CHAPTER II

It is not nice to be pitched by a man off a horse's back on to the
top of your head.

That is what young Robin thought as he sat up and rubbed the place,
looking very rueful and sad.

But he did not seem to be entirely alone there in the dense forest,
for there was another young robin, with large eyes and a speckled
jacket, sitting upon a twig and watching him intently. Robin could
think of nothing but himself, his aching head, and his scratches,
some of which were bleeding.

Then he listened, and fancied that he heard shouting, with the
trampling of mules and the breaking of twigs.

But he was giddy and puzzled, and after struggling through some
undergrowth he sat down upon what looked like a green velvet
cushion; but it was only the moss-covered root of a great beech
tree, which covered him like a roof and made all soft and shady.

And now it was perfectly quiet, and it seemed restful after being
shaken and jerked about on the horse's back. Robin was tired too,
and the dull, half-stupefied state of his brain stopped him from
being startled by his strange position. His head ached though, and
it seemed nice to rest it, and he stretched himself out on the moss
and looked up through the leaves of the great tree, where he could
see in one place the ruddy rays of the evening sun glowing, and
then he could see nothing--think nothing.