In Maytime | Page 5

made him feel strangely humble.
"Do you know," he said, "I have not even been introduced to you?"
"Let me introduce myself," said the girl, gaily. "Sir Marshal, at your service."
"And I am Sir Lancelot," he declared, modestly, "just returned from the Crusades, and glad to be back in merry England."
"Then, fair Sir Knight," said the marshal, "let me guide you to where Saint George is slaying the unbeliever in sport, as you have so often slain him in reality."
With more of such agreeable foolery, they made their way to where Saint George was indeed slaying every one around him, to the diversion of the spectators. For years afterwards the thought of the Dragon, with rainbow snaky locks, writhing in the throes of death, would bring to Timothy a smile of retrospective amusement.
It was a staging fit for A Midsummer Night's Dream. Pembroke was in the background, its grey walls overhung with ivy. A green elm spread its branches on one side of the open space, and on the other was a cherry-tree, a mass of pink blossoms, its soft petals carpeting the grass beneath.
There was no further question of finding Marian Hall. Sir Knight and his guide wandered about everywhere, and Timothy's friends would surely have doubted their eyes, could they have seen him taking in everything with the air of a happy child, while he stated his theories on Old English dances, and masques, and costumes.
At last he said: "Where is that fellow, Robin Hood, whom I saw in the procession? He must be shooting his arrows somewhere about the green."
"I believe he is," said the marshal, without enthusiasm, adding to herself, "How vexatious if I cannot keep him away from there. He will see her, of course, and my day's work will have gone for nothing."
"I should like to see him immensely," observed Timothy.
"It is a long walk," objected the marshal.
"Not too long, surely," said Timothy, with a glance, adding persuasively, " I should hate to go alone."
"I should hate to have you," cried the marshal, with unmistakable sincerity.
"Ah!" said Timothy, intoxication mounting to his brain. He wanted to grasp some one by the hand and tell him what an altogether pleasing and agreeable world this was. "Ah!" he said again, "we will go together."
The marshal flushed and murmured, "Idiot!" Then she grew pinker than ever with vexation, while Timothy watched her confusion with an agreeable thrill.
"If he will go," thought the marshal, "I must certainly go too, to see that he doesn't get within speaking distance."
So they walked on, past Taylor Hall, and across the May-pole green, down to the hill below Radnor, where Robin Hood's men were holding forth. The crowd of people surged and eddied past them. All the wide expanse of campus was covered with moving throngs, and dotted with the brilliant May-day dresses. Banners of purple and gold and crimson were flaming from every window.
"I have stepped right out of America," remarked Timothy. " This place must be rather like a May-day fte, even on ordinary occasions."
"I hope not," thought the marshal, wearily.
"Those grey stone buildings, with all that ivy, are like feudal castles. I should think that the girls wandering about must be rather decorative, if they wear their caps and gowns."
"Thank you," murmured the marshal.
"I feel like a trespasser," continued Timothy. "The place just suits your costumes. We have no business here. Why did you let us in?"
"I don't know what object there would have been in getting it up, if we didn't let you in," said the marshal, striving not to be bored.
Timothy was still in the clouds as they pushed their way into the inner circle of the crowd, just in time for the finish of a bout at quarter-staff between Robin Hood and Little John. Then Robin Hood ran to the top of the hill, and blew a shrill blast upon his horn. A shout answered him, and his band of merry men, all clad in Lincoln green, came pouring over the brow of the hill. Long ago, when Timothy was a child, Robin Hood had been his hero. He had procured a bow and arrow, and was wont to strut about the back-yard, pretending to shoot the dun deer. Here he was face to face with the famous outlaw, and the old glamour gathered about him. After the familiar scene of Little John's christening, the drinking-horns were filled, and the band threw themselves down upon the soft grass, covered with violets. All listened while the minstrel touched his harp, and the beautiful voice of Allan-a-Dale sang the plaintive old ballad Islington.
Timothy was still hearing the echoes of the song when his guide said to him, "It is all over. That is the last of the day."
"I should like to see it over again," sighed Timothy.
The girl laughed impatiently.