“Hullo, Bergil!”

“Hello, Sir P—not you, too!”

“Not me, too, what?”

“I had heard tell of the King and the Lord Faramir taking leave of their wits, but—”

“And why not?  A little madness—” Pippin broke off.  “A little harmless madness never hurt anybody.  If I’d known that you’d object so, I wouldn’t have tried to find you.”

“So you mean to… to what?”

“I have a ward of the City under my care.  I thought she might miss some of the company of her fellow youth.”

“She?”

The clump of lads with whom Bergil had been playing caught sight of Míriel, her hands folded placidly in front of her.

“Oh, come!” one of them groaned.  “A maiden?”

Pippin stood stock still.  “Hador!” he barked.  “Are you not of a family that has served Gondor faithfully for years untold?  Have you not been instructed in the principles of chivalry that are part and parcel of being a man of Gondor?”

The lad flushed and slunk to the back of the group.  Pippin surveyed them all with a wearied eye.  “Since none of you seems to know how to treat a fair maiden properly, it seems that I must needs teach you.”

At this there was a small amount of laughter.  Pippin allowed for a moment of reflection and realized that he must look something foolish for this.  But no matter.  He turned to Míriel and bowed low, took her white hand in his and touched his lips to it.  “If my lady would have the honor of a dance?”

He looked up mid-bow to wink at the maiden.  Míriel flushed a pleasing shade of pink, her eyes twinkling with new mirth.  “I would indeed, my lord, if I knew how.  And where is to be the music to accompany our endeavor?”

The lads looked among one another.  “Does anyone know ‘The Last Guardsman of the Tower’?”

“That’s not a dancing song!”

“Can you think of anything better?”

After a few more minutes of squabbling one of the lads began to sing something that was somewhat danceable, at least as far as Gondorian dancing went.  He would make it work.

“Now,” Pippin said, “this is one of the couples dances from my homeland, and if you’ll just follow the lead of my woolly feet…”

There was a smattering of applause when they had finished the set.  Pippin bowed to the ward again.  “Who wants to take her next?” he asked the lads.

There was no one who did not want to dance at least one set with Míriel, even though the dance itself was one unfamiliar.  But Pippin was in an indulgent mood and declared that Bergil should be the one to go next.

“Be kind to her,” he whispered to Bergil before handing the maiden off.  “She has lost much.”

Bergil caught Pippin’s eye, and the light of understanding flashed between them.