y brother came to visit the
Sacristan at Saint Edmund's--a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor,
and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the
tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitch
of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and
a merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a
Cheshire round, with e'er a man in Yorkshire."

"That last part of thy speech, Dennet," said the Minstrel, "has saved
thee a rib or twain."

"Tush, man, I fear him not," said Dennet; "I am somewhat old and stiff,
but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster--"

"But the story--the story, my friend," again said the Minstrel.

"Why, the tale is but this--Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at
Saint Edmund's."

"That's a lie, and a loud one," said the Friar, "for I saw him borne to
his own Castle of Coningsburgh."

"Nay, then, e'en tell the story yourself, my masters," said Dennet,
turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some
difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of
his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.--"These two 'sober'
friars," said he at length, "since this reverend man will needs have
them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not,
for the best part for a summer's day, when they were aroused by a
deep groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased
Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, 'Ye evil shep-herds!--'"

"It is false," said the Friar, hastily, "he never spoke a word."

"So ho! Friar Tuck," said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the
rustics; "we have started a new hare, I find."

"I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale," said the Hermit, "I saw Athelstane of
Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his
shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre--A butt of sack will
not wash it out of my memory."

"Pshaw!" answered the Minstrel; "thou dost but jest with me!"

"Never believe me," said the Friar, "an I fetched not a knock at him
with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glided
through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!"

"By Saint Hubert," said the Minstrel, "but it is a wondrous tale, and
fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, 'Sorrow came to the old
Friar.'"

"Laugh, if ye list," said Friar Tuck; "but an ye catch me singing
on such a theme, may the next ghost or dev