struck his chest. "I shall do neither. And I shall cut no more wood. I
go adventuring."

Clotilde rose and drew her grey cloak around her.

"I am adventuring, too," she said. "Only I have no voice and no horse.
May I go with you?"

The boy was doubtful. He had that innate love and tenderness that is
given to his kind instead of other things. But a child!

"I will take you," he said at last, rather heavily. "But where, little
lady?"

"To my mother at the castle of Black Philip." And when his face
fell--for Philip was not named The Black only for his beard--

"She loves singing. I will ask you to sing before her."

That decided him. He took her before him on the grey horse and they set
off, two valiant adventurers, a troubadour and a lady, without food or
sufficient clothing, but with high courage and a song.

And because it was the Truce of God the children went unharmed,
encountering no greater adventure than hunger and cold and aching
muscles. Robbers sulked in their fastnesses, and their horses pawed the
ground. Murder, rapine and pillage slept that Christmas day, under the
shelter of the cross.

The Fool, who ached for adventure, rather resented the peace.