A peasant observed the pilgrims as they entered that narrow pass,
and called after them: "Whither go you, my masters? there
are rogues in that direction."
"Can you show us a direction," said Robin, "in which there are none?
If so we will take it in preference." The peasant grinned,
and walked away whistling.
The pass widened as they advanced, and the woods grew thicker and darker
around them. Their path wound along the slope of a woody declivity,
which rose high above them in a thick rampart of foliage,
and descended almost precipitously to the bed of a small river,
which they heard dashing in its rocky channel, and saw its white foam
gleaming at intervals in the last faint glimmerings of twilight.
In a short time all was dark, and the rising voice of the wind
foretold a coming storm. They turned a point of the valley, and saw
a light below them in the depth of the hollow, shining through a
cottage-casement and dancing in its reflection on the restless stream.
Robin blew his horn, which was answered from below. The cottage
door opened: a boy came forth with a torch, ascended the steep,
showed tokens of great delight at meeting with Robin, and lighted
them down a flight of steps rudely cut in the rock, and over a series
of rugged stepping-stones, that crossed the channel of the river.
They entered the cottage, which exhibited neatness, comfort, and plenty,
being amply enriched with pots, pans, and pipkins, and adorned
with flitches of bacon and sundry similar ornaments, that gave
goodly promise in the firelight that gleamed upon the rafters.
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