on
the green grass near the railing that kept them from off the range.
In the great tent the archers were gathering by twos and threes; some
talking loudly of the fair shots each man had made in his day; some
looking well to their bows, drawing a string betwixt the fingers to see
that there was no fray upon it, or inspecting arrows, shutting one eye
and peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and
true, for neither bow nor shaft should fail at such a time and for such
a prize. And never was such a company of yeomen as were gathered at
Nottingham Town that day, for the very best archers of merry England
had come to this shooting match. There was Gill o' the Red Cap, the
Sheriff's own head archer, and Diccon Cruikshank of Lincoln Town, and
Adam o' the Dell, a man of Tamworth, of threescore years and more, yet
hale and lusty still, who in his time had shot in the famous match
at Woodstock, and had there beaten that renowned archer, Clym o' the
Clough. And many more famous men of the longbow were there, whose names
have been handed down to us in goodly ballads of the olden time.

But now all the benches were filled with guests, lord and lady, burgher
and dame, when at last the Sheriff himself came with his lady, he riding
with stately mien upon his milk-white horse and she upon her brown
filly. Upon his head he wore a purple velvet cap, and purple velvet was
his robe, all trimmed about with rich ermine; his jerkin and hose were
of sea-green silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the pointed toes
fastened to his garters with golden chains. A golden chain hung about
his neck, and at his collar was a great carbuncle set in red gold. His
lady was dressed in blue velvet, all trimmed with swan's down. So they
made a gallant sight as they rode along side by side, and all the people
shouted from where they crowded across the space from the gentlefolk;
so the Sheriff and his lady came to their place, where men-at-arms, with
hauberk and spear, stood about, waiting for them.

Then when the Sheriff and his dame had sat down, he bade his herald
wind upon his silver horn; who thereupon sounded three blasts that
came echoing cheerily back from the gray walls of Nottingham. Then the
archers stepped forth to their places, while all the folks shouted with
a mighty voice, each man calling upon his favorite yeoman. "Red Cap!"
cried some; "Cruikshank!" cried others; "Hey for William o' Leslie!"
shouted others yet again; w