"And who do you then suppose the buyer was?" inquired Shakespeare.

"Who?" said the old host, "why, who but Robin Goodfellow, his own self!

Who else should it be?"

"True," said Shakespeare, laughing; "there's no question on't."

"A song, a song," said d.i.c.k, the shepherd. "Let fair Mistress Anne sing the song about Robin."

Anne Hathaway accordingly, in a marvellously sweet voice, and to the old tune of Dulcina, sang some verses, which, although not word for word the same, in some sort were like the following stanzas:--

I.

From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night sports here.

What revel rout It kept about

I will o'ersee And merry be In every corner where I go, And make good sport with ho, ho, ho!

II.

When house or hearth doth s.l.u.ttish lie, I pinch the maidens black and blue; The bed-clothes from the bed pull I, And lay them naked all to view.

'Twixt sleep and wake I do them take, And on the clay-cold floor them throw; If out they cry, Then forth I fly, And loudly laugh I, ho, ho, ho.

III.

By wells and rills, in meadows green We nightly dance out hey-day guise And to our fairy king and queen We dance our moonlight minstrelsies.

When larks 'gin sing Away we fling, And babes new-born steal as we go, An elf instead We leave in bed, And wind out-laughing, ho, ho, ho![7]

[Footnote 7: This song has been attributed to Ben Jonson, and in the old black-letter copies it is directed to be sung to the tune of Dulcina. As it embodies some of the freaks of Robin, I have given it here.]

How much longer Mistress Anne Hathaway's song might have continued it is impossible to say, but as she finished the last verse steps were heard without the door, followed by sounds, as if some one in a faint voice demanded admittance, and then a dull heavy blow, like a person falling, and which shook the door violently.

The wind piped loud and drear, whilst all paused and listened, and presently a deep groan, which appeared to come into the very room from beneath the door, still further startled the party.

The village maidens were too much frightened to cry out, but each threw herself into the arms of the swain next her, whilst Master Hathaway rose from his seat, and Shakespeare felt obliged to bestow a kiss upon the ripe lips of Anne, in order to rea.s.sure her.

"Gad-a-mercy," said Hathaway, "'tis surely Robin himself come amongst us."

"Ah!" said Dame Hathaway, "this comes of singing ribald songs to offend him. Now the good year; what shall we do to appease the sprite? Ah, mercy on me, there is another groan, as I am a true woman."

"Some one is surely in distress," said Shakespeare, rising, "suffer me to unbar the door."

"Troth, I'd rather not," said Hathaway; "since it may be a device of the evil one to come amongst us."

"Nay, but it may be some wayfarer lost or misled on this inclement night," said Shakespeare. "A few minutes' neglect may cause death. I pr'ythee allow me to open and look out. There are enough of us here," he continued, smiling at the horror-stricken peasants, "to cudgel Puck and all his crew."

So saying, Shakespeare stepped across to the door, and, drawing the bolts, quickly opened it, when the body of a man to all appearance dead, rolled into the apartment.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MISLED WANDERER.

The visitation we have just described caused a sufficiently startling interruption to the cozy comfort of the entire party. Young Shakespeare started back in some surprise, and the whole circle, springing from their seats, stood gazing upon the object so suddenly introduced amongst them.

The villagers looked upon the visitation as something supernatural, and were afraid to move; but Shakespeare, after closing the door, with main force against the driving wind and snow, stooped down and examined the object at his feet.

"Move the log upon the hearth, Master Hathaway," he said, "and make it send up a flame, so that I may see better. Ah, 'tis as I thought, some poor devil caught in the storm. He seems dead."

"Dead!" cried Dame Hathaway, regaining courage, when she found the visitor was not a fairy, or perhaps Robin Goodfellow in _propria persona_. "Dead! Gad-a-mercy, how dreadful!"

"Best warm his inside," said Master Hathaway, approaching. "Here, let us drag him close to the fire, and give him something to drink."

Suiting the action to the word, Master Hathaway took the inanimate body by the shoulders, and, drawing it before the fire, laid it along upon the hearth,--a ghastly object,--appearing, in the blazing light, the prostrate form of what had once been a tall strong man. The face was now, however, pinched and ghastly, and the limbs already stiffening.

The readiest remedy at hand being a portion of the hot cider, with the hissing crab in it, some was immediately poured down the throat of the prostrate wayfarer, whilst all hands set to work to draw off the heavy boots, and divest him of some of his outer garments, in order to rub and chafe his body. In the progress of this operation it became apparent that the person of the visitor had been exposed to all the vicissitudes of flood and field; since the mud frozen upon his outer garments, and the peat-moss which was incrusted upon his long boots, doublet, and torn belt, showed that he had wandered through more than one mora.s.s in his progress.

He was evidently a person of condition, as was apparent from his dress, which, torn and soiled as it was, proclaimed the rank of the wearer, by its fashion. He was completely armed too, having a long heavy sword in his belt, and poniard in his girdle.

"Ah!" said old Hathaway, as he gazed upon the man's face, after pouring a draught of hot cider down his throat; "I surely know that countenance."

"See, he's coming to," said Dame Hathaway; "he opens his eyes, aye, and his mouth too. Give him more liquor."

"'Tis so," said Hathaway, after regarding the prostrate form; "I thought I knew that face. Dame," said he, calling his wife aside, "this is a somewhat dangerous visitor, inasmuch as he is one whom it is considered treason to shelter."

"And who then is it, husband?" inquired the Dame.

"'Tis Eustace the priest," whispered Hathaway, "who used to lie up at Clopton, and through whom 'tis said the old knight got into so much trouble. His coming bodes no good to us, I fear."

"Gad be here" said Dame Hathaway, "that's ill tidings to give us on a twelfth-night, or rather morn. But be he priest or sinner, traitor or faitour, or whatever else he may turn out, we cannot do otherwise than help him in his present need."

"Right," said Hathaway; "we must shelter the man, that's certain."

In accordance to this humane resolve, and which was indeed at the period sufficiently hazardous, the priest was conveyed up stairs, and laid upon a four-post bed. But although every attention was paid to him, it was soon apparent that his hours were numbered.

Calling Dame Hathaway to his bed side, as he somewhat recovered, the priest desired that Master Hathaway might be summoned.

"I fear me your kindness, good Master Hathaway," he said, "may possibly get you into misfortune; and were I able to rise and leave your cottage, I would rather do so, than lay you under the danger of succouring me."

"Heed it not," said the good farmer, "a belated wayfarer should ever find shelter in an Englishman's cottage."

"But, in me," said the priest, "you behold a man condemned to death, and whom the officers of justice are now in search of."

"I know you only as one in need," returned the farmer. "Those who search know for what they search. You are welcome to my roof whilst needing it.

When you no longer need it, go forth."

"I shall never leave it alive," said the priest. "Listen whilst I relate the causes which have driven me to this extremity."