ROBIN
The ancient miracle!—five loaves, two small fishes;
And then—of what remained—they gathered up
Twelve basketsful!
ABBOT
Oh, you blaspheming villains!
ROBIN
Abbot, I chance to know how this was wrought,
This miracle; wrought with the blood, anguish and sweat
Of toiling peasants, while the cobwebs clustered
Around your lordly cellars of red wine.
Give him his five and let him go.
ABBOT
[Going out.]
The King
Shall hear of this! The King will hunt you down!
ROBIN