“Father John treads the clouds.”
“Perhaps St. Thomas of Canterbury is up yonder. When we have pulled Simon of Sudbury out of his archbishop’s shoes we might do worse than clap them on Father John’s feet.”
The Franciscan smiled like a horse champing a bit, drawing back his lips and showing his teeth.
“What God wills—God wills.”
“And what the devil wills——”
“The swashbuckler knows best.”
Big Blanche sat and gazed at John Ball’s rapt and dreaming face. He seemed not to hear the voices of those about him, and his face was the face of a man drunk with visions.
She pointed to him.
“He has touched neither food nor drink since daybreak. Some day his soul will fly away like a piece of thistledown, and we shall have no one to preach to us.”
“Pluck his sleeve, Jack.”