FOOL You cry in your heart, and perchance again, Fool! Yet for my part I find his folly in a manner to my liking. I had liefer see a man prodigal of his gifts, though he bestow them on an unworthy object, than see him a niggard, grudging in his giving.

But, an’ you would know him truly, he saw not himself as giving, believed not that he bestowed gifts, believed himself merely the recipient of them. Wherein the wrong lay verily was that he forgot the Creator in the created. This you will have doubtless guessed already; it needs not that I show it you.

An’ you call to mind the prophecy of the old sage, who read the message of the stars at his birth, you will remember his foretelling; see Peregrine here the recipient of favours from one of high birth, will look to their withering like June roses when picked. Now to the manner of their withering.

It will be found in the chronicles of the Lords of Belisle that in a certain year of Grace, on the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene, one Count Bonaventure de Novello came to the Castle, bearing letters from Lord Robert to his daughter Isabel. It is further shown that he was received with hospitality, and remained for a time as a favoured guest of the Castle. The manner of his departure is not so clearly given, but one may guess that he departed in somewhat lesser favour. Yet it is neither his departure nor the manner of it that concerns us chiefly, but rather his arrival and his sojourn.

A comely man this Bonaventure de Novello, so I have heard; of average height, olive-skinned, and bright-eyed. He could dance, he could sing; he had moreover a very pretty wit, and a tongue that knew well the handling of it. Up to a point it stood him in better stead than rapier, since the tongue may madden more readily than steel; the point passed the rapier was not lacking in its skill. In the matter of love he made it not at all, since he got plenty without his making, and scorned it accordingly. It was the same, I take it, with homage, liking, or any other favour. Therefore you will see Isabel looking queerly on him at the first, since it was ever her way to receive willingly rather than to give. Anon she began to exercise her customary wiles over him. Finding him none too easy to lure the task absorbed her. We may see Peregrine forgotten. Here it was that his roses began to wither.

It is no easy task to show you Peregrine at this time. Very silent, showing his mind to none, one can but guess at it. I fancy he saw at first in Isabel’s bearing but the natural extra courtesy to a new-comer, a guest. Found—before a stranger—her apparent indifference towards himself to be expected. For a time he suffered it gladly, seeing himself thereby enduring a trifle of hardship for her sake, and at her will. Anon perplexity dawned upon his soul. A dog look crept into his eyes, the wonder of a dumb animal who believes he has displeased, yet knows not the manner of the displeasing; who holds none the less utter faith in his master. A word, a look at this time would have restored full buoyancy to his heart. None came, therefore he suffered mutely.

“Truly you possess a very merry Jester,” quoth the Count one day, light sarcasm in the words.

“A dull fellow,” said Isabel idly.

“He eyes you like a dog at one time fondled, now relegated to the courtyard,” laughed Bonaventure. Easily uttered, spoken wholly in jest, the words shot very straight to Isabel’s heart, dyed her face with faint colour.

“An’ his sire had not been Jester before him, I would have none of him,” she answered a thought over-readily. “Custom gave him the cap and bells which he wears, as you perceive, with a very long face.”

Bonaventure laughed again. “An’ but custom gave him the motley, methinks I would override custom,” he responded. And thereupon turned to other matters.

His words, however, remained with Isabel. Plainly, she was weary of the Jester. Body and soul she saw him hers; there was no longer aught to gain. Also she misliked very heartily the dumb pleading of his eyes. Weariness turned to impatience, impatience to something akin to anger. What right had he to stir compunction in her? Her favours were her own to give or withhold at will. Given, they must be received with gratitude; withheld, there must be no whining. Yet Peregrine had never whined; he had, however, looked with the eyes of a dumb dog.

Sitting in her chamber she brooded somewhat sullenly on the matter. After some space a thought came to her, gradually crystallizing. Bonaventure might perchance aid her in dealing with the affair. Here she calculated briefly, lightly. It would entail a slight wandering from the truth. What then? Truth it happened was of less consideration to her than ease of mind. From the one thought she turned to others. They followed each other quickly. Purposing to wrong the Jester, hatred followed swiftly in its train. There is ever but a step between the two. Her revolution of feeling towards him being sudden was proportionately strong. It brought ice to her heart, not heat. This is the more dangerous, since with it there is no surcharging of the brain to unbalance thought. Briefly, she would say to Bonaventure, “Rid me of this man,” yet employ not those words at all. Her request simply put in other fashion it would remain to see if he accepted it with a like simplicity, if a dealing that smacks very surely of meanness may be termed simple.

Being alone with the Count she spoke to him very levelly.

“A while ago you mentioned our long-faced Jester.”

“Truly, Madam, I did,” replied Bonaventure, “yet have small desire to mention him again. I had as lief dwell on an east wind blight.”

Isabel smiled, then sighed. “An’ my father had not given him the post I would have none of him. In his absence I like not to oust his servants.” A very dutiful daughter, she sighed more deeply.

“You would an’ you could?” he queried.

“He hath done no ill,” said Isabel musing. “’Tis wrong of me thus to mislike him, and foolish truly, since why should I concern myself with the fellow at all? Yet ’tis, as you say, the east wind blight that causes me to shiver.”

Bonaventure smiled. Truly the transparency of her desire was very patent. An’ he would he saw himself giving aid in the matter. Considering a brief space he decided to take it in hand, this rather from light mischief than any ill-will towards Peregrine.

“Truly, as you say,” said he solemn-faced, “the fellow has done no ill. ’Twere unjust to hold him to account for a long visage and a hang-dog look. He is also a peaceable man.”

“Very peaceable,” averred Isabel.

“Then ’tis evident he must bide here, since ’tis your father’s pleasure.” He looked not at Isabel as he spoke; but she, glancing side-ways at his face, was by no means so ill-satisfied at what she saw there. Matters to her mind were put in train.

Feeling them so, pity brought a slight thaw to hatred. Once she smiled on the Jester, gave her hand to be kissed on the conclusion of a song that pleased her. Light tokens truly, yet hope springing swift anew to Peregrine’s heart the subsequent happenings were the more bitter.

One morning Isabel sitting in her chamber heard voices below her window. The words themselves reached her not, yet the tone was apparent to her. There was the Count’s smooth, exceeding silky; Peregrine’s holding exasperation for the moment well controlled.

Seemingly unheeding she yet listened intently. Mary Chester raised anxious eyes from her embroidery; Leonora calm as her mistress, worked steadily; Monica, paling, fingered her rosary.

Anon the Count laughed. Light though the sound was it held a stinging note. Peregrine’s voice rose somewhat harder.

“Madam,” breathed Mary very low some unnamed fear clutching at her heart.

Isabel looked towards her. “Yes?” she queried, eyebrows raised.

“’Tis naught,” stammered Mary reddening, words halting on her tongue.

“Ah!” The exclamation came from without. Though holding pain, Mary detected triumph in the sound. She moved very swiftly to the window.

“Madam!” she said again in horror.

“What is it?” asked Isabel quickly.

“The Count Bonaventure lies upon the ground,” stammered Mary. “Methinks that Peregrine—” she broke off trembling.

Isabel joined her at the window.

“Go below, see to what hath chanced,” she ordered. And to herself she added, “I pray Count Bonaventure hath not over-reached himself in the matter.”

Ill news flies very swiftly. Within the space of five minutes the whole Castle was agog with the happening. Peregrine the Jester had stabbed Count Bonaventure. True the wound was not over-serious, yet that was rather by good fortune than by good intention. Some half hour later Peregrine lay in the cellar; the Count, his wound bound, made light of the matter.

“I can take it none so easily,” said Isabel hard-eyed.

“The fellow should be hanged,” said Roger March, the captain of the guard, very bluntly. These were rude times, and Roger a hard-headed soldier.

“Bah!” laughed Bonaventure ruefully, “’tis no matter for so harsh dealing.” Already he half-regretted his part in the affair. He liked Peregrine for his onslaught; saw the tongue a mean weapon to have used for his provoking.

Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot overlook it,” she repeated very cold, seeing opportunity slipping from her.

“Shall he hang, Madam?” asked Roger briefly.

“By the Lord, no,” burst forth the Count. “You will not have a woman give orders to hang a man. An’ he deserve punishment give him a drubbing and dismiss him the Castle. So shall all be satisfied,” he added half maliciously.

Roger looked at Isabel, awaited her pleasure.

“You have heard the Count’s words,” said Isabel very icily. “The injured may assign his own reward for the injury. I leave the affair.”

Roger March saluted and withdrew.

The Count, by the window, drummed lightly on the sill with his fingers, looked not at Isabel standing rigid by the hearth. The mental atmosphere held an unpleasant chill.

Sudden sounds broke the silence; trampling of feet on the stairway, exclamations of anger.

Isabel and the Count faced about towards the door. The heavy draperies of the curtain swung aside. Peregrine burst into the room, fell on his knees before Isabel.

“Madam,” he cried thickly, imploring, “I come to crave pardon. Allot me what punishment you will, but dismiss me not from your presence.” The words were out of his lips ere the captain of the guard and two of his men had gained the chamber. Beyond the swaying curtain was a group of women with scared faces.

The Count looked at the kneeling figure; the somewhat cynical smile on his lips was not for it. From the Jester he glanced at Isabel.

“Take the fellow away,” said Isabel.

At the sound of her voice Peregrine looked up at her face. Realization dawned on him. He got to his feet, staggering like a man dazed with over-much wine.

“Your will, Madam?” said Roger sternly. He trusted now to find his hands busy with the rope.

“I have given you my orders already,” said Isabel harshly.

Roger March, grim-faced, led Peregrine away.

The Count looked at Isabel. Meeting her eyes very full he smiled mockingly.