“Shall a lay-brother of Malvern stoop to play handy-dandy for favours?” said the porter, casting up his chin in a way feebly to imitate his prior; yet his curiosity overcame his pride and he added: “Do thou show me first the poem. After, I 'll think on 't.”
Whereupon Calote drew forth the parchment from her breast, and he unrolled it and spread it upon his knee, and “H-m-m, h-m-m!” said he. But he could not read a word, being no scholar.
“Find me a pretty passage,” he bade her presently, “and say it me, the while I follow with my finger.”
So she began;—and neither one of them knew the place in the parchment:—
"'Right so, if thou be religious run thou never further
To Rome, nor to Rochemadour, but as thy rule teacheth,
And hold thee under obedience, that highway is to heaven.'"
“Tut chut! Thou 'rt a bold wench! Wilt teach thy grandmother to suck eggs?” cried the porter.
Calote laughed, but began anew:—
"'Grace ne groweth not but amongst the low;
Patience and poverty is the place where it groweth,
And in loyal-living men, and life-holy,
And through the gift of the Holy Ghost as the gospel telleth'"—
“Lord, Lord, enough!” cried the porter. “'T is very true that never none but Will Langland writ such-like twaddle.”
“But thou wilt bid Brother Owyn to the gate?” said Calote, rolling up her parchment.