Sooth to say, Robin did not look in good fighting trim. His clothes were coated with dirt, one of his hosen had slipped halfway down from his knee, the sleeve of his jerkin was split, and his face was streaked with sweat and dirt. Little John eyed him drolly. “How now, good master,” quoth he, “the sport you were to kick up has left you in sorry plight. Let me dust your coat for you.” “Marry, it has been dusted enough already,” replied Robin; “and I now believe the Scripture saying that all men are but dust, for it has sifted me through and through and lined my gullet an inch deep. By your leave”--and he went to the brookside and drank deep and laved his face and hands. All this while the stranger had been eyeing Robin attentively and listening to his voice as though striving to recall it. “If I mistake not,” he said slowly at last, “you are that famous outlaw, Robin Hood of Barnesdale.” “You say right,” replied Robin; “but my fame has been tumbling sadly about in the dust to-day.” “Now why did I not know you at once?” continued the stranger. “This battle need not have happened, for I came abroad to find you to-day, and thought to have remembered your face and speech. Know you not me, Rob, my lad? Hast ever been to Gamewell Lodge?” “Ha! Will Gamewell! my dear old chum, Will Gamewell!” shouted Robin, throwing his arms about the other in sheer affection. “What an ass I was not to recognize you! But it has been years since we parted, and your gentle schooling has polished you off mightily.” Will embraced his cousin no less heartily. “We are quits on not knowing kinsmen,” he said, “for you have changed and strengthened much from the stripling with whom I used to run foot races in old Sherwood.” “But why seek you me?” asked Robin. “You know I am an outlaw and dangerous company. And how left you mine uncle? and have you heard aught of late of--of Maid Marian?”