Knows naught of ill or irksome care.
There’s little else a man may please
In freedom’s stead; no goodly share
Of oil or wine or golden corn.
Since freedom is both blythe and gay,
And like to earth’s most fairest morn,
Of freedom will I sing alway.”
His voice died away. The girl looked down upon him.
“A fair song,” she said appraisingly, setting her teeth in the side of a red apple. And then she laughed.
“Why do you laugh?” asked Peregrine.