"Are ye Christians," said the Prior, "and hold this language to a churchman?"
"Christians! aye, marry are we, and have divinity among us to boot," answered the Outlaw. "Let our buxom chaplain stand forth, and expound to this reverend father the texts which concern this matter."
The Friar, half-drunk, half-sober, had huddled a friar's frock over his green cassock, and now summoning together whatever scraps of learning he had learned by rote in former days, "Holy father," said he, "Deus faciet saloum benignitatem vestrum—You are welcome to the green-wood."
"What profane mummery is this?" said the Prior; "Friend, if thou be'st indeed of the church, it were a better deed to shew me how I may escape from these men's hands, than to stand ducking and grinning here like a morris-dancer."
"Truly, reverend father," said the Friar, "I know but one mode in which thou may'st escape. This is Saint Andrew's day with us, we are taking our tythes."
