But Maid Marian only scolds the more, and at last goes away leaving the others in sad bewilderment. Of course this was not Maid Marian at all, but Mother Maudlin, the old witch, who had taken her form in order to make mischief.
Meanwhile the real Maid Marian discovers that the venison has been sent away to Mother Maudlin's. With tears in her eyes she declares that she gave no such orders, and Scathlock is sent to bring it back.
When Mother Maudlin comes to thank Maid Marian for her present, she is told that no such present was ever intended, and so she in anger curses the cook, casting spells upon him:
"The spit stand still, no broches turn
Before the fire, but let it burn.
Both sides and haunches, till the whole
Converted be into one coal.
The pain we call St. Anton's fire,
The gout, or what we can desire,
To cramp a cook in every limb,
Before they dine yet, seize on him."
Soon Friar Tuck comes in. "Hear you how," he says,
"Poor Tom the cook is taken! all his joints
Do crack, as if his limbs were tied with points.
His whole frame slackens; and a kind of rack,
Runs down along the spindils of his back;
A gout, or cramp, now seizeth on his head,
Then falls into his feet; his knees are lead;
And he can stir his either hand no more
Than a dead stump, to his office, as before."
He is bewitched, that is certain. And certain too it is that Mother Maudlin has done it. So Robin and his men set out to hunt for her, while Friar Tuck and Much the Miller's son stay to look after the dinner in the poor cook's stead. Robin soon meets Mother Maudlin who has again taken the form of Maid Marian. But this time Robin suspects her. He seizes the witch by her enchanted belt. It breaks, and she comes back to her own shape, and Robin goes off, leaving her cursing.
Mother Maudlin then calls for Puck-hairy, her goblin. He appears, crying:
"At your beck, madam."
"O Puck my goblin! I have lost my belt,
The strong thief, Robin Outlaw, forced it from me,"
wails Mother Maudlin. But Puck-hairy pays little attention to her complaints.
"They are other clouds and blacker threat you, dame;
You must be wary, and pull in your sails,
And yield unto the weather of the tempest.
You think your power's infinite as your malice,
And would do all your anger prompts you to;
But you must wait occasions, and obey them:
Sail in an egg-shell, make a straw your mast,
A cobweb all your cloth, and pass unseen,
Till you have 'scaped the rocks that are about you.