“To Fate’s Jester,” he cried. And he drank thirstily from his cupped hand.
A crackling in the woods behind him brought him to his feet. His frayed nerves tensioned he gazed towards the bushes. From among them came a small figure in blue and silver, glancing anxious-eyed to right and left. Seeing Peregrine the boy rushed forward, flung himself before him, clasped his knees.
“Peregrine, Peregrine,” he sobbed. “Oh! the brutes. Would I were a man!”
Peregrine hauled the child gently to his feet.
“Tut, lad,” he said lightly, “’tis all in the day’s work.”
The boy snivelled in his sleeve. His cheeks were very tear-glazed.
“An’ thou wert the man thou desirest to be thou wouldst not weep,” said Peregrine seating himself on the ground, drawing the child beside him.
“My heart would,” choked the boy.
Peregrine finding grim truth in the reply made no answer.
“I hate them all,” said Pippo, his young face very vicious. At that Peregrine laughed mirthlessly.