“Where is she?” demanded Peregrine, less desirous of knowing than wishful to gain a moment’s respite.
“In the west chamber among her women,” replied the boy. “She is—weary.” A pause preceded the last word.
Peregrine lifted his tabor from the broad sill of the window.
“Take me to her,” he said.
Crossing the hall and mounting the stairs the boy eyed Peregrine, gave him the close scrutiny of childhood, summed up what he found there, and I fancy found it not amiss for all that it is not usual to pay a vast respect to fools. Peregrine caught the lad’s eye upon him.
“Well, what do you make of me?” he smiled.
The boy flushed scarlet from brow to chin. Having caught a glimpse of the man beneath the motley words halted on his tongue.
“Your name?” asked Peregrine still smiling.
“Antony Philip Delamore,” stuttered the lad. “They call me Pippo.”
“Pippo,” echoed Peregrine thoughtfully. And the boy heard the name pleasantly from his lips.