The Geste of Duke Jocelyn Part 40

"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 s.h.i.+vered 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 pa.s.sage-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 c.o.c.k'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 gra.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+vering, she looked no more.

On they sped with loosened rein, o'er gra.s.sy 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 gra.s.s; 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 G.o.d Phoebus is otherwhere, and Dian, sly-sweet G.o.ddess, 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 a.s.s'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, hus.h.!.+ 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 cheris.h.i.+ng 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.