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.

"So that you own a mistress, though Folly be your only master," laughed
the Count. "It would pleasure me to behold the lady whose property you
have the honour to be, Ser Peppino."

"You may behold her if you but turn your head," Peppino whispered.

Idly, with a smile upon his lips that was almost scornful, the Lord of
Aquila turned his eyes in the direction in which the fool was already
walking. And on the instant his whole expression changed. The amused
scorn was swept from his countenance, and in its place there sat now a
look of wonder that was almost awe.

Standing there, on the edge of the clearing, in which he lay, he beheld
a woman. He had a vague impression of a slender, shapely height, a
fleeting vision of a robe of white damask, a camorra of green velvet,
and a choicely wrought girdle of gold. But it was the glory of her
peerless face that caught and held his glance in such ecstatic awe; the
miracle of her eyes, which, riveted on his, returned his glance with
one of mild surprise. A child she almost seemed, despite her height and
womanly proportions, so fresh and youthful was her countenance.

Raised on his elbow, he lay