OUR FIFTH MEETING.
REYNOLDE GRENELEFE.
This evening we resumed our old seats under the sycamore tree in the shrubbery, when I thus continued my tales:—
“After the departure of the knight of Wierysdale, Little John determined upon seeking an adventure, that he might have something to boast of among his companions, when he returned to Barnesdale woods. By chance he learned that there was to be a grand archery meeting near Nottingham, and that the high sheriff was to award a prize to the best marksman. Without delay, he rode across the country bypaths which no one but a daring forester would have chosen, and upon the next morning reached the appointed ground, just as the sports were about to commence.
“The best bowmen of the county had entered the lists, and as a silver bugle-horn was to be awarded to the victor, each man had resolved to do his best to gain it. Upon the appearance of the new competitor, they looked at each other, and after whispering together, laughed at the presumption of the stranger, who had dared to offer himself as their rival. One by one the well-known and oft victorious archers advanced, and shot their arrows so near the centre of the target that it was next to impossible to say whose aim had been the truest; Little John shot last, and with such success that his arrow knocked out one of the very nearest of his opponents’. The sheriff, surprised at his dexterity, rode up, examined the target and declared that he could not pronounce a decision. At the suggestion of the forester, to whom the others now paid greater respect, a thick white wand, which a ranger had been using to keep back the spectators, was placed upright in the ground at twenty paces farther distance. Again the sports began.—The Nottingham men supported their reputation, and no less than three arrows stuck in the mark; the outlaw fired last, and also hit the wand. These four again shot, when two of the bowmen missed, and the contest remained to be decided between the first marksman of Nottingham, and the bold stranger.
“The populace had often given vent to their admiration of such gallant archery, by loud huzzas, but now a breathless silence prevailed. The sheriff, anxious for the honour of his county, rode up and down in a perfect fever of excitement, and spoke encouraging words to the Nottingham champion. The man coolly took up his position and drew his bow with the greatest care, but the shaft unfortunately flew half an inch above the mark. Little John smiled, advanced and shot his arrow a third time into the middle of the wand. A feeling of disappointment seemed to spread over the spectators, and the defeated archer could ill conceal his chagrin.
“‘Tell me, my good friend,’ said the sheriff as he rode up to the victor, and presented him with the prize, ‘what name bearest thou? and what country dost thou dwell in?’
“‘My name is Reynolde Grenelefe,’ replied the forester; ‘I was born and bred in merry Holdernesse, and am now roving from town to town to seek a better fortune.’
“‘By St. Hubert,’ rejoined the sheriff, ‘thou art the best archer that e’er drew bow in Nottingham. Wilt dwell with me, and protect the king’s deer from the cursed outlaws?’