“Yon 's Master Chaucer,” he said at last.
“Mary Mother!” gasped the maid: and the gray one, looking up across, caught her with mouth and eyes wide, whereat he threw back his head and, though he made no sound, she knew he laughed.
Now came in Master Walworth, Mayor of London, and Nicholas Brembre, sometime Mayor,—merchants these and very loyal true to King Richard. Sir John Holland came in also, and the Earl of Kent, half-brothers to the King, and of other gentlemen nigh a score, dressed very gay in silk and broidery. They loitered up and down by twos and threes, giving good day and tossing jests as light as tennis balls. There was not one but flung a word of welcome right joyously to Master Chaucer where he sat withdrawn. 'T would seem he was friend to all. Calote, behind her father's stool, a-peering over his bent head, marvelled to see all sneers and gleams of malice, all sullen pride, evanished from every face that looked Dan Chaucer's way. As one will smooth his wrinkled heart and countenance if a child draw near, so smoothed these courtiers their visage, inward and outward, to an honest smile, to greet this modest, merry little man in gray.
“He 's a very wizard,” whispered Calote.
“Who?” said Long Will, and following her gaze, “Ah, he!”—
“Thou dost love him, father?”
“Dost not thou?”
“Yea,” she faltered; “but wherefore?”
“'T is God's gift,” he sighed. “This is to be a poet.”
“But thou art a poet, father,” she whispered.