“I go to Londonward,” she said. “I came hither, for that I knew 't would grieve thee if I set forth secretly. Natheless, is no need that thou follow. I am not afeared of the night, nor no other thing.”
“Wilt thou not w-wait for the day?” asked the peddler, rising up.
“If I wait, there shall be done me a great honour. The lord of the manor purposeth to make me his wife.”
“Saint Christopher!” cried the peddler, and turned in haste to the shepherd: “Diggon, dear brother; fare thee well! This is m-my lady; I must follow her.”
“Hail, maiden!” said Diggon. “Art thou Mercy, or Truth, or Peace, or Rightwisnesse?”
“None of these,—but handmaid to Truth,” the peddler answered for her; and when he had kissed Diggon he took Calote by the hand and led her away. And Diggon was left by the fire with the new-born lamb.
“T-tell me!” the peddler questioned after a little.
So she told him all, and at the end of the tale she said:—
“Natheless, 't is not for his wooing that I 'm ashamed and weary; but they laughed at the Vision. They laughed!—They thought 't was all a jape. Wherefore should they fear the peasants,—the poor rude men,—wherefore should any fear such simple folk? Who is 't knoweth better than I how weak Piers Ploughman is? Were I a lady, with the poor fawning about my heel,—and one sang that these should deliver the land, I 'd laugh too. They 'll fail—Dost thou not know they 'll fail? Ah, woe,—alas!”
“R-Roland of Roncesvalles, though he lost, yet did he win,” said the peddler. "Jesus Christ d-died on cross. Hearken to the Vision:—