"I tell thee," said Alfred of Gammell, his admiration breaking through his well-bred dislike of violent deeds, "that deed of thine made all high-handed men dwelling beside the forests bethink themselves that if they oppressed too cruelly their turn might come next." 

     "I hope they think thus," said Robin, and his face was grim. "If men let such a wrong go unpunished and unrighted as was suffered by Bennett and our cousin, to whom can those who are oppressed look to for succor? Not to thy soft priests, cousin, who squeeze poor men as evilly as any robber baron, and who fill their purses with money wrung from poor yeomen. But tell me, against whom wouldst thou warn me?" 

     "Against Sir Guy of Gisborne and his evil plots," replied Gammell. "I was yesterday at Outwoods, which now the king's bailiff holds, until a year and a day from when thou weft made outlaw. There I sought out Cripps, the old reeve, whom I knew was thy friend, and he told me that Sir Guy hath his discomfiture by thee and thy fellows keenly at heart. A bitter man he was before thou didst burn him from his house, but now he is still more evil-minded and harsh. And he hath sworn by dreadful oaths to have thee taken or slain." 

     "What plots did old Cripps speak of?" 

     "He hath become hand in glove with Ralp Murdach, the sheriff of Nottinghamshire, and the villeins say that wandering men have told them that, together, Sir Guy and Master Murdach are bribing evil men to dress as beggars, palmers, and hucksters to wander through the forests to find thy secret places, so that one day they may gather their men-at-arms and fall upon thee." 

     "I thank thee for thy counsel," said Robin, appearing not to treat it, however, as of any special importance; "but now thou and thy men shall dine with me this day." 

     They had by this time reached a secret place in some tree-clad hills which rose steeply up beside a river in the forest, and in a cave a feast was already spread, at which all now sat down to do full justice. 

     Robin and his men inquired of Gammell whether Sir Guy now treated the villeins of the manor more harshly than before. 

     "Men say that he does not," was the reply; "and for a good reason. It is said that when Abbot Robert of St. Mary's heard of thy slaying the men-at-arms and of the flight of thy fellows, he was exceeding wroth with Sir Guy, and told him that he had overdriven the people of his manor, and must look to his conduct, or he would not suffer him to rule the manor. So that the folk are not so harshly overborne as formerly, yet that Sir Guy is the more hateful of them." 

     "A miracle!" said Scarlet scornfully, when he heard this, "a word of mercy from the thick-jowled, proud-lipped Abbot of St. Mary's!" 

     "Maybe, uncle," said little Gilbert of the White Hand, who had ever wanted to be a priest and to learn to read, "maybe the abbot never told Sir Guy to oppress the manor folk, but that Sir Guy did it from his own heart as a tyrant." 

     And this, indeed, was what many of the outlaws deemed in their hearts, and thought not so harshly of the abbot thereafter. 

     Soon after this Master Gammell and his men took their departure, and Robin Hood and some of the outlaws went with him to the edge of the forest, and put him on his way toward Locksley village, which lay southwest beyond the little town of Sheffield. 

     Now it happened one afternoon some three days afterward that Robin was walking along beside the broad highway which led from Pontefract through the forest to Ollerton and Nottingham. He was thinking of what his cousin had said concerning Sir Guy of Gisborne's plots to capture him, dead or alive, and as he walked beneath the trees he heard the shuffle of footsteps, and looking up, saw a beggar coming down the road. 

     Robin, from among the trees, could see the man, while he himself was unobserved, and as he saw the beggar stamping along with a great pikestaff in his hand he wondered whether indeed this man was a genuine beggar, or one of the spies whom Guy of Gisborne had set to watch for him. 

     The man's cloak was patched in fifty places, so that it seemed more like a collection of many cloaks than one; his legs were encased in ragged hose, and great tanned boots were on his feet. Round his body, slung from his neck by a great wide thong, was his bag of meal, and in a girdle about him was stuck a long knife in a leathern sheath. On his head was a wide low hat which was so thick and unwieldy that it looked as if three hats had been stitched together to make it. 

     Robin's suspicions were aroused, for the man seemed to be dressed for the part, and not to be a real beggar. Moreover, his eyes continually glanced from side to side in the wood as he walked along the uneven track. 

     By this time the beggar had gone past the place where Robin stood, and the outlaw shouted to him: 

     "Stand, beggar! why in such haste to get on?" 

     The beggar answered nothing, but hurried his steps. Robin ran up to him, and the man turned angrily and flourished his staff. He was a man of an evil countenance, with a scar from brow to cheek on one side. 

     "What want you with me, woodman?" he cried. "Cannot a man fare peacefully along the king's highway without every loose wastrel crying out upon him?" 

     "Thou'rt surly, beggar," said Robin. "I'll tell thee why I bade thee stop. Thou must pay toll ere thou goest further through the forest." 

     "Toll!" cried the other, with a great laugh; "if you wait till I pay you toll, thou landloper, thou'It not stir from that spot for a year." 

     "Come, come," said Robin; "unloose thy cloak, man, and show what thy purse holds. By thy clothes thou'rt a rich beggar--if such thou truly art, and not a rogue in the guise of an honest beggar." 

     The man scowled and glanced suspiciously at Robin, and gripped his staff. 

     "Nay, lad," said Robin, good-naturedly, "grip not thy staff so fiercely. Surely thou hast a broad penny in thy purse which thou canst pay a poor woodman for toll." 

     "Get thy own money, thou reiving rascal," growled the beggar. "Thou gettest none from me. I fear not thy arrow sticks, and I would be blithe to see thee hanging from the gallows-tree--as, indeed, I hope to see thee ere long." 

     "And doubtless," said Robin, "if thou couldst earn dirty coin by treachery thou wouldst not stop at any evil work. I thought thou lookest like an honest beggar! Rogue and traitor are written all over thy evil face. Now, listen to me! I know thee for a traitor in the pay of an evil man, but I'll not be balked of my toll. Throw thy purse on the ground, or I will drive a broad arrow through thee!" 

     Even as he spoke, Robin prepared to notch an arrow to the string of his bow. His fingers missed the string, and he bent his eyes down to see what he was doing. That moment was fatal. With a bound like that of a wild cat the beggar leapt forward, and at the same instant he swung his pikestaff round and dashed the bow and arrow from Robin's hand. 

     The outlaw leaped back and drew his sword, but quick as thought the beggar beat upon him and caught him a great swinging blow beside the head. Robin fell to the ground in a swoon, just as shouts were heard among the trees beside the way. The beggar looked this way and that, his hand went to the haft of the keen knife in his belt, and for a moment he crouched as if he would leap upon the prostrate outlaw and slay him outright. 

     A man in brown jumped from some bushes a few yards away and then two others. They looked at the beggar, who had instantly assumed an air of unconcern, and began to walk forward, and a bend in the narrow track among the trees soon hid him from their sight. 

     Two of the men were young recruits of the outlaw band, and the other was Dodd, the man-at-arms who had yielded to Robin when the latter had slain Hugo of Lynn. As they began walking along the road, suddenly Dodd espied the bow and arrow which had been dashed from Robin's hand, and he stopped. 

     "Ay, ay," he said; "what's been doing here? 'Tis our master's bow. I know it by its size, for no other hath the hand to draw it." 

     "Look! look!" cried one of the others, pushing behind a bush where Robin had fallen; "here is a wounded man-by the Virgin, 'tis our master! Now, by St. Peter, who hath done this evil deed!" 

     Swiftly Dodd knelt beside his leader and pushed his hand into his doublet to feel whether his heart still moved. Then he cried: 

     "Lads, thanks be to the Saints; he's alive. Run to the brook beside the white thorn there and bring water in thy cap." 

     The water being thrown upon the outlaw's face, he quickly revived. He sighed heavily, his hand went up to his aching head, and he opened his eyes. 

     "O master," said Dodd, "tell us who hath treated thee so evily. Surely 'twas done by treachery. How many were they who set upon thee?" 

     Robin smiled wanly upon the three eager faces bending above him, and in a little while was sufficiently recovered to sit up. 

     "There was no more than one who set upon me," said Robin, "and he was a sturdy rogue dressed like a beggar. With his great pikestaff he dashed upon me as I fitted an arrow to my string, and ere I could defend myself he knocked me down in a swoon." 

     "Now, by my faith," said Dodd, "'twas that rascal beggar whom we saw as we came to the road--so innocent he looked! Go you, lads," he said, turning to the other two men, "show yourselves keen lads, and capture him and bring him back, so that our master may slay him if he will." 

     "But," said Robin, "use stealth in the way you approach the rogue. 'Twas my foolishness to get too near his long staff that was my undoing. If ye let him use his great beam, he'll maim ye." 

    The two young fellows promised to creep upon the beggar warily, and set off eagerly, while Dodd stayed by Robin until the latter felt strong enough to stand up and be assisted toward the camp of the outlaws. 

     Meanwhile, the two young outlaws, knowing the beggar must keep to the only road through the forest, swiftly ran to catch him up. But presently one of them, Bat or Bart by name, suggested that they should go by a nearer way through the trees which would enable them to lie in ambush for the beggar at a narrow part of the road. The other agreed, and accordingly they pushed through the forest. Strong of limb they were, and if their wits had only been as keen as were their senses, all would have gone well with them. But they were only three weeks from the plow, and from the hard and exhausting labor in the fields of their lord, and they were not as sharp as they would soon become when the dangers of the greenwood had been about them a little longer. 

     On they ran between the trees, through the glades and the boggy bottoms, flinching at neither mire nor pool, and balking at neither hillock nor howe. At length they reached the highway through the forest again at a place where the road ran through a dell. At the bottom was a thick piece of wood through which the road narrowed, and here they took up their place, each hiding behind a tree on opposite sides of the way. 

     Soon, as they crouched waiting, they heard the shuffle and tramp of footsteps coming down the hill, and peering forth, they saw it was the beggar man whom they had seen near where their master lay in a swoon. 

     As he came to the part of the road between them they both dashed out upon him, and before he could think of fleeing, one had snatched the pikestaff from his hand, and the other had caught his dagger froTh his girdle and was holding it at his breast. 

     "Traitor churl!" said the outlaw, "struggle not, or I'll be thy priest and send thee out of life." 

     The beggar's evil face went dark with rage as he glared from one to the other, and then looked about for a way of escape. But there was no chance of escape that he could see, and therefore he determined on craftiness to get him out of this trouble. 

     "Kind sirs," he said humbly, "grant me my life! Hold away that keen and ugly knife or I shall surely die for fright of it. What have I done to thee that thou shouldst seek to slay me? And what profit will thou get from my rags if thou killest and robbest a poor old beggar?" 

     "Thou liest, false knave!" cried Bat fiercely. "I think 'twould be better if I thrust this knife at once between thy evil ribs. Thou hast near slain the gentlest man and the bravest in all Sherwood and Barnisdale. And back again thou shalt be taken, fast bound and trussed, and he will judge whether thou shalt be slain, as a mark for our arrows, or be hung from a tree as not worthy to have good arrows stuck in thy evil carcass." 

     "Kind sirs," said the beggar whiningly, "is it that woodman whom I struck but now that I have nearly slain? Oh, by the rood, but 'twas only in defence of myself that I struck him. Sorry I am that my awkward stroke hath near slain him." 

     "Out upon thee, thou hast not slain him!" cried Bat. "Think you his good life is to be put out by thy dirty staff. He'll live to do thee skaith [harm] within the next hour, as thou shalt see. Now, Michael," Bat said to his comrade, "let us truss this rogue up with his own rope girdle and push him along to our master. Thou art ugly enough now, rogue," Bat went on, "but thou'It look uglier still when thou art swinging and grinning through a noose." 

     The beggar saw that Bat was a determined man, and that if he thought not speedily of some wile wherewith to escape from their hands, it would fare ill with him. 

     "O brave gentlemen," he said in a shaking voice, "be kind, and spare a poor old beggar. Sorry I am if I have done any ill to the brave nobleman, your leader. But I am very willing to make a good recompense for any ill I have done him. Set me free, and I will give thee twenty marks which I have in my poke [bag] here, as well as odd bits of silver which I have hidden among my rags." 

     At these words the eyes of both Bat and Michael glistened. They had never had money in their lives before, and the chance of getting ten marks each--a fabulous sum to them--was too much for their loyalty to their master. 

     "Show us thy money, old rogue," said Bat. "I believe thou liest. But show it to us!" 

     They let the beggar loose, and he untied his cloak and laid it on the ground. The wind was blowing gustily now as the twilight was descending, and he stood with his back toward it. Then he took off two big bags which they supposed contained meal and meat and bread, and placed them on the ground before him. 

     Finally he took the great belt from his neck which supported another bag by his side. 

     "In this," he said, "I hide my money for greater safety. 'Tis full of old clouts with which to stuff my clothes against the bitter wind, and my shoon to keep my feet warm." 

     As he was lifting the belt over his head Bat saw that immediately under his left arm was a little pouch slung by a thin strap. This seemed so artfully hidden that the outlaw thought that it must contain something of great value, and he almost suspected that the beggar, with all the clumsy preparations he was making, must be intending to keep the richest pelf from them. 

     He leaned forward, gripped the thin strap, and with a quick turn of his knife cut it, and the purse came away in his hand. The beggar tried to snatch it, but he was encumbered by the great bag he had in his hands. He struggled to seize it, but both outlaws held their knives against his breast. 

     "Cease, ugly knave!" cried Bat, "or we'll let out thy life and have thy booty as well. And see thou playest no tricks, or 'twill go ill with thee." 

     The beggar saw that Bat was becoming suspicious, and stayed his attempts to snatch at the purse which the outlaw had now crammed into the breast of his tunic. With black looks and glowering eyes the beggar rested his big bag on the ground, and bent to undo it, the outlaws also stooping to see that he played no tricks. 

     He pushed his hands into the bag, and then suddenly dashed in their faces a great cloud of meal. The two outlaws were blinded at once and retreated, howling imprecations and threats upon the beggar, though they could not see a whit where he was. 

     Next moment, however, they felt the weight of his pikestaff upon their heads, for he had quickly seized his stick, and with fierce blows attacked them. Bat, his eyes still smarting with the meal in them, felt the beggar's hand tear at his tunic, but he slashed it with his dagger, which he still held, and dimly he saw the beggar retreat for a moment with a gory hand and make ready to bring his pole down on Bat's head with a deadly blow. 

     The outlaw knew then that the purse held something of value. He dashed away just as the staff fell with a blow that, had it alighted on his head, at which it was aimed, would have cracked his skull. Bat looked no more behind, but ran as fast as he could go, followed by his comrade. For some time the beggar followed them, but he was burdened by his heavy clothes, and soon gave up the chase. 

     It was now almost dark, and very ruefully the two outlaws made their way back to the camp. 

     "We are two great fools," said Bat, "and I will give my back willingly to Master Robin's scourge." 

     "My bones ache so sorely," said Michael, "from the brute beast's cudgel that I crave no more basting for a time. I think I will hide me till I be a little less sore and master's anger hath cooled." 

     "Flee then, ass," said Bat, angry with himself and his companion, "and starve in the woods as thou surely wouldst, or run back to thy manor, thou run serf, and be basted by thy lord's steward." 

     But Michael was too fearful both of the lonely woods and of the strong arm of his lord's scourging man, and chose after all to go with Bat and take what punishment Robin chose to mete out to them. 

     They reached the camp just as the outlaws were about to sit to their supper, and Bat told everything with a frankness which showed how ashamed he was of himself. Robin heard them patiently, and then said: 

     "Hast thou still the purse which thou didst take from the rogue?" 

    Bat had thought no more of the purse, but feeling in his tunic found it was still there, and, drawing it forth, gave it to Robin. The outlaw bade Bat bring a torch to light him while he examined the contents of the purse. 

     First he drew out three rose nobles wrapped in a piece of rag, then a ring with a design engraved upon it, and lastly, from the bottom of the purse, he drew out a piece of parchment folded small. This he opened and smoothed out upon his knee, and read, slowly, 'tis true, since Robin, though he had been taught to read his Latin when a lad in his uncle's house at Lockseley, had had little use for reading since he had reached man's estate. 

     Slowly he read the Latin words, and as he grasped their meaning his face became grim and hard. The words, translated, were these: 

     "To the worshipful Master Ralph Murdach, Sheriff of the Shires of Nottingham and Derby, these with greeting. Know ye that the Bearer of these, Richard Malbęte, is he of whom I spoke to thee, who hath been commended to me by my friend, Sir Nigel le Grym. He is a man of a bold and crafty mind, stinting no labor for good pay, and blinking not at any desperate deed: of a cunning mind, ready in wit and wile and ambuscades. But keep him from the wine, or he is of no avail. This is he who will aid thee to lay such plans and plots as will gain us that savage wolf's-head, Robin, and root out that growing brood of robbers who go with him. I hope to hear much good done in a little while." 

     The letter was not signed, for in those days men did not sign their letters with their names, but with their seals, and this was sealed on a piece of blue wax with the signet of Sir Guy of Gisborne, which was a wild man's head, below which was a sword. 

     Robin looked at Bat and Michael, who, with heads bent, seemed filled with shame, and as if expecting some punishment. 

     "Ye are not fit to be outlaws," he said sternly. "Ye are but common reivers and cutters [cutpurses], and shouldst run to the town and lurk by taverns and rob men when they are full of wine and cannot help themselves. When I send ye to do a thing, that thing thou shalt do, whatever temptation is placed before ye. But as ye are but fresh from the plow, I will overlook it this time. Go," he ended in gentler tones, "get your supper, and remember that I shall expect ye to be keen and good lads henceforth." 

     Bat had never before known a kind word from a superior, and his heart was greatly moved at Robin's words. 

     "Master," he said, bending on one knee, "I have been a fool and I deserve the scourge. But if you will not give me that~ give me some hard task to do, so that I may wipe the thought of my doltishness from my memory." 

     "And let me go with him, good master," said Michael, "for I would serve you manfully." 

     Robin looked at them for a moment, and smiled at their eagerness. 

     "Go get your suppers now, lads," he said at length. "It may be I will set thee a task ere long." 

     When the meal was ended, Robin called Little John to his side and said: 

     "John, hath the proud potter of Wentbridge set out on his journey yet?" 

     "Ay, master," replied John, "he went through but yesterday, with horse and cart laden with his pots and pans. A brisk man is he, and as soon as the snows are gone he is not one to play Lob-lie-by-the-fire." 

     Robin asked where the potter would be lodging that night, and John told him. Then Robin called Bat and Michael to him. 

     "Thou didst ask for a task," he said, "and I will give thee one. It may be a hard one, but 'tis one thou must do by hook or by crook. Thou knowest well the ways of the forest from here to Mansfield, for thou hast both fled from thy lord at Warsop. Now I will that ye go to Mansfield for me this night and seek the proud potter of Wentbridge. Tell him that I crave a fellowship of him. I wish him to let me have his clothes, his pots, his cart and his horse, for I will go to Nottingham market disguised." 

     "This will we do right gladly, master," said Bat. "We will take our staves and our swords and bucklers and start on our way forthwith." 

     Little John began to laugh heartily. 

     "Ye speak as if thou thinkest it will be no more than to say 'bo!' to a goose," he said. "But if thou knowest not the proud potter of Wentbridge, that lacking he will soon make up in thee by the aid of his good quarterstaff." 

     "I know, Little John," said Bat with a laugh, "that he hath given thee that lesson." 

     "Ye say truly," said honest John; "evil befell me when I bade him pay toll to the outlaws last harvest-time, for he gave me three strokes that I shall never forget." 

     "All Sherwood heard of them," said Bat; "but the proud potter is a full courteous man, as I have heard tell. Nevertheless, whether he liketh it or not, he shall yield Master Robin his wish." 

     "Then I will meet thee at the Forest Herne where the roads fork beyond Mansfield," said Robin, "an hour after dawn tomorrow." 

     "We will fail not to be there with all that thou wishest," replied Bat, and together he and Michael set out under the starlight on the way to Mansfield. 

     Next day, into the market-place of Nottingham, drove a well-fed little brown pony, drawing a potter's cart, filled with pots and pans of good Wentbridge ware. The potter, a man stout of limb, plump of body and red of face, wore a rusty brown tunic and cloak, patched in several places, and his hair seemed to have rare acquaintance with a comb. Robin indeed was well disguised. 

     Farmers, hucksters, merchants and butchers were crowded in the market-place, some having already set up their booths or stalls, while others were busy unloading their carts or the panniers on their stout nags. The potter set his crocks beside his cart, after having given his horse oats and hay, and then began to cry his wares. 

     He had taken up a place not five steps from the door of the sheriff's house, which, built of wood and adorned with quaint designs, occupied a prominent place on one side of the market-place; and the potter's eyes were constantly turned on the door of the house, which now was open, and people having business with the sheriff rode or walked up and entered. 

     "Good pots for sale!" cried the potter. "Buy of my pots! Pots and pans! Cheap and good today. Come wives and maidens! Set up your kitchens with my good ware!" 

     So lustily did he call that soon a crowd of country people who had come to the market to buy stood about him and began to chaffer with him. But he did not stay to bargain; he let each have the pot or pan at the price they offered. The noise of the cheapness of the pots soon got abroad, and very soon there were but half a dozen pots left. 

     "He is an ass," said one woman, "and not a potter. He may make good pots, but he knoweth naught of bargaining. He'll never thrive in his trade." 

     Robin called a serving-maid who came just then from the sheriff's house, and begged her to go to the sheriff's wife, with the best respects of the potter of Wentbridge, and ask whether the dame would accept his remaining pots as a gift. In a few minutes Dame Margaret herself · came out. 

     "Gramercy for thy pots, good chapman," she said, and she had a merry eye, and spoke in a very friendly manner. "I am full fain to have them, for they be good pots and sound. When thou comest to this town again, good potter, let me know of it and I will buy of thy wares." 

     "Madam," said Robin, doffing his hat and bowing in a yeomanly manner, "thou shalt have of the best in my cart. I'll give thee no cracked wares, nor any with flaws in them, by the Mass, but every one shall ring with a true honest note when thou knockest it." 

     The sheriff's wife thought the potter was a full courteous and bowerly man, and began to talk with him. Then a great bell rang throughout the house, and the dame said: 

     "Come into the house if thou wilt, good chapman. Come sit with me and the sheriff at the market table." 

     This was what Robin desired. He thanked the dame, and was led by her into the bower where her maidens sat at their sewing. Just then the door opened and the sheriff came in. Robin looked keenly at the man whom he had only seen once before. He knew that the sheriff, Ralph Murdach, was a rich cordwainer who had bought his office from the grasping Bishop of Ely for a great price, and to repay himself he squeezed all he could out of the people. 

     "Look what this master potter hath given us," said Dame Margaret, showing the pots on a stool beside her. "Six pots of excellent ware, as good as any made in the Low Countries." 

     The sheriff, a tall spare man of a sour and surly look, glanced at Robin, who bowed to him. 

     "May the good chapman dine with us, sheriff?" asked the dame. 

     "He is welcome," said the sheriff crossly, for he was hungry and had just been outwitted, moreover, in a piece of business in the market-place. "Let us wash and go to meat." 

     They went into the hall of the house where some twenty men were waiting for the sheriff and his lady. Some were officers and men of the sheriff, others were rich chapmen from the market. 

     When the sheriff and his wife took their seats at the high table, all the company sat down, Robin being shown a seat midway down the lower table. A spoon of horn was placed on the table where each sat and a huge slice of bread, called a trencher, but for drinking purposes there was only one pewter cup between each two neighbors. Then the scullions from the sheriff's kitchen brought in roasted meat on silver skewers, and these being handed to the various guests, each would take his knife from his girdle, rub it on his leg to clean it a little, and then cut what he wanted from the skewer, laying his portion on the thick slice of bread. Then, using his fingers as a fork, the guest would eat his dinner, cutting off and eating pieces of his trencher with his meat, or saving it till all the meat was eaten. 

     On the rush-covered floor of the hall dogs and cats fought for the meat or bones thrown to them, and at the door beggars looked in, crying out for alms or broken meat. Sometimes a guest at the lower end of the table would throw a bone at a beggar, intending to hit him hard, but the beggar would deftly catch it and begin gnawing it. When, as sometimes happened, the beggars became too bold and ventured almost up to the table, a serving-man would dart among them with his staff and thump and kick them pell-mell out through the door. 

     Suddenly, a sturdy beggar came forthright into the hall and walked up among the sprawling dogs toward the high seat. Instantly a serving-man dashed at him and caught hold of him to throw him out. 

     "I crave to speak with the sheriff," cried the beggar, struggling with the man. "I come with a message from a knight." 

     But the serving-man would not listen, and began to drag the beggar to the door. The noise of their struggle drew the attention of all the guests, and Robin, looking up, recognized the beggar. It was Sir Guy's spy, whom he had met but yesterday, and who had outwitted the two outlaws whom Robin had sent to take him--Richard Malbęte, or, as the English would call him, Illbeast. 

     The beggar fought fiercely to free himself, but the serving-man was a powerful fellow, and Malbęte's struggles were in vain. Suddenly he cried: