“Lead us poor!” cried the man. “Arise, and strike down the unjust!”
“I am a prophet,” said Langland. “I abide by my calling. Thou must go elsewhere for one shall do deeds. I only prophesy. 'T is safe; and I had ever a gift for song.”
The man lifted an uncertain hand and scratched his rough head. So, for a moment, he stood irresolute. At last he said:—
“I am a dull fellow; but dost thou mock me?”
Then Langland came to him swiftly, pressing his hands on the bowed shoulders and saying:—
“Thou art my brother.”
“'T is a word one understands,” replied the man; “God and Mary bless thee!” and turned at the sound of a footstep. 'T was a woman came in with a bowl in her hands, and Calote followed her, bringing bread.
“This is thy wife Kitte,” said the man, “and this is thy daughter Calote.”
The poet smiled,—“Thou dost read, Peter?”
“Nay, I have a young son will be a parson one day. Thy Vision concerning the ploughman is meat and drink to him.”