elancholy sound, like someone in lamentation.

"Ha!" quoth Will Scarlet, "this must be looked into. There is someone in
distress nigh to us here."

"I know not," quoth Will Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, "our
master is ever rash about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but,
for my part, I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils.
Yon is a man's voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always ready
to get himself out from his own pothers."

Then out spake Will Scarlet boldly. "Now out upon thee, to talk in that
manner, Stutely! Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the
trouble of this poor creature."

"Nay," quoth Stutely, "thou dost leap so quickly, thou'lt tumble into
the ditch. Who said I would not go? Come along, say I." Thus saying,
he led the way, the others following, till, after they had gone a short
distance, they came to a little opening in the woodland, whence a brook,
after gurgling out from under the tangle of overhanging bushes, spread
out into a broad and glassy-pebbled pool. By the side of this pool, and
beneath the branches of a willow, lay a youth upon his face, weeping
aloud, the sound of which had first caught the quick ears of Stutely.
His golden locks were tangled, his clothes were all awry, and everything
about him betokened sorrow and woe. Over his head, from the branches of
the osier, hung a beautiful harp of polished wood inlaid with gold and
silver in fantastic devices. Beside him lay a stout ashen bow and half a
score of fair, smooth arrows.

"Halloa!" shouted Will Stutely, when they had come out from the forest
into the little open spot. "Who art thou, fellow, that liest there
killing all the green grass with salt water?"

Hearing the voice, the stranger sprang to his feet and; snatching up
his bow and fitting a shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill
might befall him.

"Truly," said one of the yeomen, when they had seen the young stranger's
face, "I do know that lad right well. He is a certain minstrel that I
have seen hereabouts more than once. It was only a week ago I saw him
skipping across the hill like a yearling doe. A fine sight he was then,
with a flower at his ear and a cock's plume stuck in his cap; but now,
methinks, our cockerel is shorn of his gay feathers."

"Pah!" cried Will Stutely, coming up to the stranger, "wipe thine eyes,
man! I do hate to see a tall, stout fellow so sniveling like a girl
of fourteen over a dea