“Go,” said Robin to Little John, “and invite yonder horseman to dinner.”
Little John bounded away, and soon came before a young man, who was riding in a melancholy manner, with the bridle hanging loose on the horse’s neck, and his eyes drooping towards the ground.
“Whither go you?” said Little John.
“Whithersoever my horse pleases,” said the young man.
“And that shall be,” said Little John, “whither I please to lead him. I am commissioned to invite you to dine with my master.”
“Who is your master?” said the young man.
“Robin Hood,” said Little John.
“The bold outlaw?” said the stranger. “Neither he nor you should have made me turn an inch aside yesterday; but to-day I care not.”
“Then it is better for you,” said Little John, “that you came to-day than yesterday, if you love dining in a whole skin: for my master is the pink of courtesy: but if his guests prove stubborn, he bastes them and his venison together, while the friar says mass before meat.”
The young man made no answer, and scarcely seemed to hear what Little John was saying, who therefore took the horse’s bridle and led him to where Robin and his foresters were setting forth their dinner. Robin seated the young man next to Marian. Recovering a little from his stupor, he looked with much amazement at her, and the baron, and Robin, and the friar; listened to their conversation, and seemed much astonished to find himself in such holy and courtly company. Robin helped him largely to rumble-pie and cygnet and pheasant, and the other dainties of his table; and the friar pledged him in ale and wine, and exhorted him to make good cheer. But the young man drank little, ate less, spake nothing, and every now and then sighed heavily.