Simon shrugged his shoulders. “No thanks are due. You forced an entry.”
“You might have pushed me without.”
“And have had your death on my soul. ’Twould be a heavier burden than I’ve a mind for.” He seated himself again by the fire. The man watched him from the floor.
“Who you are I know not,” said Simon, “where you come from I care less, but that you must bide here the night is obvious.”
“I am rejoiced you see it so,” was the reply. “My name is Peregrine, a Jester, at your service. Since I bide here the night ’twere well we were acquainted, in spite of your little caring.”
Simon grunted. “A Jester! A pretty jest it would have been for me an’ you had died on my threshhold. What caused you swoon?”
“Hunger,” said Peregrine very simply.
Simon looked at him from beneath shaggy eyebrows. Then he got slowly to his feet. From a shelf he fetched a plate of dark bread.
“Eat,” he said briefly, holding it towards him.
Peregrine fell ravenously upon the coarse food. A moment Simon watched him, then turned again to the shelf. From it he took a piece of honeycomb.