The cry died away. Again the guests were seated at the table. Peregrine drew his tabor from beneath his cloak, a long sombre garment, given him by an old woman on the third day of his journeying.
“’Tis not well to blazon yourself Jester,” she had said sagely. “An’ men have the sense to see you so beneath the cloak ’tis other matter. A true Jester will hide his motley. ’Tis your false fool shows his garb to all comers. You, I think, are true Jester.” Whereupon she had chuckled very cunningly.
So Peregrine wore the cloak she had given him, finding wisdom in her words. Now from beneath it he pulled forth his tabor, stepped into the shadow of the Castle, touched the strings lightly and set himself to sing.
Listen all who fain would know
How a rose began to grow,
Of its blooming I will show,
None can so well as I.
Planted by a tender smile,
Watered with fair words the while,
Who could guess they were but guile?