the oak forest. The green boughs
glittered with all their pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn from the covert of
high fern to the more open walks of the greenwood; and no huntsman was there to
watch or intercept the stately hart, as he paced at the head of the antlered
herd.
    The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree in the Harthill
Walk, where they had spent the night in refreshing themselves after the fatigues
of the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many with hearing and
recounting the events of the day, and computing the heaps of plunder which their
success had placed at the disposal of their chief.
    The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding that much was
consumed, a great deal of plate, rich armour, and splendid clothing, had been
secured by the exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could be appalled by no
danger when such rewards were in view. Yet so strict were the laws of their
society, that no one ventured to appropriate any part of the booty, which was
brought into one common mass to be at the disposal of their leader.
    The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not, however, the same to which
Locksley had conducted Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story, but one
which was the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half a mile of the
demolished castle of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his seat - a throne of
turf erected under the twisted branches of the huge oak - and the silvan
followers were gathered around him. He assigned to the Black Knight a seat at
his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon his left.
    »Pardon my freedom, noble sirs,« he said, »but in these glades I am monarch
- they are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck but little of my
power, were I, within my own dominions, to yield place to mortal man. - Now,
sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal Friar? A mass amongst
Christian men best begins a busy morning.« - No one had seen the Clerk of
Copmanhurst. - »Over gods forbode!« said the outlaw Chief, »I trust the jolly
priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot a thought too late. Who saw him since
the castle was ta'en?«
    »I,« quoth the Miller, »marked him busy about the door of a cellar, swearing
by each saint in the calendar he would taste the smack of Front-de-Boeuf's
Gascoigne wine.