“I have no horror of my father’s trade. This sword is but the red weapon of law, as law is the red weapon of life.”
“I have heard of you,” the man retorted, yelping at her serenity. “The wild, shy country people believe the blood that sword has shed flushes in your hair, and that the life it has taken rekindles in your eyes.”
Perpetua shook her head.
“This sword has shed no blood since I was born. King Robert the Good had no need of it.”
The deformed clasped his lean fingers across his knees and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of pleasure.
“King Robert the Bad will have great need of it. Your father’s arms shall ache with swinging. Why, my own head would drop to-morrow like a wind-fallen apple if I had not taken fool’s leave to the heights and the hollows.”
The girl drew back a little, still clinging to the sword.
“Are you blood-guilty?” she asked, sternly.
The fool laughed shrilly to see the executioner’s daughter shrink from blood-guiltiness.
“Not I. I am but Diogenes, the Court Fool. I have been Prince Robert’s plaything over yonder in Naples since the dawn of his evil spring. When his father’s death brought him over-seas to Sicily, I must needs come too, for my wry wit diverts him and my wry body sets off his comeliness. I plumed myself on my favor, but I was bottle-brave last night, and I blundered. In my cups I aped the King’s airs and graces to a covey of court strumpets till their sleek sides creaked with laughter. ‘Thus does King Robert carry himself,’ jigged I, ‘and thus does he kiss a lady’s hand—fa, la, la!’ Oh, it was rare.”