“And shall!” quoth Calote; whereat the alewife burst out a-laughing and swore she 'd switch her with the new stake. And Calote, like an ant at the end of a long straw, tugged her prize indoors.
The dinner was cooked and eaten by now, and a bit of a supper as well. The long June day was done. Dame Emma came to her tavern door and stood beneath the ale-stake, looking out across to her neighbor's cot, where a yellow-haired maid sat in the window.
“I saw thee in Paul's churchyard, Calote,” Dame Emma called cheerily; and she smiled a sly smile.
“Yea,” said Calote, “methinks all the world was there;” but her colour came.
“He is of the household of the Earl of March; even a kinsman by 's bearing,” renewed Dame Emma.
“I rede not the riddle,” Calote answered her; but Dame Emma laughed.
Then down the middle of the way, to left and right of the runnel ditch, rode three horsemen of sober visage; and though they rode a slow pace, they took no heed of Dame Emma where she stood and cried out:—
“A taste for naught! Come dine! White wine of Oseye! Good ale!”
They held their heads in a knot, speaking soft, and went their slow way down the street.
“They be 'potecaries,” said Calote. “Now the plague is on again we see many such. He of the taffeta-lined gown, with scarlet, is Doctor of Phisick, is 't not so?”