Will Langland caught the peddler by the arm, and, “Jack,” said he, “whiles I do more than mouth words. What though I repent after, 't is too late then, if thou art throttled.”
“Nay, let me speak!” Calote importuned, thrusting aside her father. “Wherefore is the people not ready, Jack Straw? Wherefore? For that in so many shires where I came to preach love thou wert afore me and preached hate. Two year is but short space to learn all England to forget to hate, to bind all England in fellowship of love, so that if a man fight 't is for his brother's sake. When this uprising faileth, as 't will surely fail, do thou ask thine own soul where 's blame.”
“Pah!—Have I a finger in this pie or no?” growled Wat. “I say 't will not fail. Do not I know my London? Is not Kent sure, and Essex, and the eastern counties? These men are mine! Whatsoever else they hate, yet do they love me! They 'll do my bidding, I promise thee.”
“I 'd liefer they did Christ's bidding,” said Calote. “Hark ye, Wat, give me another two year, and do thou and Jack meanwhile preach freedom only and forget private wrong. So we 'll be less like to fail.”
“There 's talk of another poll-tax,” Wat answered gloomily. “No Parliament will dare pass 't in London; but I make no doubt they 'll sit elsewhere.—The people will not endure another poll-tax.”
“Yet thou hast said the people love thee,—thou 'lt dare swear they 'll do thy bidding. An idle boast?”
The blood came slow into his swarthy face. “'T will not fail,” he said doggedly, and sat in brooding fashion grinding his heel upon the earthen floor.
“When doth Parliament sit?” Calote asked him.
He got up, overthrowing the heavy oaken bench he had sat upon, and, “So be it!” he cried hoarsely. “They shall not rise yet,” and strode to the door.
Jack Straw laughed.