Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Song of Marion’s Men.
It was several days after the events of the last chapter, and the scene was one of wild and woodland beauty. Huge cypresses rose on every hand, festooned with parasite plants; broad glades opened here and there in all directions; and vast arcades stretched off in the distance, groined and vaulted like a Gothic minster. It was just such a spot as Robin Hood might have chosen in old Sherwood. Here were gnarled monarchs of the forest which had braved the lightnings and the storms of a thousand years: here were natural bowers, formed by the interlacing branches of the trees, such as fair Rosamond might have been sheltered in: here were vines, drooping from the huge branches, like curtains, or hanging in festoons across the way, like the draped banners of a mighty host. The whole scene was full of picturesque beauty. And the effect was heightened by fires, which, glimmering here and there between the trees, cast wild and flickering shades along the sward, and gave the prospect the air of an enchanted forest. Fragrant plants filled the evening atmosphere with delicious perfume—the laurel, the shrub, and, more exquisite than all, the sweet-scented jessamine.