“Oh, fool, oh, beneficent fool, well done! ’Tis a song for a man—’twould shame De Carteret of St. Ouen’s to his knees,” cried Lemprière.
“Oh, benignant fool, well done!—’twould draw me from my meals,” said a voice behind the three, and turning hastily about they saw, smiling and applausive, the Duke’s Daughter. Beside her was Angèle.
The three got to their feet, and each made obeisance after his kind—Buonespoir ducking awkwardly, his blue eyes bulging with pleasure, Lemprière swelling with vanity and spreading wide acknowledgment of their presence, the fool condescending a wave of welcome.
“Oh, abundant Amicitia!” cried the fool to the Duke’s Daughter, “thou art saved by so doing. So get thee to thanksgiving and God’s mercy.”
“THEY SAW, SMILING AND APPLAUSIVE, THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER AND ANGÈLE”
“Wherefore am I saved by being drawn from my meals by thy music, fool?” she asked, linking her arm in Angèle’s.
“Because thou art more enamoured of lampreys than of man; and it is written that thou shalt love thy fellow-man, and he that loveth not is lost; therefore, thou art lost if thou lingerest at meals.”
“Is it so, then? And this lady—what thinkest thou? Must she also abstain and seek good company?”
“No, verily, Amicitia, for she is good company itself, and so she may sleep in the larder and have no fear.”