THUS a second time we see Peregrine dismissed the Castle.

Exceeding sore in body, yet infinitely more sore in mind, he lay in a wood some two miles or so from the spot where the last blow had fallen upon him. Half fainting he had dragged himself thither. Roger March had been in no mind to see light punishment dealt out.

For a time a sort of stupor fell on him, dulling in part the pain of body and soul. A sick man half delirious he felt himself, tortured by very evil dreams. Mocking faces surrounded him, and in their midst one face very cold, looking at him with eyes full of scorn and hatred. Then, for a while, the lapse of years escaping him, he believed himself a child burying a hot face in his mother’s gown, weeping out his woes in her lap. Later he found the lap to be that of Mother Earth, her gown the cool green of the moss against his cheek. Turning his head he saw the green-leaved branches above him, had a glimpse of summer blue sky. This brought him back to the present. He sat up feeling the swelled stiffness of his back and limbs.

Some hundred yards or so before him his eye caught the glint of water among the trees. He remembered that he was very thirsty. He rose stiffly to his feet, made his way towards the pond. It lay clear as a mirror, reflecting the trees.

Peregrine, kneeling at the margin, bent towards it, saw a haggard-faced Jester looking up at him. For a moment startled by his own reflection he drew back; then laughed. Hard-eyed he looked at his own image; on a sudden saw himself Jester to Fate. Here was his rÔle with a vengeance. He looked at his own face again, and with new interest, grinned at it a moment very diabolically. The next, he dashed his fist in the water. The reflection shivered to a thousand sparkling fragments.

“To Fate’s Jester,” he cried. And he drank thirstily from his cupped hand.

A crackling in the woods behind him brought him to his feet. His frayed nerves tensioned he gazed towards the bushes. From among them came a small figure in blue and silver, glancing anxious-eyed to right and left. Seeing Peregrine the boy rushed forward, flung himself before him, clasped his knees.

“Peregrine, Peregrine,” he sobbed. “Oh! the brutes. Would I were a man!”

Peregrine hauled the child gently to his feet.

“Tut, lad,” he said lightly, “’tis all in the day’s work.”

The boy snivelled in his sleeve. His cheeks were very tear-glazed.

“An’ thou wert the man thou desirest to be thou wouldst not weep,” said Peregrine seating himself on the ground, drawing the child beside him.

“My heart would,” choked the boy.

Peregrine finding grim truth in the reply made no answer.

“I hate them all,” said Pippo, his young face very vicious. At that Peregrine laughed mirthlessly.

“I will not return to the Castle,” said the boy stubbornly, “I will come with you.”

Peregrine fell grave on the instant. He saw not a child travelling by the road he was like to follow.

“Nay,” he responded firmly.

“I must,” choked Pippo.

“Thou wilt return to the Castle,” said Peregrine very levelly.

“Why?” demanded Pippo.

Peregrine smiled. “Firstly, not being my property I cannot carry thee away with me; secondly, my road is not like to be one for a child; thirdly, I wish thee to return, Pippo.”

Pippo’s mouth trembled. “For thirdly I will do your bidding,” he said in a very small voice. “I would not for firstly nor secondly.”

“Good lad,” said Peregrine.

For some moments there was silence. Pippo’s face was quivering; Peregrine’s very set and stern.

“So, boy, it is farewell,” he quoth anon. Pippo found his voice too shaky for speech.

Peregrine got to his feet, the lad with him. “I will take thee to the edge of the wood,” he said.

In silence they made their way among the trees. In some ten minutes they found themselves on their outskirts. Here Peregrine paused.

“Farewell, lad,” he said. “Put not your trust in princes, as the Psalmist hath it. Pray to Christ and Our Lady, and live clean.” Smiling grimly at the words himself he had to give them to the lad. A child’s faith must be left unshaken. Peregrine having this thought in mind doubtless the Recording Angel made tally of the speech to his balance.

He kissed the boy twice, and without more ado turned back among the trees, mistrusting himself for further words. Pippo went sorrowfully enough down the hill.

Peregrine struck again clean through the wood. The Castle thus lay behind him, and the greater distance he might put between himself and it the better now would he be pleased.

He made his way along the soft path, cool green for the most part, here and there scattered with dancing spots of gold as the sunlight filtered through the branches overhead. On either hand were tree trunks, straight as the pillars of some cathedral, flecked with the orange and silver of fungus and lichen, very brilliant patches of colour. It was a silent place, quiet and restful. Formerly Peregrine’s spirit had gone out to meet the spirit of the woods, to find pleasure in the meeting. Now he found none. Disillusionment pressing sore upon him crushed his soul very bitterly.

At last, after some time of walking, he came upon the edge of the wood. Here it was bordered by the high road, very white and dusty, the sun’s rays beating full upon it. To the right it ascended somewhat, to the left it sloped in a gentle decline. Peregrine hesitated. He had no goal in view, nor sought to have any.

While hesitating he became aware of a party of three horsemen riding at a trot from the leftwards. He drew into the shadow of the trees to await their passing. Coming abreast of them he saw in the foremost the Count Bonaventure, the other two being serving men. The Count wore his left arm in a sling, a matter that Peregrine marked with no little satisfaction. Allowing them to pass some couple of hundred yards or so, he stepped from the wood, turned down the hill. He had made but a few paces when the sound of a horse’s hoofs behind him struck on his ear. He stepped quickly towards the hedge. The horse and its rider pulled up along side of him.

“I saw you among the trees,” said Bonaventure without preamble.

“What then?” demanded Peregrine, the pupils of his eyes narrowing.

“Merely,” quoth the Count lightly, “that I wish to make you an apology.”

“No need,” said Peregrine shortly.

“Yet I did you an injury.”

“Methinks I did you one,” said Peregrine, looking at the bound arm.

“’Tis one will mend,” was the reply.

Peregrine was silent.

“Yet, perchance,” said the Count musing, “the injury I did you was not so great as at first sight might appear.”

“I find it a benefit,” said Peregrine very dryly.

“Ha!”

“An’ a man pitch his tent on a vile bog believing it fair earth ’twere a benefit to drag him from it, even though the handling be somewhat rough.”

“Oh!” said the Count amazed, opening his eyes wide, “you have seen that.”

“I have seen more than that,” said Peregrine.

“Yes?” queried the Count.

“I have seen that you,” said Peregrine watching him, “acted as subtly prompted, if not fairly told.”

The Count stroked his chin, half whimsical, half vexed. He was not wholly pleased to be named a tool in the matter, which he truly was.

“I think you have seen a good deal,” quoth he ruefully.

“Disillusionment clears a man’s eyesight,” said Peregrine shortly.

“Humph!” remarked the Count. “Where fare you now?” he demanded.

Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. “Where Chance leads. Mayhap to the Devil.”

“An unpleasant fellow,” said the Count suavely, “and moreover no gentleman.”

“Truly!”

“A very usurer. Getting a man in his debt he demands constant interest, exceeding extortionate.”

“An’ a man were wise he would return the whole loan and have done with the matter,” returned Peregrine carelessly.

“No man has sufficient capital for that when he once takes loan from the Devil,” replied the Count half grimly.

“You seem to have a very good knowledge of his dealings,” said Peregrine.

Bonaventure shrugged his shoulders. “I have observed them more than once,” he said coolly. “An’ you have no better prospect in view than perchance to serve him, will you join company with me?”

Peregrine shook his head. “No,” he said.

“I am barely surprised,” returned the Count. “Yet I would ask you, unaccountable as it may seem to you, to come as my friend, not as my servant.”

Peregrine laughed. “I put no trust in friends.”

“That also does not surprise me,” said Bonaventure. “I put not vast trust neither, but take men as I find them.”

“Then you will not find much,” retorted Peregrine.

“I do not look for much.”

“That shows you wise.”

Bonaventure laughed. “Wisdom is what I seek. Perchance some day I shall find her. However since you will not seek her in my company I must e’en bid you farewell.”

“Farewell,” said Peregrine.

“We part on good terms?”

“In no enmity as far as I am concerned,” said Peregrine carelessly.

“Then again, farewell,” quoth the Count. Turning his horse he rode quickly after his men. Peregrine stood looking after him.