“In that Romaunt,” said Calote, “a maiden opened the gate. She bare a mirror in her hand, and she was crowned and garlanded. Her name was Idlelesse. But I am not she. I am not any of those fair damsels in that garden.”
“Thou art the rose,” he said.
“I do not dwell in a garden.”
“Thou art the rose.”
“O sir!” she cried, and flung her arms wide. “There be so many kind of love in the world! But this one kind I may not know. Do not proffer it. The Lord hath made me a peasant. Love betwixt thee and me were not honourable.”
“'T is true, I am in tutelage,” Stephen answered. “But one day I shall come to mine own. Meanwhile, I serve thee. 'T is the device of my house, 'Steadfast.'”
“I am of the poor,” said Calote. “I will not eat spiced meats while my people feed of black bread. I will not lie in a soft bed if other maids must sleep o' the floor.”
“I will serve thee!” cried Stephen. “My villeins shall be paid good wage. Yea, I have read the Vision. The memory of thy father's words is ever with me.”
“Yet thou canst prate of thy villeins” she returned.
“But who will till my fields, else?” he asked of her most humbly.