“We be men of London, never villeins!” roared the half of that mob.
“Natheless, ye are in bonds to Satan your master, and ye do his work!” Langland answered them, his face flushed.
“Who hath stirred us up this twenty year?” shouted a voice in the crowd. “Thou, Will Langland! Thou, false traitor! Wilt desert thy fellows?—Coward!—Limb o' Satan, thou, if we be Devil's men.”
Then there were many voices:—
“His daughter hath married a lord!”
“Curse him for a renegade!”
“Out o' the way!”
“On, on!—the Flemings!”
Will budged no inch,—his arms were spread wide.
“I say ye do defeat your own end by this slaughter. To-day ye have the victory, freedom, and pardon. Disperse! What will ye more? Hath not the King given all was asked?”