"
"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.
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