“Mine Etienne saith thou art his bien-aimée,” quoth Richard, and laid a little jewelled hand upon hers that was bare and roughened at the fingertips.
She was silent. The squire leaned against the wall at Richard's side:—
“Yea, my lord,” said he.
“Did I not love Etienne,” the child continued, “and 't would grieve him, I 'd take thee for mine own. Thou art most wonderful fair.”
“O Prince!” cried Calote, “there be a many maids as fair as I, and fairer; but they go bent neath heavy burdens; they eat seldom; the winter cometh and they are as a flower that is blighted. These are thy people. Are not all we thine own, we English?”
“The book saith somewhat of this,” mused the boy. He took up the parchment and turned the pages.
And Calote said:—
"'The most needy are our neighbours, and we take good heed:
—As prisoners in pits and poor folk in cots,—
Burdened with children and chief lords' rent,
What they spare from their spinning they spend it in house hire,
Both in milk and in meal to make a mess o' porridge,
To satisfy therewith the children that cry out for food.'"
“Yea, 't is here!” said Richard, pointing with his finger. “Read on!”
“I do not read, my lord,” she answered. "I have no need to read, I know my father's Vision: