“I too have dreamed,” retorted Simon. “Hope, I tell you, is dead within my soul. Yet—yet one fancy remains. An’ it be not wholly foul, an’ there be one spot of sweetness left within it e’er I die, perchance ’twill be carried hence by my singing bees. A mad fancy, and I am e’en mad to dream it. ’Tis cankered through and through. We have had enough of jargon for the time. An’ you would sleep, there’s your couch.” He pointed to a heap of dried bracken in a corner of the room.
Peregrine rose from the floor, crossed to the bracken, and lay down. Simon sat motionless by the fire. Without, the wind sighed among the trees in the valley.
A sound in the room roused Peregrine the next morning. He looked up to see Simon standing by the open doorway. Without, the dim world was carpetted in snow.
“You made good slumber,” said Simon turning and seeing him awake.
“Exceeding good,” responded Peregrine refreshed and cheerful. “And how fared you?”
“As needful,” grunted Simon.
“I must onward,” said Peregrine.
“Still mad,” grumbled Simon. “You must eat first.”
He produced more bread and honeycomb. They mealed in silence. The meal ended, Peregrine got to his feet.