After this, Ralph reappears at various points in the action. He interposes, Quixote-like, in the aforesaid love-affair, and gets belaboured by the favoured lover for his pains. Later, he puts up at an inn, and, about to leave, is surprised when the tapster draws his attention to the fact that the reckoning is not paid:-- _Ralph._ Right courteous Knight, who for the order's sake Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell, As I this flaming pestle bear about, We render thanks to your puissant self, Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires, For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs, Stiffen'd with hard achievements in wild desert. _Tapster._ Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay. _Ralph._ Thou merry squire Tapstero, thanks to thee For comforting our souls with double jug: And if adventurous fortune prick thee forth, Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms, Take heed thou tender ev'ry lady's cause, Ev'ry true knight, and ev'ry damsel fair, But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens, And false enchanters that with magic spells Have done to death full many a noble knight. _Host._ Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me: there is twelve shillings to pay, and as I am a true knight, I will not bate a penny.... _Ralph._ Sir knight, this mirth of yours becomes you well; But, to requite this liberal courtesy, If any of your squires will follow arms, He shall receive from my heroic hand A knighthood, by the virtue of this pestle. The host, however, insists upon receiving his twelve shillings, and the grocer's wife, in great fear lest harm shall befall her Ralph, requests her husband to pay the money. In a subsequent scene, Ralph conquers the giant Barbaroso, and releases his captives. By-and-by he goes into Moldavia, where he touches the heart of the king's daughter, but tells her that he has already pledged his troth to Susan, "a cobbler's maid in Malte Street," whom he vowed never to forsake. At the end of the play he comes on to explain, at length, that he is dead, taking the opportunity to recount his various performances. The fun is never very brilliant; and the "Knight of the Pestle," albeit by writers so distinguished, is not, for the present-day Englishman, particularly exhilarating reading. One can imagine, however, how droll it seemed to our ancestors, with whom it remained popular for over half a century, surviving till the time of Mistress Eleanor Gwynne, who once spoke the prologue to it.