"A pretty mess," he mused--"a stranger in England--my first day at
Windsor and the jest of the castle. . . Stripped like a jowly
tradesman . . . taken like a cooing babe . . . purseless . . .
daggerless . . . bonnetless . . . doubletless--aye, naked, but for an
outlaw's generosity . . . cut by my own weapon"--he held up his hand
and looked at the abraded knuckles--"and that is all the credit I have
to show--the mark of a caitiff's chin. . . Methinks I am fit only for
the company of children."

He glanced again at the sun--it seemed not to have moved at all--then
sat in moody silence; the wound was smarting now, and he frowned at it
every time it gave an extra twinge. . . Would the sun never
move? . . . He got up and paced back and forth, his eyes on the oak at
every turn--truly that tree was growing higher every minute--or the sun
was sinking. . . Not that he was in haste to return to Windsor. . .
There would be a fine tale to tell there--no need to speed to it--it
would speed to him quite soon enough. . . . But to get away from the
accursed place--anywhere . . . back to Windsor even . . . what if some
one found him here in this plight--and he not allowed to speak--unable
to explain--dumb as that oak. . . Would the sun never move! The wound
was stinging sharply, and the arm above the cord was turning black and
swelling fast--the pressure must come off. He felt for his dagger;
then flung out an imprecation, and tried to tear the cord asunder with
his teeth. It was quite futile; it was sunk now so deep in the flesh
he could not seize it--and the knots were drawn too tight to loose. . .
Would the sun never move!

He fell to searching for a stone--a small one with an edge that could
reach in and rasp the deer-hide cord apart--but vainly; though he tried