ep hole, now
stumbling over a boulder in a manner that threatened to unseat his rider
or plunge them both clear under current. But the fat friar hung on and
dug his heels into his steed's ribs in as gallant manner as if he were
riding in a tournament; while as for poor Robin the sweat ran down him
in torrents and he gasped like the winded horse he was. But at last he
managed to stagger out on the bank and deposit his unwieldy load.

No sooner had he set the friar down than he seized his own sword.

"Now, holy friar," quoth he, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow,
"what say the Scriptures that you quote so glibly?--Be not weary of
well doing. You must carry me back again or I swear that I will make a
cheese-cloth out of your jacket!"

The friar's gray eyes once more twinkled with a cunning gleam that boded
no good to Robin; but his voice was as calm and courteous as ever.

"Your wits are keen, my son," he said; "and I see that the waters of the
stream have not quenched your spirit. Once more will I bend my back to
the oppressor and carry the weight of the haughty."

So Robin mounted again in high glee, and carried his sword in his
hand, and went prepared to tarry upon the other side. But while he
was bethinking himself what great words to use, when he should arrive
thither, he felt himself slipping from the friar's broad back. He
clutched frantically to save himself but had too round a surface to
grasp, besides being hampered by his weapon. So down went he with a
loud splash into the middle of the stream, where the crafty friar had
conveyed him.

"There!" quoth the holy man; "choose you, choose you, my fine fellow,
whether you will sink or swim!" And he gained his own bank without more
ado, while Robin thrashed and spluttered about until he made shift to
grasp a willow wand and thus haul himself ashore on the other side.

Then Robin's rage waxed furious, despite his wetting, and he took his
bow and his arrows and let fly one shaft after another at the worthy
friar. But they rattled harmlessly off his steel buckler, while he
laughed and minded them no more than if they had been hail-stones.

"Shoot on, shoot on, good fellow," he sang out; "shoot as you have
begun; if you shoot here a summer's day, your mark I will not shun!"

So Robin shot, and passing well, till all his arrows were gone, when
from very rage he began to revile him.

"You bloody villain!" shouted he, "You psalm-singing hypocrite! You
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