“He is a monk of the church militant, I think,” answered Locksley; “and there be more of them abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the rosary and take up the quarter-staff; we shall need every one of our merry men, whether clerk or layman.—But,” he added, taking him a step aside, “art thou mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost not know? Hast thou forgot our articles?”
“Not know him!” replied the friar, boldly, “I know him as well as the beggar knows his dish.”
“And what is his name, then?” demanded Locksley.
“His name,” said the hermit—“his name is Sir Anthony of Scrabelstone—as if I would drink with a man, and did not know his name!”
“Thou hast been drinking more than enough, friar,” said the woodsman, “and, I fear, prating more than enough too.”
“Good yeoman,” said the knight, coming forward, “be not wroth with my merry host. He did but afford me the hospitality which I would have compelled from him if he had refused it.”
“Thou compel!” said the friar; “wait but till have changed this grey gown for a green cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon thy pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woodsman.”
While he spoke thus, he stript off his gown, and appeared in a close black buckram doublet and drawers, over which he speedily did on a cassock of green, and hose of the same colour. “I pray thee truss my points,” said he to Wamba, “and thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy labour.”
“Gramercy for thy sack,” said Wamba; “but think’st thou it is lawful for me to aid you to transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful forester?”
“Never fear,” said the hermit; “I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my greyfriar’s frock, and all shall be well again.”