“All thou didst ask!” said a voice.
His face flamed red. “Ingrate cowards!” he cried,—and then on a sudden his wrath was spent. He dropped his arms, his voice was level: “The cause is lost!” he said. “Love is a long way off, and truth.”
Not many heard him, for that the clamour was risen anew; the foremost men lurched forward, thrust upon by those behind. Wat, crying “On, brothers!” flung Will aside, and the pot-bellied man also laid hold on the poet and drew him close within a doorway,—none too soon, for the mob was let loose, and rushing down the street as 't were a torrent. Presently houses began to be burst open, and men flung out of window.
Will sat bowed together on the doorstone.
“A sight not to be soon forgot,” said the grizzled one, breathing quick.
Will lifted his head. “Thou, Master Chaucer!” he said.
“Ay, brother,—well met!”
“No friend of Gaunt is safe in London streets.”
“Who is safe?” asked Chaucer. “No friend of the people, neither.”
Langland groaned and clasped his head in his hands.