Here was one party wrestling; there
another, casting the bar; on this side a set of rustics were dancing a
merry round with a bevy of buxom Berkshire lasses; on that stood a
fourth group, listening to a youth playing on the recorders. At one end
of the Acre large fires were lighted, before which two whole oxen were
roasting, provided in honour of the occasion by the mayor and
burgesses of the town; at the other, butts were set against which the
Duke of Shoreditch and his companions, the five marquises, were
practising. The duke himself shot admirably, and never failed to hit the
bulls-eye; but the great feat of the day was performed by Morgan
Fenwolf, who thrice split the duke's shafts as they stuck in the mark.
"Well done !" cried the duke, as he witnessed the achievement; "why,
you shoot as bravely as Herne the Hunter. Old wives tell us he used to
split the arrows of his comrades in that fashion."
"He must have learnt the trick from Herne himself in the forest," cried
one of the bystanders.
Morgan Fenwolf looked fiercely round in search of the speaker, but
could not discern him. He, however, shot no more, and refusing a cup
of hypocras offered him by Shoreditch, disappeared among the crowd.
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