“Saint Jame!” cried a villein, not Symme, but another.
“Saint Mary!” gasped Calote, pale as a pellet.
“'T is stolen, mistress!” said Nicholas Bendebowe.
“Stolen!” cried out those others all at once, with loud bluster; “Who stole 't?”—“Not I!”—“Nor I!”—“Nor I!”—“Will any dare say I stole it?”
“Where 's peddler?” asked the beggar.
They looked on one another. The soldier winked.
“Nay”—Calote cried; “he 's kind!”
“Poor wench!” said Haukyn. “Hearken! I saw him go to thee where thou wert asleep, at dawn; he knelt beside thee. When I came nigh he turned, and thrust a bright something in 's tabard.”
“Ah, woe, harrow!” said she.
“Now 't is plain why he 's gone so early to the Fair,” quoth Nicholas, a-shaking his head.