“And the plague go with him!” cried Bennet. “He has thieves’ heels: he can run, by St. Banbury! But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge him less!”

“Nay, but what made he by the church?” asked Sir Oliver. “I am shrewdly afeared there has been mischief here.—Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down from your horse, and search thoroughly among the yews.”

Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned, carrying a paper.

“This writing was pinned to the church door,” he said, handing it to the parson. “I found-naught else, sir parson.”

“Now, by the power of Mother Church,” cried Sir Oliver, “but this runs hard on sacrilege! For the king’s good pleasure, or the lord of the manor—well! But that every run-the-hedge in a green jerkin should fasten papers to the chancel door—nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard; and men have burned for matters of less weight! But what have we here? The light fails apace. Good Master Richard, y’ have young eyes. Read me, I pray, this libel.”

Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand and read it aloud. It contained some lines of a very rugged doggerel, hardly even rhyming, written in a gross character, and most uncouthly spelt. With the spelling somewhat bettered, this is how they ran:—

“I had four blak arrows under my belt, Four for the greefs that I have felt, Four for the nomber of ill menne That have oppressid me now and then. One is gone; one is wele sped; Old Apulyaird is ded. One is for Maister Bennet Hatch, That burned Grimstone, walls and thatch. One for Sir Oliver Oates, That cut Sir Harry Shelton’s throat. Sir Daniel, ye shull have the fourt; We shall think it fair sport. Ye shull each have your own part, A blak arrow in each blak heart. Get ye to your knees for to pray: Ye are ded theeves, by yea and nay! “Jon Amend-All of the Green Wood, And his jolly fellaweship.

“Item, we have mo arrowes and goode hempen cord for otheres of your following.”

“Now, well-a-day for charity and the Christian graces!” cried Sir Oliver lamentably. “Sirs, this is an ill world, and groweth daily worse. I will swear upon the cross of Holywood I am as innocent of that good knight’s hurt, whether in act or purpose, as the babe unchristened. Neither was his throat cut; for therein they are again in error, as there still live credible witnesses to show.”

“It boots not, sir parson,” said Bennet. “Here is unseasonable talk.”