Calote laughed, her father's image in the threadbare gown flashing sudden in her mind.
“Nay, he hath not yet; but he shall one day, when Calote cometh again to London,‘ declared the King. ’'T is not so merry a poet as Master Chaucer; but I do love his solemnité. Whiles he jesteth, but his tongue 's a whip then,—stingeth.”
Brother Owyn nodded his head, as he were hearing an old tale; and turned him again to Calote:—
“Will Langland went a-seeking Truth, his lady, thirty years past. Hath he found her?”
“She is here,” Calote answered simply; and unrolled the parchment to set it open before him.
The old man looked on her keenly: “Thou hast a great trust in thy father?”
“More than in all men else,” she said; and the squire on the other side of the burn thrust his foot among the fallen leaves noisily, and jingled the bridles of the horses.
“I am in sore straits to find Truth,” quoth Brother Owyn, with a half-smile. “Many a man will thank Will Langland heartily, if so be he hath found her.”
He turned the pages, slow, reading to himself a bit here and there.
“Give me thy rod, brother,” said the King, “I 'll fish.”