"And who are you, my lad?"

"Peirol, the gooseherd's boy," the youngster replied composedly. "You're
none of the family, are you?"

"Only a jongleur. You have a great many pigeons here."

"That's why I came in when I heard you playing. Does she--Lady Philippa--
like pigeons?"

"I think she does. In fact I know she does. Why?"

"Grandfather said she would not care how many pigeons were killed to make
pies. Nobody really loves them much, but me. They're fond of me too."

The boy gave a low call and a soft rush of wings was heard in every
direction. Pigeons flew from tree-top, tower, parapet and gable, alighting
on his head and arms until he looked like a little pigeon-tree in full
bloom.

"Some of them are voyageurs," he said, strewing salted pease for the
strutting, cooing, softly crowding birds. "I'm training them every day.
Some day I shall know more about pigeons than any one else in the world."

Ranulph had some ado not to smile; the speaker was so small and the tone
so assured. "Perhaps you will," he said. "Are they as tame with others as
they are with you?" "Some others," answered Peirol gravely. "People who
are patient and know how to keep still. They like you."