pause of horror silenced each murmur of the armed spectators,
who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not
a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of
Locksley was then heard, “Shout, yeomen!—–the
den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his
spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the Trysting-tree
in the Harthill-walk; for there at break of day will
we make just partition among our own bands, together
with our worthy allies in this great deed of vengeance.”
Trust me each state must have its policies:
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk,
Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline;
For not since Adam wore his verdant apron,
Hath man with man in social union dwelt,
But laws were made to draw that union closer.
Old Play
The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the oak
forest. The green boughs glittered with all their
pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn from the
covert of high fern to the more open walks of the
greenwood, and no huntsman was there to watch or intercept
the stately hart, as he paced at the head of the antler’d
herd.
The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree
in the Harthill-walk, where they had spent the night
in refreshing themselves after the fatigues of the
siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many with
hearing and recounting the events of the day, and
computing the heaps of plunder which their success
had placed at the disposal of their Chief.
The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding
that much was consumed, a great deal of plate, rich
armour, and splendid clothing, had been secured by
the exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could
be appalled by no danger when such rewards were in
view. Yet so strict were the laws of their society,
that no one ventured to appropriate any part of the
booty, which was brought into one common mass, to
be at the disposal of their leader.
The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not however
the same to which Locksley had conducted Gurth and
Wamba in the earlier part of the story, but one which
was the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half
a mile of the demolished castle of Torquilstone.
Here Locksley assumed his seat—–a
throne of turf erected under the twisted branches
of the huge oak, and the silvan followers were gathered
around him. He assigned to the Black Knight a
seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon
his left.
“Pardon my freedom, noble sirs,” he said,
“but in these glades I am monarch—–they
are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck
but little of my power, were I, within my own dominions,
to yield place to mortal man.—–Now,
sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal
Friar? A mass amongst Christian men best begins
a busy morning.”—–No one had
seen the Clerk of Copmanhurst. “Over gods
forbode!” said the outlaw chief, “I trust
the jolly priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot
a thought too late. Who saw him since the castle
was ta’en?”
