Over the top of the windy hill peeped the eaves
of a few houses of the village that fell back into the valley behind;
there, also, showed the top of a windmill, the sails slowly rising and
dipping from behind the hill against the clear blue sky, as the light
wind moved them with creaking and labored swing.
So the yeomen lay behind the hedge and finished their midday meal; but
still the time slipped along and no one came. At last, a man came
slowly riding over the hill and down the stony road toward the spot
where Robin and his band lay hidden. He was a good stout knight, but
sorrowful of face and downcast of mien. His clothes were plain and
rich, but no chain of gold, such as folk of his stand in life wore at
most times, hung around his neck, and no jewel was about him; yet no one
could mistake him for aught but one of proud and noble blood. His head
was bowed upon his breast and his hands drooped limp on either side; and
so he came slowly riding, as though sunk in sad thoughts, while even his
good horse, the reins loose upon his neck, walked with hanging head, as
though he shared his master's grief.
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