After they'd stripped the friar of his robe, brass pectoral cross and the coin purse de Faucumberg had given him, Little John had thrown the screaming man into the raging torrent of the River Rother. “If you're so close to our Lord he'll fish you out, or send one of his saints to do it,” the giant roared as the skinny white figure was carried away by the swiftly moving waters. “Somehow,” he growled to himself as the figure, and its cries of terror, receded into the distance, “I doubt God will be much interested in you.” They made their way back to young Hubert's pitiful corpse and, with heavy hearts, stripped him too of his clothes and valuables before carrying his body back to the river and tossing him into the churning waters. They watched in silence, heads bowed in prayer, as the boy's pale, lifeless cadaver was washed away. “We'll stop at the next town,” Robin said, climbing back onto his horse which looked fed-up as the rain streamed down its long face.
