Then Little John’s heart was mad with grief and fear for his master’s life.  Wildly he looked about him, and his sight fell upon a heavy stone mortar, such as three men could not lift nowadays.  Little John took three steps forward, and, bending his back, heaved the stone mortar up from where it stood deeply rooted.  Staggering under its weight, he came forward and hurled it crashing against the door.  In burst the door, and away fled the frightened nuns, shrieking, at his coming.  Then Little John strode in, and never a word said he, but up the winding stone steps he ran till he reached the room wherein his master was.  Here he found the door locked also, but, putting his shoulder against it, he burst the locks as though they were made of brittle ice.

There he saw his own dear master leaning against the gray stone wall, his face all white and drawn, and his head swaying to and fro with weakness.  Then, with a great, wild cry of love and grief and pity, Little John leaped forward and caught Robin Hood in his arms.  Up he lifted him as a mother lifts her child, and carrying him to the bed, laid him tenderly thereon.

And now the Prioress came in hastily, for she was frightened at what she had done, and dreaded the vengeance of Little John and the others of the band; then she stanched the blood by cunning bandages, so that it flowed no more.  All the while Little John stood grimly by, and after she had done he sternly bade her to begone, and she obeyed, pale and trembling.  Then, after she had departed, Little John spake cheering words, laughing loudly, and saying that all this was a child’s fright, and that no stout yeoman would die at the loss of a few drops of blood.  “Why,” quoth he, “give thee a se’ennight and thou wilt be roaming the woodlands as boldly as ever.”

But Robin shook his head and smiled faintly where he lay.  “Mine own dear Little John,” whispered he, “Heaven bless thy kind, rough heart.  But, dear friend, we will never roam the woodlands together again.”

“Ay, but we will!” quoth Little John loudly.  “I say again, ay—­out upon it—­who dares say that any more harm shall come upon thee?  Am I not by?  Let me see who dares touch”—­Here he stopped of a sudden, for his words choked him.  At last he said, in a deep, husky voice, “Now, if aught of harm befalls thee because of this day’s doings, I swear by Saint George that the red cock shall crow over the rooftree of this house, for the hot flames shall lick every crack and cranny thereof.  As for these women”—­here he ground his teeth—­“it will be an ill day for them!”