"Yea, these minstrels do wot well how to reach the heart of the people," said Rugge, "and a good stirring rime can do more in a moment than much preaching can do in many months."
"A rime, a rime, give us one now," they called to the minstrel.
"Yea, a rime, a rime, a geste!" ran through the room.
The boy hung back for an instant, and then, putting his rebec tenderly to his chin, launched forth upon the song that of all others stirred the blood the quickest, the song so dear to the people that scarce any gathering would disperse until the rafters rang with its well-conned words:—
"'Lithe and lysten, gentylmen,
That be of freebore blode;
I shall you tell of a good yeman,
His name was Robyn Hode.'"
The roisterers looked up and left their hands from the tankards, the nodding heads first stiffened and then kept time to the rhythm, the sodden faces brightened, while the young minstrel, in a peculiarly sweet voice, sang on of Robyn's men asking for orders before they should set out through the green woods:—
"'Where we shall take, where we shall leve,