“Two-score and ten year,” he mumbled, “and a poet, sayst 'ou?”
They sat him down beside the sick man's pallet, and one brought a cushion for his feet, and the other drew his hood over his head, lest the wind harm him,—howbeit 't was June. Then they went away and left him with the stranger.
“Two-score and ten year,” said the old man, “and 't is as yesterday.—I go forth a pilgrimage to Truth, said he,—I have had a vision concerning Peter the Ploughman.”
The sick man opened his eyes. “The ploughman knoweth the way to Truth,” quoth he.
Brother Owyn lifted up his face to the sunlight, as he were listening:—
“Will Langland, art thou there?” he asked.
At the sound of his own name the sick man's wandering wits came back. He was 'ware of the old monk beside him.
“Thou canst not see?” he questioned.
“Nay, I do see very clear,” said Brother Owyn, in that high, protesting voice of age. “I see a river, shineth as the sun, and on the farther side my daughter awaiteth me.—Her locks shine as bright pure gold,—loose on her shoulders so softly they lie.”
“My daughter hath likewise golden hair,” murmured Long Will, “and my granddaughter.”