“Ma foy, Etienne!” the lady protested, indignant. “Here 's a sweet neighbourhood to bring an unprotected damosel.”
“Nay, madame, but thou dost me wrong,” said the squire. “Am I not here to defend thee?”
He had pulled up his willing steed and lighted down, and now was come to the lady's side to assist her to dismount. Hobbe also was drawn nigh, and heard these words.
“Yea, mistress, thou dost most foully slander this knight,” said he. “I have seen him with his single arm put to rout a two thousand men and mo'. He 's well known i' these parts, and greatly feared.”
They that stood by roared with laughter; and Stephen, crimson, and biting his nether lip,—yet not in anger,—made as to assist the lady from her saddle. Seeing this, Hobbe thrust himself to the fore, and said he:—
“Mistress, though you pity not this stripling, yet pity your own neck,” and caught her by the middle with his two hands and set her on the ground, they both staggering. And the squire hurried her within doors.
When she had caught her breath, she saw a bare, damp room, and a man writing.
“Mother of God! What kennel is this, Etienne?” she gasped. “Didst not assure madame 't was a poet's daughter?”
“Yea, and truly, Dame Marguerite! This is the poet's self.”
She looked on Langland, who was come up the room, and shook her head, saying:—