Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed: "_So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! For the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill And I'll be thine own true love_." So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined in with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music, he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have we here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday." 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. When it came away again there was nought within it. "Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked Robin, laughing. "Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly. "And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?" "Yea, somewhat." "Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey." "Yea, somewhat." "Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth Robin, "I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the river or the other."