“Wat Tyler!—Wat Tyler!” cried the horseman. “Send one to Canterbury and northward shall stop the Rising, or 't is too late. Poll-tax is passed in Parliament at Northampton.”
'T was the peddler.
Calote stared on him bewildered; he looked so strange. She had not seen him since the day after she was come into London. Was this he? Was it not rather,—but no! Her heart began to beat very fast, her eyes were wide. The peddler drew his hood down over his face. Then Calote was 'ware of a tumult among the people, and Wat Tyler's voice upraised to still them, and John Ball standing again at her side on the top step of the cross.
“To London!—To London!” the people clamoured. “'T is time!—London!—The King!”
“Fools! I say 't is not yet!” shouted Wat. “I came to tell ye. We will not rise this time. Word hath gone forth into the north and west to still the people.”
“Traitor!—London! London!” they cried, closing about him.
“Patience, brothers,” he said. “We be no traitors, but wise. Hearken to the maid! She hath been in east and west and north and south. Hear her, wherefore she counselleth patience.”
The roar fell to a growl and anon to a muttering, and they turned their angry faces to Calote.
“Brothers,” she said, “ye of Kent are ready. Yea, 't is very true. Were all men so strong in fellowship as Kentish men, would be little to fear. But in Essex men be not so well-fed, nor so wise. Kind-Wit dwelleth not in their cots.”
The flushed faces that looked up to her grinned broadly.