Jack Straw, the East Anglian, thrust out a contemptuous lip. “Keep your sword in its scabbard. One word from Brother John here is worth a thousand such swords.” “Bah, wait till the work begins. Look at him! Will he keep the hinds from blood and wine?” Father Merlin showed his big teeth, his harsh face gaunt and long in the shadows. The swashbuckler amused him and piqued the laughter of a subtle scorn. “Let no man quarrel with the soul of St. Francis,” said he. “What say we but that the meek shall inherit the earth?” They turned their eyes by some common instinct upon Father John, staring raptly at the fire, his lips moving silently, his face strangely radiant. His spirit was away in some fantastic earthly heaven while his body remained among the black hollies of the forest. Even red-headed Guy was sobered by a something that was above and beyond his lustful vigour and his bombast. “Father John treads the clouds.” “Perhaps St. Thomas of Canterbury is up yonder. When we have pulled Simon of Sudbury out of his archbishop’s shoes we might do worse than clap them on Father John’s feet.” The Franciscan smiled like a horse champing a bit, drawing back his lips and showing his teeth. “What God wills—God wills.” “And what the devil wills——” “The swashbuckler knows best.” Big Blanche sat and gazed at John Ball’s rapt and dreaming face. He seemed not to hear the voices of those about him, and his face was the face of a man drunk with visions. She pointed to him. “He has touched neither food nor drink since daybreak. Some day his soul will fly away like a piece of thistledown, and we shall have no one to preach to us.” “Pluck his sleeve, Jack.” “Descend, brother, descend. See here, something warm for the belly.” John Ball started, and stared at those around him as though he had been wakened out of a deep sleep. Big Blanche wriggled across on her knees, and held out the mead bottle. He took it mechanically, and nodded to her with an air of vacant benignity. “Drink, brother.” Jack Straw was still using the holly twig, and the swashbuckler grew facetious. “Take my dagger, Jack. We are getting ready to be great lords and gentles all by the cleaning of our nails!” John Ball’s eyes fixed themselves on his neighbour’s hands. He began to speak in a slow and inward voice. “Our brother cleanseth his nails. It is a symbol, surely. All the world shall have clean fingers.” “And no pickings! My cock, father, I must pick up something on the point of my sword!” The priest of Kent looked up and around at the black boughs and tops of the hollies. His face was the white face of a saint in an altar picture of the passions. His neighbours were so many allegorical figures—Cunning, Ambition, Lust, Bombast—and yet mere men with strong teeth and muscular hands and eyes that looked hungry. This dreamer of Kent whose mouth could fill with fire had a soul whose simplicity made these shrewd and carnal men marvel. “Has Isoult of the Rose returned?”