"
Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout
as was Robin's.
"Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with
the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so
sweetly together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down
the bank to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my
throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October.
Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?"
"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.
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