an you
will."

His tone was kinder again, for he saw how Robin had been busying himself
in these last few moments. "Let us sup, mother. I dare swear we all are
hungry after the heat of the day."

"I have made and tipped a full score of arrows, sir; will you see them?"
asked Robin.

"That will I, so soon as I have found the bottom of this pasty. Sit
yourselves, mother and Robin, and we'll chatter afterwards."

Robin helped his mother to kindle the flax whereby the dim and
flickering tapers might be lighted. His fingers were more deft at this
business, it would seem, than in the making of arrows. Fitzooth, in the
intervals of his eating, took up Robin's arrows one by one and had some
shrewd gibe ready for most of them. Of the score only five were allowed
to pass; the rest were tossed contemptuously into the black hearth on to
the little heap of smouldering fire.

"By my heart, Robin, but I shall never make a proper bowman of you! Were
ever such shafts fashioned to fit across cord and yew!"

"The arrows are pretty enough, Hugh," interposed the dame.

"There 'tis!" cried Fitzooth, triumphantly. "The true bowman's hand
showeth not in the _prettiness_ of an arrow, mother, but in the
straightness and hardness of the wand. Our Robin can fly a shaft right
well, I grant you, and I have no question for his skill, but he cannot
yet make me an arrow such as I love."

"Well, I do think them right handsomely done," said Mistress Fitzooth,
unconvinced. "It is not given to everyone to make such arrows as you
can, husband; but my Robin has other accomplishments. He can play upon
the harp sweetly, and sing you a good song----"

Fitzooth must still grumble, however. "I would rather your fingers
should bend the bow than pluck at harp-strings, Robin," growled he.
"Still, there is time for all things. Read me now our brother's
message."

Robin, eager to atone for the faults of his arrows, stretched out the
paper upon the table, and read aloud the following:--

"From George a Court Montfichet, of the Hall at Gamewell, near
Nottingham, Squire of the Hundreds of Sandwell and Sherwood, giving
greetings and praying God's blessing on his sister Eleanor and on
her husband, Master Hugh Fitzooth, Ranger of the King's Forest at
Locksley. Happiness be with you all. I do make you this screed in
the desire that you will both of you ride to me at Gamewell, in the
light of to-morrow, the fifth day of June, br