Stephen pushed through the gaping crowd at the door, past the dead knight, and would have led Calote away into the fields, but she said:—
“Let be! I will go home. I am very sick.”
“'T was not the King's fault; be sure of that!” cried Stephen. “They do so many wicked things in his name. He is but a weakling child.”
“It is time the people arose!” answered Calote. “Ah, how helpless am I, and thou, and the little King! How helpless is this country of England, where men slay each other before God's altar!”
“'T is John of Gaunt's doing,” said Stephen. “'T was concerning a Spanish hostage that was in the hands of this knight and another, and the King's Council said they would take the hostage, for that they might claim the ransom; but the knights hid him and would not say where he was hid.”
“O Covetise!” sobbed Calote. “Of what avail that my father called thee to repent in his Vision! All prophecies is lies. 'T is a wicked world, without love. All men hate one another, and I would I were dead.”
“Nay, nay!” Stephen protested. “I love!—I 'll prove my love!”
“Thou canst not. Thou art bound to the King,—and the King is in durance to the covetous nobles. King and people is in the same straits, browbeat both alike.”
But here they were 'ware of a man that watched them, and when he came nigh 't was Jack Straw.
“So, mistress! Wert thou in the church?” he asked.