The victory of this queer unknown was popular. Nat was a great bully and braggart, and many of them had suffered insult at his hands. Therefore, when the beggar went to fetch his prize from the Sheriff's own hands, there was great cheering and applause. He found Monceux seated in a handsome booth, with his daughter and her maids, near by the archery rings. Here the shooting was in progress.
The Sheriff narrowly watched each competitor, and glanced often towards Mistress Monceux. The demoiselle Marie had one of her women sitting near her feet, so that every movement she made might be observed. The Sheriff's daughter signalled "No," and "No" again to her father as the various bowmen took their places.
The beggar paused to watch the contest. It seemed to amuse him exceedingly.
Master Patch was thus for some minutes close to the Sheriff's tent. His patched eye was turned towards it, and he seemed to be blissfully unaware of the great man's near presence. But he had taken due note, nevertheless, of Master Monceux and his cold daughter, and the maid sitting so forlornly upon the hard ground at the latter's feet.
One of the Nottingham men, a tanner by trade, had so far been most successful, and, like Nat, he began to be disdainful of the rest, and to swagger it somewhat each time his turn to shoot came round. "The prize will surely be thine, Arthur-à-Bland," cried Monceux, loudly clapping his hands together after this fellow had made a fair shot.
"Indeed, I do not think that Master Hood himself would beat me to-day," admitted Arthur-à-Bland, conceitedly.
The beggar heard both remark and answer. "Thou speakest well, gossip," he said, "here in Nottingham town; yet I would venture to advise thee, were this pretty place in Sherwood and the bold Robin within earshot."
The archer turned towards him. "What do you know, old Patch-and-Rags, of Robin Hood?" he sneered, angrily.
"I know too much of him," answered the beggar. "Once, like you, gossip, I boasted of my skill with the bow—'twas in Sherwood, whilst I was walking with a stranger who had met me very civilly upon the road. Says he: 'If you can hit yon mark I'll know you a better archer than Robin Hood.' So I flew my shaft arrogantly, and 'twas a tidy shot, near two hundred paces. My arrow struck the mark fairly. 'What say you, stranger?' says I. He made for reply such a bowshot as never I have seen before; for, having stepped back a score of yards, he yet was able to speed his arrow so cleverly as to split mine own from end to end. 'Thou art Robin Hood,' I said then, and I had fear upon me."
"What then?" asked Arthur-à-Bland, composedly.