"Naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the
forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert. Odds
loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking on."

"I like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the
abbot; "yet I wish to confront him, and charge him with his
midemeanours."

"Hark; he sings," cried Father Haydocke. And as he spoke a voice was
heard chanting,--

"One shall sit at a solemn feast,
Half warrior, half priest,
The greatest there shall be the least."

"The very ditty I heard," cried Father Eastgate; "but list, he has more
of it." And the voice resumed,--

"He shall be rich, yet poor as me,
Abbot, and Earl of Poverty.
Monk and soldier, rich and poor,
He shall be hang'd at his own door."

Loud derisive laughter followed the song.

"By our Lady of Whalley, the knave is mocking us," cried the abbot;
"send a bolt to silence him, Cuthbert."

The forester instantly bent his bow, and a quarrel whistled off in the