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.