The Sheriff glowered furiously upon this ragged archer who had refused his service, taken his prize without a word of thanks, and snubbed his daughter. He would have spoken, but his proud daughter restrained him. He called to his guard and bade them watch the beggar. But Rob had already turned swiftly, lost himself in the throng, and headed straight for the town gate.
That same evening within a forest glade a group of men—some twoscore clad in Lincoln green—sat round a fire roasting venison and making merry. Suddenly a twig crackled and they sprang to their feet and seized their weapons.
“I look for the widow’s sons,” a clear voice said, “and I come alone.”
Instantly the three men stepped forward.
“Tis Rob!” they cried; “welcome to Sherwood Forest, Rob!” And all the men came and greeted him; for they had heard his story.
Then one of the widow’s sons, Stout Will, stepped forth and said:
“Comrades all, ye know that our band has sadly lacked a leader—one of birth, breeding, and skill. Belike we have found that leader in this young man. And I and my brothers have told him that the band would choose that one who should bring the Sheriff to shame this day and capture his golden arrow. Is it not so?”
The band gave assent.
Will turned to Rob. “What news bring you from Nottingham town?” asked he.
Rob laughed. “In truth I brought the Sheriff to shame for mine own pleasure, and won his golden arrow to boot. But as to the prize ye must e’en take my word, for I bestowed it upon a maid.”