“'T is true,” said one man, with a chuckle,—this was the espier, and he had forgot to return to his post.—“A-most fools is outside o' Kent.”
“These men of the eastern shires,” the maid continued, “will have it that fellowship is but leave to slay and burn, for sake of privé wrong. They 'll use this word for a cloak to do murder and all those other seven sins. Moreover, in the north there be few that will rise,—and in the west they 're afeared.—Ye Kentish men are fearless, but may Kent alone withstand the power of the noblesse? Willingly ye 'll be slain for your brothers' sake,—oh, ye are brave men!—but what avail to England if ye be slain? Who then shall deliver your brothers? Be patient yet a little while.”
Some of them were sullen, others whispered together with rueful countenance. She watched them for a little, then:—
“'T is for Kentish men to say if the Rising shall avail or come to naught. Wise men are never rash. Moreover,—t' other side o' London, word is already gone forth to stay the Rising. Will ye rise alone,—one shire?”
They hung their heads, foolish, sulky.
Then said John Ball, “Who is this friendly messenger on a gentleman's horse?”
The peddler, as he were abashed, slipped from his steed to the ground. But the crowd, diverted from their own discontent, pushed and pulled him to the foot of the cross where stood John Ball.
“Nay, then, uncover thy face, brother,” said the priest, “'t is well we know our friends.” And with a large hand, courteous but not to be gainsayed, he pushed back the peddler's hood, and there was revealed a mop of light brown hair curled in the fashion of the court, and a fair and gentlemanly countenance that flushed crimson beneath the astonished gaze of John Ball. 'T would seem the peddler had departed on his errand in haste, without one precaution.
The crowd stared, open-mouthed.
“Art thou a man of Kent?” Ball asked.