“What is that?” she demanded, finger pointing.
“Tabor?” she queried. The word as well as the instrument was unknown to her. “What is a tabor?”
“A musical instrument,” said Peregrine, smiling at the little ignoramus.
“Music!” Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed. “Ah, play it!” This was on a note of deep entreaty.
Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. Here was an interlude in his former mood of blackness. It was not wholly distasteful. You have seen that he favoured children. He found quaintness in this one.
“What shall I play for you?” he demanded, unslinging the instrument.
“Play while I sing,” she said firmly. “That will sound well.”
Peregrine chuckled. “Truly that depends on the singing,” quoth he. “On, then, with the song.”
Birdlike her voice rose in the pure air. Peregrine catching the melody came in with the tabor. Here is what she sang.
Of one that is so fair and bright _Velut maris stella_, Brighter than the day is light, _Parens et puella_: I cry to thee, thou see to me, Lady, pray thy Son for me, _Tam pia_, That I may come to thee _Maria_.
All this world was forlorn _Eva peccatrice_, Till our Lord was here born _De te genetrice_. With _ave_ it went away Darkling night, and comes the day _Salutis_; The well springeth out of thee, _Virtutis_.
Lady, flower of each thing, _Rosa sine spina_, Thou bear’st Jesus, Heaven’s King, _Gratia divina_: Of all thou bear’st the prize, Lady, queen of paradise _Electa_: Maid mild, Mother _es Effecta_.
“There,” she cried triumphant, as she ended, most innocently pleased with the performance, “I said it would sound well.”
“Liquid silver notes from a throat of gold,” said Peregrine, verily astonished. “An’ I had not other matters on hand, you and I might well roam the world together, and men would truly hearken to us, or they are greater dullards than even I judge them.”
She looked at him with longing eyes. His words held open a vista of bliss before her. But she shook her head sadly.
“It cannot be. I have work to do,” she said sorrowful.
“For that matter so indeed have I,” quoth Peregrine. “What manner of work is thine?”
“I mind my father’s goats,” she responded. “What work is yours?”
“I seek some one,” said Peregrine grimly.
“Some one I have never found,” was the answer.