TRULY I would have thought, and you would have thought, and we might well imagine Peregrine would have thought, he had had enough of castles and the dwellers therein. Yet there is no question but that he welcomed very heartily its appearance before him. Here at least was the tangible, the solid, the very definitely material to counteract the sudden and extraordinary isolation of spirit which had fallen momentarily upon him. He had told himself it was a dream, a mere fantastic illusion of the brain wrought of the strange atmosphere of the forest; yet, for all that, the memory of the illusion, if such it was, lingered faintly with him, caused him to feel no little relief at the sight of the Castle. Where there is a dwelling, and moreover a lighted dwelling, there are doubtless human beings, and their presence would be of solace to him.

He crossed the grass sward, his feet striking noiselessly on the soft surface. Nearing the windows he looked within. Here he saw a large company seated at a well-furnished board. Glass and silver sparkled on the table. There were decanters full of red wine, dishes piled with fruits, flowers purple, scarlet, and orange. The guests themselves lent brilliance and colour to the scene. Surrounded by a living flower-wreath, so the board appeared; wind-swayed, sun-kissed, as they moved in talk and laughter, jewels on head, neck, and arm glittering in the light.

At the head of the board sat a woman in a robe of orange silk. Her hair, a tawny gold, bound with a fillet of flaming stones, shone with its own lustre, rivalled successfully the brilliance of her gown. Her skin, olive hued, glowed with a very subtle warmth. You guessed her body possessed of the fires of the South. Her eyes, a purple-blue, looked at you from beneath dark brows level and very beautifully marked. Her mouth, curved and modelled like a Greek mouth, squared faintly at the corners, showing her luxurious. Her nose, straight and finely chiselled, had delicately arched nostrils. She leaned back in her chair, a great one of carved ivory, and smiled at the faces around her.

One man sprang to his feet, a pretty youth in purple doublet and hose, a big amethyst hanging from a silver chain about his neck.

“To ThaÏs!” he cried, raising his glass on high. The light shining through it the wine glowed like a ruby.

The flower-wreath about the table swayed, rose.

“To ThaÏs!” came the cry from a score of voices, while ruby-red glasses flashed aloft.

“The glorious ThaÏs!” cried one.

“The divine ThaÏs!”

“The adorable ThaÏs!”

“The incomparable ThaÏs!”

“ThaÏs the Enchantress!”

“ThaÏs our Venus!”

“ThaÏs our Aphrodite!”

“ThaÏs whom we worship!”

So the litany went around the board. And Peregrine without mocked in his heart, deeming them fools, yet in a manner envying them their folly.

The cry died away. Again the guests were seated at the table. Peregrine drew his tabor from beneath his cloak, a long sombre garment, given him by an old woman on the third day of his journeying.

“’Tis not well to blazon yourself Jester,” she had said sagely. “An’ men have the sense to see you so beneath the cloak ’tis other matter. A true Jester will hide his motley. ’Tis your false fool shows his garb to all comers. You, I think, are true Jester.” Whereupon she had chuckled very cunningly.

So Peregrine wore the cloak she had given him, finding wisdom in her words. Now from beneath it he pulled forth his tabor, stepped into the shadow of the Castle, touched the strings lightly and set himself to sing.

The song died away. A figure moved to the window. Backed by brilliant light it made a dark patch in the square opening.

“Who sings warningly of love?” demanded a voice.

“I do,” said Peregrine through the darkness.

“And who are you, if one may be allowed the question?”

“A wanderer.”

“Truly one who has wandered to good purpose since he finds himself at so fair a goal. Wilt show yourself, Sir Wanderer?”

Peregrine stepped into the square of light cast upon the grass from the window. He saw looking out at him a big man clad in scarlet, somewhat full-bodied. His face, as well as Peregrine could see it against the light, was sufficiently humorous, with small twinkling eyes deep-set.

“What brought you hither?”

“Fate an’ it please you,” returned Peregrine. “Folly an’ it like you better.”

“Folly leads not on so good a path. We will call it Fate.”

“At your will.”

“Or perchance it were better to term it good sense.”

“Good sense,” said Peregrine, “having forethought in plenty gives the surplus of her wares to those she takes in hand. By which token I doubt me ’twas hers led me hither.”

The big man laughed. “We’ll quarrel not as to the guide. ’Tis good enough that you are here.”

“Humph!” said Peregrine, “maybe. But now that I am here what comes next in order?”

“That you enter the Castle.”

“A very friendly suggestion,” quoth Peregrine. “I would however point out that I bring no letter of credentials.”

The big man laughed again, this time rather queerly. “For that matter the fact that you have found your way hither is in itself full enough credential. We are not inhospitable. Also I might suggest that you have no credential from us.”

Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. “’Twere a pretty thing if a beggar should demand credentials from the man who gave him alms, or the wanderer from the man who offered him a shelter. An’ he did so he were a fool might well go drown in his own folly.”

“And you would swim in your own wisdom, so your words and song would show.”

“If you judge by words you judge ill,” said Peregrine dryly, “since no man will own his words folly. It needs your wise man to own himself a fool, and thereby show his greater wisdom, since he but owns to the heritage of his birth. And the man who denies himself possessed of parents is a very patent fool. But to cease quibbling and come to fact. You see before you a hungry man, a tired man, a foot-sore man. An’ your hospitality be of deed rather than word I prithee let me experience it on the instant.”

“With all the will in the world,” said the big man, and he turned from the window.

The next instant the Castle door was flung wide open. Light streamed blazing forth. Peregrine stumbled towards it. Blinking he found himself atop the steps, dazzled by the greater brilliance.

The man in scarlet caught him by the arm.

“You are spent,” he said kindly.

“It would seem so,” said Peregrine, laughing ruefully.

“Drink this.” A glass of wine was held to his lips.

Peregrine pushed it aside. “An’ I drink wine on an empty stomach you will see a very drunken man.”

“Bah! ’tis not so potent.” Then as Peregrine still pushed the glass aside, “’Tis our custom, man. All who enter here drink a toast to the Lady ThaÏs on the doorstep, swear her fealty in drinking.”

“You told me not of stipulations,” muttered Peregrine very weary.

“’Tis but an ancient custom, man. There’s no ill in the glass. Drink it, and cry to ThaÏs. ’Twill put new strength into you.”

Thus urged Peregrine took the glass. “To ThaÏs!” he said, and sipped the wine. Very sweet to the palate it ran warm down his throat. “The divine ThaÏs!” he cried laughing, remembering the toast he had heard. He drank the remainder at a draught, flung the glass to the floor. “Ah!” he said. “It puts new life in a man. Your name?” he asked on a sudden of the other.

“They call me Phrixus,” came the answer, “since as a child I escaped from my stepmother, a very sharp-tongued woman. Truly ’twas by the skin of my teeth I did so, and on no golden-fleeced ram neither. Phrixus I have been since, and still am. May I ask a name for a name?”

“Peregrine, at your service. A fool as I dare swear myself. A wanderer as you have perceived.”

“A lucky wanderer,” quoth the other, and took him by the arm. Very gently he propelled him towards the great hall.

Pausing a moment on the threshhold Peregrine looked around. The hall was a riot of colour, a very feast for the sight. A huge place it was; the centre a great domed arch, golden and set on four columns of black marble. The walls were hung with tapestries orange and yellow, bordered with blue and purple most deftly intermingled. So remote were the tapestries that the figures at the table appeared backgrounded against sunlight above deep waters. Around were marble statues, works of the world in the morning of time. Here was Hebe young and slender; Mercury wing-footed; Atalanta poised swift to run; Faunus half man half goat; Bacchus vine-wreathed; Apollo, Athene, Venus,—all were there wrought of voluptuous fancy. Here and there gleamed silver nymphs and dryads, flashing to seeming life in the red light of the fire which blazed at the further end of the great hall. Green marble made the floor, spread with rugs an harmonious blend of colour. Beneath the golden dome was set the board, and here was movement, life, and laughter.

As Peregrine stood in the doorway with Phrixus beside him, those opposite it looked up and saw him, the others turned.

“Welcome the new-comer!” The cry rang through the hall, losing itself in echoes in the golden dome. None could mistake the genuine ring of it. Peregrine was led forward; kneeling he kissed the hand ThaÏs gave him.

“We bid you welcome, Sir,” she said very graciously. And she gave him a place on her right.

“Will you not lay aside your cloak?” The request very delicately toned yet held a faint air of command. Willy-nilly Peregrine slipped it from his shoulders.

“Ha!” laughed Phrixus, “you are Jester. So I might have guessed. Truly being so you are doubly welcome. Is it not so, friends?”

Again a cry rang loud. “Welcome the Jester!”

“An’ I were not very sure I were waking I should hold myself dreaming,” mused Peregrine inwardly. Fate to his mind played pretty pranks with a man’s life, tossed it shuttlecock-like from depths to heights, threw it from fair earth to stony ground, and then again to very flowery beds. Here at least was one sufficiently pleasing for the moment. Truly he would take no thought for the morrow, but enjoy the hour to its full. An honoured guest he sat there, satisfying his appetite very fully from silver dishes served to him by pages in white and gold.

The meal ended the board was cleared. It and the trestles on which it lay were carried away by serving men, rugs rolled aside. At the end of the hall, somewhat near the great fireplace, was a raised dais. Here the ivory chair was placed. ThaÏs seated in it the company disposed themselves around her according to will. Peregrine lay at her feet on sapphire blue cushions soft as eiderdown. Very content with the present he waited for the next move.

It came. The lights in the hall were extinguished. The moonlight, falling through the windows, lay along the floor in a silver pathway. The tapestries at the further end of the hall swung apart. From between them, down the moonlight path, ran bare-footed girls silken-robed, veiled, four phalanxes of colour, pale heliotrope shading to deepest purple; red to fullest crimson; the green of young beech leaves to the black green of pine trees; maize-colour toning through orange to tawny brown. A moment they swayed bowing before the dais, then set themselves to dance, accompanied by music from hidden musicians. Their feet upon the green marble of the floor were like little white flowers dancing in breeze-swept meadows. Here was very intoxication of movement, rhythm perfect in harmony. As they danced they raised their veils. Peregrine looked on their faces oval, bright-eyed, scarlet-lipped; small heads set on slim young throats. The very incarnation of youth and joy was personified in the dance before him. The fleetness of it, the dainty fragility, brought with it a sense of evanescence. The thought struck suddenly cold to his heart.

ThaÏs bent from her chair towards him.

“How does it please you?” she asked, her breath soft upon his cheek, her voice like the tone of a muffled silver bell.

“Madam, it pleases me exceeding well,” said Peregrine. Meeting her eyes he smiled.