The next day at an early hour they mounted
their horses and set forth for the woodlands. As they passed along the
road it seemed to Robin that he knew every stick and stone that his eyes
looked upon. Yonder was a path that he had ofttimes trod of a mellow
evening, with Little John beside him; here was one, now nigh choked with
brambles, along which he and a little band had walked when they went
forth to seek a certain curtal friar.
Thus they rode slowly onward, talking about these old, familiar things;
old and yet new, for they found more in them than they had ever thought
of before. Thus at last they came to the open glade, and the broad,
wide-spreading greenwood tree which was their home for so many years.
Neither of the two spoke when they stood beneath that tree. Robin looked
all about him at the well-known things, so like what they used to be and
yet so different; for, where once was the bustle of many busy fellows
was now the quietness of solitude; and, as he looked, the woodlands, the
greensward, and the sky all blurred together in his sight through salt
tears, for such a great yearning came upon him as he looked on these
things (as well known to him as the fingers of his right hand) that he
could not keep back the water from his eyes.
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