“Where art thou now?” said that good man a-blowing his nose.
“One while I wandered over all England with one that was messenger to carry news of the Fellowship and the Rising. We bought bed and board with a song. So do I wander now, and I sing.”
“Then 't was a true word, that Jack Straw affirmed concerning thee?” cried the man.
“What said he?”
“Thus and so concerning thy pilgrimage and thy part in the Rising.”
“Is he dead?”
“Ay; and no easy task to gather him together in the Last Day.”
But when Stephen would have asked yet more concerning Jack Straw, and the King, and what was toward, the gaoler shut his lips and hasted forth.
After this, Stephen sang night and morn and midday the songs he had sung—and Calote with him—in the year of pilgrimage. All those old tales of Arthur he sang, and certain other that he had of Dan Chaucer; and a-many he made new, rondels to praise his lady. Also he chaunted the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, from beginning to end,—which was no end. But more often he sang that story called of a Pearl, that Will Langland would have it was writ by his old master in Malvern. For about this time, what with long waiting, and the heat of summer, little food, and the foul smell of the dungeon, Stephen began to consider what it might signify to die in that place; and the Vision of the Holy City in the poem called of a Pearl comforted him much.
So, as he chaunted one while of the maiden in the glistering garment, that came down to the river's brink,—and in his heart he saw her face how it was the face of Calote,—he heard the bar drawn, and the keys to rattle, and presently the gaoler came in.