ruffled here and there by the purple dusk of a small breeze.
“Now, good uncle,” quoth Will Scarlet at last, when they had walked for a long time beside this sweet, bright river, “just beyond yon bend ahead of us is a shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh, and upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage hidden amidst the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth the Friar of Fountain Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know the way; albeit it is not overhard to find.”
“Nay,” quoth jolly Robin, stopping suddenly, “had I thought that I should have had to wade water, even were it so crystal a stream as this, I had donned other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for after all a wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be, must. But bide ye here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry adventure alone. Nevertheless, listen well, and if ye hear me sound upon my bugle horn, come quickly.” So saying, he turned and left them, striding onward alone.
Robin had walked no farther than where the bend of the road hid his good men from his view, when he stopped suddenly, for he thought that he heard voices. He stood still and listened, and presently heard words passed back and forth betwixt what seemed to be two men, and yet the two voices were wondrously alike. The sound came from over behind the bank, that here was steep and high, dropping from the edge of the road a half a score of feet to the sedgy verge of the river.
“’Tis strange,” muttered Robin to himself after a space, when the voices had ceased their talking, “surely there be two people that spoke the one to the other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make my vow that never have I heard the like in all my life before. Truly, if this twain are to be judged by their voices, no two peas were ever more alike. I will look into this matter.” So saying, he came softly to the river bank and laying him down upon the grass, peered over the edge and down below.
All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in cool places, and up to Robin’s nostrils came the tender odor of the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams. Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree, and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped, curly black hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one’s hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a friar. His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e’en a match for those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him.
“By my faith,” quoth Robin to himself, “I do verily believe that this is the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it must have been this holy man talking to himself.”
So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he was so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and, having first wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and sweeter napkin ne’er had king in all the world), he took up his flask and began talking to himself as though he were another man, and answering himself as though he were somebody else.
“Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee as a lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to me in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take a drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech thee, sweeten the draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from his right hand to his left). An thou wilt force it on me so, I must needs do thy bidding, yet with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very great health (here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad, ’tis thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand back again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here’s wishing thee as much good as thou wishest me.” Saying this, he took another draught, and truly he drank enough for two.
All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm across his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would not have spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire.
Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking again in this wise: “Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La, I know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost thou not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that can pipe so well and hath heard so many goodly songs and ballads, ne’ertheless, an thou wilt have it so, I will do my best. But now methinks that thou and I might sing some fair song together; dost thou not know a certain dainty little catch called ‘The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid’? Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost thou not think that thou couldst take the lass’s part if I take the lad’s? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I will follow with the lass.”
Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high and squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of
THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCORNFUL MAID
HE
“Ah, it’s wilt thou come with me, my love?
And it’s wilt thou, love, he mine?
For I will give unto thee, my love,
Gay knots and ribbons so fine.
I’ll woo thee, love, on my bended knee,
And I’ll pipe sweet songs to none but thee.
Then it’s hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark
And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
So come thou and be my love.
SHE
“Now get thee away, young man so fine;
Now get thee away, I say;
For my true love shall never be thine,
And so thou hadst better not stay.
Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
So I’ll wait till a better young man I see.
For it’s hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark,
And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
Yet never I’ll be thy love.
HE
“Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
For many a maid can be found,
And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
By thee will I never be bound.
For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
But others are found that are just as fair.
So it’s hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I’ll seek me another dear love.
SHE
“Young man, turn not so very quick away
Another fair lass to find.
Methinks I have spoken in haste today,
Nor have I made up my mind,
And if thou only wilt stay with me,
I’ll love no other, sweet lad, but thee.”
Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed:
