"I must not tune my harp nor pluck the strings in melody until the bride and bridegroom have come," Robin answered, wisely; "such a thing would bring ill-fortune on us, and on them."
"You will not have long to wait," cried the Bishop, "for here they come. Stand on one side, worthy people."
He busied himself in welcome of the bridegroom—a grave old man, dressed up very fine. The bride was clothed in white samite, and her hair shone like the sun. Her pretty eyes were dark with weeping; but she walked with a proud air, as women will who feel that they are martyring themselves for their love's sake. She had but two maids with her, roguish girls both. One held up her mistress's gown from the ground; the other carried flowers in plenty.
"Now by all the songs I have ever sung, surely never have marriage bells rung for so strange a pair!" cried Robin, boldly. He had stopped them as they were passing into the church. "Lady," he asked, "do you love this man? For if you do not then you are on your way to commit sacrilege."
"Stand aside, fool," cried the bridegroom, wrathfully.
"Do you love this man?" persisted Robin. "Speak now or never. I am a minstrel, and I know maids' hearts. Many songs have I made in their honor, and never have I found worse things in them than pride or vanity."
"I give my hand to him, minstrel, and that is enough," the girl answered at last. She made a movement towards the aisle.
"And Allan?" whispered Robin, looking straight into her eyes.
At this she gave a little gasp of fear and love, then glanced irresolutely towards the shrivelled baron. "I will not marry you!" she cried, suddenly.
Robin laughed and, dropping the harp, clapped his horn to his lips. Even as the archers sprang upon him, the greenwood men appeared.