And now the ten archers of the King’s guard took their stand again, and all the great crowd was hushed to the stillness of death.  Slowly and carefully each man shot his shafts, and so deep was the silence that you could hear every arrow rap against the target as it struck it.  Then, when the last shaft had sped, a great roar went up; and the shooting, I wot, was well worthy of the sound.  Once again Gilbert had lodged three arrows in the white; Tepus came second with two in the white and one in the black ring next to it; but stout Clifton had gone down and Hubert of Suffolk had taken the third place, for, while both those two good yeomen had lodged two in the white, Clifton had lost one shot upon the fourth ring, and Hubert came in with one in the third.

All the archers around Gilbert’s booth shouted for joy till their throats were hoarse, tossing their caps aloft, and shaking hands with one another.

In the midst of all the noise and hubbub five men came walking across the lawn toward the King’s pavilion.  The first was Richard Partington, and was known to most folk there, but the others were strange to everybody.  Beside young Partington walked a yeoman clad in blue, and behind came three others, two in Lincoln green and one in scarlet.  This last yeoman carried three stout bows of yew tree, two fancifully inlaid with silver and one with gold.  While these five men came walking across the meadow, a messenger came running from the King’s booth and summoned Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert to go with him.  And now the shouting quickly ceased, for all saw that something unwonted was toward, so the folk stood up in their places and leaned forward to see what was the ado.

When Partington and the others came before the spot where the King and Queen sat, the four yeomen bent their knees and doffed their caps unto her.  King Henry leaned far forward and stared at them closely, but the Bishop of Hereford, when he saw their faces, started as though stung by a wasp.  He opened his mouth as though about to speak, but, looking up, he saw the Queen gazing at him with a smile upon her lips, so he said nothing, but bit his nether lip, while his face was as red as a cherry.

Then the Queen leaned forward and spake in a clear voice.  “Locksley,” said she, “I have made a wager with the King that thou and two of thy men can outshoot any three that he can send against you.  Wilt thou do thy best for my sake?”

“Yea,” quoth Robin Hood, to whom she spake, “I will do my best for thy sake, and, if I fail, I make my vow never to finger bowstring more.”

Now, although Little John had been somewhat abashed in the Queen’s bower, he felt himself the sturdy fellow he was when the soles of his feet pressed green grass again; so he said boldly, “Now, blessings on thy sweet face, say I. An there lived a man that would not do his best for thee—­I will say nought, only I would like to have the cracking of his knave’s pate!