“Will Langland married a wife,—and he a kind of priest,” the parson said suddenly.
“Ye-yet 't was not well do-done,” the peddler retorted swift, “for all J-John W-Wyclif coun-coun-counseleth.”
As he talked, his eyes were on the sea and the little ship; but the parson was looking down to the foot of a jutting headland beyond, where a playful wight—was 't a man or a maid?—skipped among the rocks, and ran into the water and out again.
“Nay, I 'm not so sure 't was ill done,” he disputed absently; “we be made like other men.”
The peddler stood still and shaded his eyes with his hand: “Wh-what for a ship is yonder?‘ he asked. ’Methinks 't is sailing in. Is there ha-harbour?”
The parson likewise shaded his eyes, then he said: “Below, there 's a brook flows into the sea, and a kind of rough beach, where—where the maid is playing.”
“What maid?” But now the peddler saw, and though she was no bigger than a brown lark, seen so far, he knew what maid it was, and so did the parson.
“Is that a French ship?” asked the peddler, and never a stammer on his tongue; but the parson was too troubled to be aware of this.
“I fear me,—I fear me!” he answered.
“And now I 'm very sure she 's coming in,” the peddler cried, and flung down his pack and stripped off his hood. “Do thou make the best of thy way to the manor-house, Sir Priest,—yet I fear me the knight 's away,—and I 'll down to the maid. What way 's the nearest way?”