“Then ’tis evident he must bide here, since ’tis your father’s pleasure.” He looked not at Isabel as he spoke; but she, glancing side-ways at his face, was by no means so ill-satisfied at what she saw there. Matters to her mind were put in train. Feeling them so, pity brought a slight thaw to hatred. Once she smiled on the Jester, gave her hand to be kissed on the conclusion of a song that pleased her. Light tokens truly, yet hope springing swift anew to Peregrine’s heart the subsequent happenings were the more bitter. * * * * * One morning Isabel sitting in her chamber heard voices below her window. The words themselves reached her not, yet the tone was apparent to her. There was the Count’s smooth, exceeding silky; Peregrine’s holding exasperation for the moment well controlled. Seemingly unheeding she yet listened intently. Mary Chester raised anxious eyes from her embroidery; Leonora calm as her mistress, worked steadily; Monica, paling, fingered her rosary. Anon the Count laughed. Light though the sound was it held a stinging note. Peregrine’s voice rose somewhat harder. “Madam,” breathed Mary very low some unnamed fear clutching at her heart. Isabel looked towards her. “Yes?” she queried, eyebrows raised. “’Tis naught,” stammered Mary reddening, words halting on her tongue. “Ah!” The exclamation came from without. Though holding pain, Mary detected triumph in the sound. She moved very swiftly to the window. “Madam!” she said again in horror. “What is it?” asked Isabel quickly. “The Count Bonaventure lies upon the ground,” stammered Mary. “Methinks that Peregrine—” she broke off trembling. Isabel joined her at the window. “Go below, see to what hath chanced,” she ordered. And to herself she added, “I pray Count Bonaventure hath not over-reached himself in the matter.” Ill news flies very swiftly. Within the space of five minutes the whole Castle was agog with the happening. Peregrine the Jester had stabbed Count Bonaventure. True the wound was not over-serious, yet that was rather by good fortune than by good intention. Some half hour later Peregrine lay in the cellar; the Count, his wound bound, made light of the matter. “I can take it none so easily,” said Isabel hard-eyed. “The fellow should be hanged,” said Roger March, the captain of the guard, very bluntly. These were rude times, and Roger a hard-headed soldier. “Bah!” laughed Bonaventure ruefully, “’tis no matter for so harsh dealing.” Already he half-regretted his part in the affair. He liked Peregrine for his onslaught; saw the tongue a mean weapon to have used for his provoking. Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot overlook it,” she repeated very cold, seeing opportunity slipping from her. “Shall he hang, Madam?” asked Roger briefly.