er a while
the Sheriff came forth. Then he called his men about him, and quoth he,
"These three villains shall be hanged straightway, but not here, lest
they breed ill luck to this goodly inn. We will take them over yonder to
that belt of woodlands, for I would fain hang them upon the very trees
of Sherwood itself, to show those vile outlaws therein what they may
expect of me if I ever have the good luck to lay hands upon them." So
saying, he mounted his horse, as did his men-at-arms likewise, and all
together they set forth for the belt of woodlands he had spoken of, the
poor youths walking in their midst guarded by the rangers. So they came
at last to the spot, and here nooses were fastened around the necks of
the three, and the ends of the cords flung over the branch of a great
oak tree that stood there. Then the three youths fell upon their knees
and loudly besought mercy of the Sheriff; but the Sheriff of Nottingham
laughed scornfully. "Now," quoth he, "I would that I had a priest here
to shrive you; but, as none is nigh, you must e'en travel your road with
all your sins packed upon your backs, and trust to Saint Peter to let
you in through the gates of Paradise like three peddlers into the town."

In the meantime, while all this had been going forward, an old man had
drawn near and stood leaning on his staff, looking on. His hair and
beard were all curly and white, and across his back was a bow of yew
that looked much too strong for him to draw. As the Sheriff looked
around ere he ordered his men to string the three youths up to the oak
tree, his eyes fell upon this strange old man. Then his worship beckoned
to him, saying, "Come hither, father, I have a few words to say to
thee." So Little John, for it was none other than he, came forward, and
the Sheriff looked upon him, thinking that there was something strangely
familiar in the face before him. "How, now," said he, "methinks I have
seen thee before. What may thy name be, father?"

"Please Your Worship," said Little John, in a cracked voice like that of
an old man, "my name is Giles Hobble, at Your Worship's service."

"Giles Hobble, Giles Hobble," muttered the Sheriff to himself, turning
over the names that he had in his mind to try to find one to fit to
this. "I remember not thy name," said he at last, "but it matters not.
Hast thou a mind to earn sixpence this bright morn?"

"Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "for money is not so plenty with me that
I should