The Jester. LM

children both of them in mind, with hearts as young as the sweet springtime around them.

      One April evening the two sat together on a grassy hillside. Behind them was a copse of hollies, firs, and beeches, a copse of deep undergrowth and green moss. On its margin stood a cherry tree, the wealth of its snowy blossoms backgrounded by a holly bush. Pippo had robbed the tree of a portion of its wealth. It lay beside him in long graceful boughs burdened with white flowers and tender pink-brown leaves. To the left on the southern slope of the hill were massed primroses, and early bluebells, pushing forth among spiked leaves. Scattered at their feet and adown the grassy hill were cuckoo-flowers, their tiny petals most faintly tinged with pinkish purple. Before them lay the channel, blue in the luminous haze which hung over land and water.

      “The swallows have returned,” quoth Peregrine, as propped on elbow he gazed out to sea.

      “Where?” demanded Pippo staring around him.

      “They are not here at the moment,” laughed Peregrine. “I saw them this morning from my chamber window passing in flocks across the sky.”

      “Ah!” breathed Pippo envious. “I would that I had seen them.”

      “Thou wert sleeping, young lazy bones,” teased Peregrine.

      Pippo gazed straight before him with ardent eyes. “Tomorrow I will awake at daybreak, an hour at least before sunrise,” he asseverated.

      “And to what end?” demanded Peregrine.

      “To look for swallows passing in flocks across the sky,” quoth Pippo dreamily. Then, turning, he put a question. “How think you they know, far away beyond England, that here the winter is passed and summer is at hand?”

      Peregrine smiled, musing. “How should I give thee an answer as to the thoughts of swallows. Perchance the Blessed Virgin whispers to them.”

      Pippo eyed him. Albeit he had now known Peregrine some ten weeks and more it came ever fresh to his mind that he spoke on occasions more as woman or monk than man. The men of the court were more ready to take the name of God and His Son on their lips in light oath than speak with tenderness of Our Lady and the Saints. The boy saw in this fashion something of a sign of manhood, in which he found Peregrine strangely lacking. Yet noting the virile strength of the man, the firm swelling of his muscles beneath the close hose and tunic as he moved to sitting posture on the grass, Pippo saw in him—had his thoughts found clear interpretation—something of an anomaly. He had already endured some light mockery for his friendship with the Jester, which—though bringing a quick flush to his cheek—shook his friendship not at all. The loyalty of a child is a very enduring loyalty.

      “Of what thinkest thou?” demanded Peregrine.

      “Nothing,” returned Pippo untruly.

      Peregrine smiled, yawned, stretched his long lean limbs, and rose from the grass. “Let’s onward,” he said.

      Pippo scrambled to his feet. Picking up his spoils of the cherry tree he held them sheaf-like in his arms, a fragrant snowy burden. Together they descended the grassy slope, came through a gap in a hedge, and out into a lane beyond.

      For a time they walked in silence. Now and again Peregrine glanced at the boy beside him, his head half hidden in the flower sheaf he bore. It was not the first time that Pippo had borne home cherry blossom in his arms. The flower had become associated in Peregrine’s mind with these his days of radiant joy. You see his heart very full of sentiment; also he was young.

      They had traversed some mile or so of the lane in this silence, when suddenly to their ears came the shrill yelp of an animal in pain. The yelp was followed by another and yet another, rising to a sound that had in it an almost human shriek of agony.

      “Some brute is ill-treating a dog,” quoth Peregrine, and he set off at a run, Pippo close at his heels.

      A couple of hundred yards further on the road turned sharply to the right to an open space of grass. Standing on the grass was a thick-set swarthy-looking fellow, knotted ash stick in one hand, while swinging from the other was a small mongrel dog, bleeding and broken. The stick was doing deadly work.

      “Brute!” cried Pippo his cheeks scarlet. Peregrine’s face was white.

      The fellow started, the stick falling momentarily idle.

      “The cur bit me,” he muttered, casting an evil look towards them.

      “Knowing you the greater cur.” Pippo heard an unaccustomed note in Peregrine’s voice.

      “Go you into the field,” said Peregrine shortly, pointing to a gate. Pippo, hearing the tone of command, scuttled through it like a frightened rabbit.

      Yet once through he was all for seeing the turn of matters on the other side the hedge. Cherry blossom deposited on the ground he scrambled to the top of the bank. Clinging to the bushes he peered through.

      “Ah!” breathed Pippo, joy in the soft sound.

      Bah! he need not have feared for Peregrine’s manhood. He hugged himself for glee, thereby nearly slithering backwards down the slippery bank. For the first few seconds the tussle was short and fierce, then actual conflict gave place to naught but well-merited punishment. Peregrine’s heart had flamed to a white heat of fury. Five minutes later he flung the fellow free. With an oath the man slunk off staggering adown the way the two had come.

      Peregrine crossed to the small bundle of palpitating pain by the ditch side. Pippo saw his face. He slipped down from the bank, his heart beating hotly. He heard now what had before escaped him, the small shuddering moans of pain. Then there was another sound.

      “Pippo,” called Peregrine a moment later.

      Pippo grabbed up his cherry blossom and came through the gate.

      “Come on,” said Peregrine somewhat shortly.

      Pippo fell into step beside him, yet with one anxious backward glance towards the ditch.

      “The dog is out of pain,” said Peregrine kindly. And Pippo drew a deep breath.

      They still pursued their way in silence; at the moment words would not, I fancy, have come easily to either of them. Peregrine’s face was still stern; Pippo’s, if you must know, once more gleeful, something of a grin depicted on it. Since the victor had, it would appear, no vast satisfaction in the matter of the recent encounter, it behooved Pippo to have satisfaction for him, and this he had, very thoroughly.

      Coming nearer the castle they found themselves by the church. The door was set wide open. It was hard upon the hour for Complin. Here Peregrine paused.

      “Shall we enter?” he said, and passed through the porch.

      Pippo followed him nothing loath, composing the muscles of his face into an expression better suited to the sacredness of the place. Since Peregrine had a mind to pray, pray he might. His own will in the matter might now be safely accorded him. In Pippo’s eyes he had proved himself.

      Pippo dropped on one knee before the hanging pyx, followed Peregrine into the dark oak pew. He saw the candles gleaming on the altar, their light commingling with the waning evening light. And over all was the quiet awe, the brooding stillness of the Hidden Presence.

      A moment or so later a long line of monks entered the church, passed leisurely into the stalls.

      “Jube, domne, benedicere,” began the reader.

      “Noctem quietam, et finem perfectum concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens,” came the blessing.

      Pippo glanced momentarily sideways at Peregrine’s profile, saw his face peaceful, grave. A wave of sudden warmth struck on the boy’s heart, a new admiration for the man beside him. He saw in him a fighting saint, a very St. George, protector of the weak and defenceless. Such another would he be himself in manhood, loving Christ and His Mother, champion of all wrong. The warmth at his heart brought a glow to his cheeks. The thought of his friendship raised him in his own estimation, which for that matter was at all times none