“The Lord, the King of Heaven, hath ta'en my daughter, my pearl, to be his bride,” said the old man. He held his head upright, very proud, but then it began to shake and shake, till it dropped again, and his chin was sunk in his breast.
“My daughter is wife to truest man in England; might have been courtier to the King; but he 's a shepherd in Yorkshire,—and his son 's a shepherd. They be free labourers, no villeins,” cried Will.
One in the cloister heard him and came running.
“Ay,” assented Brother Owyn, his head ever a-nod, “the King's Son of Heaven, he is the Good Shepherd.”
The other monk poured wine between the sick man's white lips and smoothed his pillow. Then he drew aside Brother Owyn's cowl and shouted in his ear, “Dost know him, brother, dost remember him?”
“Hath a daughter,” the old man answered, “but so have I. Her name 's Margaret,—which is to mean a pearl.”
“Calote is my daughter called,” the sick man made known very clear.
The young monk shrugged his shoulders and went back to the cloister.
After a little while Brother Owyn spoke:—
“Will Langland had a daughter called Calote. She stood t' other side the brook, and the light o' the sun blinded mine eyen. Methought 't was mine own daughter come to take me home. I mind it as 't were yesterday. 'In the city where the wall is jasper and the gates are twelve pearls,' quoth she, 'will there be any villeins to labour while other men feast?' I mind it as 't were yesterday.”