“Who is your master, fool?” quoth the Count, in an idle spirit.
“There is a man who clothes and feeds me, noble sir, but Folly is my only master.”
“To what end does he do this?”
“Because I pretend to be a greater fool than he, so that by contrast with me he seems unto himself wise, which flatters his conceit. Again, perhaps, because I am so much uglier than he that, again by contrast, he may account himself a prodigy of beauty.”
“Odd, is it not?” the Count humoured him.
“Not half so odd as that the Lord of Aquila should lie here, roughly clad, a wound in his shoulder, talking to a fool.”
Francesco eyed him with a smile.
“Give thanks to God that Fanfulla is not here to hear you, or they had been your last words for pretty though he be, Messer Fanfulla is a very monster of bloodthirstiness. With me it is different. I am a man of very gentle ways, as you may have heard, Messer Buffoon. But see that you forget at once my station and my name, or you may realise how little they need buffoons in the Court of Heaven.”
“My lord, forgive. I shall obey you,” answered the hunchback, with a stricken manner. And then through the glade came a voice—a woman's voice, wondrous sweet and rich—calling: “Peppino! Peppino!”
“It is my mistress calling me,” quoth the fool, leaping to his feet.