"Whereof I token bring;
Behold, fair maid, Duke Joc'lyn's signet ring."
"Heaven's love!" she cried. "And can it truly be
The Duke doth send a mountebank like thee,
A Fool that hath nor likelihood nor grace
From worn-out shoon unto thy blemished face--
A face so scarred--so hateful that meseems
At night 't will haunt and fright me with ill dreams;
A slave so base--"
"E'en so!" Duke Joc'lyn sighed,
And his marred visage 'neath his hood did hide.
"But, though my motley hath thy pride distressed,
I am the Fool Duke Joc'lyn loveth best.
And--ah, my lady, thou shalt never see
In all this world a Fool the like of me!"
Thus spake the Duke, and then awhile stood mute,
And idly struck sweet chords upon his lute,
Watching Yolande's fair, frowning face the while,
With eyes that held a roguish, wistful smile.
She, meeting now these eyes of laughing blue,
Felt her cheeks burn, and sudden angry grew.
So up she rose in proud and stately fashion,
And stamped slim foot at him in sudden passion;
And vowed that of Duke Joc'lyn she cared naught;
That if he'd woo, by him she must be sought;
Vowed if he wooed his wooing should be vain,
And, as he came, he back should go again.
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