eaked with
sweat and dirt. Little John eyed him drolly.

"How now, good master," quoth he, "the sport you were to kick up has
left you in sorry plight. Let me dust your coat for you."

"Marry, it has been dusted enough already," replied Robin; "and I now
believe the Scripture saying that all men are but dust, for it has
sifted me through and through and lined my gullet an inch deep. By your
leave"--and he went to the brookside and drank deep and laved his face
and hands.

All this while the stranger had been eyeing Robin attentively and
listening to his voice as though striving to recall it.

"If I mistake not," he said slowly at last, "you are that famous outlaw,
Robin Hood of Barnesdale."

"You say right," replied Robin; "but my fame has been tumbling sadly
about in the dust to-day."

"Now why did I not know you at once?" continued the stranger. "This
battle need not have happened, for I came abroad to find you to-day, and
thought to have remembered your face and speech. Know you not me, Rob,
my lad? Hast ever been to Gamewell Lodge?"

"Ha! Will Gamewell! my dear old chum, Will Gamewell!" shouted Robin,
throwing his arms about the other in sheer affection. "What an ass I was
not to recognize you! But it has been years since we parted, and your
gentle schooling has polished you off mightily."

Will embraced his cousin no less heartily.

"We are quits on not knowing kinsmen," he said, "for you have changed
and strengthened much from the stripling with whom I used to run foot
races in old Sherwood."

"But why seek you me?" asked Robin. "You know I am an outlaw and
dangerous company. And how left you mine uncle? and have you heard aught
of late of--of Maid Marian?"

"Your last question first," answered Will, laughing, "for I perceive
that it lies nearest your heart. I saw Maid Marian not many weeks after
the great shooting at Nottingham, when you won her the golden arrow. She
prizes the bauble among her dearest possessions, though it has made her
an enemy in the Sheriff's proud daughter. Maid Marian bade me tell you,
if I ever saw you, that she must return to Queen Eleanor's court, but
she could never forget the happy days in the greenwood. As for the old
Squire, he is still hale and hearty, though rheumatic withal. He speaks
of you as a sad young dog, but for all that is secretly proud of your
skill at the bow and of the way you are pestering the Sheriff, whom
he likes not. 'Twas for my father's sake that I