As Langland opened his house-door, Stephen saw Calote laying trenchers of black bread on a bare table; a pot bubbled on the hearth, and the room was full of smoke. Calote stood still and rubbed her eyes and stared.
“Sir,” said Langland, “you were seeking me? Wherefore?”
It was a simple question, yet the squire, looking on Calote, found not his answer ready; so Langland waited, glancing from the youth to the maid, until Stephen stammered in a weak, small voice, greatly differing from those bold tones in which he had defied the prentices:—
“I have read thy Vision concerning Piers”—
“I must commend you for an ardent disciple,” said the poet. “'T is not every noble in England would brave the London mob solus for a sight o' me.”
“'T is he that rebuked the yeoman in the churchyard, father,” interposed Calote, “and after praised thee for a poet.”
“Is 't so?” assented Langland. There was a cloud on his brow, but he spoke in kindly fashion. “'T would appear that my daughter and I are alike beholden to you for courtesy, wherefore, I would beseech you, fair sir, since you are come so far and have so manfully encountered perils, will you bide and dine with us,—if a pot o' beans be hight dinner?”
“Nay, I will not so trespass,” protested Stephen. “The Prince refuseth to eat an I be not by to fill his cup.”
“Yet must you bide, I fear me,” said Langland gravely. “How shall I answer to the Prince if one he love go forth to harm? At a later hour, when taverns fill and streets are emptied, you may walk abroad with the more ease.”
And now, with his adventure succeeded past imagination, the ungrateful Stephen stood disconsolate, a-hanging his head.