“What 's to fail?” quoth he.
“So saith my father,” she made answer. “Yet meseems I must ever see the Archbishop's head above London Bridge,—and next day Wat's. Was not this failure?”
“Sweet heart,” said Stephen, “I have been in prison a many months, and concerning éternité I have learned a little. W-Wat Tyler failed to be King of England. But thou and I, and those others, we did not arise up to make W-Wat Tyler king. Dost believe there liveth to-day a villein in England ho-ho-holdeth 't is righteous a man shall be bond-servant to another against his own will? Thou mayst scourge a man to silence,—but he 'll think his thought;—yea, and wh-whisper it to 's children.—We did not fail.”
Then Stephen took his love's face betwixt his hands, and kissed her brow and eyes and lips:—
“I had a dream that I should dress thee in silk, pearl-broidered, and a veil of silver. But now am I a landless man; must labour with my two hands for daily bread. Natheless, am I tied to no man's manor,—may sell my labour where I will. D-dost sigh for the dream, sweet heart, and to be called Madame? Be advised in time,—a man 's ofttimes endurable if his infirmity 's shrouded in good Flemish broadcloth, but if he be naked as a needle, then must he be a man indeed—to pass.”
“Now, prythee, how is 't honour to a maid if her lord lift her up to his estate?‘ said Calote. ’But if he condescend and clothe him in her coat-armour, then is she honoured in vérité.”
“In Yorkshire, mayhap I 'll find shepherding with Diggon. Wilt go thither?” Stephen asked her.
And when she had answered him Yea, he laughed soft, and sang:—
"Then I 'll put off my silken coat,
And all my garments gay.
Lend me thy ragged russet gown,
For that 's my best array.
Ohé!
For that's my best array."