“Shelter, for the love of heaven,” said a man’s voice. “I am none so sure of the love,” responded Simon, and made to shut the door. In this he was frustrated by the sudden swaying of the figure, which fell very prone across his threshhold, feet and legs without, head and shoulders on the mud floor of the hovel. “A very unceremonious entry,” grumbled Simon. And he stood for a moment irresolute. The man could not lie where he was, since his bulk upon the step made it impossible to close the door. The wind blew the smoke in eddying waves about the room. In a moment you could scarce see a hand’s breadth before your face. To push him without meant his death on a very certainty. Directly or indirectly Simon had never yet had the murder of a man on his soul, whatever sins else burdened it. Grumbling more heartily he got his hands under the man’s arms, and tugged him forward into the room. Then he made the door fast again. The smoke now making its way through the hole in the roof, the air cleared somewhat. Simon looked down upon the prostrate figure. “An’ he dies within ’twere e’en less pleasant than he died without,” he muttered. He got water in a horn cup, and held it to the man’s lips, forcing it between them. In a moment or so the man opened his eyes, lifted himself feebly on his elbow, and looked around. “Where am I?” he asked. “No more original than the rest of men,” muttered Simon. “There never yet was swooning man but asked his whereabouts on coming to himself. Doubtless fearing to find himself in a less pleasant place than he is accustomed to. An’ you would know, you are in the shelter you demanded.” “I thank you.” Simon shrugged his shoulders. “No thanks are due. You forced an entry.” “You might have pushed me without.” “And have had your death on my soul. ’Twould be a heavier burden than I’ve a mind for.” He seated himself again by the fire. The man watched him from the floor. “Who you are I know not,” said Simon, “where you come from I care less, but that you must bide here the night is obvious.” “I am rejoiced you see it so,” was the reply. “My name is Peregrine, a Jester, at your service. Since I bide here the night ’twere well we were acquainted, in spite of your little caring.” Simon grunted. “A Jester! A pretty jest it would have been for me an’ you had died on my threshhold. What caused you swoon?” “Hunger,” said Peregrine very simply. Simon looked at him from beneath shaggy eyebrows. Then he got slowly to his feet. From a shelf he fetched a plate of dark bread. “Eat,” he said briefly, holding it towards him. Peregrine fell ravenously upon the coarse food. A moment Simon watched him, then turned again to the shelf. From it he took a piece of honeycomb. “Here,” he said gruffly, “’tis toothsome stuff.”