Then the King muttered in his beard, "Now, blessed Saint Hubert, if thou
wilt but jog that rogue's elbow so as to make him smite even the second
ring, I will give eightscore waxen candles three fingers'-breadth in
thickness to thy chapel nigh Matching." But it may be Saint Hubert's
ears were stuffed with tow, for he seemed not to hear the King's prayer
this day.
Having gotten three shafts to his liking, merry Robin looked carefully
to his bowstring ere he shot. "Yea," quoth he to Gilbert, who stood
nigh him to watch his shooting, "thou shouldst pay us a visit at merry
Sherwood." Here he drew the bowstring to his ear. "In London"--here he
loosed his shaft--"thou canst find nought to shoot at but rooks and
daws; there one can tickle the ribs of the noblest stags in England."
So he shot even while he talked, yet the shaft lodged not more than half
an inch from the very center.
"By my soul!" cried Gilbert. "Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in
that wise?"
"Nay," quoth Robin, laughing, "not quite so ill as that, I trust." And
he took up another shaft and fitted it to the string.
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