Up rose the King in amazement and anger.
“Gilbert is not yet beaten!” he cried. “Did he not shoot within the mark thrice? And that is allowed a best in all the rules of archery.”
Robin bowed low.
“As it please Your Majesty!” quoth he. “But may I be allowed to place the mark for the second shooting?”
The King waved his hand sullenly.. Thereupon Robin prepared another old trick of the greenwood, and got him a light, peeled willow wand which he set in the ground in place of the target.
“There, friend Gilbert,” called he gaily; “belike you can hit that!”
“I can scarce see it from here,” said Gilbert, “much less hit it. Nathless, for the King’s honor, I will try.”
But this final shot proved his undoing, and his shaft flew harmlessly by the thin white streak. Then came Robin to his stand again, and picked his arrow with exceeding care, and tried his string. Amid a breathless pause he drew the good yew bow back to his ear, glanced along the shaft, and let the feathered missile fly. Straight it sped, singing a keen note of triumph as it went. The willow wand was split in twain, as though it had met a hunter’s knife.
“Verily, I think your bow is armed with witchcraft!” cried Gilbert. “For I did not believe such shooting possible.”
“You should come to see our merry lads in the greenwood,” retorted Robin lightly. “For willow wands do not grow upon the cobblestones of London town.”