but here was that parchment torn off short, and on the other side was writ:—
"Why I suffer or suffer not, thyself hath naught to do;
Amend thou it if thou might for my time is to abide.
Sufferance is a sovereign virtue and"—
And when he had read these words from the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, Stephen spent that day a‑kissing the bit of parchment.
Anon, a rainy eve, the gaoler set down a covered dish, with:—
“My goodwife hath a liking to thee, Master Fitzwarine. Sendeth thee a mess of beans, hot. 'T is flat against rule, but she gave me no peace. Women be pitiful creatures. She weepeth ever to hear the tale of thy durance.”
“'T is joy to serve thy wife, to eat her hot beans. Merci, brother.”
“Nay, thank not me,” said the man gruffly. “When thou hast eaten all, hide the dish in the straw lest the Tower warden enter. 'T is not like he will, but I 've no mind to lose my place for a woman's tears.”
So the days drifted, and the weeks. July was at an end, and August in the third week. Stephen's cheeks were white and sunken, his blue eyes looked forth from shadows, his lips were pale. The fingers that fluttered in the arrow-slit were wasted thin. One morn the gaoler came and found him singing in a faint voice this song:—
"O Master, Master, list my word!
Now rede my riddle an ye may:
My ladye she is a poor man's daughter,
And russet is my best array."
And when Stephen was come to the end of his singing he heard a sound, and there sat gaoler on the floor blubbering.