All the blood in his body seemed to rush like a flame into his cheeks as he bent his head and listened.

Again came the bugle note, thin and clear, and yet again it sounded.

Then Little John gave a great, wild cry of yearning, of joy, and yet of grief, and, putting down his head, he dashed into the thicket.

Onward he plunged, crackling and rending, as the wild boar rushes through the underbrush.

Little recked he of thorns and briers that scratched his flesh and tore his clothing, for all he thought of was to get, by the shortest way, to the greenwood glade whence he knew the sound of the bugle horn came.