“This is the last tale I have to tell, mesdames. To-morrow,—or 't maybe the next day, for 't is a long tale,—I must give you thanks of your courtesy, and begone.”
“Ah, stay, and tell them all again!” cried Custance. “We 've not been so merry since Godiyeva's lover flouted her.”
“Peace!” said Eleyne, and Godiyeva's lovely face flamed red.
The old knight chuckled in the chimney corner. He did not snooze to-night, as was his wont; he sat a-blinking on Calote, and sipping his piment, slow. Calote crouched on a low stool, with her face to the fire.
“In a summer season when soft was the sun”—she began, and at the first she spoke hastily, and with a little quaver in her voice. She knew not how they might take this tale.
They took it for a jape, a jest; they laughed. Lady Mede and her sisours and summoners made them very merry. When Repentance called the Seven Sins to confession, and the tale was told of Glutton in the tavern, Sir Austin doubled him up with a loud guffaw and nigh fell into the fire. When Piers Ploughman put up his head, the damsels squealed for joy. When he, this same Piers, set the ladies of the Vision to sew sacking, and the Knight to keep the land freed of foes, Sir Austin's daughters held their sides, and rocked back and forth, the while mirthful tears fell down their faces.
Then Calote lost her patience and forgot to be afraid. She stood up on her feet and faced them with her head high:—
“Natheless, all this shall come to pass!” she cried. “This is a true word. No Goliardeys, I, but a sober singer. 'T is the ploughman, the poor man, shall lead all ye to truth. The rich shall give of their wealth to the poor, in that day; no man shall go naked and hungry. Fine ladies and maids like to me shall love one another.”
Her voice broke, and she put out her hands to the three fair damsels that sat on a bench and stared:—
“I pray you pardon, sweet my ladies, but this matter lieth close to my heart.”