At last the stranger halted his horse outside the
"Five Angels" at Gatton.
"It is a good inn, and I know the ale of old," said he. "When I
had finished that `Dream of Piers the Plowman' from which I have
recited to you, the last verses were thus:
"`Now have I brought my little booke to an ende
God's blessing be on him who a drinke will me sende'--
"I pray you come in with me and share it."
"Nay," said Nigel, "we must on our way, for we have far to go.
But give me your name, my friend, for indeed we have passed a
merry hour listening to your words."
"Have a care!" the stranger answered, shaking his head. "You and
your class will not spend a merry hour when these words are turned
into deeds and Peter the Plowman grows weary of swinking in the
fields and takes up his bow and his staff in order to set this
land in order."
"By Saint Paul! I expect that we shall bring Peter to reason and
also those who have put such evil thoughts into his head," said
Nigel. "So once more I ask your name, that I may know it if ever
I chance to hear that you have been hanged?"
The stranger laughed good-humoredly. "You can call me Thomas
Lackland," said he. "I should be Thomas Lack-brain if I were
indeed to give my true name, since a good many robbers, some in
black gowns and some in steel, would be glad to help me upwards in
the way you speak of.
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