At the head of the board sat a woman in a robe of orange silk. Her hair, a tawny gold, bound with a fillet of flaming stones, shone with its own lustre, rivalled successfully the brilliance of her gown. Her skin, olive hued, glowed with a very subtle warmth. You guessed her body possessed of the fires of the South. Her eyes, a purple-blue, looked at you from beneath dark brows level and very beautifully marked. Her mouth, curved and modelled like a Greek mouth, squared faintly at the corners, showing her luxurious. Her nose, straight and finely chiselled, had delicately arched nostrils. She leaned back in her chair, a great one of carved ivory, and smiled at the faces around her. One man sprang to his feet, a pretty youth in purple doublet and hose, a big amethyst hanging from a silver chain about his neck. “To Thaïs!” he cried, raising his glass on high. The light shining through it the wine glowed like a ruby. The flower-wreath about the table swayed, rose. “To Thaïs!” came the cry from a score of voices, while ruby-red glasses flashed aloft. “The glorious Thaïs!” cried one. “The divine Thaïs!” “The adorable Thaïs!” “The incomparable Thaïs!” “Thaïs the Enchantress!” “Thaïs our Venus!” “Thaïs our Aphrodite!” “Thaïs whom we worship!” So the litany went around the board. And Peregrine without mocked in his heart, deeming them fools, yet in a manner envying them their folly. The cry died away. Again the guests were seated at the table. Peregrine drew his tabor from beneath his cloak, a long sombre garment, given him by an old woman on the third day of his journeying. “’Tis not well to blazon yourself Jester,” she had said sagely. “An’ men have the sense to see you so beneath the cloak ’tis other matter. A true Jester will hide his motley. ’Tis your false fool shows his garb to all comers. You, I think, are true Jester.” Whereupon she had chuckled very cunningly. So Peregrine wore the cloak she had given him, finding wisdom in her words. Now from beneath it he pulled forth his tabor, stepped into the shadow of the Castle, touched the strings lightly and set himself to sing. _Listen all who fain would know How a rose began to grow, Of its blooming I will show, None can so well as I._ _Planted by a tender smile, Watered with fair words the while, Who could guess they were but guile? None truly less than I._ _Soft it opened in the sun; Never such a perfect one Bloomed, I wot, since time begun. None held so true as I._ _Red the rose and passing sweet, For a lady’s bosom meet, There he laid it at her feet. None saw so well as I._