He was all bejewelled, this little lad; he had a great ruby in his bonnet, and three gold chains about his neck, and a broad ribbon across his breast. His little legs stood out upon the back of the great horse, and his long mantle of velvet spread as far as the horse's tail. He had a fair and childlike countenance and a proud chin. His mien was serious, and he bore himself with a pretty stateliness, yet was nowise haughty. And the people cheered, and cheered, and cheered again; men laughed with love in their eyes, and women blessed him and sobbed. On his right hand rode the great Duke, smiling and affable; on his left, but sourly, the Earl of March. Close after came young Thomas of Woodstock. At Richard's bridle-rein there walked a young squire very gaily clad, and when the great horse came opposite Charing Cross and the place where Calote was lifted above the heads of the people, this squire said somewhat to the little Prince; whereupon Richard, forgetful, for the nonce, of Parliament and kingdom, stretched upward, turned his head like any eager child, with “Where?” upon his lips, and looked until he found—Calote.
He looked on her with a solemn curiosity, as a child will, and she from her high seat looked on him. Wat Tyler was moving on with the crowd, so the two kept pace, holding each other's glance. Once, Calote's eyes fell to the squire, whereupon he lifted his cap. All about her was shouting, but she heard only her own thoughts, which were, of a sudden, very loud and clear.—If this little child could learn to love and trust the poor, might not the Vision indeed be fulfilled? Might not the king and the ploughman indeed toil together, side by side, for the good of the people? Oh, if there were some one to teach this child! If she, Calote, might speak to him and tell him how far poverty differed from riches! The squire must have spoken concerning her, else why should the boy keep his eyes so fixed on her face? If she could but speak to him and tell him of the Vision, and what a king might do! He was so little, so noble,—he would assuredly learn.
But now Wat, jostled amid the throng, was not able to keep pace with the Prince, and fell behind. And they were before Westminster, where the Duke lifted his nephew off the horse and led him within the Abbey; and other lords dismounted to follow, and there was confusion and shouting of pages. All this while, the ploughman, being waked when the Prince came past the Cross, had followed on behind Wat, agape on the splendour and forgetful of his own safety. But when the Earl of Devon and his retainers made a stand to dismount, on a sudden a stocky, red-faced knight sware a great oath and, leaping off his horse, came and took Peter by the ear:—
“A villein! A 'scaped villein!” he cried. “'T is mine! Bind him!”
And all the crowd was echoing, “A villein 'scaped!” when Hobbe, thrusting men and women to right and left, laid his hand upon Peter's shoulder and bawled:—
“A lie! A very villainous lie! 'T is my prentice that 's served me faithful this year and more.”
“Hobbe's prentice!” cried the mob. “Good fellows, stand by the smith!” And they closed about the knight, so that he had no room to draw his sword.
But one came riding from the old Earl of Devon to question concerning the affray, and the knight cried: “Justice! Justice, my lord! Here 's mine own villein kept from me by a rabble!”
“Justice!” bellowed the smith. “Oh, good citizens of London, do ye stand idly by and see the rights of prentices and masters so trampled?”
“Nay!—Nay!—Nay!—Nay!” said many voices; and the people surged this way and that.