The Geste of Duke Jocelyn Part 41

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sionate:

"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 gra.s.s. 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 gra.s.ses, 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 las.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s 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.