_But she crushed it ’neath her tread, Bruised and broke it till it bled; In the mire it lay, dead, dead. None laughed as soft as I._ _Roses red and roses white, Fragrant, full of sweet delight, One day’s bloom, then falls the night. None see it dark as I._ _Pluck the roses for your own; Never to another shown Crush them soon as fully blown. None warn you well as I._ The song died away. A figure moved to the window. Backed by brilliant light it made a dark patch in the square opening. “Who sings warningly of love?” demanded a voice. “I do,” said Peregrine through the darkness. “And who are you, if one may be allowed the question?” “A wanderer.” “Truly one who has wandered to good purpose since he finds himself at so fair a goal. Wilt show yourself, Sir Wanderer?” Peregrine stepped into the square of light cast upon the grass from the window. He saw looking out at him a big man clad in scarlet, somewhat full-bodied. His face, as well as Peregrine could see it against the light, was sufficiently humorous, with small twinkling eyes deep-set. “What brought you hither?” “Fate an’ it please you,” returned Peregrine. “Folly an’ it like you better.” “Folly leads not on so good a path. We will call it Fate.” “At your will.” “Or perchance it were better to term it good sense.” “Good sense,” said Peregrine, “having forethought in plenty gives the surplus of her wares to those she takes in hand. By which token I doubt me ’twas hers led me hither.” The big man laughed. “We’ll quarrel not as to the guide. ’Tis good enough that you are here.” “Humph!” said Peregrine, “maybe. But now that I am here what comes next in order?” “That you enter the Castle.” “A very friendly suggestion,” quoth Peregrine. “I would however point out that I bring no letter of credentials.” The big man laughed again, this time rather queerly. “For that matter the fact that you have found your way hither is in itself full enough credential. We are not inhospitable. Also I might suggest that you have no credential from us.” Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. “’Twere a pretty thing if a beggar should demand credentials from the man who gave him alms, or the wanderer from the man who offered him a shelter. An’ he did so he were a fool might well go drown in his own folly.” “And you would swim in your own wisdom, so your words and song would show.”