Peregrine lifted his shoulders, the merest suspicion of a shrug. “The last, so my mother told me.”
“Yet you have not wandered far, nor are likely to do so.”
“True, Madam; yet you speak now of the body.”
“The body?”
“The spirit may soar aloft, wander in realms of fancy. No man but the owner may clip the wings of that bird.”
“You speak seriously for a Jester.”
“Serious words, Madam, cloak light fancies. Light words cloak serious fancies. Therefore you perceive my fancies, being light of wing, can soar.”
“Ah!” She threw him a swift glance, read something sombre in his eyes; remembered, since a woman’s heart should surely hold some thought for others, that death’s hand had but lately touched one near to him.
Peregrine read her glance; had no mind for pity in that direction. Death had come as a good friend to his sire, had flung the cell door open. Yet how to turn her thought? How act the part it was his to play? Fate had indeed flung the rôle upon him, garbed his body while poorly equipping his tongue. In this he perceived her irony. Seeking for words his hand touched his tabor.
“Madam, I know a song.”