"'Henceforth my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an' all tyrants shall learn to tremble at my name!' Doesn't that sound fine, Uncle Dick? I tried to get Ben, you know, the gardener's boy--to come an' live in the 'greenwood' with me a bit an' help to make 'tyrants' tremble, but he said he was 'fraid his mother might find him some day, an' he wouldn't, so I'm going to make them tremble all by myself, unless you will come an' be Little John, like you were once before--oh, do!" Before I could answer, hearing footsteps, I looked round, and my heart leaped, for there was Lisbeth coming down the path. Her head was drooping and she walked with a listless air. Now, as I watched I forgot everything but that she looked sad, and troubled, and more beautiful than ever, and that I loved her. Instinctively I rose, lifting my cap. She started, and for the fraction of a second her eyes looked into mine, then she passed serenely on her way. I might have been a stick or stone for all the further notice she bestowed. Side by side, the Imp and I watched her go, until the last gleam of her white skirt had vanished amid the green. Then he folded his arms and turned to me. "So be it!" he said, with an air of stern finality; "an' now, what is a 'blasted oak,' please?" "A blasted oak!" I repeated. "If you please, Uncle Dick." "'Well, it's an oak-tree that has been struck by lightning." "Like the one with the 'stickie-out' branches, where I once hid Auntie Lis--Her stockings?" I nodded, and sitting down, began to pack up my fishing rod and things. "I'm glad of that," pursued the Imp thoughtfully. "Robin Hood was always saying to somebody, 'Hie thee to the blasted oak at midnight!' an' it's nice to have one handy, you know." I thought that under certain circumstances, and with a piece of rope, it would be very much so, "blasted" or otherwise, but I only said, "Yes" and sighed. "'Whence that doleful visage,' Uncle Dick--I mean Little John? Is Auntie angry with you, too?" "Yes," I answered, and sighed again. "Oh!" said the Imp, staring, "an' do you feel like--like--wait a minute"--and once more he drew out and consulted the tattered volume--"'do you feel like hanging yourself in your sword-belt to the arm of yonder tree?'" he asked eagerly, with his finger upon a certain paragraph. "Very like it, my Imp." "Or--or 'hurling yourself from the topmost pinnacle of yon lofty crag?'" "Yes, Imp; the 'loftier' the better!" "Then you must be in love, like Alan-a-Dale; he was going to hang himself, an' 'hurl himself oft the topmost pinnacle,' you know, only Robin Hood said, 'Whence that doleful visage,' an' stopped him--you remember?" "To be sure," I nodded. "An' so you are really in love with my Auntie Lisbeth, are you?" "Yes." "Is that why she's angry with you?" "Probably." The Imp was silent, apparently plunged once more in a profound meditation.