And then there came a cloud of dust along the highway, and in the midst of it King Richard, Etienne his squire, and Salisbury, and those others.
When the people saw it they went mad with joy.
“Hath come!—Hath come!” they cried, capering and clipping and kissing. “He is our King, come out to his own people!” And then there went up such shouts as rent the air and could be heard far as London wall. Jack Straw got to his feet and stuck his knife in his belt. 'T would seem the shouting of the people made him dizzy, he staggered. It was a wondrous compelling sound, this cry of joy of ten thousand hearts set at rest. The King had come to them. He belonged to his people.
John Ball and Wat Tyler came and stood with Jack beneath the yew tree, the people surging all about.
“Fools!” muttered Wat.
“Thou fool!” Jack whispered twixt chattering teeth.
“I told thee, truth is better than strategy,” said John Ball. “I would have apprised the Fellowship our purpose to take him.”
Hardly was he heard for the clamour. In the beginning there were only shouts, but after a little there began to be disparted from the waves of sound, words: “Long live the King!—Long live the King!—Long live the King!”—The blessing roared like as 't were a torrent. Calote could see how Jack Straw and Wat spoke one to other, for that their lips moved,—but what they said was lost. They were very white and their hands hanging down helpless. This joy that beat about them, they might not escape from it, and it smothered them.
“How might I tell them?” gasped Wat,—“the maid hath preached love and loyauté.—Is 't loyauté to take him against his will?”
“Wherefore, against his will?” said Jack.