"What, good Witch!" quoth he, "here methinks is that beyond all thy spells to achieve."

"O Fool," she panted, "kind Fool, sound me this horn, for I'm old and scant o' breath. Wind it shrill and loud, good Motley, the rallying-note, for there is ill work afoot this night. Sound me shrewd blast, therefore."

"Nay, 't were labour in vain, Witch; there be no outlaws hereabout, free men are they henceforth and gone, each and every."

"Out alas—alas!" cried the old woman, wringing her hands. "Then woe is me for the fair lady Yolande."

"Ha! What of her, good Witch? Threateneth danger? Speak!"

"Aye, Fool, danger most dire! My Lord Gui yet liveth, and this night divers of his men shall bear her away where he lieth raging for her in his black castle of Ells—"

"Now by heaven's light!" swore Jocelyn, his eyes fierce and keen, "this night shall Fool be crowned of Love or sleep with kindly Death."

"Stay, Fool, thy foes be a many! Wilt cope with them alone?"

"Nay!" cried a voice:

"Not so, grandam For here I am!"

and Lobkyn stepped forward.

"Aha, my pretty poppet! Loved duck, my downy chick—what wouldst?"

"Fight, grandam, Smite, grandam, Sweet, blood-begetting blows. Where Fool goeth Well Fool knoweth Lobkyn likewise goes."

"Why, then, my bantling—loved babe, fight thy fiercest, for these be wicked men and 't will be an evil fray. And she is sweet and good, so, Lobkyn, be thy strongest—"

Saith Lobkyn:

"Aye that will I, Or may I die. By this good kiss I vow thee this.

"And here is signal, Fool, shall shew Each where the other chance to go.

"Croak like a frog, Bark like a dog, Grunt like a hog, I'll know thee.

"Hoot like an owl, Like grey wolf howl, Or like bear growl, 'T will shew thee—"

"Then come, trusty Lob, and my thanks to thee!" cried Jocelyn, catching up his quarter-staff. "But haste ye, for I would be hence ere the moon get high. Come!"

So Duke Jocelyn strode away with Lobkyn Lollo at his heels; now as they went, the moon began to rise.



FYTTE 12

Which being the last Fytte of our Geste I hope may please my daughter best.

"O, Wind of Night, soft-creeping, Sweet charge I give to thee, Steal where my love lies sleeping And bear her dreams of me; And in her dream, Love, let me seem All she would have me be.

"Kind sleep! By thee we may attain To joys long hoped and sought in vain, By thee we all may find again Our lost divinity.

"So, Night-wind, softly creeping, This charge I give to thee, Go where my love lies sleeping And bear her dreams of me."

Hearkening to this singing Yolande shivered, yet not with cold, and casting a cloak about her loveliness came and leaned forth into the warm, still glamour of the night, and saw where stood Jocelyn tall and shapely in the moonlight, but with hateful cock's-comb a-flaunt and ass's ears grotesquely a-dangle; wherefore she sighed and frowned upon him, saying nothing.

"Yolande?" he questioned. "O my lady, and wilt frown upon my singing?"

Answered she, leaning dimpled chin upon white fist and frowning yet:

"Nay, not—not thy—singing."

"Is 't then this cap o' Folly—my ass's ears, Yolande? Then away with them! So shalt jester become very man as thou art very maid!" Forthwith he thrust back his cock's-comb and so stood gazing up at her wide-eyed.

But she, beholding thus his scarred face, shivered again, shrinking a little, whereupon Jocelyn bowed his head, hiding his features in his long, black-curling hair.

"Alas, my lady!" he said, "doth my ill face offend thee? This would I put off also for thy sake an it might be, but since this I may not do, close thou thine eyes a while and hear me speak. For now do I tell thee, Yolande, that I—e'en I that am poor jester—am yet a man loving thee with man's love. I that am one with face thus hatefully scarred do seek thee in thy beauty to my love—"

"Presumptuous Fool, how darest thou speak me thus?" she whispered.

"For that great love dareth greatly, Yolande."

"And what of thy lord? How of Duke Jocelyn, thy master?"

"He is but man, lady, even as I. Moreover for thee he existeth not since thou hast ne'er beheld him—to thy knowing."

"Nay, then—what of this?" she questioned, drawing the jewelled picture from her bosom.

"'T is but what it is, lady, a poor thing of paint!"

"But sheweth face of noble beauty, Fool!"

"Aye, nobly painted, Yolande! A thing of daubed colours, seeing naught of thy beauty, speaking thee no word of love, whiles here stand I, a sorry Fool of beauty none, yet therewithal a man to woo thee to my love—"

"Thy love? Ah, wilt so betray thy lord's trust?"

"Blithely, Yolande! For thee I would betray my very self."

"And thyself art Fool faithless to thy lord, a rhyming jester, a sorry thing for scorn or laughter—and yet—thy shameful habit shames thee not, and thy foolish songs hold naught of idle folly! And thou—thou art the same I saw 'mid gloom of dungeon sing brave song in thy chains! Thou art he that overthrew so many in the lists! O Joconde, my world is upside down by reason of thee."

"And thou, Yolande, didst stoop to me within my dungeon! And thou didst pray for me, Yolande, and now—now within this sweet night thou dost lean down to me through the glory of thy hair—to me in my very lowliness! And so it is I love thee, Yolande, love thee as none shall ever love thee, for man am I with heart to worship thee, tongue to woo thee, eyes to behold thy beauties, and arms to clasp thee. So am I richer than yon painted duke that needs must woo thee with my lips. And could I but win thee to love—ah, Yolande, could I, despite these foolish trappings, this blemished face, see Love look on me from thine eyes, O—then—"

"How—then—Joconde?"

"Then should Fool, by love exalted, change to man indeed and I—mount up to heaven—thus!" So saying, Jocelyn began to climb by gnarled ivy and carven buttress. And ever as he mounted she watched him through the silken curtain of her hair, wide of eye and with hands tight-clasped.

"Ah, Joconde!" she whispered, "'t is madness—madness! Ah, Joconde!" But swift he came and swung himself upon the balcony beside her and reached out his arms in mute supplication, viewing her wistfully but with scarred face transfigured by smile ineffably tender, and when he spoke his voice was hushed and reverent.

"I am here, Yolande, because methought to read within thy look the wonder of all wonders. But, O my lady, because I am but what I am, fain would I hear thee speak it also."

"Joconde," said she in breathless voice, "wouldst shame me—?"

"Shame?" he cried. "Shame? Can there be aught of shame in true love? Or is it that my ass's ears do shame thee, my cock's-comb and garments pied shame the worship of this foolish heart, and I, a Fool, worshipping thee, shame thee by such worship? Then—on, cock's-comb! Ring out, silly bells! Fool's love doth end in folly! Off love—on folly—a Fool can but love and die."

"Stay, Joconde; ah, how may I tell thee—? Why dost thou start and fumble with thy dagger?"

"Heard you aught, lady?"

"I heard an owl hoot in the shadows yonder, no more."

"True, lady, but now shall this owl croak like a frog—hearken! Aha—and now shall frog bark like dog—"

"And what meaneth this?"

"That thou, proud lady, must this night choose betwixt knightly rogue and motley Fool—here be two evils with yet a difference—"

"Here is strange, wild talk, Fool!"

"Here shall be wild doings anon, lady, methinks. Hush thee and listen!"

A jangle of bridle-chains, a sound of voices loud and rough, and a tread of heavy feet that, breaking rudely upon the gentle-brooding night, drove the colour from Yolande's soft cheek and hushed her voice to broken whisper:

"Heaven shield us, what now, Joconde?"

"Wolves, lady, wolves that come to raven—see yonder!" Even as he spake they espied armed men who, bold and assured by reason of the solitude, moved in the garden below; and on back and breast of each was the sign of the Bloody Hand.

"My Lord Gui's followers! Alas, Joconde, these mean thee ill—here is death for thee!" Now as she spake, Jocelyn thrilled to the touch of her hand upon his arm, a hand that trembled and stole to clasp his. "Alas, Joconde, they have tracked thee hither to slay thee—"

"And were this so, wouldst fly with me, Yolande? Wouldst trust thy beauties to a Fool's keeping?"

"Nay, nay, this were madness, Joconde; rather will I hide thee—aye, where none shall dare seek thee—come!"

"Yolande," he questioned, "Yolande, wilt trust thyself to Love and me?" But seeing how she shrank away, his eager arms fell and he bowed his head. "Nay, I am answered," quoth he, "even while thine eyes look love, thy body abhorreth Fool's embrace—I am answered. Nay, 't is enough, trouble not for words—ha, methinks it is too late, the wolves be hard upon us—hark ye to their baying!"

And now was sudden uproar, a raving clamour of fierce shouts, and a thundering of blows upon the great door below.

"Yolande—ha, Yolande, yield thee! Open! Open!"

"Ah—mercy of God! Is it me they seek?" she whispered.

"Thee, Yolande! To bear thee to their lord's embraces—"

"Rather will I die!" she cried, and snatched the dagger from his girdle.

"Not so!" quoth he, wresting the weapon from her grasp. "Rather shalt thou live a while—for thou art mine—mine to-night, Yolande—come!" And he clasped her in fierce arms. "Nay, strive not lest I kiss thee to submission, for thou art mine, though it be for one brief hour and death the next!" So, as she struggled for the dagger, he kissed her on mouth and eyes and hair until she lay all unresisting in his embrace; while ever and anon above the thunder of blows the night clamoured with the fierce shout:

"Open—open! Yolande, ha, Yolande!"

"There is death—and worse!" she panted. "Loose me!"

"Stay," he laughed, "here thou 'rt in thy rightful place at last—upon my heart, Yolande. Now whither shall I bear thee? Where lieth safety?"

"Loose me!" she commanded.

"Never! Hark, there yields the good door at last!"

"Then here will we die!"

"So be it, Yolande! A sweet death thus, heart to heart and lip to lip!"

"O Fool—I hate thee!"

"Howbeit, Yolande—I love thee!"

"Yolande! Ha—Yolande!"

The cry was louder now and so near that she shivered and, hiding her face, spake below her breath:

"The turret-stair—behind the arras of my bed!"

Swiftly, lightly he bore her down the winding stair and by divers passage-ways until, thrusting open a narrow door, he found himself within the garden and, keeping ever amid the darkest shadows, hasted on to the postern hard by the lily-pool.

And now Yolande felt herself swung to lofty saddle, heard Jocelyn's warning shout drowned in a roar of voices and loud-trampling hoofs as the great horse reared, heard a fierce laugh and, looking up, saw the face above her grim and keen-eyed beneath its foolish cock's-comb as his vicious steel flashed to right and left, and ever as he smote he mocked and laughed:

"Ha—well smitten, Lob! Oho, here Folly rides with pointed jest keen and two-edged—make way, knaves—make way for Folly—"

The snorting charger, wheeled by strong hand, broke free, whereon rose an uproar of shouts and cries that sank to a meaningless babble swept backward on the rush of wind. Away, away they sped, through moonlight and shadow, with fast-beating hoofs that rang on paved walk, that thudded on soft grass, that trampled the tender flowers; and Yolande, swaying to the mighty arm that clasped her, saw the fierce, scarred face bent above her with eyes that gleamed under scowling brows and mouth grim-smiling; and shivering, she looked no more.

On they sped with loosened rein, o'er grassy mead, through ferny hollows, o'erleaping chattering rill that babbled to the moon, 'mid swaying reeds and whispering sedge, past crouching bush and stately tree, and so at last they reached the woods. By shadowy brake and thicket, through pools of radiant moonlight, through leafy, whispering glooms they held their way, across broad glade and clearing, on and on until all noise of pursuit was lost and nought was to hear save the sounds of their going.

Thus rode they, and with never a word betwixt them, deep and deeper into the wild until the moon was down and darkness shut them in; wherefore Jocelyn drew rein and sat a while to listen. He heard the good steed, deep-breathing, snuff at dewy grass; a stir and rustle all about him; the drowsy call of a bird afar; the soft ripple of water hard by and, over all, the deep hush of the wild-wood. Then upon this hush stole a whisper:

"O, 'tis very dark!"

He: Dark, Lady? Why so 'tis, and yet 'tis natural, for 'tis night, wherefore 'tis the bright god Phoebus is otherwhere, and Dian, sly-sweet goddess, hath stole her light from heaven, wherefore 'tis 'tis dark, lady.

She: Where are we?

He: The sweet Saints know that, lady—not I!

She (scornfully): Verily, thou art no saint—

He: Not yet, lady, not yet—witness these ass's ears.

She: True, thou 'rt very Fool!

He: In very truth, lady, and thou art lost with this same Fool, so art thou in very woeful case. As for me, a lost fool is no matter, wherefore Fool for himself grieveth no whit. But for thee—alas! Thou art a proud lady of high degree, very nice of thy dainty person, soft and delicate of body, so shall the greensward prove for thee uneasy couch, I judge, and thou sleep ill—

She: Sleep? No thought have I of sleep! Ride on, therefore. Why tarry we here?

He: Lady, for three sufficing reasons—our foes pursue not, I'm a-weary, and 'tis very dark—

She: No matter! Ride on, I do command thee.

He: Aye, but whither?

She: I care not so thou leave this place; 'tis an evil place!

He: Why,'tis good place, very well secluded and with stream hard by that bubbleth. So here will we bide till dawn. Suffer me to aid thee down.

She: Touch me not! Never think I fear thee though I am alone.

He: Alone? Nay, thou 'rt with me, that is—I am with thee and thou art with a Fool. So is Fool care-full Fool since Fool hath care of thee. Suffer me now to aid thee down since here will we wait the day. Come, my arm about thee so, thy hand in mine—

She (angrily): O Fool most base—most vile—

He: Nay, hush thee, hush! and listen to yon blithesome, bubblesome, babbling brook how it sigheth 'mid the willows, whispereth under reedy bank and laugheth, rogue-like, in the shallows! Listen how it wooeth thee:

Though, lady, hard thy couch must be, If thou should'st wakeful lie, Here, from the dark, I'll sing to thee A drowsy lullaby. O lady fair—forget thy pride Whiles thou within the greenwood bide.

And now suffer me to aid thee down.

She: Why wilt thou stay me in this evil place?

He (patiently): The wild is ill travelling in the dark, lady; there be quagmires and perilous ways—wherefore here must we bide till dawn. Suffer me to—

SHE (breathlessly and shrinking from his touch): But I fear not quagmires—there be greater perils—more shameful and—and—'tis so dark, so dark! 'Tis hateful place. Ride we till it be day—

He (mockingly): Perils, lady? Why certes there be perils—and perils. Perils that creep and crawl, perils that go on four legs and perils two- legged—e'en as I. But I, though two-legged, am but very fool of fools and nothing perilous in blazing day or blackest night. So stint thy fears, lady, for here bide we till dawn!

Herewith he caught her in sudden arms and lifted her to the ground; then, dismounting, he set about watering and cherishing the wearied steed and tethered him beside a dun stream that rippled beneath shadowy willows; and so doing, fell a-singing on this wise:

"'Fair lady, thou 'rt lost!' quoth he, Sing derry, derry down. 'And O, 'tis dark—'tis dark!' quoth she, 'And in the dark dire perils be,' O, derry, derry down!

"Quoth he: 'Fair lady, stint thy fear,' Sing derry, derry down. 'I, being Fool, will sit me here, And, till the kindly sun appear, Sing derry, derry down.

"'I'll make for thee, like foolish wight, Hey, derry, derry down, A song that shall out-last dark night, And put thy foolish fears to flight With derry, derry down.

"'For 'tis great shame thou shouldst fear so, Hey, derry, derry down, A peril that two-legged doth go, Since he's but humble Fool, I trow, With derry, derry down.'"

Thus sang he, a dim figure beside dim stream and, having secured the horse, sat him down thereby and took forth his lute.

But Yolande, though he could not see, clenched white fists and, though he could not hear, stamped slim foot at him.

"Joconde," quoth she, betwixt clenched teeth, "Joconde, I—scorn thee!"

"Alack!" he sighed. "Alack, and my lute hath taken sore scath of a sword-thrust!"

"Thou'rt hateful—hateful!" she cried. "Aye—hateful as thy hateful song, so do I contemn thee henceforth!"

"Say'st thou so, lady, forsooth?" sighed he, busied with his lute. "Now were I other than Fool, here should I judge was hope of winning thy love. But being only Fool I, with aid of woe-begone lute, will sing thee merry song to cheer thee of thy perilous fears—"

"Enough, ill Fool, I'll hear thee not!"

"So be it, dear lady! Then will we sit an list to the song of yon stream, for streams and rivers, like the everlasting hills, are passing wise with length of days—"

"And thou'rt a very Fool!" she cried angrily. "A fond Fool presumptuous in thy folly!"

"As how presumptuous, proud lady?" he questioned humbly.

"In that thou dreamest I—stoop to fear thee!"

"Aye, verily!" sighed he. "Alas, thou poor, solitary, foolish, fearful maid, thou art sick with fear of me! So take now my dagger! Thus Fool offenceless shall lie defenceless at thy mercy and, so lying, sleep until joyous day shall banish thy so virginal fears!" Which saying, he tossed off belt and dagger and setting them beside her, rolled his weather-worn cloak about him, stretched himself beneath the dim willows and straightway fell a-snoring. And after some while she questioned him in voice low and troubled:

"O Joconde, art truly sleeping?"

"Fair lady," he answered, "let these my so loud snores answer thee."

Up sprang Yolande and, coming beside him in the gloom, cast back his girdle, speaking quick and passionate:

"Take back thy dagger lest I be tempted to smite it to the cruel, mocking heart of thee!" Then turned she stately back and left him, but, being hid from view, cast herself down full length upon the sward, her pride and stateliness forgotten quite. Now Jocelyn, propped on uneasy elbow, peered amid the gloom for sight of her and hearkened eagerly for sound of her; but finding this vain, arose and, creeping stealthily, presently espied her where she lay, face hidden in the dewy grass. Thus stood he chin in hand disquieted and anxious-eyed and wist not what to do.

"Lady?" he questioned at last; but she stirred not nor spoke. "Yolande!" he murmured, drawing nearer; but still she moved not, though his quick ear caught a sound faint though very pitiful. "Ah, dost thou weep?" he cried. Yolande sobbed again, whereupon down fell he beside her on his knees, "Dear lady, why grievest thou?"

"O Joconde," she sighed, "I am indeed solitary—and fearful! And thou—thou dost mock me!"

"Forgive me," he pleaded humbly, "and, since thou'rt solitary, here am I. And, for thy fears, nought is here shall harm thee, here may'st thou sleep secure—"

"Stay, Joconde, the forest is haunted of wolves and—worse, 'tis said!"

"Then will I watch beside thee till the day. And now will I go cut bracken for thy bed."

"Then will I aid thee." So she arose forthwith and, amid the fragrant gloom, they laboured together side by side; and oft in the gloom her hand touched his, and oft upon his cheek and brow and lip was the silken touch of her wind-blown hair. Then beneath arching willows they made a bed, high-piled of springy bracken and sweet grasses, whereon she sank nestling, forthwith.

"O, 'tis sweet couch!" she sighed.

"Yet thou'lt be cold mayhap ere dawn," quoth he, "suffer me to set my cloak about thee."

"But how of thyself, Joconde?"

"I am a Fool well seasoned of wind and rain, heat and cold, lady, and 'tis night of summer." So he covered her with his travel-stained cloak and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to his watch. And oft she stirred amid the fern, deep-sighing, and he, broad back against the tree, sighed oftener yet.

"Art there, Joconde?" she questioned softly.

"Here, lady."

"'Tis very dark," sighed she, "and yet, methinks, 'tis sweet to lie thus in the greenwood so hushed and still and the stars to watch like eyes of angels."

"Why, 'tis night of summer, lady, a night soft and languorous and fragrant of sleeping flowers. But how of grim winter, how of rain and wind and lashing tempest—how think you?"

"That summer would come again, Joconde."

"Truly here is brave thought, lady."

"Hark, how still is the night, Joconde, and yet full of soft stir, a sighing amid the leaves! 'Tis like the trees whispering one another. O, 'tis sweet night!"

"Soon to pass away, alas!" he sighed, whereupon she, stirring upon her ferny couch, sighed also; thereafter fell they silent awhile hearkening to the leafy stirrings all about them in the dark, and the slumberous murmur of the stream that, ever and anon, brake into faint gurglings like a voice that laughed, soft but roguish.

SHE: I pray thee talk to me.

HE: Whereof, lady?

SHE: Thyself.

HE: I am a Fool—

SHE: And why sit so mumchance?

HE: I think.

SHE: Of what?

HE: Folly.

SHE: And why dost sigh so deep and oft?

HE: I grieve for thee.

SHE: For me! And wherefore?

HE: Being lost with a Fool thou'rt desolate, sad and woeful.

SHE: Am I, Joconde? And how dost know all this?

HE: 'Tis so I do think, lady.

SHE: Then are thy thoughts folly indeed. If thou must sigh, sigh for thyself.

HE: Why so I do, lady, and therewith grieve for myself and thyself, myself being Fool and thyself a dame of high degree, thus, betwixt whiles, I do fear thee also.

SHE: Thou fear! Thou fear me forsooth! And wherefore fear a helpless maid?

HE: There is the reason—she is helpless!

SHE: Ah, there doth Fool speak like chivalrous knight.

HE: Or very fool—a fool that fain would win fair Dian from high heaven. Alas, poor Fool, that, being fool, must needs look and sigh and sigh and look and leave her to the winning of some young Endymion!

SHE (dreamily): Endymion was but lowly shepherd, yet was he loved!

HE: Endymion was fair youth comely of feature, lady. Now had he worn ass's ears 'bove visage scarred—how then? On Ida's mount he had been sighing forlorn and lonely yet, methinks. For maids' hearts are ever governed by their eyes—

SHE: Art so wise in maids' hearts, Joconde?

HE: Wise am I in this: No man may ever know the heart of a woman—and woman herself but seldom.

Now here was silence again wherein Yolande, smiling, viewed him a dim shape in the gloom, and he leaned back to watch a star that twinkled through the leafy canopy above.

SHE: Thou art Duke Jocelyn's Fool at court?

HE: I am Duke Jocelyn's fool here and there and everywhere, lady.

SHE: Yet have I heard Duke Jocelyn was a mighty man-at-arms and, though youthful, sober-minded, full of cares of state and kept no Fool at court.

HE: Lady, his court is filled o' fools as is the way of other courts and amongst these many fools first cometh the Duke himself—

SHE: How, and darest thou call this mighty Duke a fool?

HE: Often, lady!

SHE: And what like is he?

HE: Very like a man, being endowed of arms, legs, eyes, ears—of each two, no more and no less, as is the vulgar custom.

SHE: But is he not of beauty high and noble, of god-like perfection far beyond poor, common flesh and blood? 'Tis so the painter has limned his face, 'tis so I dream him to my fancy.

HE: Lady, I am but a Fool, let the picture answer thee.

SHE: And he, this mighty Duke of god-like beauty doth woo me to his wife—

HE (bitterly): With my tongue.

SHE: Why came he not in his own glorious person?

HE: Lady, though a Duke, he hath his moments of wisdom and argueth thus: "I, though a Duke, am yet a man. Thus, should I as Duke woo her, she may wed the Duke, loving not the man—"

SHE: And so he sent a Fool as his ambassador! And so do I scorn this god-like Duke—

HE: Ha! Scorn him! My lady—O Yolande, what of me?

She: Thou, false to him and faithless to thy trust, didst woo me for thyself which was ill in thee. But thou didst throw the terrible Red Gui into my lily-pool which was brave in thee. Thou didst endure chains and a prison undaunted which was noble in thee. Thou didst this night at peril of thy life save me from shame, but thou didst bear me urgently here into the wild, and in the wild here lie I beside thee, lost, yet warm and sleepy and safe beneath thy cloak—and so—'tis very well—

HE: Safe, Yolande? Hath thy heart told thee this at last? But thou didst fear me—

SHE: Because to-night thou didst clasp me in cruel arms and spake me words of love passionate and fierce and—and—

HE: Kissed thee, Yolande!

SHE: Many times—O cruel! And bore me hither and lost me in these dark solitudes! Here was good cause for any maid to fear thee methinks.

Yet thou didst basely mock my fears with thy hateful song of "Derry down."

HE: Because thy fears, being unjust, hurt me, for ah, Yolande, my love for thee is deep and true, and True-love is ever gentle and very humble.

SHE: Thus do I fear thee no more, Joconde!

HE: Because I am but lowly—a Fool beneath thy proud disdain?

SHE: Nay, Joconde. Because thou art indeed a very man. So now shall I sleep secure since nought of evil may come nigh me whiles I lie in thy care.

Thus spake she softly 'mid the gloom, and turning upon her rustling couch sighed and presently fell to slumber.

Now, sitting thus beside her as she slept, Jocelyn heard the stream ripple in the shadows like one that laughed soft but very joyously and, as he gazed up at the solitary star with eyes enraptured, this elfin laughter found its echo in his heart.

* * * * *

A bird chirped drowsily from mazy thicket where sullen shadow thinned, little by little, until behind leaf and twig was a glimmer of light that waxed ever brighter. And presently amid this growing brightness was soft stir and twitter, sleepy chirpings changed to notes of wistful sweetness, a plaintive calling that was answered from afar.

Thus the birds awaking sounded pretty warnings summoning each to each for that the day-spring was at hand, while ever the brightness changed to radiance and radiance to an orient glory and up flamed the sun in majesty and it was day. And now, from brake and thicket, from dewy mysteries of green boskage burst forth the sweet, glad chorus of bird-song, full throated, passionate of joy.

And Jocelyn, sitting broad back against a tree, felt his soul uplifted thereby what time his eyes missed nothing of the beauties about him: the rugged boles of mighty trees bedappled with sunny splendour, the glittering dew that gemmed leaf and twig and fronded bracken, and the shapely loveliness of her who slumbered couched beneath his worn cloak, the gentle rise and fall of rounded bosom and the tress of hair that a fugitive sunbeam kissed to ruddy gold. Thus sat Jocelyn regardful, gladness in the heart of him, and a song of gladness bubbling to his lips.

Suddenly he saw her lashes quiver, her rosy lips parted to a smile and, stirring in her slumber, she sighed and stretched shapely arms; so waked she to a glory of sun and, starting to an elbow, gazed round, great-eyed, until espying him, she smiled again.

"Good morrow, Joconde! Ne'er have I slept sweeter. But thou hast out-watched dark night and art a-weary, so shalt sleep awhile—"

"Nay," he answered, "a plunge in the stream yonder and I shall be blithe for the road—an we find one. And I do fear me thou'rt hungry, Yolande, and I have nought to give thee—"

"And what of thyself, man? Verily, I read hunger in thy look and weariness also, so, an thou may'st not eat, sleep thou shalt awhile here—in my place."

"Nay, Yolande, indeed—"

"Yea, but thou must indeed whiles I watch over thee. 'Tis a sweet bed—come thy ways."

"And what wilt thou do?" he questioned.

"Much!" she answered, viewing her rumpled, gown with rueful eyes. "As thou sayest, there is the pool yonder! So come, get thee to bed and—sleep! Come, let me cover thee with thy cloak and gainsay me not; sleep thou must and shalt."

So Duke Jocelyn stretched himself obediently upon the bed of fern and suffered her to cover him with the cloak; but as she stooped above him thus, he lifted the hem of her dress to reverent lips.

"My lady!" he murmured. "My dear lady!"

"Now close me thine eyes, wearied child!" she commanded. And, like a child, in this also he obeyed her, albeit unwillingly by reason of her radiant beauty, but hearing her beside him, was content, and thus presently fell to happy sleeping.

When he awoke the sun was high and he lay awhile basking in this grateful radiance and joying in the pervading quiet; but little by little, growing uneasy by reason of this stillness, he started up to glance about him and knew sudden dread—for the little glade was empty—Yolande had vanished; moreover the horse was gone also.

Cold with an awful fear he got him to his feet and looked hither and yon, but nowhere found any sign of violence or struggle. But like one distraught he turned to seek her, her name upon his lips, then, checking voice and movement, stood rigid, smitten by hateful doubt. For now it seemed to him that her gentle looks and words had been but sweet deceits to blind him to her purpose and now, so soon as she had lulled him to sleep, she had stolen away, leaving him for the poor, piteous fool he was. And now his despair was 'whelmed in sudden anger, and anger, little by little, changed to grief. She was fled away and he a sorry fool and very desolate.

Full of these bitter thoughts he cast himself upon his face and, lying as in a pit of gloom, knew a great bitterness.

Slowly, slowly, borne upon the gentle wind came a fragrance strange and unexpected, a savour delectable of cooking meat that made him know himself a man vastly hungry despite his grievous woe. But, lying within the black gulf of bitterness, he stirred not until, of a sudden, he heard a voice, rich and full and very sweet, upraised in joyous singing; and these the words:

"Rise, O laggard! See the sun, To climb in glory hath begun: The flowers have oped their pretty eyes, The happy lark doth songful rise, And merry birds in flowery brake, Full-throated, joyous clamours make; And I, indeed, that love it not, Do sit alone and keel the pot, Whiles thus I sing thee to entreat, O sleepy laggard—come and eat!"

"Forsooth and art sleeping yet, Joconde?" the voice questioned. Duke Jocelyn lifted woeful head and saw her standing tall and shapely amid the leaves, fresh and sweet as the morn itself, with laughter within her dream-soft eyes and laughter on her vivid lips and the sun bright in the braided tresses of her hair wherein she had set wild flowers like jewels.

"Yolande!" he murmured, coming to his knees "Yolande—how glorious thou art!"

"Nay," she laughed, yet flushing to the worship of his eyes, "and my habit woefully torn of wicked bramble-thorns, and my hair ill-braided and all uncombed and—"

"Ah, Yolande, I thought thee fled and I left to loneliness, and my pain was very sore."

"Then am I avenged thy mockery, Joconde, and thy song of 'Derry down.' 'Twas for this I stole away! But now, if thou 'rt hungry man, come this ways." And she reached him her hand. So she brought him to a little dell where burned a fire of sticks beneath a pot whence stole right savoury odour.

"O most wonderful!" quoth he. "Whence came these goodly viands?"

"Where but from the wallet behind thy horse's saddle, Joconde?" Then down sat they forthwith side by side and ate heartily and were very blithe together; and oft-times their looks would meet and they would fall silent awhile. At last, the meal ended, Jocelyn, turning from Yolande's beauty to the beauty of the world around, spake soft-voiced:

"Yolande, were mine a selfish love, here, lost within these green solitudes, would I keep thee for mine own—to serve and worship thee unto my life's end. But, since I count thy happiness above my dearest desires, now will I go saddle the horse and bear thee hence."

"Whither, Joconde, whither wilt thou bear me?"

"Back to the world," said he ruefully, "thy world of prideful luxury, to thy kindred."

"But I have no kindred, alas!" sighed she, stooping to caress a daisy-flower that grew adjacent.

"Why, then, thy friends—"

"My friends be very few, Joconde, and Benedicta hath her husband."

"Yolande," said he, leaning nearer, "whither should I bear thee?"

"Nay," saith she, patting the daisy with gentle finger-tip, "go thou and saddle thy horse, mayhap I shall know this anon. Go thou and saddle the horse." So Jocelyn arose and having saddled and bridled the horse, back he cometh to find Yolande on her knees beside the stream, and she, hearing his step, bowed her head, hiding her face from him; now on the sward beside her lay the picture shattered beyond repair.

"How," said Jocelyn, "hast broken the Duke's picture, lady!"

"Thou seest!" she answered.

"And must thou weep therefore?" said he a little bitterly. "Oh, be comforted; 't was but a toy—soon will I get thee another."

"An thou bring me another, Joconde, that will I break also."

"Ha—thou didst break it—wilfully, then?"

"With this stone, Joconde."

"Wherefore, O wherefore?" he questioned eagerly.

"For that it was but painted toy, even as thou sayest!" she answered. "Moreover, I—love not Duke Jocelyn."

"And't was for this thou didst break the picture?"

"Nay, 'twas because these painted features may never compare with the face of him I love."

"And whom—whom dost thou love?" quoth he, in voice low and unsteady. Speaking not, she pointed with slender finger down into the placid, stream. Wondering, he bent to look and thus from the stilly water his mirrored image looked back at him; now as he stooped so stooped she, and in this watery mirror their glances met.

"Yolande?" he whispered. "O my lady, shall a Fool's fond dream come true, or am I mad indeed? Thou in thy beauty and I—"

"Thou, Joconde," said she, fronting him with head proudly uplift, "to my thought thou art man greater, nobler than any proud lord or mighty duke soever. And thou hast loved and wooed as never man wooed, methinks. And thou art so brave and strong and so very gentle and—thus it is—I do love thee."

"But my—my motley habit, my—"

"Thy cap of Folly, Joconde, these garments pied thou hast dignified by thy very manhood, so are they dearer to me than lordly tire or knightly armour. And thy jingling bells—ah, Joconde, the jingle of thy bells hath waked within my heart that which shall never die—long time my heart hath cried for thee, and I, to my shame, heeded not the cry, wherefore here and now, thus upon my knees, I do most humbly confess my love."

"Thy love, Yolande—for me? Then dost truly love me? Oh, here is marvel beyond my understanding and belief."

"Why, Joconde, ah, why?"

"See!" he cried, flinging back his head. "Look now upon this blemished face—here where the cruel sun may shew thee all my ugliness, every scar—behold! How may one so beautiful as thou learn love for one so lowly and with face thus hatefully marred? I have watched thee shrink from me ere now! I mind how, beside the lily-pool within thy garden, thou didst view me with eyes of horror! I do mind thy very words—the first that e'er I heard thee utter:

'What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth show A visage that might shame the gladsome day?'

Yolande, Yolande, this poor blemished face is nothing changed since then; such as I was, such I am!"

"Alas, Joconde!" she cried, reaching out her hands in passionate appeal. "My words were base, cruel—and hurt me now more, ah, much more, than e'er they wounded thee. For I do love thee with love as deep, as true as is thine own! Wilt not believe me?"

"Oh, that I might indeed!" he groaned. "But—thou'rt alone, far from thy home and friends, thy wonted pride and state forgotten all—mayhap thou dost pity me or mayhap 'tis thy gratitude in guise of love doth speak me thus? But as thou art still thine own lovely self, so am I that same poor, motley Fool whose hateful face—"

"Joconde," she cried, "hush thee—Oh, hush thee! Thy words are whips to lash me!" and catching his hand she kissed it and cherished it 'gainst tear-wet cheek. "Ah, Joconde," she sighed, "so wise and yet so foolish, know'st thou not thy dear, scarred face is the face of him I love, for love hath touched my eyes and I do see thee at last as thou truly art, a man great of soul, tender and strong-hearted. So art thou a man, the only man, my man. Oh, that I might but prove my love for thee, prove it to thee and before all men, no matter how, so I might but banish thy cruel doubts for ever. But now, for thy dear, scarred face—"

Her soft, round arms were about his neck; and drawing him to her lips she kissed him, his scarred brow and cheek, his eyes, his lips grown dumb with wondering joy. Thus, lip to lip and with arms entwined, knelt they beside that slow-moving stream that whispered softly beneath the bank and gurgled roguish laughter in the shallows.

A dog barked faintly in the distance, a frog croaked hoarsely from the neighbouring sedge, but lost in the wonder of their love, they heeded only the beating of their hearts.

"A-billing and a-cooing! A-cooing and a-billing, as I'm a tanner true!" exclaimed a hoarse voice. Up started Jocelyn, fierce-eyed and with hand on dagger-hilt, to behold a man with shock of red hair, a man squat and burly who, leaning on bow-stave, peered at them across the stream.

"And is it Will the Tanner?" quoth Jocelyn, loosing his dagger.

"None else, friend Motley."

"Why then, God keep thee! And now go about thy business."

"Marry, Fool, I am about my business, the which is to find thee. By Saint Nick, there's mighty hue and cry for thee up and down within the greenwood, aye—marry is there, as I'm a tanner tried and true. So needs must thou along wi' me."

"With thee, Tanner? And wherefore?"

"Why, I know not wherefore, Fool, but must along. Here's me and Lob and the potent hag that is Mopsa the Witch, lain a-watching and a-watching ye a-billing—nay, scowl not, friend Fool, on tanner trusty, tried and true. For hark now, here's great stir, clamour and to-do within this forest-country for thee, Fool, the which is strange, seeing thou art but a motley fool. Howbeit there be many great lords and knights from beyond the Southern March a-seeking of thee, Fool."

"Ha!" quoth Jocelyn, frowning. "Envoys from Brocelaunde!"

"Alas, Joconde, and seeking thee!" saith Yolande in troubled voice.

"Moreover," continued Will, "here's our Duke Pertinax and his lady Duchess yearning for thee, here's Robin that is Sir Robert a-clamouring for thee and all his goodly foresters, as myself, a-seeking thee."

"But't is I found thee, Sir Long-legged Fool, I—I!" croaked a voice, and old Mopsa the Witch peered at them from a bush hard by.

"Verily, thou hast found us!" quoth Jocelyn ruefully. "And what now?"

"Oho!" cried the Witch, cracking her finger-bones. "Now go I hot-foot to weave spells and enchantments, aha—oho! Spells that shall prove the false from the true, the gold from the dross. Thou, Sir Fool, art doubting lover, so art thou blind lover! I will resolve thee thy doubts, open thy eyes and show thee great joy or bitter sorrow—oho! Thou, proud lady, hast stooped to love a motley mountebank—nay, flash not thy bright eyes nor toss haughty head at an old woman—but here is solitude with none to mock thy lowly choice or cry thee shame to love a motley Fool, aha! And thou would'st fain prove thy love True-love, says thou? Why, so thou shalt—beyond all doubting now and for ever, aha—oho! Truest of true or falsest of false. Beware. Farewell, and remember:

"Follow Folly and be wise, In such folly wisdom lies, Love's blind, they say; but Love hath eyes, So follow Folly, follow.

Hither-ho, Lob-Lobkyn! Lend thine old granddam thine arm. Come, my pretty bantling, sweet poppet—come and—away!" o spake old Mopsa the Witch, and vanished into the green with Lobkyn, who turned to flourish his club in cheery salutation ere he plunged into the underbrush. Then Jocelyn smiled down on Yolande to find her pale and trembling, so would he have clasped her to his heart, but a hand grasped him and, turning, he beheld the Tanner at his elbow.

"Friend Fool," quoth he, "needs must I take thee to Robin that Sir Robert is, e'en as he did command, so come now thy ways with trusty tanner tried."

"Off, Red-head!" saith Jocelyn, frowning a little. "Away now, lest this my dagger bite thee." Back leapt Will into the stream whence he had come, and there standing, clapped bugle to lip and winded it lustily, whereupon came divers fellows running, bow in hand, who beset Jocelyn on every side.

"Now yield thee to Tanner, friend," quoth Will, knee-deep in the stream, "for no mind have I to hurt thee. So away with thy dagger like gentle, kindly Fool, and away with thee to Sir Robin."

Now hereupon, as Jocelyn frowned upon them, Yolande, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his scarred cheek and clasped his dagger-hand in soft fingers.

"Come," she pleaded, "they be a-many, so yield me thy dagger and let us go with them, beloved!" At the whispered word Jocelyn loosed the dagger and, clasping her instead, kissed her full-lipped. Then turned he to his captors.

"I'm with thee, Will, thou—tanner!" quoth he. "And now bring hither the horse for my lady's going."

"Nay," answered Will, scratching red head, "Rob—Sir Robert spake nothing of horse for thee, or lady."

"Nor will I ride, Joconde," she murmured happily, "rather will I trudge beside thee, my hand in thine—thus!"

So, hand in hand, they went close-guarded by their captors yet heeding them not at all, having eyes but for each other. And oft her cheek flushed rosy beneath his look, and oft he thrilled to the warm, close pressure of her fingers; and thus tramped they happy in their captivity.

The sun rose high and higher, but since for them their captors were not, neither was fatigue; and, if the way was rough there was Jocelyn's ready hand, while for him swamps and brooks were a joy since he might bear her in his arms. Thus tramped they by shady dingle and sunny glade, through marshy hollows and over laughing rills, until the men began to mutter their discontent, in especial a swart, hairy wight, and Will, glancing up at the sun, spake:

"Two hours, lads, judge I."

"Nigher three, Tanner, nigher three!" growled the chief mutterer.

"Why so much the better, Rafe, though two was the word. Howbeit we be come far enow, I judge, and 'tis hot I judge, so hey for Robin—and a draught o' perry!"

"Art thou weary, my Yolande?"

"Nay, is not thy dear arm about me!"

"And—thou dost love me indeed?"

"Indeed, Joconde! Mine is a love that ever groweth—"

A horn's shrill challenge; a sound of voices, and below them opened a great, green hollow, shady with trees beneath whose shade were huts of wattle cunningly wrought, a brook that flowed sparkling, and beyond caves hollowed in the steepy bank.

"How now, Tanner Will," questioned Jocelyn, "hast brought us to the outlaw's refuge?"

"Not so, good friend-Fool, not outlaws, foresters we of Duke Pertinax, and yonder, look 'ee, cometh Rob—Sir Robert to greet ye!" And the Tanner pointed where one came running, a man long of leg, long of arm and very bright of eye, a goodly man clad in hood and jerkin of neat's leather as aforetime, only now his bugle swung from baldrick of gold and silver and in his hood was brooched a long scarlet feather.

"What brother!" cried he joyously. "By saint Nicholas,'tis sweet to see thee again, thou lovely Fool!" And he clasped Jocelyn in brotherly embrace, which done, he stood off and shook doleful head. "Alas, brother!" quoth he. "Alas! my prisoner art thou this day, wherefor I grieve, and wherefor I know not save that it is by my lady Benedicta's strict command and her I must obey." And now, turning to Yolande, he bared his head, louting full low. "Lady," quoth he, "by thy rare and so great beauty I do know thee for Yolande the Fair, so do we of the wild give thee humble greeting. Here may'st thou rest awhile ere we bring thee to Canalise."

"But, messire," answered Yolande, clasping Jocelyn's hand, "no mind have I to go to Canalise."

"Then alack for me, fair lady, for needs must I carry thee there within the hour along of my motley brother. Meanwhile here within yon bower thou shalt find cushions to thy repose, and all things to thy comfort and refreshment."

"O Sir Robert! O for a comb!" she sighed.

"Expectant it waiteth thee, lady, together with water cool, sweet-perfumed essences, unguents and other nice, lady-like toys. Moreover, there be mirrors two of Venice and in pretty coffer—" But Yolande had vanished.

Hereupon Robin led the way into a cool, arras-hung cave where was table set out with divers comfortable things both eatable and drinkable.

Quoth Jocelyn, hunger and thirst appeased: "And now good Robin, what do these envoys from Brocelaunde? Why am I thy prisoner and wherefore must I to Canalise?"

"Ha!" saith Robin, cocking merry eye, "and thy name is Joconde, the which is an excellent name, brother, and suiteth thee well, and yet—hum! Howbeit, friend, remember Robin loved thee for the Fool he found thee, that same Fool foolish enow to spare a rogue his life. Dost mind my Song o' Rogues? A good song, methinks, tripping merrily o' the tongue:

"'I'll sing a song Not over long, A song o' roguery, For I'm a rogue, And thou'rt a rogue, And so, in faith is he.'

I mind thy fierce, hawk-nosed gossip in rusty jack and ragged cloak, his curses! Troth brother,'tis a world of change methinks, this same fierce, cursing, hook-nose rogue a noble knight and to-day my lord Duke! I, that was poor outlaw, knight-at-arms and lord warden, and thou—a motley Fool still—and my prisoner. How say'st thou, brother?"

"Why I say, Robin, that my three questions wait thy answers!"

"Verily, brother, and for this reason. I am a knight and noble, and so being have learned me policy, and my policy is, when unable to give answer direct to question direct, to question myself direct thus directing question to questions other or to talk of matters of interest universal, so do I of thyself and myself speak. And talking of myself I have on myself, of myself, of myself made a song, and these the words, hark 'ee:

"Now Rob that was Robin Sir Robert is hight Though Rob oft did rob when outlaw, Since outlaw now in law is dubbed a good knight, Robin's robbing is done, Rob robbeth no more.

Fair words brother, I think, and yet a little sad. 'But,' says you in vasty amaze, 'my very noble and right potent Sir Robert,' says you, 'if thou art indeed noble knight, wherefore go ye devoid of mail, surcoat, cyclas, crested helm, banderol, lance, shield and the like pomps and gauds?' 'Brother,' says I, 'habit is habit and habit sticketh habitual, and my habit is to go habited as suiteth my habit, suiting habit o' body to habit o' mind.' Thus I, though Sir Robert, am Robin still, and go in soft leather 'stead of chafing steel, and my rogues, loving Robin, love Sir Robert the better therefor, as sayeth my song in fashion apt and pertinent:

"Since habit is habit, my habit hath been To wear habit habitually comely—

Ha, there soundeth the mustering note, so must we away and I sing no further, which is well, for 'comely' is an ill word to rhyme with. Howbeit here must I, beginning my song o' Robin, of beginning must Rob make an end, for duty calleth Sir Robert, so must Robin away."

Hereupon he clapped horn to lip at which shrill summons came archers and pikemen ranked very orderly about a fair horse-litter. But Yolande coming radiant from the bower and espying the litter, shook her head. Quoth she:

"An thou go afoot, Joconde, so will I."

The sun was low when they came before the walls of Canalise, and passing beneath grim portcullis and through frowning gateway, with ring and tramp, crossed the wide market square a-throng with jostling townsfolk, who laughed and pointed, cheered and hooted, staring amain at Jocelyn in his threadbare motley; but Yolande, fronting all eyes with proud head aloft, drew nearer and held his hand in firmer clasp.

Thus they came at last to the great courtyard before the palace, bright with the glitter of steel, where men-at-arms stood mustered. Here Robin halted his company, whereon rose the silvery note of a clarion, and forth paced the dignified Chief Herald, who spake him full-toned and sonorous:

"In the name of our potent Duke Pertinax and his gracious lady Benedicta, I greet thee well, Sir Robert-a-Forest. Now whom bring ye here? Pronounce!"

"Dan Merriment, Sir Gravity," answered Robin, "a Fool valiant and wise, a maker of songs, of quips and quiddities many and jocund, Joconde hight. Sir Wisdom, Folly behold, himself here in propria persona."

The Chief Herald gestured haughtily with his wand whereupon forth stepped a file of soldiers and surrounded Jocelyn.

"Ah, Joconde! What meaneth this?" said Yolande, in troubled voice.

"Indeed, my lady, I know not!" he answered. "But let not thy brave heart fail thee."

"Ah, Joconde, I fear for thee—whither would they lead thee? Nay, sweet heaven, they shall not take thee from me!"

"Fear not, beloved, though they part us awhile."

"Away with the Motley!" thundered the Chief Herald, flourishing his wand.

"Yolande—O my beloved, fear not—" But even as he spake, the pikemen closed in, and Jocelyn was hustled away; so stood she trembling, hands clasped and eyes wide and fearful, until tall motley figure and flaunting cock's-comb were lost to her sight and the jingle of his bells had died away; then, finding herself alone and all men's eyes upon her, she lifted bowed head and stood white-cheeked and proudly patient, waiting for what might betide.

And presently was distant stir that, growing nearer, swelled to the ring and clash of armour and the trampling of many hoofs; and presently through the great gateway rode many knights sumptuously caparisoned, their shields brave with gilded 'scutcheons, pennon and bannerole a-flutter above nodding plumes, and over all the Red Raven banner of Brocelaunde. So rode they two-and-two until the great courtyard blazed with flashing steel and broidered surcoats. And now a trumpet blared, and forth before this glorious array a pursuivant rode and halted to behold Pertinax, who stepped forth of the great banqueting-hall leading his fair Duchess by the hand, and behind them courtiers and ladies attendant.

Once again the trumpets rang, and lifting his hand, the pursuivant spake:

"My Lord Duke Pertinax, most gracious Duchess, Jocelyn the high and mighty Lord Duke of Brocelaunde greeteth you in all love and amity, and hither rideth to claim a fair lady to wife. Behold our Lord Duke Jocelyn!"

Loud and long the trumpets blew as into the courtyard rode a single horseman; tall was he and bedight in plain black armour and white surcoat whereon the Red Raven glowed; but his face was hid in vizored helm. So rode he through his glorious array of knights, checking his fiery steed to gentle gait with practised hand, while thus spake the pursuivant:

"Behold here Jocelyn, Duke of Brocelaunde, to claim this day in marriage the Lady Yolande according to her word."

"Stay, my lords!" cried a sweet, clear voice, and forth before them all stood Yolande herself, pale-cheeked but stately of bearing and very bright of eye.

"Be it known to all here that I, Yolande, have given neither pledge nor troth unto Duke Jocelyn—"

Now here was silence sudden and profound that none dared break saving only the haughty Chief Herald.

"How lady, how," quoth he, "no pledge, no troth, quotha—"

"Neither one nor other, messire, nor shall there ever be—"

"Here is madness, lady, madness—"

"Here is truth, messire, truth; I may not pledge my troth with Duke Jocelyn since I have this day pledged myself unto Duke Jocelyn's jester—"

"Jester, lady, jester? Venus aid us—Cupid shield us! A jester, a Fool, a motley mountebank, a—"

"Aye!" cried Yolande. "All this is he, my lords. Very humble and lowly—yet do I love him! Oh, 'tis joy—'tis joy to thus confess my love—his cap and bells and motley livery are fairer to me than velvet mantle or knightly armour; he is but humble jester, a Fool for men's scorn or laughter, yet is he a man, so do I love him and so am I his—unto the end. My lords, I have no more to say save this—give me my jester—this man I love—and suffer us to go forth hand in hand together, even as we came."

The Duchess Benedicta uttered a soft, glad cry, and seizing her husband's arm, shook it for very joy. But now, as Yolande fronted them all, pale and proudly defiant, was the ring of a mailed foot, and turning, she shrank trembling to see Duke Jocelyn hasting toward her, his black armour glinting, his embroidered surcoat fluttering, his long arms outstretched to her; thus quick-striding he came but, even as she put out shaking hands to stay him, he fell upon his knee before her.

"Most brave and noble lady—beloved Yolande," he cried, and lifted his vizor. Now beholding the scarred face of him, the tender, smiling lips, the adoration in his grey eyes, she trembled amain and, swaying to him, rested her hands on his mailed shoulders.

"Joconde," she whispered, "ah, Joconde—what dream is this?"

"Nay, beloved, the dream is ended and findeth me here at thy feet. The dream is past and we do wake at last, for thy motley Fool, thy Duke and lover am I, yet lover most of all. And thou who in thy divine mercy stooped to love the Fool, by that same love shalt thou lift Duke Jocelyn up to thee and heaven at last. And Oh, methinks the memory of thy so great and noble love shall be a memory fragrant everlastingly."

So speaking, Duke Jocelyn rose, and with her hand fast in his, looked from her loveliness round about him, blithe of eye.

"My lords," cried he, "behold my well-beloved, brave-hearted lady. Nobles of Brocelaunde, salute your Duchess Yolande."

Hereupon was shout on shout of joyous acclaim, lost all at once in the sweet, glad clamour of bells pealing near and far; so, hand in hand, while the air thrilled with this merry riot, they crossed the wide courtyard, and she flushed 'neath the worship of his look and he thrilled to the close, warm pressure of her fingers—thus walked they betwixt the ranks of men-at-arms and glittering chivalry, yet saw them not.

But now Yolande was aware of Benedicta's arms about her and Benedicta's voice in her ear.

"Dear my Yolande, so True-love hath found thee at last since thou wert brave indeed and worthy. Come now and let me deck thee to thy bridal."

"Lord Duke," quoth Pertinax, "here methinks was notable, worthy wooing."

"Aha!" quoth Mopsa the Witch, crackling her knuckle-bones. "Here, my children, is wooing that some fool shall strive to tell tale of some day, mayhap; but such love is beyond words and not to be told. Thus by cunning contrivement hath Mopsa the old Witch proved the true from the false, the gold from the dross; thou, my lady, hast proved thy love indeed, and thou, Lord Duke, may nevermore doubt such love. And now away and wed each other to love's fulfilment—hark where the bells do summon ye."

And thus, as evening fell, they were wed within the great Minster of Canalise, and thereafter came they to the banqueting-hall with retinue of knights and nobles. Last of all strode Robin with his foresters, and as they marched he sang a song he had learned of Jocelyn, and these the words:

"What is love? 'Tis this, I say, Flower that springeth in a day, Ne'er to die or fade away, Since True-love dieth never.

"Though youth alas! too soon shall wane, Though friend prove false and effort vain, True-love all changeless shall remain The same to-day and ever."



THE END