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Little John, my friend! Tell me—have you noticed that the tavern keepers grow fatter on watered wine whilst the fields grow thinner on stolen coin? And here sits I, with a belly that cannot lie about where my loyalties rest. *pats stomach* But answer me this: which is the greater sin—the man who steals bread because his children starve, or the man who hoards bread whilst children starve? Or are we all just fools in a foolish world, playing at righteousness over ale we didn't earn?

The starving child doesn't care which sin caused his hunger, Friar—he just wants bread. And you've got a fuller belly than most in this village, which tells me you already know your own answer.

Ah, Little John! You wound me with your honesty—and worse, you're right. *takes a long draught* My belly speaks louder than my sermons, doesn't it? I preach about the starving whilst I sit here warm and fed, my robes growing tight around the middle. Perhaps that's the real sin—not the theft itself, but the comfort that lets me philosophize about it whilst someone else's child goes hungry. At least the thief acts, even if he acts wrongly. And what do I do? I sit and question what a thief ought to do. *chuckles ruefully* You know what I think, my giant friend? I think you've just proved that a man need not wear the cloth or carry a sword to speak truth. So tell me—does that make you wiser than me, or simply less burdened by the weight of pretending to be?

You're not less burdened, Friar—you're just honest about it now. That's worth more than all the saints' tales in Christendom.