"With right and with might
With skill and with will;
Let might help right,
And skill go before will
And right before might
So goeth our mill aright."
The face of Annys was transfigured with joy, for well he knew the song
to be one that passed from lip to lip among the followers of John Ball.
It was the call of the People, the defiant song of the down-trodden,
law-ridden, priest-ridden People.
"A sign! a sign!" he cried exultantly, and rushed out into the Square.
V
Where three roads from the neighboring villages met, there was formed a
great open space in which a thousand or more persons could easily find
room without crowding. Here had gathered together the people, eager to
see and hear their beloved leader, John Ball.
While Ball was resting at the tavern, after his long tramp, the crowd
amused itself welcoming vociferously the late comers, cracking jokes,
and singing songs. A tall fellow made his way among them, crying:--
"Busk ye, busk ye, John Ball hath rung your bell. God do bote, for now
is tyme."
"By my troth, then, it will be heard from one end of England to the
other!" exclaimed a powerfully built, fierce-looking dyer, whose hands,
stained a purplish red by his trade, added to his sanguinary appearance.
"'Tis fairly so. We shall yet all be free men," agreed a mild-mannered,
lanky youth, with a slight halt in his speech.
"Here come John the cobbler, and Will the tinker, both as sober as
owls," called out a youngster.
"Ho, John, John, thy lass will turn a cold front on thee, and thou
smooth not the frown on thine ugly phiz!" cried one who was blue with
the cold, and danced about first on one foot and then the other to keep
his blood circulating.
A short distance from him, a long-nosed, peaked-faced chap, a bit
unsteady on his legs, was haranguing a group.
"Here's a nut to crack," he was saying; "who can answer me this: What
do the priests prefer over Luke, Mark, and the Book?"
"Nay, then, not I," snarled one who was in no mood for conundrums, "not
I, seeing that I cannot boast thy wit, Simon Lackless."
Lackless grinned broadly and placed one lean finger to his long nose,
waggishly. "Why, 'tis fair enough," he said; "the priests do prefer
Lucre to Luke, Marks to Mark, and the Bag to the Book."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the people about him, passing the joke along from
one to the other.
But Lackless had not overlooked the sneer; he now pointed to the
speaker and called out in a loud voice, "Poor Wat! We must forgive him,
seeing he is so meek at home and must vent his cooped-up spleen on some
one!"
Wat sought another part of the crowd, discomfited.
"I wot a good saw," exclaimed an old man, leaning heavily on a staff;
"but there, do not ask me for it, for my sides ache with laughing
a'ready."
But they would not let him off. "Come now, let's have it," they begged.
Some laughed outright from sympathy with the old man's merriment.
"What think ye, what think ye--oh, Lord!" he spluttered. "What think ye
they do say at Rome?"
"They do say 'Aves' in plenty, for all the good they do us," grumbled
one. But no one else ventured to solve the riddle.
"Why, it is 'Give and it shall be given unto you,'" the old man said,
chuckling in his high, cracked treble.
The crowd laughed heartily.
"Ay! 'and moch they take, and give but small,'" sang out an impish lad,
who had jumped on the back of a comrade and was pummelling him lustily.
"Aiee! Aiee!" cried the under one.
A wrathy butcher jerked the fellow off the other's back and smacked him
soundly for his pains. "Off with you! One would think a mountebank was
coming instead of John Ball!"
There were others who felt as he did. Beneath all the fun there flowed
an undercurrent of earnestness, and many there were who spoke no word,
but gazed grimly before them, seemingly lost in thought.