“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.