So here's an end of fawning, here's the truth, My old white-bearded hypocrite. Come, take her, Waste no more time. Let not the old fool daunt you With that great skewer.
By God, since you will have it, Since you will drive me to my last resort, Break down my walls, and hound me to the forest, This is the truth! Out of my gates! Ho, help! A Robin Hood! A Robin Hood!
[_There is a clamour from the upper room. The doors are flung open and the FORESTERS appear at the head of the steps._]
[_Coming down into the hall and brandishing his quarter-staff._]
A Robin? Who calls on Robin Hood? His men are here To answer.
Sir, I perceive you are a man of wisdom, So let me counsel you. There's not a lad Up yonder, but at four-score yards can shoot A swallow on the wing. They have drunken deep. I cannot answer but their hands might loose Their shafts before they know it. Now shall I give The word? Ready, my lads!
[_The FORESTERS make ready to shoot. JOHN hesitates for a moment._]
My Lady Marian, One word, and then I'll take my leave of you!
Farewell, then! I have five-score men at hand! And they shall be but lightning to the hell Of my revenge, Fitzwalter. I will not leave One stone upon another. From this night's work Shall God Himself not save you.
My Lord Fitzwalter! I have confessed him! Shall I bid 'em shoot? 'Twill save a world of trouble.
No; or the King Himself will come against me. Follow them out, Drive them out of my gates, then raise the drawbridge And let none cross. Oh, I foresaw, foretold! Robin has wrecked us all!
[_Exeunt the FORESTERS and FITZWALTER. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF remains alone with MARIAN._]
[_She flings herself down on a couch and buries her head in her arms._]
[_Sitting at her feet. The lights grow dim._]
Ah, well, the prince Promised to break the walls down. Don't you think These villains are a sort of ploughshare, lady, And where they plough, who knows what wheat may spring! The lights are burning low and very low; So, Lady Marian, let me tell my dream. There was a forester that bled to death Because of four grey walls and a black nun Whose face I could not see--but, oh, beware! Though I am but your fool, your Shadow-of-a-Leaf, Dancing before the wild winds of the future, I feel them thrilling through my tattered wits Long ere your wisdom feels them. My poor brain Is like a harp hung in a willow-tree Swept by the winds of fate. I am but a fool, But oh, beware of that black-hooded nun.