“Yea, brother, I say so.”
“Wherefore?”
“Two year is not long enough, John Ball.”
“Two year!” quoth he, and smiled. “'T is twenty year I have not ceased to preach this message. Thou wert not born, yet the people had heard these things.”
She flushed very hot and her lip quivered: “Though 't were forty year,—the people is not ready,” she made answer steadfast.
“They say there 's a woman of Siena learns Pope Urban his lesson,” mused the priest, always his eyes fixed smiling on the maid; “God forbid I should be behind Pope Urban in humilité.”
“I am a peasant maid only,” cried Calote, “but I say poor folk is not yet a fellowship. They dream of vengeance. More than they love one another they hate the nobles and bailiffs and the men-of-law, and”—
“And all them that have brought us to this pass,” said Wat Tyler fiercely.
John Ball turned to look at him, and there fell silence.
When the priest spoke again he spoke to Wat, and said: “'T would seem the maid saith soth.” Then, turning back to Calote, the smile went out of his eyes: “I am not so patient as thy father,” he exclaimed, “I am not content to prophesy only; there 's some men must do deeds. A little while we 'll delay. Natheless, 't shall come in my time!—Thou hast warned them in Essex and Suffolk, 't is not yet, Wat?”