So the Sheriff’s men laid hold of Little John and bound him fast with many cords, so fearful were they lest he should escape. And the Sheriff laughed aloud in glee, and thought of how he should avenge his stolen plate, and determined to make a good day’s work of it.
“By the Saints!” he said, “you shall be drawn by dale and down, and hanged high on a hill in Barnesdale this very day.”
“Hang and be hanged!” retorted the prisoner. “You may fail of your purpose if it be Heaven’s will.”
Back down the hill and across the moor went the company speedily, for they feared a rescue. And as they went the stragglers joined them. Here a man got up feebly out of the ditch and rubbed his pate and fell in like a chicken with the pip going for its dinner. Yonder came hobbling a man with a lame ankle, or another with his shins torn by the briars or another with his jacket all muddy from the marsh. So in truth it was a tatterdemalion crew that limped and straggled and wandered back into Barnesdale that day. Yet all were merry, for the Sheriff had promised them flagons of wine, and moreover they were to hang speedily the boldest outlaw in England, next to Robin Hood himself.
The gallows was quickly put up and a new rope provided.
“Now up with you!” commanded the Sheriff, “and let us see if your greenwood tricks will avail you to-morrow.”
“I would that I had bold Robin’s horn,” muttered poor John; “methinks ‘tis all up with me even as the Sheriff hath spoken.”
In good sooth the time was dire and pressing. The rope was placed around the prisoner’s neck and the men prepared to haul away.
“Are you ready?” called the Sheriff. “One—two—”
But before the “three” left his lips the faint sound of a silver bugle came floating over the hill.