“Truly,” said the Friar in a glum voice, “thou dost ask thyself freely where thou art not bidden.  Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse any man drink that is athirst.  Such as there is o’t thou art welcome to a drink of the same.”  And he held the pottle out to Robin.

Robin took it without more ado and putting it to his lips, tilted his head back, while that which was within said “glug! lug! glug!” for more than three winks, I wot.  The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the while, and when he was done took the pottle quickly.  He shook it, held it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman, and straightway placed it at his own lips.  When it came away again there was nought within it.

“Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?” asked Robin, laughing.

“Yea, somewhat,” answered the other dryly.

“And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?”

“Yea, somewhat.”

“Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey.”

“Yea, somewhat.”

“Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art,” quoth Robin, “I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the river or the other.”

“That,” quoth the Friar, “is a practical question upon which the cunning rules appertaining to logic touch not.  I do advise thee to find that out by the aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not.”

“I do wish much,” quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest, “to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar.”

“Truly,” said the other piously, “it is a goodly wish on the part of one so young.  Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest.  Friend, the river is free to all.”

“Yea, good father,” said Robin, “but thou seest that my clothes are of the finest and I fain would not get them wet.  Methinks thy shoulders are stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me across?”

“Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!” burst forth the Friar in a mighty rage, “dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou kiss-my-lady-la poppenjay; thou—­thou What shall I call thee?  Dost thou ask me, the holy Tuck, to carry thee?  Now I swear—­” Here he paused suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little eyes twinkled once more.  “But why should I not?” quoth he piously.

“Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the river?  And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise?  Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of mind.”  So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin, and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself.