Even as the three wayfarers stared, however, there was a sudden change, for the smaller man, having finished his song, loosened his own gown and handed the scourge to the other, who took up the stave once more and lashed his companion with all the strength of his bare and sinewy arm.

So, alternately beating and beaten, they made their dolorous way through the beautiful woods and under the amber arches of the fading beech-trees, where the calm strength and majesty of Nature might serve to rebuke the foolish energies and misspent strivings of mankind.
Such a spectacle was new to Hordle John or to Alleyne Edricson; but the archer treated it lightly, as a common matter enough.
"These are the Beating Friars, otherwise called the Flagellants," quoth he.

"I marvel that ye should have come upon none of them before, for across the water they are as common as gallybaggers.

I have heard that there are no English among them, but that they are from France, Italy and Bohemia.

En avant, camarades! that we may have speech with them." As they came up to them, Alleyne could hear the doleful dirge which the beater was chanting, bringing down his heavy whip at the end of each line, while the groans of the sufferer formed a sort of dismal chorus.
It was in old French, and ran somewhat in this way: Or avant, entre nous tous freres Battons nos charognes bien fort En remembrant la grant misere De Dieu et sa piteuse mort Qui fut pris en la gent amere Et vendus et trais a tort Et bastu sa chair, vierge et dere Au nom de ce battons plus fort.
Then at the end of the verse the scourge changed hands and the chanting began anew.
"Truly, holy fathers," said the archer in French as they came abreast of them, "you have beaten enough for to-day.