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gates, for the brethren dare not drive him out.’
    There was a roar of laughter from the listening men, and Ket-the-Smith said: ‘Yet I have heard of this turbulent monk as a kind man to the poor. Is it not so, Will Scarlet?’
    Scarlet nodded. ‘Any villein of the dales around here will tell you that.’
    Robin had been listening intently, his hand still on Much’s shoulder, and now he said: ‘To-morrow morning I will go and seek out this rebel friar, for ’tis in my mind that we need a chaplain.’
    Next morning he set off, after bidding Little John and twenty of the outlaws to follow in an hour, and turned his face north-west towards Fountains Dale. He was mounted on one of the few horses they possessed, its hooves sinking noiselessly into the carpet of fallen leaves, the bridle-bit jingling gaily as he rode. He wore a shabby leather jerkin, a steel cap on his head, and carried sword and buckler, and the great red yew bow, from which he was never parted, was slung across his shoulders. He andhis mount sniffed the bitter tang of the autumn morning together, and were in perfect harmony, for they had known each other for some time now and were good friends.
    It was towards noon that Robin came at last towards the edge of the forest, and looking down through the trees, saw Fountains Dale lying lush and pleasant below him, with the gracious lines of the Abbey afar off among its golden trees and silver fish-ponds. He dismounted and tied his horse’s bridle to the low-hanging branch of an ancient thorn tree; and then, after fondling the animal’s arched neck for a moment, began to make his way down into the dale.
    Once he thought he heard a distant hoof-beat behind him, and paused, looking back into the forest gloom and listening intently. He bethought him that Fountains Dale was uncomfortably near to York, and since he had come north into the territory of his old enemy the Abbot of St. Mary’s he had been very much on his guard. But the sound did not come again, and Robin went on, dropping steadily downhill through the usual outcrop of the forest—hazel and rowan, crack-willow and wild fruit-trees—until he came to the verge of the lush green valley-floor, and here he paused to look about him.
    A short way in front of him, across a broad strip of open turf, ran a slow, peaceful stream, reflecting in its silver heart the alders and brown-tipped rushes through which it flowed. A little distance upstream, between the water and the forest, was a small, strong-seeming house of weatherworn timbers. It was obviously built for defence, for there was a stockade around it, which had taken root and sent out living twigs, and its walls were pierced witharrow-slits; and Robin thought that this must be the forest stronghold he was seeking. He began to make his way upstream towards it, and as he rounded a great tangle of scrub matted together with old-man’s-beard, he came upon the friar himself.
    A man of gigantic stature was the Curtel Friar, clad in the rough homespun habit of his order, and he sat with his elbow on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing down thoughtfully into the water which flowed, just there, over a stone-paved ford.
    Robin smiled to himself, and resolved to try the mettle of this huge, thoughtful man; and he drew his dagger from his belt. On silent feet he moved nearer over the soft turf, and brought his hand down on the bowed shoulder of the monk, who looked up with a start, revealing a large, guileless face and a pair of mild blue eyes. Robin bent over him, holding the point of his dagger to his throat.
    ‘Good day to you, Holy Father,’ said he. ‘I am minded to cross this stream, and I am minded to cross dry shod; so you shall carry me over on your back—it’s broad enough!’
    The friar smiled affably. ‘Friend,’ said he, ‘take that bodkin of yours from my throat, and I will most willingly carry you across the stream.’ And as Robin withdrew the dagger, he got slowly to his feet, and