Again he shot, and
again he smote his arrow close beside the center; a third time he loosed
his bowstring and dropped his arrow just betwixt the other two and into
the very center, so that the feathers of all three were ruffled
together, seeming from a distance to be one thick shaft.
And now a low murmur ran all among that great crowd, for never before
had London seen such shooting as this; and never again would it see it
after Robin Hood's day had gone. All saw that the King's archers were
fairly beaten, and stout Gilbert clapped his palm to Robin's, owning
that he could never hope to draw such a bowstring as Robin Hood or
Little John. But the King, full of wrath, would not have it so, though
he knew in his mind that his men could not stand against those fellows.
"Nay!" cried he, clenching his hands upon the arms of his seat, "Gilbert
is not yet beaten! Did he not strike the clout thrice? Although I have
lost my wager, he hath not yet lost the first prize. They shall shoot
again, and still again, till either he or that knave Robin Hood cometh
off the best.
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