Then was there heard a faint voice, very shy, at the side of the priest:—
“I know this gentle,” said Calote. “If he giveth his hand in fellowship—he will keep faith.”
There went up a murmur of amaze in the crowd, and John Ball looked from Calote to the peddler and back again.
“Is a disciple of my father,” whispered Calote; and now was her face as red as the peddler's.
“What art thou called, friend?” asked the priest.
“I am called Stephen Fitzwarine. I dwell in the King's palace; but I abode one while in poor folks' cots; I know that they suffer. When 't is time, I do purpose to stand by the villein that would be free”—
The Kentish men shouted, and pressed more close.
“Meanwhile I may come at the King's ear. 'T were well there be one in the palace at Westminster may be a m-mean twixt the King and the commons, when peasants are risen up. I am for the Fellowship,—I will keep faith. Here 's my hand.”
“Lay thy hand on this market cross, brother, and swear by the rood,” said John Ball.
So Stephen went up the three stone steps and laid his hand upon the arm of the cross, and:—