When autumn nights were long and drear, And forest walks were dark and dim, How sweetly on the pilgrim’s ear, Was wont to steal the hermit’s hymn!
Devotion borrows Music’s tone, And Music took Devotion’s wing; And, like the bird that hails the sun, They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.
It was after three hours’ good walking that the servants of Cedric, with their mysterious guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in the centre of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing its twisted branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five yeomen lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked to and fro in the moonlight shade.
Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six arrows placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which the travellers approached, when their guide, being recognised, was welcomed with every token of respect and attachment, and all signs and fears of a rough reception at once subsided.
“Where is the Miller?” was his first question.
“On the road towards Rotherham .”
“With how many?” demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.
“With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St. Nicholas.”
“Devoutly spoken,” said Locksley; “and where is Allan-a-Dale?”