“‘Now who are thou of the darksome brow
Who wanderest here so free?’
“‘Oh, I’m one that will walk the green green woods,
Nor ever ask leave of thee.’”—S. M.
A fine evening—six centuries ago—shed a bright parting light over Alton Wood, illuminating the gray lichens that clung to the rugged trunks of the old oak trees, and shining on the smoother bark of the graceful beech, with that sidelong light that, towards evening, gives an especial charm to woodland scenery. The long shadows lay across an open green glade, narrowing towards one end, where a path, nearly lost amid dwarf furze, crested heather, and soft bent-grass, led towards a hut, rudely constructed of sods of turf and branches of trees, whose gray crackling foliage contrasted with the fresh verdure around. There was no endeavour at a window, nor chimney; but the door of wattled boughs was carefully secured by a long twisted withe.
A halbert, a broken arrow, a deer-skin pegged out on the ground to dry, a bundle of faggots, a bare and blackened patch of grass, strewn with wood ashes, were tokens of recent habitation, though the reiterations of the nightingale, the deep tones of the blackbird and the hum of insects, were the only sounds that broke the stillness.
Suddenly the silence was interrupted by a clear, loud, ringing whistle, repeated at brief intervals and now and then exchanged for the call—“Leonillo! Leon!” A footstep approached, rapidly overtaken and passed by the rushing gallop of a large animal; and there broke on the scene a large tawny hound, prancing, bounding, and turning round joyfully, pawing the air, and wagging his tail, in welcome to the figure who followed him.
This was a youth thirteen years old, wearing such a dress as was usual with foresters—namely, a garment of home-spun undyed wool, reaching to the knee, and there met by buskins of deer-skin, with the dappled hair outside; but the belt which crossed one shoulder was clasped with gold, and sustained a dagger, whose hilt and sheath were of exquisite workmanship. The cap on his head was of gray rabbit-skin, but a heron’s plume waved in it; the dark curling locks beneath were carefully arranged; and the port of his head and shoulders, the mould of his limbs, the cast of his features, and the fairness of his complexion, made his appearance ill accord with the homeliness of his garb. In one hand he carried a bow over his shoulder; in the other he held by the ears a couple of dead rabbits, with which he playfully tantalized the dog, holding them to his nose, and then lifting them high aloft, while the hound, perfectly entering into the sport, leapt high after them with open mouth, and pretended to seize them, then bounded and careered round his young master with gay short barks, till both were out of breath; and the boy, flinging the rabbits on the turf, threw himself down on it, with one arm upon the neck of the panting dog, whose great gasps, like a sobbing of laughter, heaved his whole frame.
“Ay, good Leonillo, take your rest!” said the boy: “we have done yeoman’s service to-day, and shown ourselves fit to earn our own livelihood! We are outlaws now, my lion of the Pyrenees; and you at least lead a merrier life than in the castle halls, when we hunted for sport, and not for sustenance! Well-a-day, my Leon!”—as the creature closed his mouth, and looked wistfully up at him with almost human sympathy and intelligence—“would that we knew where are all that were once wont to go with us to the chase! But for them, I would be well content to be a bold forester all my days! Better so, than to be ever vexed and crossed in every design for the country’s weal—distrusted above—betrayed beneath! Alack! alack! my noble father, why wert thou wrecked in every hope—in every aim!”
These murmurings were broken off as Leonillo suddenly crested his head, and changed his expression of repose for one of intense listening.
“Already!” exclaimed the boy, springing to his feet, as Leonillo bounded forward to meet a stout hardy forester, who was advancing from the opposite end of the glade. This was a man of the largest and most sinewy mould, his face tanned by sun and wind to a uniform hard ruddy brown, and his shaggy black hair untrimmed, as well as his dark bristly beard. His jerkin was of rough leather, crossed by a belt, sustaining sword and dagger; a bow and arrows were at his back; a huge quarter-staff in his hand; and his whole aspect was that of a ferocious outlaw, whose hand was against every man.
But the youth started towards him gleefully, as if the very sight of him had dispelled all melancholy musings, and shouted merrily, “Welcome—welcome, Adam! Why so early home? Have the Alton boors turned surly? or are the King’s prickers abroad, and the neighbourhood unwholesome for bold clerks of St. Nicholas?”
“Worse!” was the gruff mutter in reply. “Down, Leon: I am in no mood for thy freaks!”
“What is it, Adam? Have the keepers carried their complaints to the King, of the venison we have consumed, with small thanks to him?”
“Prince Edward is at Alton! What think you of that, Sir? Come to seek through copse and brake for the arrant deer-stealer and outlaw, and all his gang!”
“Why, there’s preferment for you!” said the boy, laughing. “High game for the heir of the throne! And his gang! Hold up your head, Leonillo: you and I come in for a share of the honour!”
“Hold up your head!” said the outlaw bitterly. “You may chance to hold it as high as your father’s is, for all your gibes and jests, my young Lord, if the Longshanks gets a hold of you, which our Lady forefend.”
“Nay, I think better of my Cousin Longshanks. I loved him well when I was his page at Hereford: he was tenderer to me than ever my brothers were; and I scarce think he would hang, draw, and quarter me now.”
“You may try, if you are not the better guided.”
“How did you hear these tidings?” inquired the boy, changing his mood to a graver one.
“From the monk to whom you confessed a fortnight back. Did you let him know your lineage?”
“How could I do otherwise?”
“He looked like a man who would keep a secret; and yet—”
“Shame—shame to doubt the good father!”
“Nay, I do not say that I do; but I would have the secret in as few men’s power as may be. Nevertheless, I thank the good brother. He called out to me as he saw me about to enter the town, that if I had any tenderness for my own life, I had best not show myself there; and he went on to tell me how the Prince was come to his hunting-lodge, with hawk and hound indeed, but for the following of men rather than bird or beast.”
“And what would you have me do?”
“Be instantly on the way to the coast, ere the search begins; and there, either for love of Sir Simon the righteous or for that gilt knife of yours, we may get ferried over to the Isle of Wight, whence—But what ails the dog! Whist, Leonillo! Hold your throat: I can hear naught but your clamour!”
The hound was in fact barking with a tremendous lion-like note; and when, on reiterated commands from his master and the outlaw, he changed it for a low continuous growling like distant thunder, a step and a rustling of the boughs became audible.
“They are upon us already!” cried the boy, snatching up and stringing his bow.
“Leave me to deal with him!” returned the outlaw. “Off to Alton: the good father will receive you to sanctuary!”
“Flee!—never!” cried the boy. “You teaching my father’s
