It came. The lights in the hall were extinguished. The moonlight, falling through the windows, lay along the floor in a silver pathway. The tapestries at the further end of the hall swung apart. From between them, down the moonlight path, ran bare-footed girls silken-robed, veiled, four phalanxes of colour, pale heliotrope shading to deepest purple; red to fullest crimson; the green of young beech leaves to the black green of pine trees; maize-colour toning through orange to tawny brown. A moment they swayed bowing before the dais, then set themselves to dance, accompanied by music from hidden musicians. Their feet upon the green marble of the floor were like little white flowers dancing in breeze-swept meadows. Here was very intoxication of movement, rhythm perfect in harmony. As they danced they raised their veils. Peregrine looked on their faces oval, bright-eyed, scarlet-lipped; small heads set on slim young throats. The very incarnation of youth and joy was personified in the dance before him. The fleetness of it, the dainty fragility, brought with it a sense of evanescence. The thought struck suddenly cold to his heart. Thaïs bent from her chair towards him. “How does it please you?” she asked, her breath soft upon his cheek, her voice like the tone of a muffled silver bell. “Madam, it pleases me exceeding well,” said Peregrine. Meeting her eyes he smiled. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIV THE QUEST FOR the space of twelve months Peregrine abode at the Castle Syrtes. During the first six the life within it pleased him exceeding well. There was no lack of hospitality; his presence was very assuredly desired. On all sides he found himself a favourite, from the least of the guests to the divine Thaïs herself. This was enough to please a man who had found himself hitherto, save for a few weeks of delusion, of very small importance. He became Head of the Council of Arts as they termed it, wherein his opinion was most widely deferred to. The Cult of the Jester was on all tongues. What precisely this Cult was I know not, save that it had for its motto _Dum vivimus, vivamus_; and that said it is perchance unnecessary to seek further light on the matter. I know they talked very blandly of Sorrow as the highest exponent of Art, whereas no one of them had ever glimpsed even the fringe of her garment, though Peregrine assuredly believed he had. Joy, they contended, followed close in her path. They spoke intimately of both. But it is very certain that none who have not met Sorrow face to face can hope to meet Joy. Of them all Peregrine was the only one whom we may believe laughed now and again at himself. A very small grace truly, but we may trust a saving one.