Richard of England, the Lion Heart, he whom all thought to be safely out of the country—some said in a foreign prison, others that he was fighting the paynims in the Holy Land. In any case, he had returned, and now all such as the Sheriff and the Bishop of Hereford must put their houses in order, and say, once and for all, that they would be loyal and faithful and plot no more with fickle princes behind their true King's back.
Sir Richard of the Lee, whose son had so lately come home to his father's castle, could, an he had liked, have explained much to them. He knew that the King was in England; for had he not but a few hours since, parted from him with a pardon in his hand and happiness in his heart?
Friar Tuck, having been forced to run all night in order that he might be able to bring the news as to Little John in to Robin, had compensated himself for the loss of his repose by lying abed the better part of the next day. Stirring things were going forward in the old city of Nottingham, as we know; but only at dusk, when all was over and Robin and them all were safely lodged in Sir Richard's stronghold, did the worthy friar open his little wicket gate and remember him of his fasting dogs.
He fed them and passed the remaining hours of day in putting them through their tricks; then, feeling that he had well earned a good meal, the friar took out some sumptuous fare from his larder and arranged it conveniently upon the small wooden bench in his cell. He then lit a taper, as the night was at hand, bolted and barred his door, and drew his seat close to the promising board.
He uprolled his eyes, and had commenced a Latin grace, when suddenly came interruption unpleasant and alarming. One of his dogs began to bark, deeply and resentfully. The others followed him in the same note, changing the calm stillness of the night into discordant, frenzied clamor. "Now, who, in the name of all the saints, cometh here?" exclaimed Tuck, wrathfully, proceeding to bundle his supper back into the small larder. "May perdition and all the furies grant that he may evermore know the pangs of an empty stomach!"
His pious wishes were rudely interrupted by a loud knocking upon the door of his hermitage. "Open, open!" cried a strident voice.
"I have no means of helping you, poor traveller," roared the friar. "Go your way into Gamewell, 'tis but a few miles hence upon a straight road."
"I will not stir another yard," said the voice, determinedly; "open your door, or I will batter it down with the hilt of my sword."
The priest then, with anger glowing in his eyes, unbarred the door, and flung it open. Before him stood the figure of a knight, clad in black armor and with vizor down.