To all this the yeomen listened in silence, the clatter of many voices, jesting and laughing, sounding around them, and the red light of the fire shining on their faces and in their eyes. So simple were the poor boy’s words, and so deep his sorrow, that even Little John felt a certain knotty lump rise in his throat.
“I wonder not,” said Robin, after a moment’s silence, “that thy true love loved thee, for thou hast surely a silver cross beneath thy tongue, even like good Saint Francis, that could charm the birds of the air by his speech.”
“By the breath of my body,” burst forth Little John, seeking to cover his feelings with angry words, “I have a great part of a mind to go straightway and cudgel the nasty life out of the body of that same vile Sir Stephen. Marry, come up, say I—what a plague—does an old weazen think that tender lasses are to be bought like pullets o’ a market day? Out upon him!—I—but no matter, only let him look to himself.”
Then up spoke Will Scarlet. “Methinks it seemeth but ill done of the lass that she should so quickly change at others’ bidding, more especially when it cometh to the marrying of a man as old as this same Sir Stephen. I like it not in her, Allan.”
“Nay,” said Allan hotly, “thou dost wrong her. She is as soft and gentle as a stockdove. I know her better than anyone in all the world. She may do her father’s bidding, but if she marries Sir Stephen, her heart will break and she will die. My own sweet dear, I—” He stopped and shook his head, for he could say nothing further.