“And thy father, I make no doubt, is the Father of Lies,—Christ give him sorrow!”
“My father was put to school one while in Malvern Priory,” answered Calote. “Brother Owyn was his master and loved him well.”
“Sayst thou so?” the porter retorted, yet with something of curiosity awaking within his bright eyes. “Is no lad hath gone in and out this gate in forty year, but hath one day or other tasted my rod for a truant. How do they call thy father?”
“In London men call him Long Will, and Will Langland 's his name.”
The porter opened wide his mouth, and, “By Goddes Soul!” quoth he, “Will Langland!—Let me look on thee,”—albeit he had done naught but look on her for ten minutes past. “Yea, 't is true; I 'd know thee by thine eyen, that are gray, and thoughtful, and dark with a something that lies behind the colour of them,—and shining by the light of a lamp lit somewhere within.—So! Will Langland hath got him a wench! 'T is a hard nut to crack. Moreover, eyen may be gray as glass, and yet speak lies. What for a token hast thou that thou 'rt true messenger?”
“I have a poem,” she answered.
“Let 's see it.”
“Nay, 't is for Brother Owyn.”
“And how shall Brother Owyn have it, if not by me?” rejoined the porter testily.
“Wilt thou get me speech of him if I show it thee?” asked Calote.