“Sire,” said Long Will, “they will do that God or the Devil putteth in their hearts to do.”
“But what is 't? Art not thou a prophet?”
“Of God, sire,—not of the Devil.”
“Thy silence commendeth thee, Master Clerk,” said the Archbishop. “This stubborn people is surely ridden of the Devil.”
“Nay, my lord,” Will answered, “I did not say so.”
“A plague take thy riddles,” exclaimed the King. “Speak plain!”
Thereupon came Long Will forth to the dais, and out of the midst of a silence he said:—
“O Richard the Redeless, who am I to give thee counsel? Pity thyself, that thou knowest not thyself. How may a man rule a kingdom, that knoweth not to govern his own soul?”
No man dared breathe. Richard sat gripping the arms of his chair; his eyes were fixed wide open upon Langland, and tears came up in them, so that they shone very large.
“How!”—he assented huskily.