“Must be a fair persuading messenger,” quoth Long Will, mocking. “Is 't thou, or Wat, will undertake to convince the cotters of England that ye 're privy to the counsel o' the King? Who is 't we 'll send?”
Jack Straw, sitting on a long oaken chest with his head by the wall, thrust his fingers in his belt and spread his legs.
“Why,—Calote,” said he.
The girl and her father got to their feet in the same moment; also they spoke in the same breath.
“Yea!” said Calote, very soft, as she were gasping.
“By Christ, not so!” cried Long Will, with a strong voice that quenched her little “yea” but not the light in her eyes, nor the tumult in her breast, where she held her two hands across.
The priest took a step toward the oaken chest, then, “Tush!” he said, clenching his hands and stopping still. “Tush!—thou hast no daughter. I 'll forgive thee. Thou canst not know. An 't were Wat Tyler had spoke so foul counsel I 'd—I 'd—by the Cross o' Bromholme—I 'd”—
“Disport thee like Friar Tuck in the ballad, no doubt,” smiled Jack Straw easily. “Calote, wilt go?”
“Yea, will I!” she answered.
“Who will believe a slip of a child?” Long Will asked scornfully, and turned his back and paced down the room. “Moreover, the King hath not given this counsel. Thou wilt not speak a lie, Calote?”