At these words Guy of Gisbourne looked upon Robin with wondering eyes, and then gave another roar of laughter till the woods rang. “Now,” quoth he, “thou art a bold fellow to talk to me in this way. I like thy spirit in so speaking up to me, for few men have dared to do so. Put up a garland, lad, and I will try a bout with thee.”
“Tut, tut,” quoth Robin, “only babes shoot at garlands hereabouts. I will put up a good Nottingham mark for thee.” So saying, he arose, and going to a hazel thicket not far off, he cut a wand about twice the thickness of a man’s thumb. From this he peeled the bark, and, sharpening the point, stuck it up in the ground in front of a great oak tree. Thence he measured off fourscore paces, which brought him beside the tree where the other sat. “There,” quoth he, “is the kind of mark that Nottingham yeomen shoot at. Now let me see thee split that wand if thou art an archer.”
Then Guy of Gisbourne arose. “Now out upon it!” cried he. “The Devil himself could not hit such a mark as that.”
“Mayhap he could and mayhap he could not,” quoth merry Robin, “but that we shall never know till thou hast shot thereat.”