It will be found in the chronicles of the Lords of Belisle that in a certain year of Grace, on the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene, one Count Bonaventure de Novello came to the Castle, bearing letters from Lord Robert to his daughter Isabel. It is further shown that he was received with hospitality, and remained for a time as a favoured guest of the Castle. The manner of his departure is not so clearly given, but one may guess that he departed in somewhat lesser favour. Yet it is neither his departure nor the manner of it that concerns us chiefly, but rather his arrival and his sojourn. A comely man this Bonaventure de Novello, so I have heard; of average height, olive-skinned, and bright-eyed. He could dance, he could sing; he had moreover a very pretty wit, and a tongue that knew well the handling of it. Up to a point it stood him in better stead than rapier, since the tongue may madden more readily than steel; the point passed the rapier was not lacking in its skill. In the matter of love he made it not at all, since he got plenty without his making, and scorned it accordingly. It was the same, I take it, with homage, liking, or any other favour. Therefore you will see Isabel looking queerly on him at the first, since it was ever her way to receive willingly rather than to give. Anon she began to exercise her customary wiles over him. Finding him none too easy to lure the task absorbed her. We may see Peregrine forgotten. Here it was that his roses began to wither. It is no easy task to show you Peregrine at this time. Very silent, showing his mind to none, one can but guess at it. I fancy he saw at first in Isabel’s bearing but the natural extra courtesy to a new-comer, a guest. Found—before a stranger—her apparent indifference towards himself to be expected. For a time he suffered it gladly, seeing himself thereby enduring a trifle of hardship for her sake, and at her will. Anon perplexity dawned upon his soul. A dog look crept into his eyes, the wonder of a dumb animal who believes he has displeased, yet knows not the manner of the displeasing; who holds none the less utter faith in his master. A word, a look at this time would have restored full buoyancy to his heart. None came, therefore he suffered mutely. “Truly you possess a very merry Jester,” quoth the Count one day, light sarcasm in the words. “A dull fellow,” said Isabel idly. “He eyes you like a dog at one time fondled, now relegated to the courtyard,” laughed Bonaventure. Easily uttered, spoken wholly in jest, the words shot very straight to Isabel’s heart, dyed her face with faint colour. “An’ his sire had not been Jester before him, I would have none of him,” she answered a thought over-readily. “Custom gave him the cap and bells which he wears, as you perceive, with a very long face.” Bonaventure laughed again. “An’ but custom gave him the motley, methinks I would override custom,” he responded. And thereupon turned to other matters.