“Ye are mad!” he said. “Will ye slay innocent folk?”
“Innocent!” yelled a weaver's prentice, and the mob growled, but none put aside Long Will out of the way.
“These are your brothers,” he persisted,—“honest workingmen like to yourselves.”
“Brothers!” sneered Jack Straw. “Hear him, ye men of London! Are we brothers to Flemish hogs?”
“Out of the way, Will,” said Wat. “They 'll trample thee.”
“O men of London, prentices, citizens,” the poet cried anew, “will ye sin against hospitality?”
A snarl answered him.
“Will ye betray the guest that shelters in your house?”
The snarl had sunk to a murmur.
“Will ye betray the bidden guest?”