Robin Hood looked up and he looked down, biting his nether lip.

Quoth he, "Thou cunning Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow.
Let me tell thee that not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me

in all my life before. I might have known from thy looks that thou
wert no such holy man as thou didst pretend to be."

"Nay," interrupted the Friar, "I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither,
lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel."

"Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak not so, Friar; the loser
hath ever the right to use his tongue as he doth list.

Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee back straightway.
Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee."

"Marry, come up," quoth the Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow.
Here is thy skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I

would hasten back."
So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side;

then he bent his stout back and took the Friar upon it.
Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar

than the Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford,
so he went stumbling among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole,

and now nearly tripping over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his
face in beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness

of his load. Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin's
sides and bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the while.

To all this Robin answered never a word, but, having softly felt around
till he found the buckle of the belt that held the Friar's sword,

he worked slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them.
Thus it came about that, by the time he had reached the other bank

with his load, the Friar's sword belt was loose albeit he knew it not;
so when Robin stood on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back,

the yeoman gripped hold of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap
came away from the holy man, leaving him without a weapon.

"Now then," quoth merry Robin, panting as he spake and wiping
the sweat from his brow, "I have thee, fellow. This time

that same saint of whom thou didst speak but now hath delivered
two swords into my hand and hath stripped thine away from thee.

Now if thou dost not carry me back, and that speedily,
I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full of holes

as a slashed doublet."
The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked

at Robin with a grim look. "Now," said he at last, "I did
think that thy wits were of the heavy sort and knew not that

thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me upon the hip.
Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against thee save

in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy bidding and take
thee upon my back and carry thee."

So jolly Robin gave him his sword again, which the Friar buckled
to his side, and this time looked to it that it was more secure

in its fastenings; then tucking up his robes once more, he took
Robin Hood upon his back and without a word stepped into the water,

and so waded on in silence while Robin sat laughing upon his back.
At last he reached the middle of the ford where the water was deepest.

Here he stopped for a moment, and then, with a sudden lift of his
hand and heave of his shoulders, fairly shot Robin over his head

as though he were a sack of grain.
Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash.

"There," quoth the holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore,
"let that cool thy hot spirit, if it may."

Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood gazing
about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little rills.

At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of his mouth,
and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the stout Friar standing

on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin Hood a mad man.
"Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am after thee straight, and if I do

not carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never lift finger again!"
So saying, he dashed, splashing, to the bank.

"Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear not;
I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry `Alack-a-day' ere long time

is gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer."
And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado,

to roll up his sleeves above his wrists. The Friar, also,
tucked his robes more about him, showing a great, stout arm

on which the muscles stood out like humps of an aged tree.
Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of before, that the Friar

had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown.
"Look to thyself," cried Robin, drawing his good sword.

"Ay, marry," quoth the Friar, who held his already
in his hand. So, without more ado, they came together,

and thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle.
Right and left, and up and down and back and forth they fought.

The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash
that sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout

at quarterstaff, but a grim and serious fight of real earnest.
Thus they strove for an hour or more, pausing every now and then

to rest, at which times each looked at the other with wonder,
and thought that never had he seen so stout a fellow;

then once again they would go at it more fiercely than ever.
Yet in all this time neither had harmed the other nor caused

his blood to flow. At last merry Robin cried, "Hold thy hand,
good friend!" whereupon both lowered their swords.

"Now I crave a boon ere we begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat
from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that it

would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so stout
and brave a fellow.

"What wouldst thou have of me?" asked the Friar.
"Only this," quoth Robin; "that thou wilt let me blow thrice upon

my bugle horn."
The Friar bent his brows and looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. "Now I

do verily think that thou hast some cunning trick in this," quoth he.
"Ne'ertheless, I fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish,

providing thou wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle."
"With all my heart," quoth Robin, "so, here goes for one."

So saying, he raised his silver horn to his lips and blew thrice
upon it, clear and high.

Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come
to pass, holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle,

such as knights use for calling their hawks back to their wrists,
which whistle always hung at his girdle along with his rosary.

Scarcely had the echo of the last note of Robin's bugle come winding back
from across the river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came running

around the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an arrow
ready nocked upon the string.

"Ha! Is it thus, thou traitor knave!" cried the Friar. "Then, marry,
look to thyself!" So saying, he straightway clapped the hawk's whistle

to his lips and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now there
came a crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the road,

and presently forth from the covert burst four great, shaggy hounds.
"At 'em, Sweet Lips! At 'em, Bell Throat! At 'em, Beauty! At 'em, Fangs!"

cried the Friar, pointing at Robin.
And now it was well for that yeoman that a tree stood nigh

him beside the road, else had he had an ill chance of it.
Ere one could say "Gaffer Downthedale" the hounds were upon him,

and he had only time to drop his sword and leap lightly into the tree,
around which the hounds gathered, looking up at him as though he were

a cat on the eaves. But the Friar quickly called off his dogs.
"At 'em!" cried he, pointing down the road to where the yeomen