“To us, likewise,” said Kitte. “There be days we taste little else; 't is a dish well spiced. Natheless, for this is Holy Trinité, we've fed on whey and bread; it maketh an excellent diversité. Wilt eat?”
As she passed her husband he turned her face to the light, whereat she smiled on him,—and in her smile was yet another kind of love made manifest.
The man ate his bread and whey noisily the while his host leaned against the door-frame. Kitte withdrew into the inner room, and Calote sat in the window looking on the street. The moon rose and cast the poet's shadow thin along the floor. There was a murmur in the street.
“Father,” called Calote, “there is some ill befallen. Men stand about by twos and threes, so late, and speak low. And now,—oh, father!—Dame Emma hath fell a-weeping and shut her tavern door. Here 's Wat!—Here 's Wat and another!”
Two men ran in from Cornhill, hurriedly. They were as shadows in the room until they came to the patch of moonlight, where shadow and substance fell apart.
“The Prince is dead in Kennington Palace,” said the taller, darker man; “the Black Prince is dead!” And he struck the door-jamb with his clenched fist and burst forth into one loud, sharp cry. There was rage in the sound, disappointment, and grief.
“Art silent, thou chantry priest?” said the other man gloomily. “Here 's occasion to ply thy trade; but where 's thy glib prayer for the dead?”
“Who am I that I should pray for this soul?” cried Langland bitterly. “Here 's the one brave man in all England—dead. Now is it time to pray for the living, Jack Straw; for my soul, and thine, and all these other poor, that be orphaned and bereaved o' their slender hope by this death. Oh, friend Peter, thou art run too late from Devon! The doer o' deeds, the friend o' ploughmen and labourers, he is dead.”
“One told me he did not welcome death. He was fain to live,” said Wat Tyler.
“Doth a good prince go willingly into heaven's bliss if he must leave a people perplexed,—a nest of enemies to trample his dreams?” asked the poet.