lat glass was clear and disappointing.

"Let me take your place, Robin," said Mistress Fitzooth, impatiently.

But now the green of the glass began to fade; and it seemed to become
opaque and misty. Robin dimly saw in it a sudden miniature picture of a
glade in the forest of Sherwood, the trees moving under a south-west
wind, and the grasses and flowers bowing together and trembling.

It seemed to be summer; the bracken was high and green. A man, clad in
doublet and hose of Lincoln green, strode forward into the center of the
picture. He was a slim fellow, not over tall, with a likeable face,
bearded and bronzed; and a forester, too, if one might judge by the
longbow which he carried. He wore no badge nor mark of servitude,
however, and walked as a free man. His face, vaguely familiar, wore an
expectant look. He turned his glances right and left. A low call sounded
from the bushes on his left. Robin could hear it as a sound afar off.

The man cautiously moved towards the verge of the glade, and as he did
so there came a shower of light laughter from the undergrowth. Pushing
aside the bracken came forth two arms; a merry face appeared; then,
quick as a flash, upstood a page, gaily clad, with black curly hair and
strange eyes.

The man opened his arms to the lad, and then Robin saw that 'twas no boy
at all. It was a maid, joyous with life, playing such a prank as this
that she might bring herself to her true love's side.

Robin watched them delightedly. In some way he knew that in this
mirrored picture _he_ was concerned to a curious degree; and when a cold
cloud passing above the glade took the sun and the light from it Robin
felt an intense anxiety.

"Can you see aught now, Robin of the Woods?" murmured the soft voice of
the wizard, and Robin would have asked him who was the man, if his
tongue had been at command.

His eyes took all the strength of his brain. They waited furiously for
the cloud to pass.

When all had become clear again the man was alone. His face was
sorrowful, ill, and old. He was fitting an arrow to his bow, and his
hand trembled as his fingers drew the string. He drew it slowly, almost
wearily, yet with a practised gesture. Robin, watching him, saw the
arrow leap forth from the picture.

"He is dying and shoots his last arrow--is it not so?" he uttered
thickly, striving to understand.

While he spoke the vision faded and was gone.

CHAPTER IV

Robin started back angrily and fa