Part 4

"To serve my father's sword!"

She turned from her interrogator and entered her dwelling, passing between its fringe of columns, as slim and erect as they, while the fool gaped at her. In another moment she reappeared, carrying with her that which contrasted strangely enough with her sex, her beauty, and her youth. She bore in her strong hands, and bore with ease, a great two-handed sword--the two-handed sword of the executioner, her father--the two-handed sword that was the symbol of the stroke of justice in the eyes of all the world. With an air of pride the girl carried the great weapon, the pride of a child with its doll, of a mother with her infant, of a soldier with his flag.

At the sight of her the fool flung up his arms and emitted a queer, ropy gust of laughter.

"Oh, ho!" he gurgled, "oh, ho! I think I know you now. You are the daughter of Theron the executioner."

The girl looked straightly at him, her eyes shining under levelled brows. She let the point of the great sword rest on the grass, and she leaned upon its mighty cross-piece, resting her cheek against its handle. Her red hair ran in ripples over her shoulders and over the hilt of the blade, red as ever the blood the blade had caused to flow of old.

"I am the daughter of Theron the executioner," she said, gravely.

The monster flung a sneer from thrust-out lips, emphasizing it with thrust-out hands.

"A pretty trade!" he cried, derisively. The girl answered him as calmly and proudly as if she were the very divinity of justice rebuking some obscene brawler.

"I have no horror of my father's trade. This sword is but the red weapon of law, as law is the red weapon of life."

"I have heard of you," the man retorted, yelping at her serenity. "The wild, shy country people believe the blood that sword has shed flushes in your hair, and that the life it has taken rekindles in your eyes."

Perpetua shook her head.

"This sword has shed no blood since I was born. King Robert the Good had no need of it."

The deformed clasped his lean fingers across his knees and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of pleasure.

"King Robert the Bad will have great need of it. Your father's arms shall ache with swinging. Why, my own head would drop to-morrow like a wind-fallen apple if I had not taken fool's leave to the heights and the hollows."

The girl drew back a little, still clinging to the sword.

"Are you blood-guilty?" she asked, sternly.

The fool laughed shrilly to see the executioner's daughter shrink from blood-guiltiness.

"Not I. I am but Diogenes, the Court Fool. I have been Prince Robert's plaything over yonder in Naples since the dawn of his evil spring. When his father's death brought him over-seas to Sicily, I must needs come too, for my wry wit diverts him and my wry body sets off his comeliness. I plumed myself on my favor, but I was bottle-brave last night, and I blundered. In my cups I aped the King's airs and graces to a covey of court strumpets till their sleek sides creaked with laughter. 'Thus does King Robert carry himself,' jigged I, 'and thus does he kiss a lady's hand--fa, la, la!' Oh, it was rare."

Even as he spoke Diogenes renewed his antics, skipping on the grass to mimic how the King skipped on the palace floor, and with his lean claws he blew kisses. Perpetua thought him more repulsive in his mirth than in his rage. But suddenly his mirth dropped and his voice fell to a whisper.

"And then the King caught me at my capers and his heart swelled like a wet sponge. He swore a great oath that my fool's head should be the first to fall under his tyranny."

The girl crossed herself in horror as she questioned.

"Surely, he would not kill a fool for his folly?"

The fool shrugged his shoulders; fear and malignity tugged at the muscles of his cheeks and made them twitch.

"The King's soul is as red as hell; sin scarlet through and through; warp and woof, there is no white thread of heaven in him. Shall I number you the beads in his chaplet of vices? The seven deadly devils wanton in his heart; his spirit is of an incredible lewdness; he is prouder than the Pope, more cruel than a mousing cat--all which I complacently forgave him till he touched at my top-knot, but now I hate him."

Again the girl crossed herself swiftly, while she looked at the puckered face with curiosity, with pity.

"Can you hate in God's sunshine?" she asked, and as she spoke she looked about her at the trees and the mountains and the sea and the grass and the flowers, ennobled and ennobling in the sunlight, and her heart ached at the new thoughts that had thrust themselves into her life. But the fool sneered at her surprise and did not heed her pity.

"My hate is a cold snake, and the sun will not thaw me." He struck himself fiercely on the breast and stared at her. "Look at me, humped and hideous. How could this rugged hull prove an argosy of ineffabilities?"

The pity deepened on the girl's face, scattering the curiosity, and she spoke gently, hopefully: