"
"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.
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