“Well—­I met a monk!” quoth the fellow with a gleam of white teeth.  “O! a ponderous monk, brother, of most mighty girth of belly!  Now, as ye see, though this ass be sleek and fat as an abbot, she is something small.  ‘And shall so small a thing needs bear so great a mountain o’ flesh?’ says I (much moved at the sight, brother).  ’No, by the blessed bones of St. Giles (which is my patron saint, brother), so thereafter (by dint of a little persuasion, brother) my mountainous monk, to ease the poor beast’s back, presently got him down and I, forthwith, got up—­ as being more in proportion to her weight, sweet beast!  O! surely ne’er saw I fairer morn than this, and never, in so fair a morn, saw I fairer man than thou, Sir Forester, nor taller, and I have seen many men in my day.  Wherefore an so ye will, let us company together what time we may; ’tis a solitary road, and the tongue is a rare shortener of distance.”

So Beltane strode on beside this garrulous bowman, hearkening to his merry talk, yet himself speaking short and to the point as was ever his custom; as thus: 

Bowman.  “How do men call thee, tall brother?”

Beltane.  “Beltane.”

Bowman.  “Ha!  ’Tis a good name, forsooth I’ve heard worse—­and yet, forsooth, I’ve heard better.  Yet ’tis a fairish name—­’twill serve.  As for me, Giles Brabblecombe o’ the Hills men call me, for ’twas in the hill country I was born thirty odd years agone.  Since then twelve sieges have I seen with skirmishes and onfalls thrice as many.  Death have I beheld in many and divers shapes and in experience of wounds and dangers am rich, though, by St. Giles (my patron saint), in little else.  Yet do I love life the better, therefore, and I have read that ‘to despise gold is to be rich.’”

Beltane.  “Do all bowmen read, then?”

Bowman.  “Why look ye, brother, I am not what I was aforetime—­non sum quails eram —­I was bred a shaveling, a mumbler, a be-gowned do-nothing—­brother, I was a monk, but the flesh and the devil made of me a bowman, heigho—­so wags the world!  Though methinks I am a better bowman than ever I was a monk, having got me some repute with this my bow.”

Beltane (shaking his head).  “Methinks thy choice was but a sorry one for—­”

Bowman (laughing).  “Choice quotha!  ’Twas no choice, ’twas forced upon me, vi et armis. I should be chanting prime or matins at this very hour but for this tongue o’ mine, God bless it!  For, when it should have been droning psalms, it was forever lilting forth some blithesome melody, some merry song of eyes and lips and stolen kisses.  In such sort that the good brethren were wont to gather round and, listening,—­ sigh!  Whereof it chanced I was, one night, by order of the holy Prior, drubbed forth of the sacred precincts.  So brother Anselm became Giles o’ the Bow—­the kind Saints be praised, in especial holy Saint Giles (which is my patron saint!).  For, heed me—­better the blue sky and the sweet, strong wind than the gloom and silence of a cloister.  I had rather hide this sconce of mine in a hood of mail than in the mitre of a lord bishop—­nolo episcopare, good brother!  Thus am I a fighter, and a good fighter, and a wise fighter, having learned ’tis better to live to fight than to fight to live.”