“Thou white rat!” said Wat, with his hand on the latch; “dost think they 'll follow thee? Do but essay them!”
“Nay,” leered Jack, “I 'm for fellowship, brother! I 'll wait my turn till thou hast stretched thy tether;” and went with him out on Cornhill.
Langland thrust the bolt of the door presently, and bade the peddler lie by the fire, if he would. So they all went to bed. But after a little while, Kitte came down the stair again. She had a rough blanket on her arm.
“'T is not so soft as thou hast slept on i' the King's Palace of Westminster,‘ said she, ’but 't will keep thee from the chill o' the floor.”
“Ah, good mother,” smiled the peddler, “'t is two year I have not slept on a blanket.”
“So long?” she queried—“And the maid so blind!”
“In the beginning I was a sorry wight,” he answered. “Small wonder she knew me not. But of late I have had no money to mend my thatch.” He tapped his rusty pate and laughed. “Moreover, the brown stain hath worn off my face and hands; what 's left is sun only and wind. Neither have I been at such pains to pluck out mine eyebrows this past month,”—he laughed again and his stammer caught him,—“f-f-for Richard's sake, and the court's. Three days since we slept in the fens about Lincoln. When I awoke she sat staring on me:—”
“'Thou art so like—thou art so like,' she murmured, 'but no.'—Thou 'lt keep my secret, mother?”
“Oh, ay! I 'm a silent woman,” she answered. “Thou hast not won her?”
“I have not wooed,” he said.