I

PEIROL OF THE PIGEONS


It was a great day in Count Thibaut's castle. Every one knew that, down to
the newest smallest scullery-maid. The Count had come home from England
with Lady Philippa, his daughter, and there would be feasting and song and
laughter for days and days and days.

Ranulph the troubadour, who had arrived in their company, was glad of a
quiet hour in the garden before supper was served. He knew that he would
have to sing that evening, and he wished to go over the melodies he had in
mind, for he might on the spur of the moment compose new words to them. In
fact a song in honor of his hostess was already in his thoughts. The very
birds of the air seemed to welcome her. The warm southern winds were full
of their warbling--beccafico, loriot, merle, citronelle, woodlark,
nightingale,--every tree, copse and tuft of grass held a tiny minstrel.
When the great gate opened to a fanfare of trumpets, from the castle walls
there came the murmur of innumerable doves. A castle had its dove-cote as
it had its poultry-yard or rabbit-warren, but the birds were not always so
fearless or so many.

The song was nearly finished when the singer became aware that some one
else was in the garden. A small boy, with serious dark eyes and a white
pigeon in his arms, stood close by. Ranulph smiled a persuasive smile
which few children could resist.