“Natheless 't is tuned to ears more delicate,” the squire made answer, looking always on the maiden; and then, “Calote, thou sayst? 'T is Nicolette in little, is 't not?” And presently after, “Nicolette had a squire.—I would I were thy squire.”
But Calote had turned her to the Miracle, and the youth saw only a flushing cheek.
“'T is a long while that Mercy and Truth are not met together in England, Jack,” said the countryman to his fellow, sourly.
“Yea, Wat,” the other answered; “and afore Peace cometh War.”
“And afore Rightwisnesse”—said he of the black brows, and paused, and looked about him meaningly, and cast his arms to right and left. And now the Miracle was done, and Christ had narrowed Hell, and sat on high with the Trinity.
CHAPTER II
The Rose of Love
HE bell of Paul's had rung the Angelus an hour past. The gabled shadows of the houses crossed the street slantwise, and betwixt them long pale fingers of evening sunshine brightened the cobbles. Pigeons from the corn market waddled hither and thither in search of dribbled grain,—unreasoning pigeons, these, for of a Sunday no manna fell on Cornhill. The ale-stake above the tavern door rustled in a whisper; 't was a fresh-broken branch, green and in full leaf, set out for this same feast of the Trinity. Calote had caught the withered bough when it fell, and made off with it under the alewife's very nose.
“Little roberd!” Dame Emma cried, “'t would have cooked a hungry man his dinner.”