r. "A
wealthy baron has taken my love from me, and will marry her this very
day; so I have come into these quiet woods that I may kill myself, for
never can I live without my Fennel."

"Is that her name? 'Tis very quaint."

"'Tis a fitting name, gossip. Fennel means 'Worthy of all praise,' and
she is the most worthy of all maids."

"Perchance you do not know many maids, friend," said Robin. "Tell me, is
she dark-haired, and are her eyes sweet as violets?"

"In sooth, her eyes are blue enough, gossip," said Allan; "but her hair
is like finespun gold. And she has a little straight nose, and such a
tender smile. Marry, when I think upon her many perfections my heart
doth leap, to sink again when I mind me that I have lost her."

"And why have you lost her, Allan-a-Dale?"

"Look you, 'tis this way. The Normans overrun us, and are in such favor
that none may say them nay. This baron coveted the land wherein my love
dwells; so her brother, who was lord of it, was one day found still and
stark--killed whilst hunting, folks say. Thus the maid became
heir-at-law, and the baron wooed her, thrusting me aside."

"Nay, but surely----" began Robin.

"Hear me out, gossip," Allan said. "You think I am light overborne, no
doubt; but never should this Norman dog have triumphed had it been man
to man. But who can deal with a snake in th' grass? The wretch has
poisoned my Fennel against me, and 'tis she who has cast me into
despair, while she is to be wedded with mine enemy."

"Does she love you, Allan?"

"Once she loved me right well. Here is the little ring which she gave me
when we were betrothed."

"Enough," said Robin, "this wedding shall not be. Can you keep your own
counsel? Follow me then; and on your love for Fennel, see nothing of the
way in which I lead you. Hasten."

He brought the minstrel into Barnesdale woods and to their most secret
haunt. Then he summoned the greenwood men and told them first of the
Sheriff's plans and then gave out the grievous story of Allan-a Dale.

"Where is this marriage to be held?" asked Little John.

"In Plympton church," sighed the minstrel.

"Then to Plympton we will go, by my beard!" cried the giant, "and
Monceux may meanwhile scour Barnesdale for us in vain! Thus virtue is
plainly its own reward."

"Well planned, indeed, Little John. Fill quivers, friends, and let us
go. This shall be a strange marriage-day for your baron, Allan--if the
lady be not stubborn. You must move he