Then the King muttered in his beard, “Now, blessed Saint Hubert, if thou wilt but jog that rogue’s elbow so as to make him smite even the second ring, I will give eightscore waxen candles three fingers’-breadth in thickness to thy chapel nigh Matching.” But it may be Saint Hubert’s ears were stuffed with tow, for he seemed not to hear the King’s prayer this day.
Having gotten three shafts to his liking, merry Robin looked carefully to his bowstring ere he shot. “Yea,” quoth he to Gilbert, who stood nigh him to watch his shooting, “thou shouldst pay us a visit at merry Sherwood.” Here he drew the bowstring to his ear. “In London”—here he loosed his shaft—”thou canst find nought to shoot at but rooks and daws; there one can tickle the ribs of the noblest stags in England.” So he shot even while he talked, yet the shaft lodged not more than half an inch from the very center.
“By my soul!” cried Gilbert. “Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in that wise?”
“Nay,” quoth Robin, laughing, “not quite so ill as that, I trust.” And he took up another shaft and fitted it to the string. Again he shot, and again he smote his arrow close beside the center; a third time he loosed his bowstring and dropped his arrow just betwixt the other two and into the very center, so that the feathers of all three were ruffled together, seeming from a distance to be one thick shaft.