The Jester. LM

us, and we accept it with no thought on our own part. Let it be withdrawn and we are conscious of the lack, go forth to seek it. Power was then to Isabel as air is to mankind at large. From childhood—babyhood even—it had been hers to command. All had been ready to do her homage, first on account of her beauty, secondly on account of her charm, since charm she had. There were those, truly, who gave her homage somewhat against their own will, drawn thereto mainly by the example of others. Belonging to a court it is ill to stand aloof from the worship the mistress of the court demands, that worship which her courtiers freely accord her. And this reason may well count for thirdly.

      Full homage then was done to Isabel; the power she desired was hers for the most part without effort. Peregrine alone denied it to her.

      Personally I see in her neither the heights now accorded her by Peregrine, nor the depths her maids saw in her. Had the heights been hers she surely would have been indifferent to the thought that one man alone refused to do her homage; had the depths been hers she would have borne him malice, set herself to conquer and then to slay. But there was not then, I believe, any definite thought of ill towards him. Of later I am none so sure. It was merely the fruit beyond her reach which had excited her desire. Peregrine the Jester, whose presence she had first demanded with the same indifference she had times out of number demanded the presence of his sire, had, from the moment of his entrance, stirred interest in her. She saw in him, as you have already seen, something more than Jester. The perception was elusive enough to bring the interest to full awakening, to set it as it were on the scent of something further to be discovered. She had heard his song, had seen his face, and had read therein, something of a challenge, or perhaps more rightly had seen a barrier thrown down by the man.

      “As fool I give you my allegiance,” she might have heard him say. “In that rôle you shall exact from me your due to the uttermost farthing. One iota beyond you shall never gain.”

      In imagery she had seen him standing aloof, proud, cold, very sure that as man he would never bend the knee to her. Outwardly his rôle should be as perfect as might be, a very skilled art of play-acting, every entrance exact to time, every word carefully conned, faultlessly delivered. She saw him here forcing her to play the part he would assign to her; to deliver, half unconsciously, the speeches that would bring from him the response he desired to make. The very knowledge that he would have the power to do this drew admiration from her, and I am by no means sure that the admiration was grudging. Yet Jester on the stage, he would be man in the wings, smiling at his own skill, mocking at her. This knowledge tantalized, stung, brought her will swiftly yet lightly to the fray. To my thinking this shows her very shallow: her charm I have never denied.

      To the mere onlooker the conflict may well seem ignoble, unworthy one of her degree. Yet she saw it in other fashion. Rank, degree, sank for the time being into abeyance. It became the conflict—though lightly undertaken—for a soul that had denied her power. Ignoble we may well call it for the one who recognised the conflict, yet ignoble in other meaning than her courtiers might have termed it. It would be, too, no open fight with trumpet call to battle, lances displayed. In such she might well see herself worsted. The castle of the man’s soul must be approached by soft stealth. Guile must take the place of sword and spear.

      And Peregrine had no hint of that which was about to befall; there was the pity of it. Forewarned might have been forearmed. It is very true that his father’s words had caused him to enclose his soul within a castle, from which, he held, none should lure it forth. Should one use the terms of parable one might name the castle pride. Without, his soul might have had clearer view of approaching dangers. Within, believing himself secure, he saw not the guile which crept towards the walls.

      Yet direct speech rather than parable will best serve us in the pursuance of the matter.

      Isabel the woman brought every woman’s art—and of these not one was lacking her—to conquer Peregrine the man. You have seen the result. I have not given you the details of the conflict nor will do so. Though truly to call it a conflict when never once was seen the flash of naked steel seems somewhat of an anomaly. Isabel’s art in this matter would need great skill to set forth. Perchance after some fashion I might show it you were I so minded, yet will I leave it to your imagination. To know the wiles by which a man’s spirit is enslaved is not the most pleasing of knowledge. It certainly holds somewhat of sadness, even possibly of distaste.

      Peregrine saw no ill in the enslaving, held himself a willing captive; while Isabel for the moment found pleasure in her captive. Recognizing his capitulation it amused her to reward him with many favours. At the present, too, he interested her. She felt his strength, saw in his mind much that she had not yet fully fathomed. That fact pleased her, left her with the possibility of discovery. The joy in the possession of an empty casket, however fair it may be exteriorly, soon palls. One containing much has ever interest. Its contents may be examined at leisure, there is ever that to be found, probably the unexpected, possibly treasure.

      You see now how matters stand at the moment. Therefore we will on with the further story.

CHAPTER V

       GOOD COMRADESHIP

       Table of Contents

      PIPPO the Page had struck up a friendship with Peregrine the Jester. It had been, I take it, a case of friendship at first sight. A merry youngster was Pippo, saucy after the manner of boys, yet winning for all that. He alone of the court was no slave to Isabel; he did her bidding as it behooved him, yet indifferent to her charms, while she for her part saw in him a very child, not worth her conquest. Later we might hear a different tale.

      Pippo had much the same love for the open as had Peregrine in boyhood, and still had for that matter. Yet Pippo’s rambles had taken him but seldom beyond the garden and the park. Now, with Peregrine as guide, the two frequently escaped from the more cultured enclosure, made for the woods, the moorlands. Here Pippo learned to see with new eyes, and truly spring is the most welcome season for the learning.

      With Peregrine, then, for master, with the fair earth for school, with sweet springtime for the hour, Pippo made vast progress in conning Nature’s book. Under this master’s tuition it ever held for the boy something truly akin to magic. With unerring divination he had been led to the hollows where the first primrose bloomed, where the first wind-flower swayed its fragile head in the breeze, and this long before the majority of mortals had a hint of blossoming and burgeoning. Later, together they had gazed at the marvel of cup-shaped nest in forked branch or sunny bank, seen therein the eggs blue or mottled brown as the case might be.

      Once in the earlier hours of their friendship, it being then, I fancy, not eight days old, the two had fallen in with an aged shepherd, one blowy evening of sleet and rain. Together they had gone a-lambing with him, scouring the darkling fields for the scattered ewes, their ears alert to the cry of the new-born lambs. Here Peregrine had been the surest guide, the quickest to catch the cry of the life new-born. Once started on their work they had remained at it throughout the night. By good fortune rather than good management their absence from the Castle went undetected; yet it was a matter not to be repeated, since the next day Pippo’s eyes were heavy with sleep, his brain too drowsy for his duties, whereby he incurred, and not unnaturally, his mistress’s displeasure. The arduous task consolidated their friendship. It was a friendship wherein, if there was unbounded admiration on the boy’s side, there was something very akin to gratitude on the man’s.

      Yet the greatest wonder of all in Pippo’s eyes was the way of Peregrine with the wild creatures of wood and field. To see the birds come at his call, perch on hand and shoulder, sing therefrom as from a very post of vantage, to watch the dormice, the squirrels awakened from their winter sleep come fearlessly up to him, this indeed was marvel, and marvel to be held in secret bond between them. There was half the joy of it. None but they two knew of their sweet intimacy with Nature’s special creatures, those on whom no man had laid the lightest touch of civilization.

      Peregrine, too, was a wonderful raconteur of tales, ofttimes in verse, ever bathed in fancy. He could translate to the boy’s enraptured ears the song the thrush sang to his mate in the golden