"This were impossibilité to know, sire," he said. "Say it not

again,--nor think it. Already I have forgotten thy words. Thou couldst

not divine the will of most high God. Thou art not afeared. Stand up

and be the King!"

Slowly, his eyes staring in Stephen's eyes, Richard got to his feet.

"I--I--could not--know!" he gasped. "I could not know!--I must forget;

yes. Even a king could not know. But I shall alway fear I"--He broke

off and stood silent.

When he spoke again he said, "What noise is that?"

"The prentices and men of London are killing Flemish weavers, sire,

not far away. 'T is a hellish mob."

"Presently they shall have a glut of blood," said the boy very quiet.

"I 'll see to 't. Go now, and bid them meet their King on the morrow

at Smithfield.--Nay,--have no fear, I 'll be gentle with these beasts.

I 'm not all fool."

"Oh, sire, for love's sake be gentle, not for hate! They are thy

people."

"Etienne, Etienne,--did I not love them? I set them free. Ah,--do not,

do not,--I shall weep again,--and I 've left weeping."

CHAPTER VIII

The Friday Night

Night was fallen on that unlucky Friday, but the massacre of the

Flemings not yet ended, when Stephen came to Langland's cot from the

Garde Robe where Richard sheltered.

"Will! Where 's Will?" cried Kitte, searching the squire's face.

"Not here?"

"Ah, woe!" said Kitte, and went and sat down heavily in a corner.

Stephen had with him a torch, and he set it in a ring by the wall. It

was all the light in that house. Then he sat on the old chest and

Calote came to his side. He was very weary and leaned his head in his

hand.

"What is to be the end?" Calote questioned him.

"Christ Jesus answer," said Stephen.

"But the King hath pardoned and set free!" she persisted.

"Alas, the King!" he cried.

Calote stared on him, and then took him by the shoulder fearfully,

saying:--

"What will the King do?"

"No man knoweth what the King will do. Neither doth the King know. But

he will follow his mood.--Who can guess what the mood of a king shall

be? To-day a blessing, to-morrow a curse."

"Thou 'rt sick with weariness," she whispered, and took his head in

her arms against her breast.

"Who shall say that this people deserveth to be free?" he mused.

"This is matter of judgment for Christ Jesus," she answered soft.

"What hast thou to do with it,--what hath the King?"

"Is not the King anointed of God?" said he.

A moment she was silent, and when she spoke her voice was slow,

uncertain: "I would not blaspheme," she said, "but whiles I wonder if

he be not anointed of men. The King of Heaven hath a most marvellous

confidence to give this realm of England into the hands of a little

wilful lad."

"Is 't wiser to set Wat Tyler in his room?--Natheless, on the morrow

this may hap."

"God forbid!" murmured Calote.

"I 'm bidden say the King will meet all peasants and other that have

borne a part in this rising, the morrow morn at Smithfield. This is

all I know, or any man else in England. Behooves me go forth to find

Wat."

"Nay,--rest here!--He will surely come to this house when his

bloodthirstiness is quenched."

"Calote," said Kitte, "come to bed! From the upper window I 'll keep

watch for thy father."

"Thou wilt stay?" Calote pleaded with Stephen.

"Yea," he assented, kissing her good-night.

So Calote and Kitte mounted to the chamber under the roof, but Stephen

lay down on the floor of the lower room, and presently he was fast

asleep.

The torch went out, but the door into the lane was open and a little

moonlight shone on Stephen's face. Without on Cornhill red-handed

prentices were going home to their beds. There was fierce mirth in

Dame Emma's tavern. After a little the front door of the cot was

pushed open and a man came in. When he had stood still a moment, he

heard the sound of measured breathing in the room and he knew that a

man was asleep there. Then he saw where the sleeper lay, on the edge

of the moonlight; and after this he came more close and saw the

sleeper's face. But his own face was hid by the darkness. He drew

something from his belt and it flashed against the shine of the moon

and dripped. Then he came betwixt Stephen and the door, and the light

was cut off from Stephen's face. There was no sound in the room but

Stephen's breathing,--'t would seem the other held his breath. He

kneeled down, and now 't was his own face the moon shone on. He was

smiling very evil. He lifted up his hand that held the flashing

thing,--and Kitte in the doorway cried "Awake!" in a very loud voice

and threw herself upon the man, and he turned his hand and drove the

knife into her breast. Then he fled by the door, and Kitte fell across

Stephen's knees where he had sat up on a sudden out of his sleep.

When he would have lifted her, he found the hilt of the knife.

"Do not draw it forth," said Kitte, "not yet. Will--may--come."

Then Stephen called Calote, who came into this great grief rubbing the

sleep from her eyes.

"Nay, weep not, child," said Kitte when 't was told. "What shall thy

true love believe,--dost thou grudge him life?"

But Calote sobbed more bitterly, lying on the floor beside her mother.

"Will," Kitte whispered; and Stephen went to the door and looked out

and saw him coming.

"I have been going up and down," said Will, "praying mercy. But they

are mad with blood. One man I saved; but when I came that way again

another had slain him and he lay in the ditch. Yonder in the tavern

Wat and his demon Pride make merry and proclaim how they will rule

England. Poor Wat! Already there be certain of his fellows look

askance. Poor Wat!"

"Go in!" whispered Stephen, and told him.

After, the squire pushed him in for that he stood as one in amaze,

and shut the door on all that sorrow. But himself remained without,

and presently crossed the street to the tavern to give Richard's

message to the roisterers.

"Will," said Kitte, "do not grieve. Thou 'rt--the more--free--to serve

thy--lady--Saint Truth."

"Did that grieve thee?" he groaned. "In the Vision 't is a man,

Truth."

"Calote hath--her--love--and thou--freedom.--Better so!"

"Hush, mother, oh, hush!" sobbed Calote. "Dost thou not love us that

thou canst leave us lone so willing? Say thou 'rt sorrowing to leave

us! Ah, mother, say 't!"

Kitte looked in Long Will's eyes.

"Love us!" he cried. And then, "Kitte,--Kitte, is this likewise

failure? What have I done?--Stay,--and learn me to love! Oh, thou true

loving wife!--What have I done,--what have I done?--Forgive me!"

"Draw forth--knife,--the more ease," she said.

The blood came in a great gush very swift.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

And when he had done this, she was dead.

CHAPTER IX

Smithfield

In the dawn of Saturday London streets were all astir. On all the

streets and amid the lanes close by Thames the Flemish widows bewailed

their dead. On Cheapside and along Cornhill men were met together;

some there were in bands with banners, and some singly. Also there ran

up and down certain fellows that cried:--

"Go ye to Smithfield, good folk, 't is the King's will to meet with

you in that place."

Others shouted: "Wat Tyler biddeth you to Smithfield, all the

Fellowship."

Whereat there were a-many laughed; and they said: "Do we the bidding

of Wat Tyler, or is the King our liege and lord?"

But there were others frowned.

"Heard ye Wat in Dame Emma's tavern last night?" they said, and their

brows bent dark.

"In Norfolk do we dub so proud speech treason."

Then looked every man over his shoulder hastily.

"Wat was drunk," quoth one after a little.

"When a man 's drunk he spills more than his victual," other answered

him.

"Wat Tyler biddeth you to Smithfield, all the Fellowship!" bawled the

crier.

"Wat Tyler's leader of the Fellowship, what harm?"

"Or John Ball?"

"I 'm of Jack Straw's ményé."

"Good folk, good folk, to Smithfield,--do the King's bidding!" shouted

another crier.

"Afore all I 'm King's man," said a Kentish villein.

"And I!"

"And I!"

"God keep the King!"

These things, and more after this same manner, the people said one to

another in the way to Smithfield. By New Gate they went, and Moor Gate

and Alders Gate, for this Smithfield was without the wall beyond Saint

Bartholomew's; a market square, wherein butchers slaughtered their

beef, a foul, ill-smelling place; and every man that went thither on

that June day was in some kind a butcher, with hosen bespattered with

blood, and brown patches dried on tabard and courtepy. Neither had

they cleaned their knives and knotted bludgeons, but came as they were

to Smithfield, dull-eyed with wine and sleep.

"What is to be the end?" they said; and there were some whispered: "'T

were well if we had let be the Flemings"--

"Lay not that on us! 'T is the London men shall answer for 't."

"I saw a-many men from Kent did"--

"Mark ye, brothers, 't is not the Flemings will undo us, but old

Simon, the Archbishop. There was a foul deed." So spake Hobbe the

smith, and all they that heard him crossed themselves.

"Who saith we 're undone?" blustered a fellow out of Sussex. "Have we

not the King's pardon, and villeinage is dead?"

Nevertheless, 't was a sober company choked the narrow streets and

swayed about the gates pressing to Smithfield.

And now the King came forth from the Garde Robe, his white-lipped

nobles with him, and rode through Temple Bar and along the Strand past

Charing Cross and John of Gaunt's blackened palace to the Abbey at

Westminster. Mayor Walworth was with the King, and Salisbury and

Buckingham and the other nobles that had sheltered in the Tower, but

they were not many, and they were very pale. Stephen walked with his

hand on the King's bridle, and this was the last time he should do the

King this service, but he was not aware, nor the King neither.

Nevertheless, Stephen knew that he must one day reckon with the

nobles; and if not with the nobles then with the peasants. Howbeit, in

this hour he took no keep of his own soul and body, but pondered how

the quarrel should end.

There was little speech among the nobles. These were brave men, but

faint with much watching and bewildered. That all England should be

turned up-so-down by peasants and common folk was a thing not to be

believed; nevertheless, the nobles knew that the Prior of Bury Saint

Edmunds was slain by a mob near Newmarket, and also Sir John

Cavendish, Chief Justice of England, who was on circuit in Suffolk,

but the rioters overtook him hard by Lakenheath. They knew that Saint

Albans was up, and already rumours were come up out of Northampton and

Cambridge and Oxford. There was fear of Leicestershire and Somerset;

what Yorkshire would do might not be determined. 'T was whispered that

many lords of manors and noble ladies wandered homeless amid the

forests of Kent, bewailing their manor-houses sacked and burned. These

things the nobles pondered as they rode from the city to Westminster

on Saturday, being the fifteenth day of June in that year, the fourth

of King Richard II.

Howbeit, neither at Westminster was found peace, for there came forth

of the Abbey a procession of monks, penitents, bearing the cross. Then

with groans and tears did these monks tell their tale:--

"O Lord King, the Abbey is defiled!"

"At the shrine of that most holy one, Edward the Confessor, blood is

spilled."

"Sire, avenge us!"

"Richard Imworth is slain, King Richard."

"Richard Imworth, warden of the Marshalsea, is murdered, sire!"

"His hand was even on the tomb of the Confessor."

"The people have shed blood in the church!"

"Sire, punish!"

"Who will save us?--The Archbishop is slain!"

Then did Richard light down off his horse and kissed the cross; and my

Lord Buckingham, the King's uncle,--that strong man,--burst into tears

and ran into the church. And presently, all those great nobles and

puissant gentlemen were within, running up and down with tears and

sighs to kiss and clasp the shrines and the most holy relics, sobbing

and shuddering liker to weak women than warriors; striving as who

should kneel more close to holiness,--and all the tombs and sacred

places wet with their weeping. King Richard knelt to pray at the

Confessor's shrine and bade call a father to confess him his sins,

which when he had done, the King went out soberly to his horse. And

all this while Stephen stood without the church holding the King's

horse by the bridle. So when the King was in his saddle they two

waited silent, and one after one the knights and nobles came forth;

and 't would seem they were greatly strengthened by those prayers and

confessions, for now they spoke together somewhat concerning ways and

means.

"If the peasants can be drawn forth of the city and the gates closed,

sire," said Walworth, "methinks we may hold against them. There be

many loyal citizens of London, and many more since yesterday, for

there begin to be murmurings against Wat Tyler."

"My Lord Mayor," said Buckingham harshly, "you will do well to

remember that one walketh at the King's bridle who maketh boast to

serve these rebels."

"I am the King's servant likewise," said Stephen.

"Were the good Archbishop on live," quoth Salisbury very grave, "I

make no doubt he would say a man may not serve two masters."

"The King and the people are one, my lord."

There was a murmur, yet none dared speak openly his discontent.

Then said Richard, nor turned his face to right nor left but rode

straight forward: "The King is the people."

Nevertheless, neither Stephen nor the nobles might read his meaning,

and 't were marvel if himself knew what he would do.

So they rode again through Temple Bar, but at Lud Gate they turned

northward without the city wall and on past New Gate, where peasants

followed them. And when they had passed by Saint Bartholomew's they

came into Smithfield, and the people were pressed together, a mighty

throng, at one side of the open square and beyond. But Will Langland

was not with the peasants at this time; he knelt in his cot on

Cornhill by the side of his wife, chaunting a prayer for the dead, and

his daughter was on her knees at the other side, and there burned tall

tapers at head and foot of the bier. It may well be that those deeds

which befel at Smithfield had not befallen thus and so if Will

Langland and his daughter Calote had been in that company; but as

concerning these things, who shall prophesy?

Now what followeth is known right well of all the world, to wit, that

part that is writ in the chronicles, as how Wat Tyler came across the

square sole alone to have speech of the nobles; and this he did

without fear, being upholden by that law of chivalry whereby a herald

and a messenger may not be evil entreated of an enemy; and these were

knights and gentles, flow'r of chivalry, wherefore though Wat Tyler

loved them not at all, yet did he trust them. Nevertheless, he spake

too bold, with a brawling tongue and small courtesy. He made plain

that he would be master, and the people was minded to rule England.

"Give me the King's dagger!" quoth he curt; and Richard gave his

dagger into his squire's hand and bade him give to Wat Tyler; and

Stephen did the King's bidding. Good Mayor Walworth, at the King's

right hand, swelled purple, and those others, nobles, cursed betwixt

their teeth.

Then said Wat Tyler: "I will have the King's sword."

"Nay, Wat, art mad?" protested Stephen. "This is majesté, have a

care!"

"Let him take the sword an he will," said the King, and Wat Tyler put

forth his hand to take it, but the Lord Mayor might not any longer

withhold his wrath, and on a sudden he had struck Wat, who fell down

off his horse; and, hatred being let loose, those knights and noble

gentlemen immediately stabbed him so that he died. Then looked they

one on another, and on this man that had trusted them. And into their

shamed silence came voices of the peasants across the square.

"What 's to hap?"

"They are making him a knight!"

"Yea, yea!"

"I saw the blow!"

"Nay, hath fallen."

"Treason!"

"Wat!--Treason!"

"Slain!"

As they were carven in stone those nobles stood, white horror

stiffened on their faces, to see a thousand bowstrings drawn as one,

and deadly long-bows bent;--'t would seem all England held her breath

awaiting chaos. Then King Richard, that fair child, true son of

Plantagenet, rode out into that moment's tottering stillness, alone,

with his face set towards those thousand straining arrows.

"I am your leader!" he cried, "I am your King!" and came into their

midst smiling.

They leaped about him crying and singing, as 't were his valour had

made them drunk. A-many broke their bows in twain across their knees.

As on the Friday at Mile End, so now they kissed his feet; blessings

went up as incense. And he laughed with them and wept and called them

brothers.

"This is to be a king!" he cried with arms uplift to heaven. For he

knew that he was ruler of England in that hour.

A little while he stayed with them, their eyes worshipful upturned

ever to his as he rode hither and yon in the press, their voices,

gladsome wild, ever in his ear, till the spell of their love so

wrought with him that he was made a lover. In his heart Mercy and

Truth were met together, Rightwisness and Peace had kissed. If his

people had wronged him, he knew it not; Love sat in the seat of

Memory, Suspicion had drunk a sleeping potion.

"This is to be a king!" cried Richard.

"'Then came there a king, knighthood him led,

Might of the commons made him to reign.'"

And John Ball at his stirrup said, also out of the Vision:--

"'Love is leech of life and next our Lord's self,

And also the straight way that goeth into heaven.'"

"Heaven?" murmured Richard, and after very soft, twixt prayer and

amaze, "Thy kingdom come."

So he turned about and rode at a slow pace, as one in a dream, across

the square to his nobles, and there was on his face a shining look as

of one who seeth a vision.

"This is the bravest man in all England to-day, and he is our King,"

said old Salisbury, and Richard smiled, eyes and mouth radiant,

flashing as the sun.

Then said Mayor Walworth, who was ever a blunt man, "Now will I ride

swift into the city, sire, and man the wards and bring hither Sir

Robert Knollys, and his retainers shall surround these fellows and

break their pride."

Richard turned to look on the Mayor, the smile fading. As one that

waketh out of a sweet dream and encountereth the old perplexity he had

thought was laid, so Richard stared; and there grew in his eyes a look

of fear.

"What need?" he said, and drew rein as he would scape anew to his

people.

Then came the Earl of Salisbury close, and who had looked in the old

man's face the while he spoke to Richard might not fail to see a great

pity therein.

"Sire," he said, and the pity was in his voice likewise,--"sire, 't

were not wise these peasants come again into the city. They have

wrought too great havoc; we may not trust them."

As one who strives to gather his wits Richard sat, with dumb eyes

fixed on the old Earl. His lip quivered.

Salisbury began anew, very patient and soft, as one speaketh to a

creature that is frighted, or to a child: "My lord, the people have

obtained that they asked, now they ought to disperse and wend them

homeward. To this end 't were well thou lead them out into the fields

to speed them on their way."

"Yea," Richard answered slow. "Then what need of Sir Richard Knollys

and his retainers?"

"The men of Kent must go again through London to cross the river by

the Bridge,--bethink thee of yesterday, sire"--

"Yesterday is dead!" the boy cried. "I and my people are at peace!"

"Natheless, sire, hearts are as tinder."

"Then wherefore set them afire by the steel of armed knights?"

"Nay, my liege, but if these peasants be penitent, wherefore shall

they refuse to be escorted thorough that fair city wherein they

behaved so ill?"

"I will not betray my people," cried Richard, a sob in his voice.

"Disperse them only, my lord. Though there be many loyal, natheless we

do know of sureté that there be certain among them like to this Tyler,

would make themselves King. Thyself hast seen how they are easily led

this way and that, for good or ill. Remember the Archbishop, sire."

There shot a spasm of anguish athwart the King's face. "I will lead

them into the fields. They shall be dispersed," he said with a loud,

unsteady voice. "But I have set them free. I will not betray them! I

will not betray them!"

And riding away he was presently in the midst of the peasant rout,

laughing, leading them to Clerkenwell. But his cheeks were

fever-bright, and the look of fear faded not out of his eyes. With

quips and merry gests he lured them on, and he bethought him how that

Stephen had said that night in the Tower, "They 'll be led like little

children," and so they were.

"Hearken, my people," said Richard, wistful, "none standeth between us

any more. Would ye that Wat Tyler had made himself your King?"

"King Richard!--King Richard!" they shouted.

"None standeth between us any more, mes amis,--neither noble, nor

common man"--

"Nor archbishop," cried one, but a tumult of voices smothered him,

with:--

"Nay--'t was Wat slew the Archbishop!"

And when they saw the cloud on Richard's brow, they cried yet more

loud, as in a frenzy:--

"'T was Wat!--'t was Wat! Long live King Richard!"

But John Ball was not now in that throng, nor Jack Straw; they had

fled away.

And now came Sir Robert Knollys with his knights and men-at-arms,

retainers, surrounding the peasants that were as patient as silly

sheep, for they looked upon their young shepherd and trusted him. So

when certain of those soldiers would have fallen upon the people to

slay them, King Richard arose in his saddle and forbade them, saying

in anger:--

"These are my children,--mine! mine!--Let not a hair of their heads be

harmed. If they had hearts of men, might they not slay me even now,

beholding this foul ambush by which they are taken? But they are as

babes doing my bidding. They have faith, even though I lead them into

bondage."

Then he burst into tears, very passionate, and screamed loud and

hoarse:--

"I have set them free! Do ye hearken?--I have set them free,--free! O

Christ, I am not traitor to my people!"

My Lord Salisbury likewise forbade violence, and Richard, when he had

dried his tears and got his voice, spoke again to the people and made

them to know as how the men of Kent must homeward, and others in peace

to north and west. And when they had set forth obedient, Richard rode

into the city, the light as of a conqueror in his eyes. Nevertheless,

behind this there lurked the look of fear.

Meanwhile in Smithfield Wat Tyler lay dead of his wounds. And when

Richard led the peasants out to Clerkenwell, and the nobles rode into

the city to bring succour, Stephen only remained. But presently John

Ball came forth of a house, and when they two saw that no man

hindered, they took up the body of poor Wat and bore it within the

Church of St. Bartholomew and laid it decently at the east end of the

nave.

"Wat hath lost us London," said John Ball. "But who might believe that

true knights and noble gentlemen would so sin against courtesy! Our

hope now is to keep the shires stirring. I 'll not stay in this

death-trap, but carry the spark to northward. Yorkshire ought to be up

by now, if the message carried, and Cheshire, and Somerset. God keep

thee, brother! While the breath 's in our bodies we may fan the

flame." The priest was gone, and Stephen sat him down by the body to

watch.

So after the day was won and the peasants scattered, Mayor Walworth

bethought him of Wat Tyler and came again to Smithfield to seek him.

But finding naught except blood where the dead man had fallen, he

searched diligently, as did two aldermen that were with him, and in

the end they found that they sought.

"Have him forth!" said the Mayor. "'T is no place for traitors in a

church."

"Good Master Walworth," pleaded Stephen, "this man was more honest

than many. He followed truth,--and we be all stumblers. If he sought

to take the King, what did he more than John of Gaunt would do, or

others of the noblesse? I have lived with Wat Tyler as he were my

brother;--I know him that he sinned being ambitious, but this sin he

shareth with John of Gaunt and better men; and not for himself alone

did he desire to rule England, but for the sake of the poor that is so

down-trodden. But John of Gaunt for power and his own sake only. I

know him that he was a wrathful man,--but who so wrathful wild as Earl

Percy of Northumberland, natheless men do him courtesy."

"Master Fitzwarine," made answer the Mayor, "give up thy sword and

yield thee prisoner, for that thou defendest traitors and murderers,

disturbers of the King's peace. This man hath slain the Archbishop of

Canterbury."

"'T is very true, if Wat Tyler is traitor then am I likewise," said

Stephen, and gave up his sword. And one of the aldermen bound him with

a rope to lead him away. Then did Mayor Walworth take Wat Tyler's body

by the heels, and dragged it forth into Smithfield and hewed the head

from the trunk. This he did with Stephen's sword. After, he gave the

head to that other alderman, not him that bound Stephen, and bade him

take down the Archbishop's head from London Bridge and set Wat Tyler's

where that one had hung; and these things were done. But Stephen was

cast into a dungeon in the Tower.

CHAPTER X

The Old Fetters

On the Sunday when Long Will and Calote were come from the burial of

Kitte, they were met at their door by Walworth and certain of the

King's officers, who said:--

"Knowest aught concerning that arch-traitor, Jack Straw? 'T is

believed he lieth hid in the city.--In the King's name, open thy

door!"

"Name him not!" cried Will, and crossed himself. "I am a clerk; I may

not venge mine own wrong!--Natheless his name breeds murder in my

heart." He groaned and covered his face. Those others stared in amaze.

"Heard ye not?" said Calote then. "'T was Friday he came into our cot

by night, and he would have slain one slept there, but my mother ran

in between.--My mother was slain."

"Alack, sweet maid, here 's news!" exclaimed the Mayor. "I 've been

busied propping the kingdom." And to the men he said: "On! he is not

here."

But one of the men answered him: "The fellow was seen o' Cornhill

within the hour. Is a most arrant knave. This house were safest in all

London, seeing he hath shed blood in it. Let us enter!"

So they went in and threw wide the window and the doors, for that the

room was dark. And some mounted to the chamber under the roof. Then

the man that craved leave to enter went and stood by the great chest

in the lower room; and presently he had lifted the lid and thrust in

his hand, and all they heard a terrible squawk. The man had Jack Straw

by the leg, and flung him out on the floor.

"O thou vile murderer!" cried Calote. "Coward, without shame! Dost

shelter thee on this hearth thou hast defiled? O craven dog!"

There were deep shadows in the eyes of Calote. This horror of her

mother's death was yet upon her. Moreover, she knew what it was to

fail.

"Do not let the clerk come at me!" Jack Straw prayed the Mayor. He

shivered; he was all of a sweat. "Wherefore do ye take me? Thrust thy

fingers in my breast, the King's pardon is there. Hark ye,--I 'll say

it. I have it by heart. 'Know that of our special grace we have

manumitted'--hearken, 'freed him of all bondage, and made him quit by

these presents.' I be free man, pardoned of all felonies, treasons,

transgressions, and extortions. Look ye, masters,--'t is writ

here.--Bind not my hands! Read!--'And assure him of our summa pax.' I

'm free man. Read!--'Dated June the fourteenth, anno regni quarto.' I

had it of yonder clerk, learned me the Latin the while he writ. I 'm

free man. Will,--speak for me! Will!--Will!--I meant no harm,--she

came between and I knew 't not. Will, thou knowest I meant no harm to

Kitte. Speak! Is 't for this I 'm ta'en? The Lord is leech of love,

Will, forgiveth his enemies. I 'm thy friend, Will;--was ever."

"Have him forth!" shouted Langland above this din. "Have him forth

swift,--else must ye bind me likewise. O Christ--give me

leave!--Avenge her, Christ Jesus!"

Then Jack Straw, being 'ware that here was no hope, turned him at the

threshold and said:--

"There be others, prisoners, mistress, and thy peddler is one. I saw

him borne to Tower yester e'en. Thy fine esquire 's like to lose his

head as soon as I."

"Set a gag twixt his teeth," said Walworth. So they did, and bore him

through London streets. And if any man was his friend, he went and hid

himself.

Meanwhile, the King took counsel with his lords in the great chamber

in the Tower. His cheeks were pale, his eyes heavy. He pressed his

hand oft to his brow, where sat a frown.

"Sire," said Buckingham, "'t is very certain these knaves ought to be

punished, else shall we never have done with uprisings and rebellions

that do endanger the kingdom."

"Where is Etienne Fitzwarine?" asked Richard, fretful. "Let him mix my

cup! There 's a fever inward, parcheth my throat."

My Lord of Buckingham looked uneasy on my Lord of Salisbury. Then Sir

John Holland behind the King's back said: "No doubt he consorteth with

those low fellows, his friends, and maketh merry that the King is

cozened."

"Ribaude!" cried the boy starting from his seat. "I cozened?--I?--I?"

He choked and turned half round, his hand on his sword.

Sir John went backward a pace, nevertheless he would not eat his

words:--

"Wherefore should they not make merry, sire? They were fools an they

wept. Nay, they have gone home to their wives to tell a marvellous

tale. Here 's a king! do they cry. Let us but rise up and burn a

manor-house or two, and take London Bridge,--and we may have what we

will, even if 't be the King's crown."

"Who bade me grant all?" cried Richard. "Who fled a-horseback into the

fields for fear of that rabble at Mile End? What I did, was 't not

done to save your coward skins, as much as to pleasure peasants?"

"O my liege! Who may know this, if not thy loyal servants?" said

Salisbury, and bent his old knees. Whereupon those others knelt

likewise, and Salisbury continued:--

"Thou hast wrought with a king-craft beyond thy years, sire. Thou hast

saved England. But now must stern measures be taken, else are we like

to be in worse case. When the people discover that they are--that

they--are"--

"Tricked!" shouted Buckingham, laughing loud. "Tricked, my wise

nephew! 'T were well to crush them neath the iron hand of fear, ere

they find out this. So, I say, fall to!--Beat them down! Let blood

flow! 'T is the one way!"

"Tricked?" the King repeated, frowning. "But I was honest."

"Ay, my lord," assured him Salisbury. "And so wert thou honest if a

madman came to thee and gripped thy throat and said, 'Give me thy

kingdom, King Richard,' and thou didst answer, 'Yea, freely I give it

thee.' Natheless, the madman might not rule England. Neither may King

Richard keep faith with him, for that were grievous wrong to

Englishmen."

The King laughed, as he were uncertain and ashamed; the colour came

into his face. "'T is very raisonable," he said slowly,--"but--I did

not give them the kingdom,--I gave them--liberty."

"My lord hath not forgot that concerning this matter Parliament

hath a voice. It may well be Parliament shall give

consent,--natheless"--Salisbury faltered, and Buckingham laughed very

scornful.

"I am King!" cried Richard haughtily, but there was a question in his

cry.

"My lord doth not forget," said Salisbury, "as how in England the King

taketh counsel with his people as concerning the welfare of the

kingdom. Since the day of the first Edward, grandfather to my lord's

grandfather, this is more and more a custom in England. Through

Parliament doth the King receive his grants, taxes, moneys for the

King's expending. 'T were not well to make an enemy of Parliament. The

court is straitened for moneys."

Richard bit his lip and paced up and down, clinching his hands.

"Who said the King was free?" he cried. And on a sudden, very fierce:

"If I am cozened, 't is not the peasants have cozened me."

"O sire!" pleaded the old Earl, "think not of noblesse, nor of

peasants, nor yet of thine own self,--but of all England, that thy

grandfather Edward made a great nation. Wilt have it go to wrack in

the hands of crazed villeins? Put down the revolt with a strong hand;

then will they wake from their madness."

"Cure them with blood, sire," said Buckingham. "'T is the one way.

Else were no man's head safe."

"Beau sire!" cried Robert de Vere, entering, "the Mayor is here with

that rebel, Jack Straw, was so fierce against the Flemings on Friday."

Then came in Walworth, and Jack bound.

"What vermin is this?" asked Richard. "Have him forth,--displeaseth

me. Faugh! How the fellow crawls!"

"Sire, I will confess," Jack whined. "I will reveal all. Let me go

free, sire! I went astray. Do but let me go free, and I 'll confess.

'T was not I was leader, sire, but Wat Tyler--and Stephen

Fitzwarine"--

The King had sat listless, paying no heed, but at the name of

Fitzwarine he lifted his head:--

"Take this liar to the courtyard and beat out 's brains!" he said.

"Where is Etienne?"

"Sire, pardon!" now began Walworth, "but 't is very true I took Master

Fitzwarine yester e'en by the side of the body of the traitor, Wat

Tyler; and he made as to defend the body, and spake against certain

great nobles of the realm."

"Thou hast slain him?" screamed Richard,--"Etienne!--Etienne!"

"Nay, sire; for that I knew the King loved him. Natheless, for safety

he is housed close. And here is his sword. With this same sword I

strake off the head of Wat Tyler. My lord, I am thy faithful servant."

"Ay," Richard assented. "Prythee pardon, friend; I have not forgot

that good turn thou did me and all England yesterday. But give me the

sword. I will wear the sword that hewed off that traitor's head."

"Sweet nephew," said Buckingham, "'t is very certain Fitzwarine was

likewise traitor."

"Wilt thou forget those bold words he spake in this chamber, sire,

three days agone?" cried Sir John Holland.

"Wilt thou forget that insult to madame the Queen, who must needs ride

with his wanton that night on Blackheath?" sneered Robert de Vere,

Earl of Oxford.

"O sire," said Jack Straw soft,--"is 't known of these gentles as how

Fitzwarine traversed England a year and more, in company of this same

leman, stirring up revolt?"

There went up a shout of wrath and amaze from all those lordings:--

"Sire!" they cried, and every eye bent on the King craved vengeance.

"Pah!" said he. "'T is not question of Etienne, but of this worm that

speweth venom. Let him be despatched forthwith!"

Then Jack Straw cast himself down on the floor and writhed on his

belly as far as the King's feet, crying:--

"Mercy!--Grace!--Mercy!--Mercy!--I will reveal the plot. O sire, I

will unfold the secrets of this Rising! Give me only my life, my life,

sire, my life!"

"Well, take thy life! Thou shalt go free,--if thou tell all," said

Richard, with averted face. "Lift the fellow to his knees,

thou,--yeoman guard,--and wipe his slobber off my shoes!"

So when Jack Straw was got to his knees and a stout yeoman on either

side holding him up underneath his arm-pits, for that he was weak with

fright and lack of food, he began to tell his tale.

"'T was in Long Will's cot o' Cornhill,--the Chantry Priest, him that

writ the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman,--'t was in his house this

plot was hatched.--Water, my lords!--Pity, my tongue is twice its true

size!"

"Verily, I believe it is so," said Richard; he would not look at Jack

Straw, but sat with face turned to one side and eyes cast down. "Give

him to drink," he said.

The Mayor caught a silver flagon from the table and held it to Jack's

lips, and when he had drunk, my Lord of Oxford ground the flagon

beneath his heel and kicked it shapeless into a corner.

"'T was o' Cornhill, lordings, and Will was there, and the light o'

love, his daughter, and Wat Tyler,--and--and--Fitzwarine"--

"And thou," said Richard.

"But I was no leader in this Rising, sire. Wat would be leader,--a

proud, wrathful man. And the traitor Fitzwarine hath evil entreated me

oft, for that he would hold second place to Wat."

"Where was John Ball?" asked Salisbury.

"John Ball also was there," cried Jack very eager. "'T was he set us

all agog in the beginning with his preaching and prating."

"Get on! The plot!" Richard interrupted impatiently.

"Mercy, sire,--grace!--'T was agreed as how all knights, squires, and

gentlemen should be slain, and the King made to lead this revolution.

For this cause came Wat to Smithfield yester morn, to take the King.

Mercy!--And until all England was risen up, the King should be called

leader of the people. Then should we slay all the lords.--Ah, pity,

gentles!--And when was none left to succour the King,--Wat Tyler would

have had the King slain.--Sire, not I, but Wat!--Grace!--Pardon!"

Richard's face was still as stone. Jack Straw hung limp betwixt the

yeomen, and well-nigh swooned, moaning the while.

Thrice Richard moved his lips and no sound came; at last he said,

"Anon?"

"The--the--bishops after, sire, and all monks, canons,--rectors, to be

slain. When no one survived, greater, stronger, or more knowing than

ourselves, we should have made at our pleasure laws by which the

subjects would be ruled."

The room was all a-murmur with rage. Richard arose and signed to the

guard to take up Jack Straw:--

"Take him to the place in the courtyard where Archbishop Simon was

murdered," he said in a cold voice. "Rip out his guts, lop off his

legs and arms. Let his head be borne throughout the city on a pole,

and what remaineth cut in four pieces and send by fleet-foot

messengers to north and south and east and west of this foul,

traitorous England."

Jack Straw heard with starting eyes. Then strength came to him and he

shrieked and struggled:--

"Thy promise, sire, thy promise!--Thou didst give me life! Mercy!--Thy

promise!"

"One thing 't would seem a king is free to do," Richard answered him.

"'T is to break promises."

And old Salisbury sighed, and hung his head as he were suddenly grown

feeble.

So Jack Straw was borne away to his death, and the nobles crowded

around Richard, buzzing approval.

"And Fitzwarine, sire?" said Robert de Vere.

The boy pressed his hands against his eyes:--

"Have ye no pity, wolves?" he groaned.

"Natheless, sire, he is a traitor," persisted Buckingham. "Is no time

to set free traitors."

"I have not set him free," said Richard. "Let that suffice. If ye are

thirsty for blood, go down into Cheapside; Mayor Walworth shall set up

anew the block that was there, and strike off the heads of all such as

were known to be murderers of Flemings. The widows of the dead weavers

may wield the axe an they will. Here 's sport, my lords! Now, pray you

leave me! I must make ready for this pilgrimage of vengeance mine

uncle Buckingham counselleth."

"The jongleuse and her father, sire?" ventured Sir John Holland.

"I may not take keep of women and poets," Richard answered. "'T is my

friends only that I betray."

CHAPTER XI

The Prisoner

Stephen's cell was a narrow place, and there was no window but a slit

wherefrom arrows only might take flight. Looking forth with face

pressed close to the stone, Stephen saw the gray wall of the inner

ward, and no other thing. Nevertheless, by means of this crack he knew

light from darkness, and when three days were past he said to the

gaoler:--

"How long do I bide in this place?"

"The last man bode here till he died, master,--two-score and five

year. My father was turnkey."

Stephen turned his face to the arrow-slit, and the man went out and

barred the door.

"Now will I set my life in order against the day I come forth," said

Stephen; "and whether Death unlock the door, or Life, I shall be

ready."

So he sat close by the crack, with his fingers thrust through,

beckoning freedom. And here the gaoler found him night and morn,

silent, as he were wrapt in a deep contemplation, a little sad, but

hopeful withal, and uncomplaining. The gaoler eyed him in amaze, and

searched the cell for rope or knife or crowbar, for written word or

phial of poison, whereby this strange calm might be accounted for. But

he found none of these things. And in this way there dragged on a

fortnight. Then might the gaoler hold his peace no longer.

"Hard fare," quoth he, setting the black bread and the water jug ready

to Stephen's hand.

"Ay," the prisoner made answer, "but a-many people in England have no

better, and a-many go hungry. Wherefore shall I feed fat the while my

brothers fast?"

"Thou art the most strange wight ever I saw," said the gaoler. "For

the most part do they ramp and rage, beat head against wall, and curse

blasphemously. Others there be lie in swoon, eat not, cry and make

moan. But thou!"--

"I look into my past," said Stephen. "I live over my life. By now I 'm

a seven years child, and my mother died yesterday."

"Lord!--'s lost his wits!" exclaimed the gaoler and fled incontinent.

The next day he pushed the door open very cautious, peered round the

edge, and set the bread and water on the ground.

"Come in, br-br-brother," Stephen called. "I be not mad. I do but muse

on life, to discover wherein it may be bettered, and where 's the

fault. When I 'm done with time past I 'll think on time to come, and

what 's to do if ever I go free. By this device keep I my wits. I do

love life, brother, I would live as long as I may."

"Art thou a poet?" queried the gaoler.

"Nay, but I make rhymes as well as any other gentleman."

This was before the hour of prime. At sunset, when the gaoler came

again he questioned:--

"Dost thou find the fault in life, and wherein 't may be bettered?"

"There be a-many faults, brother, but one is this, that some men do

make of themselves masters, and hold their fellows in bonds, and those

may not choose,--but they must be bound whether they will or no.

'When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then'"--

but the gaoler went out, and slammed the door to with a loud noise.

'T was nigh a week after, and now mid July, when he spoke again to

Stephen:--

"The King doth not yet stint to kill the men who sing that ribald

rhyme concerning our forefather Adam."

"But the King set villeins free!" cried Stephen, aroused.

"Free as a hawk is free when fowler tieth a thread to 's claw."

"So?" said Stephen, "then all 's lost!" and very hastily: "Prythee,

brother, tell me, was Will Langland, him they call Long Will,--was he

taken,--a-a-and a-a-any ki-kinsfolk of his?"

"Nay, he 's loose in London streets, as crazed as ever he was. His

wife 's slain in the riot, and now he 's free to mount in Holy Church

an he will; but he 's a fool. Knows not to hold 's tongue. By the

King's grace only, and Master Walworth, was he spared, and the

yellow-haired maid, his daughter."

"Ah!" sighed Stephen.

The gaoler grinned and grunted.

On the morrow Stephen greeted him with a face so radiant tender that

the man said:--

"Eh, well, where art thou now,--in Paradise?"

"At the Miracle in Paul's Churchyard," answered him Stephen.

"I 'll be sworn there 's a maid in that memory?"

"Yea, a maid," Stephen assented.

"Yellow-haired?"

But Stephen said no word.

"Yesterday, in Cheapside, one named Calote questioned me, if I were

turnkey in the Tower"--

Stephen leaped to his feet, but the man was on the other side of the

door and let fall the heavy bar. By the threshold there lay a bit of

parchment whereon was writ:--

"Though it be very sour to suffer, there cometh sweet after;

As on a walnut without is bitter bark,

And after"--

but here was that parchment torn off short, and on the other side was

writ:--

"Why I suffer or suffer not, thyself hath naught to do;

Amend thou it if thou might for my time is to abide.

Sufferance is a sovereign virtue and"--

And when he had read these words from the Vision concerning Piers

Ploughman, Stephen spent that day a-kissing the bit of parchment.

Anon, a rainy eve, the gaoler set down a covered dish, with:--

"My goodwife hath a liking to thee, Master Fitzwarine. Sendeth thee a

mess of beans, hot. 'T is flat against rule, but she gave me no peace.

Women be pitiful creatures. She weepeth ever to hear the tale of thy

durance."

"'T is joy to serve thy wife, to eat her hot beans. Merci, brother."

"Nay, thank not me," said the man gruffly. "When thou hast eaten all,

hide the dish in the straw lest the Tower warden enter. 'T is not like

he will, but I 've no mind to lose my place for a woman's tears."

So the days drifted, and the weeks. July was at an end, and August in

the third week. Stephen's cheeks were white and sunken, his blue eyes

looked forth from shadows, his lips were pale. The fingers that

fluttered in the arrow-slit were wasted thin. One morn the gaoler came

and found him singing in a faint voice this song:--

"O Master, Master, list my word!

Now rede my riddle an ye may:

My ladye she is a poor man's daughter,

And russet is my best array."

And when Stephen was come to the end of his singing he heard a sound,

and there sat gaoler on the floor blubbering.

"Where art thou now?" said that good man a-blowing his nose.

"One while I wandered over all England with one that was messenger to

carry news of the Fellowship and the Rising. We bought bed and board

with a song. So do I wander now, and I sing."

"Then 't was a true word, that Jack Straw affirmed concerning thee?"

cried the man.

"What said he?"

"Thus and so concerning thy pilgrimage and thy part in the Rising."

"Is he dead?"

"Ay; and no easy task to gather him together in the Last Day."

But when Stephen would have asked yet more concerning Jack Straw, and

the King, and what was toward, the gaoler shut his lips and hasted

forth.

After this, Stephen sang night and morn and midday the songs he had

sung--and Calote with him--in the year of pilgrimage. All those old

tales of Arthur he sang, and certain other that he had of Dan Chaucer;

and a-many he made new, rondels to praise his lady. Also he chaunted

the Vision concerning Piers Ploughman, from beginning to end,--which

was no end. But more often he sang that story called of a Pearl, that

Will Langland would have it was writ by his old master in Malvern. For

about this time, what with long waiting, and the heat of summer,

little food, and the foul smell of the dungeon, Stephen began to

consider what it might signify to die in that place; and the Vision of

the Holy City in the poem called of a Pearl comforted him much.

So, as he chaunted one while of the maiden in the glistering garment,

that came down to the river's brink,--and in his heart he saw her face

how it was the face of Calote,--he heard the bar drawn, and the keys

to rattle, and presently the gaoler came in.

"For thy soul's sake I bring thee a priest, Master Fitzwarine," he

said; "'t is long since thou madest confession."

And behind him in the doorway stood a tall man, tonsured, garbed in

russet.

"O my son!" cried Will, "how hast thou suffered!" And he picked up

Stephen off the floor and carried him to the window-crack. And the

gaoler emptied the water-jug in Stephen's face, and presently went out

and left those two alone.

Stephen opened his eyes slow, wearily.

"Steadfast!" he whispered, and smiled.

And then he said:--

"Calote?"

"She waiteth, praying. In the beginning we dared not plead for thee;

for that we knew the King was in no mood to hearken, so was he played

upon by the nobles, and his pride harrowed. By now there is rumour

that he beginneth to sicken of bloodshed. Haply he 'll be in mood to

pardon when he is come back to London."

"Come back?--Where is the King?"

"Sweet son, he goeth up and down the countryside, letting blood.

Robert Tressilian, the new Chief Justice, is with him, and his uncle

Buckingham. They show no mercy."

"John Ball?" said Stephen.

"Alack, he was ta'en at Coventry and, the King holding assize at Saint

Albans with the Lord Chief Justice, he was sent thither and

adjudged.--He 's dead. 'T was in July."

"And the flame 's snuffed out?"

"It flickers here and there. The King hath made peace with his uncle

Gaunt, who is set to keep the peace and stamp out the fire in the

north. In August the King came from Reading."

"What is now? I 've lost count."

"Now is September, son, and yesterday came word of riot in Salisbury

marketplace."

"I mind me o' Salisbury marketplace," smiled Stephen, sad. "Calote and

I, we were there afore we went down into Devon. Tell me now of

Calote."

"She bade me say to thee, Fitzwarine, think no more o' Calote. 'T is

no avail. Thou art gentleman, beloved of the King. Yea, we do believe

he doth love thee, else had he slain thee long since. 'T was youth's

folly, thy part in the Rising,--Calote saith,--these prisoned months

have shown thee what 's to do. Thy place is with gentlefolk. The King

shall pardon thee. Forget Calote, she saith."

"Let Calote forget Stephen Fitzwarine an she will," he answered, "but

I am of the Fellowship."

"Alas, there is no Fellowship more," sighed Langland.

"The word hath been spoken, my father, the thought is born. Though the

King know it not, yet are we free. By fellowship shall we win in the

years to come. A long battle,--but it ends in victory."

"Not in my day," said Will, "nor thine."

"What are days?" cried Stephen. "I 've lost count."

Then Will Langland kissed Stephen Fitzwarine, and "Even so is it in

mine own heart, O son," he said. "But for the most part folk is

sorrowful and faithless."

"I have set my life in order," said Stephen. "If ever I come forth of

this prison-house, I 'll give to each and every villein o' my manor

that piece of land he tilleth, to have and to hold. Likewise I 'll

free them severally. This I may do within the law, for that the manor

is mine."

"Calote saith she will never be thy wife," Will repeated,--nevertheless

he smiled.

"Do thou say this to Calote, O my father,--my device is 'Steadfast.'"

CHAPTER XII

Y-Robed in Russet

"Is naught to do," said Calote. "My life is like an empty house."

And if her father admonished her that she fill it, she answered him:

"I am too poor. My richesse is spent."

So the summer waned, and Richard's red vengeance began to pale. The

people and the King alike sickened of blood. Here and there a man was

pardoned. Those two aldermen that bade the peasants come into London

by the Bridge and Ald Gate in June were let go free.

"If thou canst come at the King, he will surely set free Stephen

Fitzwarine," urged Will. "'Steadfast' is never Richard's watchword,

natheless he doth not willingly harm his friends. He 'll do them

kindness in secret, if he may not openly."

"How may I endure to live out the length of my days to my life's end?"

sighed Calote. "Is naught to do."

Nevertheless, about this time she began to be seen about the gates of

the Palace at Westminster, and craved leave to enter; but the guards

made mock of her and drove her away. As oft as thrice in the week they

did this, but she came again.

One day, 't was October's end and presently Parliament would be met

together at Westminster, Calote stood on London Bridge, on the

drawbridge, and saw a barge come down Thames. And when the barge was

rowed beneath the drawbridge, Calote looked down, and the King sat

therein with madame his mother, and certain lords and ladies of the

court. One of these was Godiyeva.

The folk on the bridge peered over, and there was muttering, for the

people no longer loved the King.

"Goeth to Tower for a night and a day to discover what prisoners be

harboured therein and to consider their case," said one, and spat in

the water.

Calote turned about and ran back to London, and so on to the Tower

gate. An hour she waited, and then came forth Stephen's gaoler.

"Nay, I will bear no more messages to prisoners," said that man very

rough, when she had caught his arm. "The King 's within. There 'll be

a lopping of heads, and mine own wags very loose o' my neck."

"To no prisoner, good brother," pleaded Calote, "but to a fair lady;

Godiyeva 's her name, madame's waiting-woman."

The gaoler grunted, and stood uncertain.

"Do but say this,--there 's a jongleuse craveth speech of her, a

jongleuse that served her once."

He grunted yet more loud and went within.

After a little while he came again and a page with him, who led Calote

across the outer and inner ward to the keep, and so by narrow ways and

steep stairs to a turret chamber where sat the Lady Godiyeva.

"Lady," said Calote, "hast thou forgot one night in Yorkshire, at thy

manor-house?"

"Mine old father is dead," Godiyeva answered, "and Eleyne, my sister,

is lady o' the manor,--but I have not forgot."

"Lady,--Madame Godiyeva, I would come at King Richard. Have a boon to

crave, a token to deliver."

Godiyeva bent her eyes, thoughtful, stern, upon the maid: "A token to

deliver?" quoth she. "In Yorkshire thou didst wear a dagger, I saw 't,

that night."

"Dost fear I 'll kill the King?" Calote smiled, very sad. "Nay,--here

's the dagger; keep it!"

"'T is Master Fitzwarine's crest," said Godiyeva.

"Ay, lady, he 's my love!--Lies low in dungeon. Here 's my boon."

"This is a strange matter," mused Godiyeva, "for that Etienne

Fitzwarine is esquire and very parfait gentleman, in all the court was

none so true of his word, and so courteous to ladies. But this is a

common wench, a jongleuse.--Natheless, I heard him how he said, 'This

damosel is promised to be my wedded wife.'--Come, I 'll pay my debt!"

Behind the arras of a little door they stood and listened. There was

no sound. Then Godiyeva put her eye to the edge of the arras.

"He is alone," she said. "Go in!"

Richard stood in a window. He held a little picture in his hand, and

looked on it smiling. Calote, barefoot, stepped noiseless over the

floor. Godiyeva, behind the arras, coughed.

"Coeur de joie!" cried Richard, staring. But when he saw who it was

that knelt, gold-haired, before him, he went white and covered his

eyes.

"I would forget!" he said, "I would forget! 'T is overpast!--Shall a

king never think on joyful things? Ah, give me leave to tune my

thoughts to love! These six months past I 've hearkened to hatred. Was

never king so meek. But now there 's a marriage toward. Wilt thou have

me think on murders,--and I take a wife in January?"

"Nay,--not on murders, sire,--on pardon and peace."

His moody face cleared slow,--"Is 't an omen?" he questioned, and,

stretching forth his hand with the picture, "See! here 's the lady

shall be Queen of England one day,--and queens are merciful. There 's

a tale of my grandmother, Philippa, how she saved the burgesses of

Calais,--and they were six. Here 's but only one, and he was my

childhood's friend.--She hath a wondrous pleading eye,--my lady.--'T

is an omen." He went to a table and wrote somewhat on a parchment;

then clapped his hands, and to the page that entered, said:--

"Bear this hastily to the warden of the Tower."

"Gramerci! Sire!" whispered Calote, and bowed her head on her knees so

that her long hair lay on the ground at the King's feet as 't were a

pool of sunshine.

"I ever meant to set him free--when the noblesse had forgot," said

Richard huskily. "He must depart in secret, for a little while. And

now may I forget murder and turn me to merriment. The Rising 's

pricked flat. I will never remember it more."

"And dost thou willingly forget that day the people blessed thee for

thy gifts of freedom and grace, sire? Dost thou willingly forget that

day thou wast bravest man in England,--and king?"

"Hush!--Hush!" he cried. "Kings may not hearken to truth,--'t is sure

confusion."

"Here 's the horn, sire, wherewith I gathered the folk into

fellowship." Calote untied the bag that hung from her neck.

"O thou mischief-maker!" said Richard to his hunting-horn. "Thou

betrayer unto foolishness! Thou shalt be sold to buy my wedding

garment."

But now was the arras pushed aside, and Stephen came in, and his

gaoler that grinned very joyous.

Calote heard. And then she had arisen to her feet, and turned her back

upon the King. And Stephen kissed her hair, and her two hands that

rested on his shoulders; but her face was hid.

"O my love, my lady!" said Stephen. And presently, "'T is a wondrous

fair world!"

She lifted her face to speak, but he was waiting for her lips.

The gaoler made a happy clucking noise.

Richard laughed merrily. "Coeur de joie!" quoth he, "but I 'll kiss

also!" and he kissed the little picture.

"'T behooves us give thanks to the King," whispered Calote. Her face

was hid anew, and she spake to her love's heart that leaped against

his courtepy.

Then they two turned them, hand in hand, and the King cried out,

"A-a-ah!--How art thou pale!--Etienne!"

Stephen bent his knee: "Sire," he said, "wa-was nothing hid from

thee;--thou knewest all th-things ever I did in that Rising. I was

true to King Richard."

"This is thy sword, Etienne," quoth the King. "These many months it

hath hung at my side. Take it again!"

Stephen looked on the sword, sombre, slow. "My forefathers, they were

men of might," he said. "There were three died in the Holy Land doing

battle with the Paynim. The Scots slew my grandfather in fair fight.

My father fell in France, in the last Edward's quarrel. Next after

England, the King, and my lady, I have loved my sword."

He stretched forth his hands and took it. "Oh, thou bright blade, what

hosts of infidels and dastard French, what enemies to Truth and

Richard, methought I 'd slay! And thou hast drunk the blood of one man

only, a dead man, that gave his life for England's sake and the

people. Thou wert maiden, and they dishonoured thee."

And Stephen had snapped his sword in twain across his knee.

"This is the sword that hewed Wat Tyler's head off his body," he said.

"I have done with swords. Thy Majesté hath noblesse a plenty to serve

thee; 't was proven in June, when Wat Tyler fell. I might not count

the sword-thrusts at that time. But of common folk, peasants and

labourers, there is a dearth in England. And wherefore this is so,

none knoweth better than thou, sire."

Richard stirred, restless: "'T is the old Etienne, was never afeared

to find fault with his king," said he, and would have made a jest of

this matter, but laughter came not at his bidding.

"Thou hast need of loyal labourers, sire. So will I serve thee. If

Saint Francis set his hands to labour, so may Stephen Fitzwarine, and

withouten shame."

"By the Rood!" cried Richard. "Thou art lord of a manor;--born into

this condition. These things be beyond man to change. They are

appointed of High God."

"Natheless, God helping me, these things shall be changed, sire.

Presently, o' my manor, mayst thou see a-many free labourers tilling

each man his own field. And Stephen Fitzwarine shall be one."

"Thou 'rt mad!" screamed the King. "Dungeon hath darkened thy wits."

"So methought, sire," said the gaoler, "but hath more wits than

most,--hath not turned a hair."

"Now, by Saint Thomas of Canterbury!" Richard shouted, "I--I--nay,--I

've signed thy pardon,--I 'll keep faith,--this once."

Then his humour changed and he began to laugh very loud:--

"Go free! Turn peasant an thou wilt! But as concerning thy land, King

Richard is God's anointed, shall look to his stewardship. I will keep

custom for Christ's sake. Wherefore is thy manor confiscate, and the

villeins that dwell thereon, to the King."--He set his lips in a grim

smile: "Who saith Richard is not a good provisor, against his wedding

day?"

The gaoler pushed Stephen and Calote out of the room and down the

stair:--

"Best begone," quoth he, "hath been known to change his mind," and he

shut them out by a postern.

They went and sat on the side of Saint Catherine's Hill that looked on

Thames. A long while they sat there, holding each other's hand,

smiling each into other's eyes, saying little. But Stephen said:--

"Thou 'rt mine!"

And Calote said:--

"Methought this love was not for me!"

Her feet were bare, her kirtle frayed, and all their worldly goods was

a penny the gaoler had thrust in Stephen's hand. Stephen laughed, and

tossed the penny and caught it on the back of his hand. Then Calote

laughed also, and said she, shaking her head and smiling:--

"'T is not true that failure lieth in wait all along life's way?" and

a question grew in her eyes, and the smile faded.

He kissed her gray eyes where the shadows hovered:--

"What 's to fail?" quoth he.

"So saith my father," she made answer. "Yet meseems I must ever see

the Archbishop's head above London Bridge,--and next day Wat's. Was

not this failure?"

"Sweet heart," said Stephen, "I have been in prison a many months, and

concerning éternité I have learned a little. W-Wat Tyler failed to be

King of England. But thou and I, and those others, we did not arise up

to make W-Wat Tyler king. Dost believe there liveth to-day a villein

in England ho-ho-holdeth 't is righteous a man shall be bond-servant

to another against his own will? Thou mayst scourge a man to

silence,--but he 'll think his thought;--yea, and wh-whisper it to 's

children.--We did not fail."

Then Stephen took his love's face betwixt his hands, and kissed her

brow and eyes and lips:--

"I had a dream that I should dress thee in silk, pearl-broidered, and

a veil of silver. But now am I a landless man; must labour with my two

hands for daily bread. Natheless, am I tied to no man's manor,--may

sell my labour where I will. D-dost sigh for the dream, sweet heart,

and to be called Madame? Be advised in time,--a man 's ofttimes

endurable if his infirmity 's shrouded in good Flemish broadcloth, but

if he be naked as a needle, then must he be a man indeed--to pass."

"Now, prythee, how is 't honour to a maid if her lord lift her up to

his estate?" said Calote. "But if he condescend and clothe him in her

coat-armour, then is she honoured in vérité."

"In Yorkshire, mayhap I 'll find shepherding with Diggon. Wilt go

thither?" Stephen asked her.

And when she had answered him Yea, he laughed soft, and sang:--

"Then I 'll put off my silken coat,

And all my garments gay.

Lend me thy ragged russet gown,

For that 's my best array.

Ohé!

For that's my best array."

EPILOGUE

"Love is leche of lyf."

_The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman._

B. PASSUS I.

EPILOGUE

In the cloister of Malvern Priory schoolboys hummed and buzzed. The

sick man heard them.

"I have had a vision," he said, "I must sing it." And after: "Nay,--I

had forgot. 'T was long ago."

He lay on a pallet in the midst of the cloister garth, close by the

sun-dial. At dusk of the day past he had knocked at the gate and

fallen in the arms of the porter. All night a brother watched beside

him, and after Lauds the prior came to the door of the cell.

"'T is not the Black Death, or such-like malady?" he queried.

"Nay, Father, but a bodily weakness only. Hath scaped the dawn, but I

doubt not his spirit will flit at sunset."

"A friar?" 'T would seem as the word stank in the nostrils of the good

Father.

"Nay,--a clerk,--belike a priest secular."

"A Wyclifite preacher?" the prior questioned sharply. "We may not

harbour these Worcester Lollards."

"Hath a breviary, with prayers for the dead well thumbed. Likewise a

parchment. 'T is here."

The prior unrolled the parchment beneath the window. The sky was

a-flush with the coming up of the sun.

"Nay," quoth he presently, "'t is naught harmful. A poem."

The brother was peering over his prior's shoulder:--

"Here 's Holy Writ," said he.

"In Latin, brother, as is meet."

"'T is very bad Latin," the brother made answer.

The sick man spoke: "I will go up on the Hills," said he, "the Malvern

Hills," and he made as to rise; but this he might not do.

The brother gave him to drink, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Here 's an exhortation to King Richard II.," said the prior at the

window. "But Richard 's dead."

"Ay," spake the sick man. "Death and Dishonour ran a race for Richard.

Dishonour caught him first, but Death hath finished him. Mine

exhortation came too late, wherefore I broke off in the midst. I was

ever too late or too early, all my life long."

The prior came to the bed.

"I will go up on the Hills," said the man, and sat upright, but

immediately a faintness seized him and he swooned.

"Two-score and ten year, sayst thou?" quoth the prior. "Haply Brother

Owyn will know him."

When the sick man was come out of his swoon he said again, "I will go

a-wandering on the Malvern Hills. Let me forth,--the Hills. 'T is

dark,--let me forth to the sun.--Dost mind how I said, 'The prior of

Malvern shall not clap me in cloister'?--I am come home to the Hills."

"Let him be borne into the cloister garth," said the prior. "There may

he fresh him in the sun."

At noon, when there was no shadow on the face of the sun-dial, Brother

Owyn came hobbling slow over the grass betwixt two young monks that

guided his steps. For Brother Owyn was very old and bent and blind. He

had a beard like a snowdrift.

"Two-score and ten year," he mumbled, "and a poet, sayst 'ou?"

They sat him down beside the sick man's pallet, and one brought a

cushion for his feet, and the other drew his hood over his head, lest

the wind harm him,--howbeit 't was June. Then they went away and left

him with the stranger.

"Two-score and ten year," said the old man, "and 't is as

yesterday.--I go forth a pilgrimage to Truth, said he,--I have had a

vision concerning Peter the Ploughman."

The sick man opened his eyes. "The ploughman knoweth the way to

Truth," quoth he.

Brother Owyn lifted up his face to the sunlight, as he were

listening:--

"Will Langland, art thou there?" he asked.

At the sound of his own name the sick man's wandering wits came back.

He was 'ware of the old monk beside him.

"Thou canst not see?" he questioned.

"Nay, I do see very clear," said Brother Owyn, in that high,

protesting voice of age. "I see a river, shineth as the sun, and on

the farther side my daughter awaiteth me.--Her locks shine as bright

pure gold,--loose on her shoulders so softly they lie."

"My daughter hath likewise golden hair," murmured Long Will, "and my

granddaughter."

"The Lord, the King of Heaven, hath ta'en my daughter, my pearl, to be

his bride," said the old man. He held his head upright, very proud,

but then it began to shake and shake, till it dropped again, and his

chin was sunk in his breast.

"My daughter is wife to truest man in England; might have been

courtier to the King; but he 's a shepherd in Yorkshire,--and his son

's a shepherd. They be free labourers, no villeins," cried Will.

One in the cloister heard him and came running.

"Ay," assented Brother Owyn, his head ever a-nod, "the King's Son of

Heaven, he is the Good Shepherd."

The other monk poured wine between the sick man's white lips and

smoothed his pillow. Then he drew aside Brother Owyn's cowl and

shouted in his ear, "Dost know him, brother, dost remember him?"

"Hath a daughter," the old man answered, "but so have I. Her name 's

Margaret,--which is to mean a pearl."

"Calote is my daughter called," the sick man made known very clear.

The young monk shrugged his shoulders and went back to the cloister.

After a little while Brother Owyn spoke:--

"Will Langland had a daughter called Calote. She stood t' other side

the brook, and the light o' the sun blinded mine eyen. Methought 't

was mine own daughter come to take me home. I mind it as 't were

yesterday. 'In the city where the wall is jasper and the gates are

twelve pearls,' quoth she, 'will there be any villeins to labour while

other men feast?' I mind it as 't were yesterday."

"I am Will Langland," said the sick man.

"Yea, thou art he," returned the old monk. "I had forgot."

A little while they slept in the sun, but betwixt the hours of sext

and nones, Will moved his head on his pillow:--

"If any goeth into Yorkshire, I would have him seek out Stephen

Fitzwarine, and Calote his wife, and say to them that Will Langland

hath gone home to the Hills of Malvern for a little space. They would

have had me stay. My daughter wept when she bade good-by, and the babe

on her arm held me by my hair.--All 's not failure,--brother."

The old man dozed and did not hear him.

"She stood in her cottage doorway,--my daughter,--and the wolds

stretching far like the billows of the sea. But they 're not the Hills

of Malvern.

"'We 'll watch for thee, father,' she said, 'bide not long away. Here

's thy corner by the fireside. Here 's home.'--But I was born in the

Malvern Hills, my daughter.

"Stephen saw me as I crossed the wold.--He stood in the midst of his

flock; and young Will ran and gave me his shepherd's crook,--'Thou

hast no staff, gran'ther,' he said, 'I 'll fashion me another.' 'T was

early morn,--springtime. But I 've come back to Malvern--for a

little"--

"Here is a safe refuge for them that wait," the old man answered.

Long Will moved his head, restless. "But I may not wait long," he

said, "I go forth a pilgrimage to Truth, that dwelleth in the Kingdom

of Rightwisnesse."

"My daughter dwelleth therein,--I prythee tell her I 'm an old man

now. I am fain to cross the river."

"I will," said the sick man.

So they were silent until the setting of the sun. Then said Long Will

out aloud:--

"By Christ--I will become a pilgrim,

And wander as wide as the world reaches,

To seek Piers the Ploughman that Pride might destroy--

... Now Kynde me avenge,

And send me success and salvation till I have Piers Ploughman."

So, after the sun was set, that other brother came forth, and the

prior.

"Said I not so, that he would be gone about now?" quoth the brother.

"Yea," smiled Brother Owyn. "Hath gone on pilgrimage. This long-legged

lad 's more than he seems. Prythee let him go, prior. He 's a

poet,--will one day bring honour to Malvern Priory."

MADE AT THE

TEMPLE PRESS

LETCHWORTH

IN

GREAT BRITAIN

[Illustration: a dandelion]

EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

A LIST OF THE 896 VOLUMES

ARRANGED UNDER AUTHORS

_Anonymous works are given under titles.

Anthologies, Dictionaries, etc. are arranged at the end of the list._

Abbott's Rollo at Work, etc., 275

Addison's Spectator, 164-7

Æschylus's Lyrical Dramas, 62

Æsop's and Other Fables, 657

Aimard's The Indian Scout, 428

Ainsworth's Tower of London, 400

" Old St. Paul's, 522

" Windsor Castle, 709

" The Admirable Crichton, 894

" Rookwood, 870

A Kempis's Imitation of Christ, 484

Alcott's Little Women, and Good Wives, 248

" Little Men, 512

Alpine Club: Peaks, Passes and Glaciers, 778

Andersen's Fairy Tales, 4

" More Fairy Tales, 822

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 624

Anson's Voyages, 510

Aristophanes' Acharnians, etc., 344

" Frogs, etc., 516

Aristotle's Nicomachaen Ethics, 547

" Politics, 605

Armour's Fall of the Nibelungs, 312

" Gudrun, 880

Arnold's (Matthew) Essays, 115

" Poems, 334

" Study of Celtic Literature, etc., 458

Aucassin and Nicolette, 497

Augustine's (Saint) Confessions, 200

Aurelius's (Marcus) Meditations, 9

Austen's (Jane) Sense and Sensibility, 21

" Pride and Prejudice, 22

" Mansfield Park, 23

" Emma, 24

" Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion, 25

Bacon's Essays, 10

" Advancement of Learning, 719

Bagehot's Literary Studies, 520, 521

Baker's (Sir S. W.) Cast up by the Sea, 539

Ballantyne's Coral Island, 245

" Martin Rattier, 246

" Ungava, 276

Balzac's Wild Ass's Skin, 26

" Eugénie Grandet, 169

" Old Goriot, 170

" Atheist's Mass, etc., 229

" Christ in Flanders, etc., 284

" The Chouans, 285

" Quest of the Absolute, 286

" Cat and Rachet, etc., 349

" Catherine de Medici, 419

" Cousin Pons, 463

" The Country Doctor, 530

" Rise and Fall of César Birotteau, 596

" Lost Illusions, 656

" The Country Parson, 686

" Ursule Mirouet, 733

Barbusse's Under Fire, 798

Barca's (Mme C. de la) Life in Mexico, 664

Baxter's (Richard) Autobiography, 868

Bates's Naturalist on the Amazon, 446

Beaumont and Fletcher's Selected Plays, 506

Beaumont's (Mary) Joan Seaton, 597

Bede's Ecclesiastical History, 479

Belt's Naturalist in Nicaragua, 561

Berkeley's (Bishop) Principles of Human Knowledge, New Theory of

Vision, etc., 483

Berlioz (Hector), Life of, 602

Binns's Life of Abraham Lincoln, 783

Björnson's Plays, 625, 696

Blackmore's Lorna Doone, 304

" Springhaven, 350

Blackwell's Pioneer Work for Women, 667

Blake's Poems and Prophecies, 792

Boccaccio's Decameron, 845, 846

Boehme's The Signature of All Things, etc., 569

Bonaventura's The Little Flowers, The Life of St. Francis, etc., 485

Borrow's Wild Wales, 49

" Lavengro, 119

" Romany Rye, 120

" Bible in Spain, 151

" Gypsies in Spain, 697

Boswell's Life of Johnson, 1, 2

" Tour to the Hebrides, 387

Boult's Asgard and Norse Heroes, 689

Boyle's The Sceptical Chymist, 559

Bright's (John) Speeches, 252

Brontë's (A.) The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and Agnes Grey, 685

Brontë's (C.) Jane Eyre, 287

" Shirley, 288

" Villette, 351

" The Professor, 417

Brontë's (E.) Wuthering Heights, 243

Brown's (Dr. John) Rab and His Friends, etc., 116

Browne's (Frances) Grannie's Wonderful Chair, 112

Browne's (Sir Thos.) Religio Medici, etc., 92

Browning's Poems, 1833-44, 41

" 1844-64, 42

" The Ring and the Book, 502

Buchanan's Life and Adventures of Audubon, 601

Bulfinch's The Age of Fable, 472

" Legends of Charlemagne, 556

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 204

" Grace Abounding, and Mr. Badman, 815

Burke's American Speeches and Letters, 340

" Reflections on the French Revolution, etc., 460

Burnet's History of His Own Times, 85

Burney's Evelina, 352

Burns's Poems and Songs, 94

Burton's East Africa, 500

Burton's (Robert) Anatomy of Melancholy, 886-888

Butler's Analogy of Religion, 90

Butler's (Samuel) Erewhon and Erewhon Revisited, 881

Butler's The Way of All Flesh, 895

Buxton's Memoirs, 773

Byron's Complete Poetical and Dramatic Works, 486-8

Cæsar's Gallic War, etc., 702

Calderon's Plays, 819

Canton's Child's Book of Saints, 61

Canton's Invisible Playmate, etc., 566

Carlyle's French Revolution, 31, 32

" Letters, etc., of Cromwell, 266-8

" Sartor Resartus, 278

" Past and Present, 608

" Essays, 703, 704

" Reminiscences, 875

Carroll's (Lewis) Alice in Wonderland, etc., 836

Castiglione's The Courtier, 807

Cellini's Autobiography, 51

Cervantes' Don Quixote, 385, 386

Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, 307

Chesterfield's Letters to his Son, 823

Chrétien de Troyes's Arthurian Romances, 698

Cibber's Apology for his Life, 668

Cicero's Select Letters and Orations, 345

Clarke's Tales from Chaucer, 537

" Shakespeare's Heroines, 109-11

Cobbett's Rural Rides, 638, 639

Coleridge's Biographia, 11

" Golden Book of Poetry, 43

" Lectures on Shakspeare, 162

Collins's Woman in White, 464

Collodi's Pinocchio, 538

Converse's Long Will, 328

Cook's (Captain) Voyages, 99

Cooper's The Deerslayer, 77

" The Pathfinder, 78

" Last of the Mohicans, 79

" The Pioneer, 171

" The Prairie, 172

Cowper's Letters. 774

" Poems, 872

Cox's Tales of Ancient Greece, 721

Craik's Manual of English Literature, 346

Craik (Mrs.). _See_ Mulock.

Creasy's Fifteen Decisive Battles, 300

Crèvecoeur's Letters from an American Farmer, 640

Curtis's Prue and I, and Lotus, 418

Dana's Two Years Before the Mast, 588

Dante's Divine Comedy, 308

Darwin's Origin of Species, 811

" Voyage of the Beagle, 104

Dasent's Story of Burnt Njal, 558

Daudet's Tartarin of Tarascon, 423

Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, 59

" Captain Singleton, 74

" Memoirs of a Cavalier, 283

" Journal of Plague, 289

" Tour through England and Wales, 820, 821

" Moll Flanders, 837

De Joinville's Memoirs of the Crusades, 333

Demosthenes' Select Orations, 546

Dennis's Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, 183. 184

De Quincey's Lake Poets, 163

" Opium-Eater, 223

" English Mail Coach, etc., 609

De Retz (Cardinal), Memoirs of, 735, 736

Descartes' Discourse on Method, 570

Dickens's Barnaby Rudge, 76

" Tale of Two Cities, 102

" Old Curiosity Shop, 173

" Oliver Twist, 233

" Great Expectations, 234

" Pickwick Papers, 235

" Bleak House, 236

" Sketches by Boz, 237

" Nicholas Nickleby, 238

" Christmas Books, 239

" Dombey and Son, 240

" Martin Chuzzlewit, 241

" David Copperfield, 242

" American Notes, 290

" Child's History of England, 291

" Hard Times, 292

" Little Dorrit, 293

" Our Mutual Friend, 294

" Christmas Stories, 414

" Uncommercial Traveller, 536

" Edwin Drood, 725

" Reprinted Pieces, 744

Disraeli's Coningsby, 535

Dodge's Hans Brinker, 620

Donne's Poems, 867

Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, 501

" The House of the Dead, 533

" Letters from the Underworld, etc., 654

" The Idiot, 682

" Poor Folk, and the Gambler, 711

" The Possessed, 861, 862

" The Brothers Karamazov, 802, 803

Dowden's Life of R. Browning, 701

Dryden's Dramatic Essays. 568

Dufferin's Letters from High Latitudes, 499

Dumas' The Three Musketeers, 81

" The Black Tulip, 174

" Twenty Years After, 175

" Marguerite de Valois, 326

" The Count of Monte Cristo, 393 394

" The Forty-Five, 420

" Chicot the Jester, 421

" Vicomte de Bragelonne, 593-5

" Le Chevalier de Maison Rouge, 614

Du Maurier's Trilby, 863

Duruy's Heroes of England, 471

" History of France, 737, 738

Edgar's Cressy and Poictiers, 17

" Runnymede and Lincoln Fair, 320

Edgeworth's Castle Rackrent, etc., 410

Eighteenth-Century Plays, 818

Eliot's Adam Bede, 27

" Silas Marner, 121

" Romola, 231

" Mill on the Floss, 325

" Felix Holt, 353

" Scenes of Clerical Life, 468

" Middlemarch, 2 vols., 854-5

Elyot's Gouernour, 227

Emerson's Essays, 12

" Representative Men, 279

" Nature, Conduct of Life, etc., 322

" Society and Solitude, etc., 567

" Poems, 715

Epictetus's Moral Discourses, 404

Erckmann-Chatrian's The Conscript and Waterloo, 354

" Story of a Peasant, 706, 707

Euclid's Elements, 891

Euripides' Plays, 63, 271

Evans's Holy Graal, 445

Evelyn's Diary, 220, 221

Everyman and other Interludes, 381

Ewing's (Mrs.) Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances, etc., 730

" Jackanapes, Daddy Darwin's Dovecot, and

The Story of a Short Life, 731

Faraday's Experimental Researches in Electricity, 576

Ferrier's (Susan) Marriage, 816

Fielding's Amelia, 2 vols., 852-3

" Tom Jones, 355, 356

" Joseph Andrews, 467

" Jonathan Wild and the Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, 877

Finlay's Byzantine Empire, 33

" Greece under the Romans, 185

Flaubert's Madame Bovary, 808

" Salammbo, 869

Fletcher's (Beaumont and) Selected Plays, 506

Ford's Gatherings from Spain, 152

Forster's Life of Dickens, 781, 782

Fox's (George) Journal, 754

Fox's (Charles James) Selected Speeches, 759

Francis's (Saint), The Little Flowers, etc., 485

Franklin's Journey to the Polar Sea, 447

Freeman's Old English History for Children, 540

French Mediaeval Romances, 557

Froissart's Chronicles, 57

Froude's Short Studies, 13, 705

" Henry VIII., 372-4

Froude's Edward VI, 375

" Mary Tudor, 477

" History of Queen Elizabeth's Reign, 583-7

" Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield, 666

Galt's Annals of the Parish, 427

Galton's Inquiries into Human Faculty, 263

Gaskell's Cranford, 83

" Life of Charlotte Brontë, 318

" Sylvia's Lovers, 524

" Mary Barton, 598

" Cousin Phillis, etc., 615

" North and South, 680

Gatty's Parables from Nature, 158

Geoffrey of Monmouth's Histories of the Kings of Britain, 577

George's Progress and Poverty, 560

Gibbon's Roman Empire, 434-6, 474-6

" Autobiography, 511

Gilfillan's Literary Portraits, 348

Giraldus Cambrensis, Wales, 272

Gleig's Life of Wellington, 341

" The Subaltern, 708

Goethe's Conversations with Eckermann, 851

" Faust, 335

" Wilhelm Meister, 599, 600

Gogol's Dead Souls, 726

" Taras Bulba, 740

Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, 295

" Poems and Plays, 415

Goncharov's Oblomov, 878

Gorki's Through Russia, 741

Gotthelf's Ulric the Farm Servant, 228

Gray's Poems and Letters, 628

Green's Short History of the English People, 727, 728. The cloth

edition is in 2 vols. All other editions are in 1 vol.

Grettir Saga, 699

Grimm's Fairy Tales, 56

Grote's History of Greece, 186-197

Guest's (Lady) Mabinogion, 97

Hahnemann's The Organon of the Rational Art of Healing, 663

Hakluyt's Voyages, 264, 265, 313, 314, 338, 339, 388, 389

Hallam's Constitutional History, 621-3

Hamilton's The Federalist, 519

Harte's Luck of Roaring Camp, 681

Harvey's Circulation of Blood, 262

Hawthorne's Wonder Book, 5

" The Scarlet Letter, 122

Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables, 176

" The Marble Faun, 424

" Twice Told Tales, 531

" Blithedale Romance, 592

Hazlitt's Characters of Shakespeare's Plays, 65

" Table Talk, 321

" Lectures, 411

" Spirit of the Age and Lectures on English Poets, 459

" Plain Speaker, 814

Hebbel's Plays, 694

Heimskringla: the Olaf Sagas, 717

" Sagas of the Norse Kings, 847

Helps' (Sir Arthur) Life of Columbus, 332

Herbert's Temple, 309

Herodotus, 405, 406

Herrick's Hesperides, 310

Hobbes's Leviathan, 691

Holinshed's Chronicle, 800

Holmes's Life of Mozart, 564

Holmes's (O. W.) Autocrat, 66

" Professor, 67

" Poet, 68

Homer's Iliad, 453

" Odyssey, 454

Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, 201, 202

Horace's Complete Poetical Works, 515

Houghton's Life and Letters of Keats, 801

Howard's (E.), Rattlin the Reefer, 857

Howard's (John) State of the Prisons, 835

Hughes's Tom Brown's Schooldays, 58

Hugo's (Victor) Les Misérables, 363, 364

" Notre Dame, 422

" Toilers of the Sea, 509

Hume's Treatise of Human Nature, etc., 548, 549

Hunt's (Leigh) Selected Essays, 829

Hutchinson's (Col.) Memoirs, 317

Huxley's Man's Place in Nature, 47

" Select Lectures and Lay Sermons, 498

Ibsen's The Doll's House, etc., 494

" Ghosts, etc., 552

" Pretender, Pillars of Society Rosmersholm, 659

" Brand, 716

" Lady Inger, etc., 729

" Peer Gynt, 747

Ingelow's Mopsa the Fairy, 619

Irving's Sketch Book, 117

" Conquest of Granada, 478;

" Life of Mahomet, 513

Italian Short Stories, 876

James's (G. P. R.) Richelieu, 357

James (Wm.), Selections from, 739

Jefferies' (Richard) Bevis, 850

Johnson's (Dr.) Lives of the Poets, 770-1

Jonson's (Ben) Plays. 489, 490

Josephus's Wars of the Jews, 712

Kalidasa's Shakuntala, 629

Keats's Poems, 101

Keble's Christian Year, 690

King's Life of Mazzini, 562

Kinglake's Eothen, 337

Kingsley's (Chas.) Westward Ho!, 20

" Heroes, 113

" Hypatia, 230

" Water Babies, and Glaueus, 277

" Hereward the Wake, 206

" Alton Locke, 462

" Yeast, 611

" Madam How and Lady Why, 777

" Poems, 793

Kingsley's (Henry) Ravenshoe, 28

" Geoffrey Hamlyn, 416

Kingston's Peter the Whaler, 6

" Three Midshipmen, 7

Kirby's Kalevala, 259-60

Koran, 380

Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, 8

" Essays of Elia, 14

" Letters, 342, 343

Landor's Imaginary Conversations and Poems, 890

Lane's Modern Egyptians, 315

Langland's Piers Plowman, 571

Latimer's Sermons, 40

Law's Serious Call, 91

Layamon's (Wace and) Arthurian Chronicles, 578

Lear (Edward). _See under_ Anthologies

Le Sage's Gil Blas, 437, 438

Leslie's Memoirs of John Constable, 563

Lessing's Laocoön, etc., 843

Lever's Harry Lorrequer, 177

Lewes' Life of Goethe, 269

Lincoln's Speeches, etc., 206

Livy's History of Rome, 603, 609 670, 749, 755, 756

Locke's Civil Government, 751

Lockhart's Life of Napoleon, 3

" Life of Scott, 55

" Life of Burns, 156

Longfellow's Poems, 382

Lönnrott's Kalevala, 259, 260

Lover's Handy Andy, 178

Lowell's Among My Books, 607

Lucretius's Of the Nature of Things, 750

Lützow's History of Bohemia, 432

Lyell's Antiquity of Man, 700

Lytton's Harold, 15

" Last of the Barons, 18

" Last Days of Pompeii, 80

" Pilgrims of the Rhine, 390

" Rienzi, 532

Macaulay's England, 34-6

" Essays, 225, 226

" Speeches on Politics, etc., 399

" Miscellaneous Essays, 439

MacDonald's Sir Gibbie, 678

" Phantastes, 732

Machiavelli's Prince, 280

" Florence, 376

Maine's Ancient Law, 734

Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur. 45, 46

Malthus on the Principles of Population, 692, 693

Mandeville's Travels, 812

Manning's Sir Thomas More, 19

" Mary Powell, and Deborah's Diary, 324

Marlowe's Plays and Poems, 383

Marryat's Mr. Midshipman Easy, 82

" Little Savage, 159

" Masterman Ready, 160

" Peter Simple, 232

" Children of New Forest, 247

" Percival Keene, 358

" Settlers in Canada, 370

" King's Own, 580

" Jacob Faithful, 618

Martinean's Feats on the Fjords, 429

Martinengo-Cesaresco's Folk-Lore and other Essays, 673

Marx's Capital, 848, 849

Maurice's Kingdom of Christ, 146-7

Mazzinl's Duties of Man, etc., 224

Melville's Moby Dick, 179

" Typee, 180

" Omoo, 297

Mérimée's Carmen, etc., 834

Merivale's History of Rome, 433

Mickiewicz's Pan Tadeusz, 842

Mignet's French Revolution, 713

Mill's Utilitarianism, Liberty, Representative Government, 482

" Rights of Woman, 825

Miller's Old Red Sandstone, 103

Milman's History of the Jews, 377, 378

Milton's Areopagitica and other Prose Works, 795

" Poems, 384

Molière's Comedies, 830-1

Mommsen's History of Rome, 542-5

Montagu's (Lady) Letters, 69

Montaigne's Essays, 440-2

More's Utopia, and Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation, 461

Morier's Hajji Baba, 679

Morris's (Wm.) Early Romances, 261

" Life and Death of Jason, 575

Morte D'Arthur Romances, 634

Motley's Dutch Republic, 86-8

Mulock's John Halifax, 123

Neale's Fall of Constantinople, 655

Newcastle's (Margaret, Duchess of) Life of the First Duke of

Newcastle, etc., 722

Newman's Apologia Pro Vita Sua, 636

" On the Scope and Nature of University Education, and a Paper on

Christianity and Scientific Investigation, 723

Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, 892

Oliphant's Salem Chapel, 244

Omar Khayyam, 819

Osborne (Dorothy), Letters of, 674

Owen's (Robert) A New View of Society, etc., 799

Paine's Rights of Man, 718

Palgrave's Golden Treasury, 96

Paltock's Peter Wilkins, 673

Park's (Mungo) Travels, 205

Parkman's Conspiracy of Pontiac, 302, 303

Pascall's Pensees, 874

Paston Letters, 752, 753

Peacock's Headlong Hall, 327

Penn's The Peace of Europe, Some Fruits of Solitude, etc., 724

Pepys's Diary, 53, 54

Percy's Reliques, 148, 149

Pitt's Orations, 145

Plato's Republic, 64

" Dialogues, 456, 457

Plutarch's Lives, 407-409

" Moralia, 565

Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, 336

" Poems and Essays. 791

Polo's (Marco) Travels, 306

Pope's Complete Poetical Works, 760

Prescott's Conquest of Peru, 301

" Conquest of Mexico, 397, 398

Prévost's Manon Lescaut, etc., 834

Procter's Legends and Lyrics, 150

Quiller-Couch's Hetty Wesley, 864

Rabelais's Gargantua and Pantagruel, 26, 827

Radcliffe's (Mrs. Ann) The Mysteries of Udolpho, 865, 866

Ramayana and Mahabharata, 403

Reade's The Cloister and the Hearth, 29

" Peg Woffington, 299

Reid's (Mayne) Boy Hunters of the Mississippi, 582

" The Boy Slaves, 797

Renan's Life of Jesus, 805

Reynold's Discourses, 118

Ricardo's Principles of Political Economy and Taxation, 590

Richardson's Pamela, 683, 684

" Clarissa, 882-5

Roberts' (Morley) Western Avernus, 762

Robertson's Religion and Life, 37

" Christian Doctrine, 38

" Bible Subjects, 39

Robinson's (Wade) Sermons, 637

Roget's Thesaurus, 630, 631

Rossetti's (D. G.) Poems, 627

Rousseau's Confessions, 859, 860

" Emile, 518

" Social Contract and other Essays, 660

Ruskin's Seven Lamps of Architecture, 207

" Modern Painters, 208-212

" Stones of Venice, 213-215

" Unto this Last, etc., 216

" Elements of Drawing, etc., 217

" Pre-Raphaelitism, etc., 218

" Sesame and Lilies, 219

" Ethics of the Dust, 282

" Crown of Wild Olive, and Cestus of Aglaia, 323

" Time and Tide, etc., 450

" The Two Boyhoods, 683

Russell's Life of Gladstone, 661

Sand's (George) The Devil's Pool, and François the Waif, 534

Scheffel's Ekkehard, 529

Scott's (M.) Tom Cringle's Log, 710

Scott's (Sir W.) Ivanhoe, 16

" Fortunes of Nigel, 71

" Woodstock, 72

" Waverley, 75

" The Abbot, 124

" Anne of Geierstein, 125

" The Antiquary, 126

" Highland Widow, and Betrothed, 127

" Black Dwarf, Legend of Montrose, 128

" Bride of Lammermoor, 129

" Castle Dangerous, Surgeon's Daughter, 130

" Robert of Paris, 131

" Fair Maid of Perth, 132

" Guy Mannering, 133

" Heart of Midlothian, 134

" Kenilworth, 135

" The Monastery, 136

" Old Mortality, 137

" Peveril of the Peak, 138

" The Pirate, 139

" Quentin Durward, 140

" Redgauntlet, 141

" Rob Roy, 142

" St. Ronan's Well, 143

" The Talisman, 144

" Lives of the Novelists, 331

" Poems and Plays, 550, 551

Seebohm's Oxford Reformers, 665

Seeley's Ecce Homo, 305

Sienkiewiez's Tales, 871

Sewell's (Anna) Black Beauty, 748

Shakespeare's Comedies, 153

" Histories, etc., 154

" Tragedies, 155

Shelley's Poetical Works, 257, 258

Shelley's (Mrs.) Frankenstein, 616

" Rights of Women, 825

Sheppard's Charles Auchester, 505

Sheridan's Plays, 95

Sismondi's Italian Republics, 250

Smeaton's Life of Shakespeare, 514

Smith's Wealth of Nations, 412, 413

Smith's (George) Life of Wm. Carey, 395

Smollett's Roderick Random, 790

" Peregrine Pickle, 838, 839

Sophocles' Dramas, 114

Southey's Life of Nelson, 52

Spectator, 164-7

Speke's Source of the Nile, 50

Spencer's (Herbert) Essays on Education, 503

Spenser's Faerie Queene, 443, 444

" The Shepherd's Calendar, 879

Spinoza's Ethics, etc., 481

Spyri's Heidi, 431

Stanley's Memorials of Canterbury, 89

" Eastern Church, 251

Steele's The Spectator, 164-7

Sterne's Tristram Shandy, 617

" Sentimental Journey and Journal to Eliza, 796

Stevenson's Treasure Island and Kidnapped, 763

" Master of Ballantrae and the Black Arrow, 764

" Virginibus Puerisque and Familiar Studies of Men and Books, 765

" An Inland Voyage, Travels with a Donkey, and Silverado

Squatters, 766

" Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Merry Men, etc., 767

" Poems, 768

" In the South Seas and Island Nights' Entertainments, 769

St. Francis, The Little Flowers of, etc., 485

Stow's Survey of London, 589

Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin, 371

Strickland's Queen Elizabeth, 100

Surtees' Jorrocks' Jaunts, 817

Swedenborg's Heaven and Hell, 379

" Divine Love and Wisdom, 635

" Divine Providence, 658

" The True Christian Religion, 893

Swift's Gulliver's Travels, 60

" Journal to Stella, 757

" Tale of a Tub, etc., 347

Swiss Family Robinson, 430

Tacitus's Annals, 273

" Agricola and Germania, 274

Taylor's Words and Places, 517

Tennyson's Poems, 44, 626

Thackeray's Esmond, 73

" Vanity Fair, 298

" Christmas Books, 359

" Pendennis, 425, 426

" Newcomes, 465, 466

" The Virginians, 507, 508

" English Humorists, and The Four Georges, 610

" Roundabout Papers, 687

Thierry's Norman Conquest, 198, 199

Thoreau's Walden, 281

Thucydides' Peloponnesian War, 455

Tolstoy's Master and Man, and Other Parables and Tales, 469

" War and Peace, 525-7

" Childhood, Boyhood and Youth, 591

" Anna Karenina, 612, 613

Trench's On the Study of Words and English Past and Present, 788

Trollope's Barchester Towers, 30

" Dr. Thorne, 360

" Framley Parsonage, 181

" Golden Lion of Granpere, 761

" Last Chronicles of Barset, 391, 392

" Phineas Finn, 832-3

" Small House at Allington, 361

" The Warden, 182

Trotter's The Bayard of India, 396

" Hodson of Hodson's Horse, 401

" Warren Hastings, 452

Turgenev's Virgin Soil, 528

" Liza, 677

" Fathers and Sons, 742

Tyndall's Glaciers of the Alps, 98

Tytler's Principles of Translation, 168

Vasari's Lives of the Painters, 784-7

Verne's (Jules) Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, 319

" Dropped from the Clouds, 367

" Abandoned, 368

" The Secret of the Island, 369

" Five Weeks in a Balloon, and Around the World in Eighty Days, 779

Virgil's Æneid, 161

" Eclogues and Georgics, 222

Voltaire's Life of Charles XII, 270

" Age of Louis XIV, 780

Wace and Layamon's Arthurian Chronicles, 578

Wakefield's Letter from Sydney, etc., 828

Walpole's Letters, 775

Walton's Compleat Angler, 70

Waterton's Wanderings in South America, 772

Wesley's Journal, 105-108

White's Selborne, 48

Whitman's Leaves or Grass, and Democratic Vistas, etc., 573

Whyte-Melville's Gladiators, 523

Wilde's Plays, Prose Writings and Poems, 858

Wood's (Mrs. Henry) The Channings, 84

Woolman's Journal, etc., 402

Wordsworth's Shorter Poems, 203

" Longer Poems, 311

Xenophon's Cyropædia, 67

Yellow Book, 503

Yonge's The Dove in the Eagle's Nest, 329

" The Book of Golden Deeds, 330

" The Heir of Redclyffe, 362

Yonge's The Little Duke, 470

" The Lances of Lynwood, 570

Young's (Arthur) Travels in France and Italy, 720

_Anthologies, Dictionaries, etc._:

A Book of English Ballads, 572

A Book of Heroic Verse, 574

A Book of Nonsense, by Edward Lear, and Others, 806

A Century of Essays, An Anthology, 653

American Short Stories of the Nineteenth Century, 840

A New Book of Sense and Nonsense, 813

An Anthology of English Prose: From Bede to Stevenson, 675

An Encyclopædia of Gardening, by Walter P. Wright, 555

Ancient Hebrew Literature, 4 vols., 253-6

Anglo-Saxon Poetry, 794

Annals of Fairyland, 365, 366, 541

Anthology of British Historical Speeches and Orations, 714

Atlas of Classical Geography, 451

Atlases, Literary and Historical: Europe, 496;

America, 553;

Asia, 633;

Africa and Australasia, 662

Dictionary, Biographical, of English Literature, 449

" of Dates, 554

" Everyman's English, 776

" of Non-Classical Mythology, 632

" Smaller Classical, 495

" of Quotations and Proverbs, 809-10

English Short Stories. An Anthology, 743

Fairy Gold, 157

Fairy Tales from the Arabian Nights, 249

French Short Stories, 896

Golden Treasury of Longer Poems, 746

Minor Elizabethan Drama, 491, 492

Minor Poets of the Eighteenth Century, 844

Minor Poets of the 17th Century, 873

Mother Goose, 473

Muses' Pageant, The, 581, 606, 671

New Golden Treasury, 695

New Testament, The, 93

A Poetry Book for Boys and Girls, 894

Political Liberty, a Symposium, 745

Prayer Books of King Edward VI. 1st and 2nd, 448

Prelude to Poetry, 789

Reader's Guide to Everyman's Library, by R. Farquharson Sharp and E.

Rhys, 889

Restoration Plays, 604

Russian Short Stories, 758

Shorter Novels: Elizabethan, 824

" Jacobean and Restoration, 841

" Eighteenth Century, 856

Theology in the English Poets, 493

Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases, Roget's, 630, 631

NOTE--The following numbers are at present out of print:

89, 110, 111, 146, 227, 228, 244, 275, 390, 418, 565, 597, 664

LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.

NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. INC.

Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation, use of hyphens, and accent marks were standardized.

Spaces were retained in contractions of verbs. Obsolete and

alternative spellings were not changed.

The following were corrected:

'jolyf' to 'joly' ... I would I were that joly gentil one, ...

'wherefor' to 'wherefore' ... the gold wherefore the people ...

'Thorough' to Through' ... Through parliament doth the King ...

duplicate 'the' removed ... Ballantrae and the Black Arrow ...