After, when he was in the saddle, he felt for his horn, and, remembering, called:—
“Prythee, Calote, blow thrice, that they may know whence I come. Now, give thee good day, sweet maid, and success to thine adventure. I 'll watch for thee in London.”
And Calote had not blown the third blast when king and squire were off and away; and she turned to meet Brother Owyn's disapproving eye.
“'T would seem that thou art well acquaint at court, though thy father is not,” he said.
She opened her lips to speak, then hung her head and answered nothing.
“Now, thanks be to Christ Jesus, the Lamb and the Bridegroom, that my little daughter is dead, and safe away from this world of sin,” said Brother Owyn. “She dwelleth as a Bride in the house of the Bridegroom,—in the Holy City that John the beloved and I have seen in a vision. Thou art so fair that I could wish thou mightst dwell therein likewise.”
“Yea, after I 'm dead, and my devoir is done,” Calote assented to him. “Beseech thee, judge me not, good brother! I carry a message of comfort to all these poor English folk that sweat beneath the burden of wrong. Haply, thy daughter, were she quick, would go along with me this day.”
“Is this thy message?” he asked, pointing to the parchment.
“This, and more. I may not tell all to thee, for thou 'rt a monk.”
“A strange reason,” he averred. “'T must be a most unholy message. Have a care of thy soul, maiden; the pure only shall see the Bridegroom. Here am I sheltered in monastery, yet have I much ado to withstand the Devil, that I may keep me clean and a true believer, and so see Christ and my daughter at the last.”