Then straightway the youth told the three yeomen all that was in his heart; at first in broken words and phrases, then freely and with greater ease when he saw that all listened closely to what he said.  So he told them how he had come from York to the sweet vale of Rother, traveling the country through as a minstrel, stopping now at castle, now at hall, and now at farmhouse; how he had spent one sweet evening in a certain broad, low farmhouse, where he sang before a stout franklin and a maiden as pure and lovely as the first snowdrop of spring; how he had played and sung to her, and how sweet Ellen o’ the Dale had listened to him and had loved him.  Then, in a low, sweet voice, scarcely louder than a whisper, he told how he had watched for her and met her now and then when she went abroad, but was all too afraid in her sweet presence to speak to her, until at last, beside the banks of Rother, he had spoken of his love, and she had whispered that which had made his heartstrings quiver for joy.  Then they broke a sixpence between them, and vowed to be true to one another forever.

Next he told how her father had discovered what was a-doing, and had taken her away from him so that he never saw her again, and his heart was sometimes like to break; how this morn, only one short month and a half from the time that he had seen her last, he had heard and knew it to be so, that she was to marry old Sir Stephen of Trent, two days hence, for Ellen’s father thought it would be a grand thing to have his daughter marry so high, albeit she wished it not; nor was it wonder that a knight should wish to marry his own sweet love, who was the most beautiful maiden in all the world.

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.