alked to and fro
in the moonlight.

Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the
alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six
arrows placed on the string were pointed toward the quarter from which
the travelers approached, when their guide, being recognized, was
welcomed with every token of respect and attachment.

"Where is the miller?" was Locksley's first question.

"On the road toward Rotherham."

"With how many?" demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.

"With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please Saint Nicholas."

"Devoutly spoken," said Locksley. "And where is Allan-a-Dale?"

"Walked up toward the [v]Watling Street, to watch for the Prior of
Jorvaulx."

"That is well thought on also," replied the captain. "And where is the
friar?"

"In his cell."

"Thither will I go," said Locksley. "Disperse and seek your companions.
Collect what force you can, for there's game afoot that must be hunted
hard and will turn to bay. Meet me here at daybreak. And stay," he
added; "I have forgotten what is most necessary of the whole. Two of you
take the road quickly toward Torquilstone, the castle of
[v]Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been [v]masquerading in
such guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither. Watch
them closely, for, even if they reach the castle before we collect our
force, our honor is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to
do so. Keep a good watch on them, therefore, and despatch one of your
comrades to bring the news of the yeomen thereabouts."

The men promised obedience and departed on their several errands.
Meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now looked upon him
with great respect as well as some fear, pursued their way to the chapel
where dwelt the friar mentioned by Locksley. Presently they reached a
little moonlit glade, in front of which stood an ancient and ruinous
chapel and beside it a rude hermitage of stone half-covered with ivy
vines.

The sounds which proceeded at that moment from the latter place were
anything but churchly. In fact, the hermit and another voice were
performing at the full extent of very powerful lungs an old
drinking-song, of which this was the burden:

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
Bully boy, bully boy;
Come trowl the brown bowl to me:
Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave drinking;
Come trowl the brown bowl to me.