“Sire,” he said, and the pity was in his voice likewise,—“sire, 't were not wise these peasants come again into the city. They have wrought too great havoc; we may not trust them.”
As one who strives to gather his wits Richard sat, with dumb eyes fixed on the old Earl. His lip quivered.
Salisbury began anew, very patient and soft, as one speaketh to a creature that is frighted, or to a child: “My lord, the people have obtained that they asked, now they ought to disperse and wend them homeward. To this end 't were well thou lead them out into the fields to speed them on their way.”
“Yea,” Richard answered slow. “Then what need of Sir Richard Knollys and his retainers?”
“The men of Kent must go again through London to cross the river by the Bridge,—bethink thee of yesterday, sire”—
“Yesterday is dead!” the boy cried. “I and my people are at peace!”
“Natheless, sire, hearts are as tinder.”
“Then wherefore set them afire by the steel of armed knights?”
“Nay, my liege, but if these peasants be penitent, wherefore shall they refuse to be escorted thorough that fair city wherein they behaved so ill?”
“I will not betray my people,” cried Richard, a sob in his voice.