“Upon this evil city be the malison of Holy Church, her maledictions bitter, her imprecation and anathema.  I do pronounce all within this city ex—­”

“Abate thee, friar, abate!” roared Giles, “cease thy rumbling, thou empty wine-butt.  An thou must deal in curses, leave them to one more apt and better schooled—­to Giles, in faith, who shall forthwith curse thee sweet and trippingly as thus—­now mark me, monk!  Aroint, aroint thee to Acheron dark and dismal, there may the foul fiend seize and plague thee with seven and seventy plaguey sorrows!  May Saint Anthony’s fire frizzle and fry thee—­woe, woe betide thee everlastingly—­(bate thy babble, Prior, I am not ended yet!) In life may thou be accursed from heel to head, within thee and without—­(save thy wind, Prior, no man doth hear or heed thee!) Be thou accursed in father and in mother, in sister and in brother, in oxen and in asses—­especially in asses!  Be thou accursed in sleeping and in waking, eating and drinking, standing, sitting, lying—­O be thou accursed completely and consumedly!  Here now, methinks, Sir Monkish Tunbelly, is cursing as it should be cursed.  But now—­(hush thy vain babbling, heed and mark me well!)—­now will I to dictums contumacious, from cursing thee I will to song of thee, of thy plump and pertinacious person—­a song wherein shall pleasant mention be o’ thy round and goodly paunch, a song that shall be sung, mayhap, when thee and it are dusty dust, O shaveling—­to wit: 

  “O frater fat and flatulent, full foolish, fatuous Friar
   A prime plump priest in passion seen, such pleasure doth inspire,
   That sober souls, ’spite sorrows sad, shall sudden, shout and sing
   Because thy belly big belittleth baleful ban ye bring. 
   Wherefore with wondrous wit withal, with waggish wanton wiles,
   I joyful chant to glorify the just and gentle Giles.”

And now behold! fear and dread were forgotten quite, and wheresoever Beltane looked were men who bent and contorted themselves in their merriment, and who held their laughter yet in check to catch the archer’s final words.

“Thus, thou poor and pitiful Prior, for thy rude speech and curses canonical we do requite thee with song sweet-sung and of notable rhyme and metre.  Curse, and Belsaye shall out-curse thee; laugh, and Belsaye laugheth at thee—­”

“Sacrilege!” gasped the Prior, “O ’tis base sacrilege!  ’Tis a vile, unhallowed city and shall go up in flame—­”

“And thou,” cried Giles, “thou art a fiery churchman and shall be cooled.  Ho, Rogerkin—­loose off!”

Came the thudding crash of a powerful mangonel, whose mighty beam, swinging high, hurled aloft the bulging wine-skin, the which, bursting in mid-air, deluged with water all below—­prior and monk, acolyte and chorister; whereat from all Belsaye a shout went up, that swelled to peal on peal of mighty laughter, the while, in stumbling haste, the dripping Prior was borne by dripping monks back to Duke Ivo’s mighty camp.  And lo! from this great camp another sound arose, a roar of anger, fierce and terrible to hear, that smote Belsaye to silence.  But, out upon the battlement, plain for all folk to see, sprang Giles flourishing his six-foot bow.