“Wat?” said Langland.
“Art thou he men call Long Will?” asked the man out of the dark.
“Yea, I am he. Who art thou that fearest light? I took thee for Wat Tyler that is my friend.”
“I am another friend,” said the man, and came down the room. “My name is Peter. I have run from Devon.”
“So,—Peter!” quoth Langland, and rose up to meet him. “And for that is thy name, and haply thou art a ploughman, dost thou believe that the truth resteth with thee?”
Calote, who knew her father's voice, saw also the grim smile that curled his lip, but the man could not see because of the twilight.
“I believe thou art a true prophet,” he made answer; “I have heard thy Visions; many read them and tell them again.”
“Even so,” retorted the lank priest; “I did not counsel thee to run.”
“Nay, 't was mine own wit counselled me there,” the man replied; “mine own wit, fed on the Statute o' Labourers.”
“'T is famine fare,” said Langland. “Calote, if there be aught in the cupboard, bring it hither.—And now, friend Peter, wherefore art thou come?”