No--no-- Not wounded; but oh, my good faithful friend, She is not there! I wished to send her warning. I could not creep much closer; but I swear I think the castle is in the hands of John. I saw some men upon the battlements, Not hers--I know--not hers!
[_He seizes his bow and stands ready to shoot._]
Stop, man, it is the fool. Thank God, the fool, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, my Marian's dainty fool. How now, good fool, what news? What news?
Good fool! Should I be bad, sir, if I chanced to bring No news at all? That is the wise man's way. Thank heaven, I've lost my wits. I am but a leaf Dancing upon the wild winds of the world, A prophet blown before them. Well, this evening, It is that lovely grey wind from the West That silvers all the fields and all the seas, And I'm the herald of May!
Come, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, I pray thee, do not jest.
I do not jest. I am vaunt-courier to a gentleman, A sweet slim page in Lincoln green who comes, Wood-knife on hip, and wild rose in his face, With golden news of Marian. Oh, his news Is one crammed honeycomb, swelling with sweetness In twenty thousand cells; but delicate! So send thy man aside.
At this moment His hair is tangled in a rose bush: hark, He swears, like a young leopard! Nay, he is free. Come, master page, here is that thief of love, Give him your message. I'll to Little John.
[_Exit into the cave. Enter MARIAN, as a page in Lincoln green, her face muffled in a hood._]
Good even, master page, what is thy news Of Lady Marian?
Answer me quickly, come, Hide not thy face!
Come, boy, the fool is chartered, Not thou; and I'll break off this hazel switch And make thee dance if thou not answer me. What? Silent still? Sirrah, this hazel wand Shall lace thee till thou tingle, top to toe. I'll ...
Fie upon you, Robin, you did not know me.
Oh, you seemed Ten thousand miles away. This is not moonlight, And I am not Endymion. Could I dream My Dian would come wandering through the fern Before the sunset? Even that rose your face You muffled in its own green leaves.
But you, Were hidden in the heart of Sherwood, Robin, Hidden behind a million mighty boughs, And yet I found you.
Ay, the young moon stole In pity down to her poor shepherd boy; But he could never climb the fleecy clouds Up to her throne, never could print one kiss On her immortal lips. He lay asleep Among the poppies and the crags of Latmos, And she came down to him, his queen stole down.
