“Is not the King anointed of God?” said he.
A moment she was silent, and when she spoke her voice was slow, uncertain: “I would not blaspheme,” she said, “but whiles I wonder if he be not anointed of men. The King of Heaven hath a most marvellous confidence to give this realm of England into the hands of a little wilful lad.”
“Is 't wiser to set Wat Tyler in his room?—Natheless, on the morrow this may hap.”
“God forbid!” murmured Calote.
“I 'm bidden say the King will meet all peasants and other that have borne a part in this rising, the morrow morn at Smithfield. This is all I know, or any man else in England. Behooves me go forth to find Wat.”
“Nay,—rest here!—He will surely come to this house when his bloodthirstiness is quenched.”
“Calote,” said Kitte, “come to bed! From the upper window I 'll keep watch for thy father.”
“Thou wilt stay?” Calote pleaded with Stephen.
“Yea,” he assented, kissing her good-night.
So Calote and Kitte mounted to the chamber under the roof, but Stephen lay down on the floor of the lower room, and presently he was fast asleep.