And the maid gave him a pale smile.
“If thou stand o' this side, out of the press, still mayst thou see,” said he of the gloved hand.
“I came not so close to see the devils,” answered the maid, blushing, “but for that cometh after;” and she followed him apart.
Then come Mercy and Truth across the middle stage, and are met together, and Peace and Rightwisnesse, that kissed the one the other, prating sweetly of Christ risen from the dead. And the devils are begun to make moan, and they have locked Hell Mouth with a great key and laid a bar across. And said this squire that stood beside the maid:—
“By 'r Lady!—who writ this is no common patcher o' miracles, but a true poet!”
“'T is my father,” quoth she.
And he: “Nay, then, I knew thee for a poem. Is thy name Guenevere? Such eyes had Guenevere,—such hair.”
“I am Will Langland's daughter; I am Calote,” she said.
There had lately come two men through the crowd. By their aspect they were not Londoners, yet they seemed acquainted well enough with what they saw. Now one of these, a black-browed fellow with thin, tight lips, large nose, and sallow visage, spoke to the squire, saying:—
“All poets of England do not pipe for John o' Gaunt. This one hath chose to make music for the ears of common folk.”