“Beholden, say you!” rejoined the other drawing his sword; “then by my faith you shall e’en repay your score. Now mine own affairs, which are of a spiritual kind and much more important than yours which are carnal, lie on the other side of this stream. I see that you are a likely man and one, moreover, who would not refuse to serve the church. I must therefore pray of you that whatsoever I have done unto you, you will do also unto me. In short, my son, you must e’en carry me back again.” Courteously enough was this said; but so suddenly had the friar drawn his sword that Robin had no time to unsling his bow from his back, whither he had placed it to avoid getting it wet, or to unfasten his scabbard. So he was fain to temporize. “Nay, good father, but I shall get my feet wet,” he commenced. “Are your feet any better than mine?” retorted the other. “I fear me now that I have already wetted myself so sadly as to lay in a store of rheumatic pains by way of penance.” “I am not so strong as you,” continued Robin; “that helmet and sword and buckler would be my undoing on the uncertain footing amidstream, to say nothing of your holy flesh and bones.” “Then I will lighten up, somewhat,” replied the other calmly. “Promise to carry me across and I will lay aside my war gear.” “Agreed,” said Robin; and the friar thereupon stripped himself; and Robin bent his stout back and took him up even as he had promised. Now the stones at the bottom of the stream were round and slippery, and the current swept along strongly, waist-deep, in the middle. More-over Robin had a heavier load than the other had borne, nor did he know the ford. So he went stumbling along now stepping into a deep hole, now stumbling over a boulder in a manner that threatened to unseat his rider or plunge them both clear under current. But the fat friar hung on and dug his heels into his steed’s ribs in as gallant manner as if he were riding in a tournament; while as for poor Robin the sweat ran down him in torrents and he gasped like the winded horse he was. But at last he managed to stagger out on the bank and deposit his unwieldy load. No sooner had he set the friar down than he seized his own sword. “Now, holy friar,” quoth he, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow, “what say the Scriptures that you quote so glibly?--Be not weary of well doing. You must carry me back again or I swear that I will make a cheese-cloth out of your jacket!” The friar’s gray eyes once more twinkled with a cunning gleam that boded no good to Robin; but his voice was as calm and courteous as ever. “Your wits are keen, my son,” he said; “and I see that the waters of the stream have not quenched your spirit. Once more will I bend my back to the oppressor and carry the weight of the haughty.”