THE JESTER SLEEPS
“The Jester is dead.” The words were said gravely, and the Lady who heard them looked keenly in an old man’s face.
“Dead,” she cried.
“Yes! Found dead this morning. We could not find his cap and bells nor the instruments he loved more than all other things. There seems no more music in the world now, for we all grew happy through his music and the sun.”
“Dead!” she whispered. “May I....”
She hesitated. “Yes, come.”
The old man led the way.
“He is there. We found nothing by him but the leaves of a dead white rose and the wind from his window blew them on to his breast.”
“He smiles,” said the Lady.
There was silence in the cell except for the fierce howling of an April wind and the tiny fluttering of the leaves on the breast of the Jester.
The Lady turned towards the door.
“His instruments are at the gate,” she said, impatiently. “Why did he die, I wonder? The reeds are no use to me. I cannot play upon them ... not a sound will come.”
Green Symphony
John Gould Fletcher