“Nevertheless,” quoth Robin, “I would have a try at it; and methinks I shall change clothes with thee, for thy garb seemeth to be pretty, not to say gay.  So not only will I change clothes, but I will give thee two golden angels to boot.  I have brought my stout staff with me, thinking that I might have to rap some one of the brethren of thy cloth over the head by way of argument in this matter, but I love thee so much for the feast thou hast given me that I would not lift even my little finger against thee, so thou needst not have a crumb of fear.”

To this the Beggar listened with his knuckles resting against his hips, and when Robin had ended he cocked his head on one side and thrust his tongue into his cheek.

“Marry, come up,” quoth he at last.  “Lift thy finger against me, forsooth!  Art thou out of thy wits, man?  My name is Riccon Hazel, and I come from Holywell, in Flintshire, over by the River Dee.  I tell thee, knave, I have cracked the head of many a better man than thou art, and even now I would scald thy crown for thee but for the ale thou hast given me.  Now thou shalt not have so much as one tag-rag of my coat, even could it save thee from hanging.”

“Now, fellow,” said Robin, “it would ill suit me to spoil thy pretty head for thee, but I tell thee plainly, that but for this feast I would do that to thee would stop thy traveling the country for many a day to come.  Keep thy lips shut, lad, or thy luck will tumble out of thy mouth with thy speech!”

“Now out, and alas for thee, man, for thou hast bred thyself ill this day!” cried the Beggar, rising and taking up his staff.  “Take up thy club and defend thyself, fellow, for I will not only beat thee but I will take from thee thy money and leave thee not so much as a clipped groat to buy thyself a lump of goose grease to rub thy cracked crown withal.  So defend thyself, I say.”

Then up leaped merry Robin and snatched up his staff also.  “Take my money, if thou canst,” quoth he.  “I promise freely to give thee every farthing if thou dost touch me.”  And he twirled his staff in his fingers till it whistled again.

Then the Beggar swung his staff also, and struck a mighty blow at Robin, which the yeoman turned.  Three blows the Beggar struck, yet never one touched so much as a hair of Robin’s head.  Then stout Robin saw his chance, and, ere you could count three, Riccon’s staff was over the hedge, and Riccon himself lay upon the green grass with no more motion than you could find in an empty pudding bag.

“How now!” quoth merry Robin, laughing.  “Wilt thou have my hide or my money, sweet chuck?” But to this the other answered never a word.  Then Robin, seeing his plight, and that he was stunned with the blow, ran, still laughing, and brought the skin of ale and poured some of it on the Beggar’s head and some down his throat, so that presently he opened his eyes and looked around as though wondering why he lay upon his back.