At last, the meal ended, Jocelyn, turning from Yolande's beauty to
the beauty of the world around, spake soft-voiced:
"Yolande, were mine a selfish love, here, lost within these green
solitudes, would I keep thee for mine own--to serve and worship thee unto
my life's end. But, since I count thy happiness above my dearest desires,
now will I go saddle the horse and bear thee hence."
"Whither, Joconde, whither wilt thou bear me?"
"Back to the world," said he ruefully, "thy world of prideful luxury, to
thy kindred."
"But I have no kindred, alas!" sighed she, stooping to caress a
daisy-flower that grew adjacent.
"Why, then, thy friends--"
"My friends be very few, Joconde, and Benedicta hath her husband."
"Yolande," said he, leaning nearer, "whither should I bear thee?"
"Nay," saith she, patting the daisy with gentle finger-tip, "go thou and
saddle thy horse, mayhap I shall know this anon. Go thou and saddle the
horse." So Jocelyn arose and having saddled and bridled the horse, back he
cometh to find Yolande on her knees beside the stream, and she, hearing
his step, bowed her head, hiding her face from him; now on the sward
beside her lay the picture shattered beyond repair.
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