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!