Days of youth speed all too swiftly, and troubled skies come all too soon. Rob’s father had two other enemies besides Fitzwalter, in the persons of the lean Sheriff of Nottingham and the fat Bishop of Hereford. These three enemies one day got possession of the King’s ear and whispered therein to such good--or evil--purpose that Hugh Fitzooth was removed from his post of King’s Forester. He and his wife and Rob, then a youth of nineteen, were descended upon, during a cold winter’s evening, and dispossessed without warning. The Sheriff arrested the Forester for treason--of which, poor man, he was as guiltless as you or I--and carried him to Nottingham jail. Rob and his mother were sheltered over night in the jail, also, but next morning were roughly bade to go about their business. Thereupon they turned for succor to their only kinsman, Squire George of Gamewell, who sheltered them in all kindness. But the shock, and the winter night’s journey, proved too much for Dame Fitzooth. She had not been strong for some time before leaving the forest. In less than two months she was no more. Rob felt as though his heart was broken at this loss. But scarcely had the first spring flowers begun to blossom upon her grave, when he met another crushing blow in the loss of his father. That stern man had died in prison before his accusers could agree upon the charges by which he was to be brought to trial. Two years passed by. Rob’s cousin Will was away at school; and Marian’s father, who had learned of her friendship with Rob, had sent his daughter to the court of Queen Eleanor. So these years were lonely ones to the orphaned lad. The bluff old Squire was kind to him, but secretly could make nothing of one who went about brooding and as though seeking for something he had lost. The truth is that Rob missed his old life in the forest no less than his mother’s gentleness, and his father’s companionship. Every time he twanged the string of the long bow against his shoulder and heard the gray goose shaft sing, it told him of happy days that he could not recall. One morning as Rob came in to breakfast, his uncle greeted him with, “I have news for you, Rob, my lad!” and the hearty old Squire finished his draught of ale and set his pewter tankard down with a crash. “What may that be, Uncle Gamewell?” asked the young man. “Here is a chance to exercise your good long bow and win a pretty prize. The Fair is on at Nottingham, and the Sheriff proclaims an archer’s tournament. The best fellows are to have places with the King’s Foresters, and the one who shoots straightest of all will win for prize a golden arrow--a useless bauble enough, but just the thing for your lady love, eh, Rob my boy?” Here the Squire laughed and whacked the table again with his tankard.