“Sir Roger de Mortimer is made of the Prince’s following, and shall as to-morrow take up his abode in the Queen’s hostel.”
“Dear heart!” saith Dame Elizabeth, making pause with one hand all wet, and in the other the napkin whereon she went about to dry it. “Well, no business of mine, trow.”
I could not help to cry, “Ha, chétife!”
Dame Isabel made answer to neither the one nor the other, but marched forth of the door with her nose an inch higher than she came in. She was appointed to the pallet for that night, so we three lay all in our chamber.
“This passeth!” saith Dame Elizabeth, drying of her fingers, calm enough, on the napkin.
“Even as I looked for,” saith Dame Joan, but her voice was not so calm. There was in it a note of grief (a tone of indignation).
“I ne’er trouble me to look for nought,” quoth Dame Elizabeth. “What good, trow? Better to leave folks come and go, as they list, so long as they let (hinder) you not to come and go likewise.”
“I knew not you were one of Cain’s following, Dame Bess.”
“Cain’s following!” saith she, drawing off her fillet. “Who was Cain, trow? Wala wa! but if my fillet be not all tarnished o’ this side. I would things would go right!”
“So would I, and so did not Cain,” Dame Joan makes answer. “Who was he, quotha? Why, he that slew his brother Abel.”