Then he set his fingers in the corners of his mouth and eyes, and leered; and the mob, not comprehending, yet laughed.
“Thou wilt see Will Langland, wilt thou?” he resumed. “Yea, I trow thou art a-dying to see Will Langland. He hath long yellow hair, hath he not, and”—
“Scum!” cried Etienne, and drew his sword; and even as he drew it, there went a thrill down his spine; for Etienne had never drawn his sword in wrath before; 't was a maiden blade, had drunk no blood.
At the shine of it the crowd fell a-muttering. Every eye darkened; mockery died; there was naught left but black hatred.
“My way lies on Cornhill,” said Etienne. “Let him bar who dare!”
Then some one laid a hand on his shoulder, and a voice said:—
“Sheathe thy weapon, my lord!”
The squire turned to see a tall man standing at his side, clad in a dingy cassock and carrying a breviary. Long Will was come from saying mass for the soul of a wool merchant.
“What then? Wilt have me soil my hands with such as these?” cried Etienne.
“Nay, my lord, nor thy spirit neither,” answered Langland.