“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the Hermit, “I saw Athelstane of Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre⁠—A butt of sack will not wash it out of my memory.”

“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but jest with me!”

“Never believe me,” said the Friar, “an I fetched not a knock at him with my quarterstaff that would have felled an ox, and it glided through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!”

“By Saint Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is a wondrous tale, and fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to the old Friar.’ ”

“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye catch me singing on such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him headlong! No, no⁠—I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here.”