"And the plague go with him!" cried Bennet. "He has thieves' heels; he
can run, by St Banbury! But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has
stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge him less!"

"Nay, but what made he by the church?" asked Sir Oliver. "I am shrewdly
afeared there has been mischief here. Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down
from your horse, and search thoroughly among the yews."

Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned carrying a paper.

"This writing was pinned to the church door," he said, handing it to the
parson. "I found naught else, sir parson."

"Now, by the power of Mother Church," cried Sir Oliver, "but this runs
hard on sacrilege! For the king's good pleasure, or the lord of the
manor--well! But that every run-the-hedge in a green jerkin should
fasten papers to the chancel door--nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard;
and men have burned for matters of less weight. But what have we here?
The light falls apace. Good Master Richard, y' have young eyes. Read
me, I pray, this libel."

Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand and read it aloud. It contained
some lines of very rugged doggerel, hardly even rhyming, written in a
gross character, and most uncouthly spelt. With the spelling somewhat
bettered, this is how they ran:

"I had four blak arrows under my belt,
Four for the greefs that I have felt,
Four for the nomber of ill menne
That have opressid me now and then.

One is gone; one is wele sped;
Old Apulyaird is ded.

One is for Maister Bennet Hatch,
That burned Grimstone, walls and thatch.

One for Sir Oliver Oates,
That cut Sir Harry Shelton's throat.

Sir Daniel, ye shull have the fourt;
We shall think it fair sport.

Ye shull each have your own part,
A blak arrow in each blak heart.
Get ye to your knees for to pray:
Ye are ded theeves, by yea and nay!

"JON AMEND-ALL
of the Green Wood,
And his jolly fellaweship.

"Item, we have mo arrowes and goode hempen cord for otheres of your
following."

"Now, well-a-day for charity and the Christian graces!" cried Sir Oliver,
lamentably. "Sirs, this is an ill world, and groweth daily worse. I
will swear upon the cross of Holywood I am as innocent of that good
knight'