Isabel looking found novelty. Nor was it merely the novelty in a new-comer, a novelty enhanced by dreary weather, enforced sojourn within doors. In outward form she saw a Jester, good-looking enough, but merely a Jester such as his sire and grandsires before him. Yet for a brief space, swift as the tongued lightning which shoots across the darkened sky, she saw something more than mere fool. And having seen it she perceived in the fool the cloak to a riddle, a riddle perchance worth the solving. Yet she gave no hint of having seen. “Your name, Sir Jester?” she demanded, her eyes now upon the fire, speaking of set purpose without looking at him, as one may speak to a servant. “Peregrine, Madam.” “Peregrine?” she dwelt on the syllables. “A bird?” “A species of hawk, Madam.” “Then a bird of prey?” “Maybe; yet swift of flight, a wanderer.” “Ah! And were you named for prey, flight, or wanderer?” Peregrine lifted his shoulders, the merest suspicion of a shrug. “The last, so my mother told me.” “Yet you have not wandered far, nor are likely to do so.” “True, Madam; yet you speak now of the body.” “The body?” “The spirit may soar aloft, wander in realms of fancy. No man but the owner may clip the wings of that bird.” “You speak seriously for a Jester.” “Serious words, Madam, cloak light fancies. Light words cloak serious fancies. Therefore you perceive my fancies, being light of wing, can soar.” “Ah!” She threw him a swift glance, read something sombre in his eyes; remembered, since a woman’s heart should surely hold some thought for others, that death’s hand had but lately touched one near to him. Peregrine read her glance; had no mind for pity in that direction. Death had come as a good friend to his sire, had flung the cell door open. Yet how to turn her thought? How act the part it was his to play? Fate had indeed flung the rôle upon him, garbed his body while poorly equipping his tongue. In this he perceived her irony. Seeking for words his hand touched his tabor. “Madam, I know a song.” “But one?” Her voice held a hint of mockery. “For the moment.” “A merry song? A sad song?” “Madam, it will accord with the mood of the listener, therefore I will term it neither a merry song, nor a sad song, but an adaptable song.” She leaned back in her chair. “An unusual song. Let us hear it.” Peregrine struck a couple of chords on the tabor, then in a voice not large, but a sweet barytone, he sang: _Ah, what it is to dream Know ye, who seek to deem Your way a path more bright Than that it now doth seem; More grand of sight, more bathed in light. Ah, what it is to dream!_ _If thou dost e’er desire To seek sweet fancy’s fire, To warm at her soft flame, Repent not of the hire, Nor whence it came, nor count it blame If thou dost e’er desire._