My child, no child should authors catechise,
Especially, poor fellow, if, like me,
Father and author both at once is he.
Wise authors all such questions strictly ban,
And never answer--even if they can.
If of our good knight's wooing you would
hear,
Keep stilly tongue and hearken well, my
dear.
Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head, abashed by her beauty.
“Melissa!” he whispered, “O Melissa!” and so stood mute.
“O Pertinax!” she sighed. “Art dumb at sight of me? O Pertinax, and
wherefore?”
“All have I forgot save only thy loveliness, Melissa!”
“Methinks such--forgetfulness becometh thee well. Say on!”
“Ah, Melissa, I--do love thee.”
“Why this I knew when thou didst sit a-fishing!”
“But, indeed, then I dreamed not of loving thee or any maid.”
“Because thou art but a man.”
“Verily, and being man, now came I seeking thee for Love's sweet sake yet,
finding thee, know not how to speak thee. Alas, I do fear I am but sorry
wooer!”
“Alas, Pertinax, I do fear thou art! Yet thou shalt learn, perchance.
How--art dumb again, canst speak me no more?”
“Nought--save only this, thou art beyond all maids fair, Melissa!”
“Why, I do think thou'lt make a wooer some day mayhap, by study diligent.
'T will take long time and yet--I would not have thee learn too soon! And
hast thought of me? A little?”
“I have borne thee ever within my heart.”
“And wherefore wilt love maid so lowly?”
“For that thou art thyself and thyself--Melissa. And O, I love thy voice!”
“My voice? And what more?”
“Thine eyes. Thy little, pretty feet. Thy scarlet mouth. Thy gentle, small
hands. Thy hair. All of thee!”
“O,” she murmured a little breathlessly, “if thou dost so love me--woo
me--a little!”
“Alas!” he sighed, “I know not how.”
“Hast ne'er wooed maid ere this, big soldier?”
“Never!”
“Thou poor Pertinax! How empty--how drear thy life. For this do I pity thee
with pity kin to love--”
“Love?” he whispered. “Ah, Melissa, couldst e'en learn to love one so
unlovely, so rude, so rough and unmannered as I?”
“Never!” she sighed, “O, never--unless thou teach me?”
“Would indeed I might, Melissa. Ah, teach me how I may teach thee to love
one so unworthy as Pertinax!”
Now hearkening to his harsh voice grown soft and tremulous, beholding the
truth in his honest eyes, Melissa smiled, wondrous tender, and reaching out
took hold upon his two hands.
“Kneel!” she commanded. “Kneel here upon the grass as I do kneel. Now, lay
by thy cumbrous helmet. Now fold thy great, strong hands. Now bow thy tall,
grim head and say in sweet, soft accents low and reverent: 'Melissa, I do
love thee heart and soul, thee only do I love and thee only will I love now
and for ever. So aid me, Love, amen!'” Then, closing his eyes, Sir Pertinax
bowed reverent head, and, humbly folding his hands, spake as she bade him.
Thereafter opening his eyes, he saw her watching him through gathering
tears, and leaning near, he reached out eager arms, yet touched her not.
Quoth he: “O maid beloved, what is thy sorrow?”
“'Tis joy--joy, and thou--thou art so strong and fierce yet so gentle and
simple of heart! O, may I prove worthy thy love--”
“Worthy? Of my love?” he stammered. “But O Melissa, I am but he thou didst
name harsh of tongue.”
“Aye, I did!” she sobbed.
“Hard of heart, flinty of soul, rude, unmannered and unlovely.”
“Aye--I did and--loved thee the while!” she whispered. “So now do I pray
that I prove worthy.”
“Worthy? Thou? O my sweet maid--thou that art kin to the holy angels, thou
so high and far removed 'bove me that I do tremble and--fear to touch
thee--“.
“Nay, fear me not, Pertinax,” she sighed, “for though indeed I am all this,
yet maid am I also and by times--very human. So Pertinax, thou great,
fearless man-at-arms, lay by thy so great fears a while--I do beseech
thee.” Then Sir Pertinax, beholding the tender passion of her eyes, forgot
his fear in glad wonderment and, reaching out hands that trembled for all
their strength, drew her to his close embracement.
And thus, kneeling together upon the sun-dappled sward, they forgot all
things in this joyous world save only their love and the glory of it. And
when they had kissed each other--
* * * * *
My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:
GILL: But, wait, they haven't yet, you know!
MYSELF: Indeed, they have, I've just said so.
GILL: Then, father, please to tell me this:
How can a person say a kiss?
And so, since kisses can't be said,
Please make them do it now instead.
Thus, cradled in his strong arms, she questioned him tenderly:
“Dost mind how, upon a day, my Pertinax, didst ask of me the amulet I bore
within my bosom?”
“Aye,” he answered, “and sure 'tis charm of potent magic whose spell
brought us out of the dungeon at Canalise--the which is great matter for
wonder! But 'tis for thy dear sake I do cherish it--”
“Bear you it yet?”
“Here upon my heart.”
“And if I should ask it of thee again--wouldst render it back to me?”
“Never!” quoth he. “Never, until with it I give thee myself also!”
But presently she stirred in his embrace for upon the air was an
approaching clamour, voices, laughter and the ring of mail.
“Come away!” whispered Melissa, upspringing to her feet. “Come, let thou
and Love and I hide until these disturbers be gone and the sweet world hold
but us three again.”
Now, as they stood, hand in hand, deep hidden 'mid the green, they beheld
six merry woodland rogues who led an ambling ass whereon rode a friar
portly and perspiring albeit he had a jovial eye. And as he rode he spake
his captors thus in voice full-toned and deep:
“Have a care, gentle rogues and brethren, hurry not this ambulant animal
unduly, poor, much-enduring beast. Behold the pensive pendulation of these
auriculars so forlornly a-dangle! Here is ass that doth out-patience all
asses, both four and two-legged. Here is meek ass of leisured soul loving
not haste--a very pensive perambulator. So hurry not the ass, my brothers,
for these several and distinct reasons or arguments. Firstly, dearly
beloved, because I love haste no more than the ass; secondly, brethren, 't
is property of Holy Church which is above all argument; and, thirdly, 't
is bestridden by one Friar John, my very self, and I am forsooth weighty
argument. Fourthly, beloved, 'tis an ass that--ha! O sweet vision for eyes
human or divine! Do I see thee in very truth, thou damsel of disobedience,
dear dame of discord, sweet, witching, wilful lady--is it thou in very
truth, most loved daughter, or wraith conjured of thy magic and my
perfervid imaginations--speak!”
“'T is I myself, Reverend Father!” laughed Melissa. “O my dear, good Friar
John, methinks the kind Saints have brought thee to my need.”
“Saints, quotha!” exclaimed the Friar, rolling merry eye towards his
several captors. “Call ye these--Saints? Long have I sought thee, thou
naughty maid, and to-day in my quest these brawny 'saints' beset me with
bow and quarterstaff and me constrained hither--but my blessing on them
since they have brought me to thee. And now, sweet child and daughter,
whiles the news yet runneth hot-foot or, like bird unseen, wingeth from lip
to lip, I thy ghostly father have rare good news for thee--”
“Nay, Friar John, I will guess thy tidings: Sir Agramore of Biename lieth
sorry and sore of a cudgelling.”
“How!” cried the Friar. “Thou dost know--so soon?”
“Verily, Reverend Father, nor have I or my worthy guardians aught to fear
of him hereafter. And now have I right wondrous news for thee, news that
none may guess. List, dear Friar John, thou the wisest and best loved of
all my guardians ten; to-day ye are absolved henceforth all care of your
wilful ward since to-day she passeth from the guardianship of ye ten to the
keeping of one. Come forth, Pertinax, thou only one beloved of me for no
reason but that thou art thou and I am I--as is ever the sweet, mad way of
True-love--come forth, my dear-loved, poor soldier!” Out from the trees
strode Pertinax but, beholding his face, Friar John scowled and, viewing
his rich surcoat and goodly armour, fell to perspiring wonder and amaze.
“Now by the sweet Saint Amphibalus!” quoth he. “Surely these be the arms of
Sir Agramore, dread Lord of Biename?”
“Most true, dear Friar John,” answered Melissa, “and by this same token Sir
Agramore lieth sore bruised e'en now.”
“Aha!” quoth the Friar, mopping moist brow. “'T is well--'t is very well,
so shall these two ears of mine, with eighteen others of lesser account,
scathless go and all by reason of this good, tall fellow. Howbeit, I do
know this same fellow for fellow of none account, and no fit mate for thee,
noble daughter, love or no. A fierce, brawling, tatterdemalion this, that
erstwhile tramped in company with long-legged ribald--a froward jesting
fellow. Wherefore this fellow, though fellow serviceable, no fellow is for
thee and for these sufficing reasons. Firstly--”
“Ha--enough!” quoth Sir Pertinax, chin out-thrust. “'Fellow' me no more,
Friar--”
“Firstly,” continued Friar John, “because this out-at-elbows fellow is a
rogue.”
“'Rogue,' in thy teeth, Churchman!” growled Sir Pertinax.
“Secondly,” continued Friar John, nothing abashed, “because this
rogue-fellow is a runagate roysterer, a nameless knave, a highway-haunter,
a filching flick-o'-the-gibbet and a--”
“Friar,” snorted Sir Pertinax, “thou 'rt but a very fat man scant o'
breath, moreover thou 'rt a friar, so needs must I leave thee alive to make
pestilent the air yet a little until thou chokest of an epithet. Meantime
perform now one gracious act in thy so graceless life and wed me with this
forest maiden.”
“Forest maiden, forsooth!” cried Friar John. “O Saints! O Martyrs! Forest
maid, quotha! And wed her--and unto thee, presumptuous malapert! Ho,
begone, thy base blood and nameless rank forbid--”
“Hold there, shaveling!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “Now mark me this!
Though I, being very man, do know myself all unworthy maid so sweet and
peerless, yet, and she stoop to wed me, then will I make her lady proud and
dame of divers goodly manors and castles, of village and hamlet, pit and
gallows, sac and soc, with powers the high, the middle and the low and
with ten-score lances in her train. For though in humble guise I went, no
nameless rogue am I, but Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling,
Bracton and Deepdene--”
“How!” cried Melissa, pouting rosy lip and frowning a little. “O Pertinax,
art indeed a great lord?”
“Why, sooth--forsooth and indeed,” he stammered, “I do fear I am.”
“Then thou 'rt no poor, distressful, ragged, outlaw-soldier?”
“Alack--no!” he groaned, regardful of her frown.
“Then basely hast thou tricked me--O cruel!”
“Nay, Melissa--hear me!” he cried, and, forgetful of friar and gaping
outlaws, he clasped her fast 'prisoned 'gainst his heart. “Thee do I love,
dear maid, 'bove rank, or fame, or riches, or aught this world may offer.
So, an thou wouldst have me ragged and destitute and outlaw, all this will
I be for thy sweet sake since life were nought without thee, O maid I do so
love--how say'st thou?”
“I say to thee, Pertinax, that thy so great love hath loosed thy tongue at
last, Love hath touched thy lips with eloquence beyond all artifice since
now, methinks, it is thy very soul doth speak me. And who shall resist such
wooing? Surely not I that do--love thee beyond telling. So take me, my
lord, thy right hand in mine, the talisman in thy left--so! Now, my
Pertinax, speak thy heart's wish.”
“Friar,” quoth Sir Pertinax, holding aloft the Crystal Heart, “as her love
is mine and mine hers, wed and unite us in our love--by the magic of this
jewel I do command thee!”
Here, beholding the talisman, Friar John gasped and stared round-eyed and
incredulous.
“By Holy Rood!” he whispered, “'t is indeed the Crystal Heart!”
“And O!” sighed Melissa, “O Friar John, thou dost mind the saying:
“'He that taketh Crystal Heart,
Taketh all and every part!'”
“Aye, truly--truly!” nodded the Friar.
“'And by night, or eke by day,
The Crystal Heart all must obey!'”
So saying he got him down from the ass and, for all his corpulence, louted
full low.
“Sir Knight of Shene,” quoth he, “by reason of this jewel potential thou
dost bear, now must I perforce obey thy behest and wed thee unto this
our gracious lady Benedicta, Duchess of Ambremont, Canalise, Tissingors,
Fordyngstoke and divers other towns, villages and--”
“Duchess--a duchess?” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “Duchess say'st thou--this,
the Duchess Benedicta! O Melissa--thou--thou--a duchess!”
“Sooth and forsooth,” sighed she in pretty mockery, “I do fear I am!”
“Then thou 'rt no humble maid, distressful and forlorn, Melissa?”
“Yea, Pertinax--all this am I indeed unless thou love me, and loving me,
wed me, and wedding me love me the better therefor, and loving me ever the
better, thou may'st learn a little some day how a woman may love a man.”
“Par Dex!” mumbled Sir Pertinax, kissing her rosy finger-tips, “be thou
duchess or witch-maid o' the wood, I do love thee heart and soul, body and
mind, now and for ever, Melissa.”
Then Friar John, beholding the radiant joy of their faces, reached forth
his hands in blessing.
“Kneel ye, my children!” he sighed. “For here methinks is true-love such
as brighteneth this world all too seldom. So here, within the forest, the
which is surely God's cathedral, this your love shall be sanctified unto
you and the world be the better therefor! Kneel ye, my children!”
And thus, kneeling upon the flower-sprent turf hand in hand and with heads
reverently bowed, they were wed, while the six outlaws stared in silent awe
and the meek ass cropped the grass busily.
“O Pertinax,” sighed the Duchess as they rose, “so greatly happy am I that
I will others shall be happy likewise; let us make this indeed a day of
gladness. I pray thee sound the bugle that hangeth within the great oak,
yonder.”
So Sir Pertinax took the horn and sounded thereon a mighty blast, loud and
long and joyous. And presently came the outlaws, thronging in from all
directions, until the sunny glade was full of their wild company, while
in the green beyond pike-head twinkled and sword-blades glittered; and
foremost was Robin with Lobkyn Lollo beside him.
“Robin,” said the Duchess, beckoning him near with white, imperious
finger, “Robin a' Green, thou whose tongue is quick and ready as thy hand,
hast ever been gentle to the weak and helpless as I do know, in especial
to two women that sought thy protection of late.”
“Why, verily, lady, I mind them well,” nodded Robin, “and one was a maid
passing fair and one an ancient dame exceeding wise. To aid such is ever a
man's joy--or should be.”
“Knew ye who and what this maid was, Robin?”
“Aye, lady, I knew her then as now for that proud and noble lady the
Duchess Benedicta.”
“And yet, Robin, knowing this and having me in thy power didst suffer me to
go without let or hindrance or single penny of ransom?”
“My lady Duchess,” answered Robin, glancing round upon his wild company,
“we be outlaws, 't is true, and rogues--mayhap, yet are we men and thou a
lady passing fair, wherefore--though I knew thee for the Duchess Benedicta,
thou wert safe with us since we war not with women and harm no maids be
they of high or low degree!”
“Spoke like a very knight!” exclaimed the Duchess. “How think'st thou, my
lord?”
“Par Dex!” quoth Sir Pertinax. “Aye, by Our Lady of Shene Chapel within the
Wood I swear it--thou 'rt a man, Robin! So now do I sue pardon of thee for
my song o' rogues since no rogue art thou. And thou didst aid and shield
her--this my wife that is the very eyes of me! So, by my troth, my good
friend art thou henceforth, Rob o' the Green!”
“Nay, my lord,” answered Robin slyly, “for I am but Robin, and outlaw, and
thou art the Duke!”
“Forsooth--and so I am!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “Ha--yet am I still a man,
and therefore--”
“Wait, my lord!” said Benedicta. “Robin, give me thy sword!” So she took
the weapon and motioning Robin to his knees, set the blade across his
shoulder. “Robin a' Green,” said she, “since thou art knightly of word and
deed, knight shalt thou be in very truth. Sir Robin a' Forest I make thee
and warden over this our forest country. Rise up, Sir Robert.” Then up
sprang Robin, bright-eyed and flushed of cheek.
“Dear my lady,” cried he, “since knight hast made me, thy knight will I be
henceforth in life or in death--” But here his voice was lost in the
joyous acclamations of his followers who shouted amain until the Duchess
quelled them with lifted hand.
“Ye men of the wild-wood,” said she, looking round upon them gentle-eyed,
“all ye that be homeless and desolate, lying without the law, this day joy
hath found me, for this is my wedding-morn. And as I am happy I would see
ye happy also. Therefore upon this glad day do we make proclamation, my
Lord Duke and I--this day we lift from you each and every, the ban of
outlawry--free men are ye to go and come as ye list--free men one and all
and good citizens henceforth I pray!” Now here was silence awhile, then a
hoarse murmur, swelling to a jubilant shout until the sunny woodland rang
with the joy of it, near and far.
“And now, Sir Robert,” laughed the Duchess, “pray you where is this noble
Fool, this gentle Motley, this most rare singer of songs and breaker of
lances? Bid him to us.”
“Ha--the Fool!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax, starting.
“My lady,” answered Robin, “true, he was here, but when I sought him, a
while since, there was Sir Palamon's armour he had worn, but himself gone
--”
“Gone--gone say'st thou?” cried Sir Pertinax, glancing about. “Then needs
must I go seek him--”
“And wherefore, my lord?” cried the Duchess.
“'T is my--my duty, Melissa!” stammered Sir Pertinax. “He is my--my friend
and--sworn brother-in-arms!”
“And am I not thy wife, Pertinax?”
“Aye, most dearly loved, and I, thy husband--and yet--needs must I seek
this Fool, Melissa.”
“O Pertinax--wilt leave me?”
“Leave thee?” groaned Sir Pertinax. “Aye--for a while! Leave thee?
Aye--though it break my heart needs must I! He, my--brother-in-arms. My
duty calleth--”
“And what of thy duty to me?”
Now as Sir Pertinax wrung his hands in an agony of indecision, rose a
whisper of sweet sound, the murmur of softly-plucked lute-strings, and into
the glade, cock's-comb aflaunt and ass's ears a-dangle Duke Jocelyn strode
and sang as he came a song he had made on a time, a familiar air:
“Good Pertinax, why griev'st thou so?
Free of all duty thou dost go,
Save that which thou to Love dost owe,
My noble Pertinax.”
“And love from heaven hath stooped thus low To me!” quoth Pertinax.
But here came Robin with certain of his men leading a snow-white palfrey
richly caparisoned.
“Right noble lady,” said he, “behold here a goodly, fair jennet to thy
gracious acceptance.”
“And indeed--'t is rare, pretty beast!” exclaimed Benedicta. “But Robin,
Robin, O Sir Robert, whence had you this?”
“Lady, upon a time I was an outlaw and lived as outlaws may, taking such
things as Fate bestowed, and, lady:
“Fate is a wind
To outlaws kind:
But now since we be free-men all, I and my fellows, fain would we march
hence in thy train to thy honour and our joyance. Wilt grant us this boon,
lady?”
“Freely, for 'tis rare good thought, Robin! Surely never rode duke and
duchess so attended. How the townsfolk shall throng and stare to see our
wild following, and my worthy guardians gape and pluck their beards for
very amaze! How think you, good Friar John?”
“Why, verily, daughter, I, that am chiefest of thy wardens ten, do think it
wise measure; as for thy other guardians let them pluck and gape until they
choke.
“In especial Greg'ry Bax,
Who both beard and wisdom lacks.
I say 'tis wise, good measure, for these that were outlaws be sturdy
fellows with many friends in town and village, so shall this thy day of
union be for them re-union, and they joy with thee.”
Now being mounted the Duchess rode where stood Jocelyn, and looked down on
him merry-eyed.
“Sir Fool,” said she, “who thou art I know not, but I have hunted in
Brocelaunde ere now, and I have eyes. And as thou 'rt friend to my dear
lord, friend art thou of mine, so do we give thee joyous welcome to our
duchy. And, being thy friend, I pray thou may'st find that wonder of
wonders the which hideth but to be found, and once found, shall make wise
Fool wiser.”
“Sweet friend and lady,” answered Jocelyn, “surely man so unlovely as I may
not know this wonder for his very own until it first seek him. Is 't not
so? Let now thy woman's heart counsel me.”
“How, Sir Wise Folly, have I not heard thee preach boldness in love ere
now?”
“Aye--for others!” sighed Jocelyn. “But for myself--I fear--behold this
motley! This scarred face!”
“Why as to thy motley it becometh thee well--”
“Aye, but my face? O, 't is a hideous face!”
“O Fool!” sighed Benedicta, “know'st thou not that True-love's eyes possess
a magic whereby all loved things become fair and beauteous. So take
courage, noble Motley, and may thy desires be crowned--even as our own.”
“Gramercy, thou sweet and gentle lady. Happiness companion thee alway and
Love sing ever within thee. Now for ye twain is love's springtime, a season
of sweet promise, may each promise find fulfilment and so farewell.”
“Why then, Sir Fool, an thou wilt tarry here in the good greenwood a
while, may Love guide thee. Now here is my counsel: Follow where thy heart
commandeth and--fear not! And now, Sir Robert a' Forest, form thy company,
and since this is a day of gladness let them sing as they march.”
“In sooth, dear my lady, that will we!” cried Robin. “There is song o'
spring and gladness I made that hath oft been our solace, and moreover it
beginneth and endeth with jolly chorus well beknown to all. Ho, pikes
to van and rear! Bows to the flanks--fall in! Now trusty friends o' the
greenwood, free-men all, henceforth--now march we back to hearth and home
and love, so sing ye--sing!”
Hereupon from the ragged, close-ordered ranks burst a shout that swelled
to rolling chorus; and these the words:
The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily--hey!
And cheerily let us sing,
While youth is youth then youth is gay
And youth shall have his fling.
Robin: The merry merle on leafy spray,
The lark on fluttering wing
Do pipe a joyous roundelay,
To greet the blithesome spring.
Hence, hence cold Age, black Care--away!
Cold Age black Care doth bring;
When back is bowed and head is grey,
Black Care doth clasp and cling.
Black Care doth rosy Pleasure stay,
Age ageth everything;
'T is farewell sport and holiday,
On flowery mead and ling.
If Death must come, then come he may,
And wed with death-cold ring,
Yet ere our youth and strength decay,
Blithe Joy shall be our king.
The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily--hey!
And cheerily we will sing.
So they marched blithely away, a right joyous company, flashing back the
sunset glory from bright headpiece and sword-blade, while Jocelyn stood
watching wistful-eyed until they were lost amid the green, until all sounds
of their going grew to a hush mingling with the whisper of leaves and
murmurous gurgle of the brook; and ever the shadows deepened about him, a
purple solitude of misty trees and tangled thickets, depth on depth, fading
to a glimmering mystery.
Suddenly amid these glooming shadows a shadow moved, and forth into the
darkling glade, mighty club on mighty shoulder, stepped Lobkyn Lollo the
Dwarf, and his eyes were pensive and he sighed gustily.
“Alack!” quoth he:
“So here's an end of outlawry,
And all along o' lady,
Yet still an outlaw I will be
Shut in o' shaws so shady.
And yet it is great shame, I trow,
That our good friends should freemen go
And leave us lonely to our woe,
And all along o' lady.
“And plague upon this love, I say,
For stealing thus thy friend away,
And since fast caught and wed is he
Thy friend henceforth is lost to thee,
And thou, poor Fool, dost mope and sigh,
And so a plague on love! say I.”
“Nay, good Lobkyn, what know you of love?” Answered LOBKYN:
“Marry, enough o' love know I
To steal away if love be nigh.
“For love's an ill as light as air,
Yet heavy as a stone;
O, love is joy and love is care,
A song and eke a groan.
“Love is a sickness, I surmise,
Taketh a man first by the eyes,
And stealing thence into his heart,
There gripeth him with bitter smart.
Alas, poor soul,
What bitter dole,
Doth plague his every part!
“From heart to liver next it goes,
And fills him full o' windy woes,
And, being full o' gusty pain,
He groaneth oft, and sighs amain,
Poor soul is he
In verity,
And for his freedom sighs in vain.”
“Miscall not love, Lobkyn, for sure True-love is
every man's birthright.”
Quoth LOBKYN:
“Why then, methinks there's many a wight
That cheated is of his birthright,
As, item first, here's Lobkyn Lollo
To prove thine argument quite hollow.
Dare I at maid to cast mine eye,
She mocketh me, and off doth fly,
And all because I'm humped o' back,
And something to my stature lack.
Thus, though I'm stronger man than three,
No maid may love the likes o' me.
Next, there's thyself--a Fool, I swear,
At fight or song beyond compare.
But--thou 'rt unlovely o' thy look,
And this no maid will ever brook.
So thou and I, for weal or woe,
To our lives' end unloved must go.
But think ye that I grieve or sigh?
Not so! A plague on love, say I!”
Now here Jocelyn sighed amain and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to sad and
wistful thinking.
“Aye, verily,” he repeated, “I am 'unlovely of my
look.'”
Quoth Lobkyn heartily:
“In very sooth,
Fool, that's the truth!”
“Alas!” sighed Jocelyn, “'And this no maid
will ever brook!'”
Answered Lobkyn:
“And there dost speak, wise Fool, again,
A truth right manifest and plain,
Since fairest maids have bat-like eyes,
And see no more than outward lies.
And seeing thus, they nothing see
Of worthiness in you or me.
And so, since love doth pass us by,
The plague o' plagues on love, say I!”
“Nath'less,” cried the Duke, leaping to his feet. “I will put Love to the
test--aye, this very hour!”
Lobkyn: Wilt go, good Motley? Pray thee where?
Jocelyn: To one beyond all ladies fair.
Lobkyn: Then dost thou need a friend about thee
To cheer and comfort when she flout thee.
So, an thou wilt a-wooing wend,
I'll follow thee like trusty friend.
In love or fight thou shalt not lack
A sturdy arm to 'fend thy back.
I'll follow thee in light or dark,
Through good or ill--Saints shield us!
Hark!
And Lobkyn started about, club poised for swift action, for, out-stealing
from the shadows crept strange and dismal sound, a thin wail that sank to
awful groaning rumble, and so died away.
“O!” whispered Lobkyn:
“Pray, Fool, pray with all thy might,
Here's goblin foul or woodland sprite
Come for to steal our souls away,
So on thy knees quick, Fool, and pray!”
But, as these dismal sounds brake forth again, Jocelyn stole forward,
quarter-staff gripped in ready hand; thus, coming nigh the great oak, he
espied a dim, huddled form thereby and, creeping nearer, stared in wonder
to behold Mopsa, the old witch, striving might and main to wind the great
hunting-horn.
“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.