The Black Knight strode into the friar's cell without waiting for invitation.
"Have you no supper, brother?" asked the knight, curtly. "I must beg a bed of you this night, and fain would refresh my body ere I sleep."
"I have naught but half of mine own supper to offer you," replied Tuck; "a little dry bread and a pitcher of water."
"Methinks I can smell better fare than that, brother;" and the Black Knight offered to look into the larder.
This was more than Tuck could bear, so he caught up his staff and flung himself before his guest in a threatening attitude. "Why, then, if you will," cried the knight, and he struck the priest smartly with the flat of his sword.
The friar put down his staff. "Now," said he, with meaning, "since you have struck me we will play this game to a fair finish. Wherefore, if you are a true knight, give me your pledge that you will fight me on to-morrow morn with quarter-staff until one of us shall cry 'Enough.'"
"With all my soul," cried the knight, readily. "And will give more knocks than ever you have given your dogs."
"One gives and takes," retorted Tuck, sententiously; "put up your sword and help me to lay supper, for I am passing hungry."
They spread the supper table between them, and once again the friar sat down hopefully. He spoke his grace with unction, and was surprised to hear his guest echo the Latin words after him. The knight unlaced his helm and took it off. He appeared as a bronzed and bearded man, stern-looking and handsome.
They then attacked the venison pasty right valiantly, and pledged each other in a cup of wine. The good food and comfort warmed them both, and soon they were at a gossip, cheerful and astounding. So they passed the time until the hour grew late; and both fell asleep together, almost in their places, by the despoiled supper table.