Once again Robin shot, carelessly as before. And again the arrow split that of his opponent. There was a hush over the crowd, in the midst of which the sheriff’s son once more aimed at the target. This time his arrow found almost the very centre. Wild cheers went up, and many called to Robin to better that.
Once more he stood poised, his great bow bent. Then he let fly. The arrow sang through the air, and quivered in the centre of the target, close beside the other.
“I think,” said Robin, in a clear voice, “that when ye come to measure ye will find mine the closer by the fraction of an inch.” And as the crowd pressed about the target a wild shout told that he spoke truth.
“It’s Robin, bold Robin hath won,” they cried.
“You are a wizard, Sir,” said the sheriff’s son, gracefully enough. But his father frowned.
“Give me my prize,” quoth Robin, “for I and my men must be away.”
“Not so fast,” returned the sheriff. “There is much to be done first. If you cannot abide the proper time, you must even leave your prize behind.”
Murmurs from those near greeted this speech.
“Nay, nay, fair play,” they muttered. “Englishmen will not stand by to see what is fairly won denied to him who won it. Give Robin his prize, hear you. Your son is a great archer, but he lost this day ...” with other such protests.
But nothing cared the sheriff for their growls. Two or three of his men were by, and these he set before the pavilion.