Here passed the
round-faced burgher, swollen with prosperity, his sweeping
dark-clothed gaberdine, flat velvet cap, broad leather belt and
dangling pouch all speaking of comfort and of wealth. Behind him
his serving wench, her blue whimple over her head, and one hand
thrust forth to bear the lanthorn which threw a golden bar of
light along her master's path. Behind them a group of
swaggering, half-drunken Yorkshire dalesmen, speaking a dialect
which their own southland countrymen could scarce comprehend,
their jerkins marked with the pelican, which showed that they had
come over in the train of the north-country Stapletons. The
burgher glanced back at their fierce faces and quickened his
step, while the girl pulled her whimple closer round her, for
there was a meaning in their wild eyes, as they stared at the
purse and the maiden, which men of all tongues could understand.
Then came archers of the guard, shrill-voiced women of the camp,
English pages with their fair skins and blue wondering eyes,
dark-robed friars, lounging men-at-arms, swarthy loud-tongued
Gascon serving-men, seamen from the river, rude peasants of the
Medoc, and becloaked and befeathered squires of the court, all
jostling and pushing in an ever-changing, many-colored stream,
while English, French, Welsh, Basque, and the varied dialects of
Gascony and Guienne filled the air with their babel.
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