"Look now upon this blemished
face--here where the cruel sun may shew thee all my ugliness, every
scar--behold! How may one so beautiful as thou learn love for one so lowly
and with face thus hatefully marred? I have watched thee shrink from me ere
now! I mind how, beside the lily-pool within thy garden, thou didst view me
with eyes of horror! I do mind thy very words--the first that e'er I heard
thee utter:
'What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth show A visage that might
shame the gladsome day?'
Yolande, Yolande, this poor blemished face is nothing changed since then;
such as I was, such I am!"
"Alas, Joconde!" she cried, reaching out her hands in passionate appeal.
"My words were base, cruel--and hurt me now more, ah, much more, than e'er
they wounded thee. For I do love thee with love as deep, as true as is
thine own! Wilt not believe me?"
"Oh, that I might indeed!" he groaned. "But--thou'rt alone, far from thy
home and friends, thy wonted pride and state forgotten all--mayhap thou
dost pity me or mayhap 'tis thy gratitude in guise of love doth speak me
thus? But as thou art still thine own lovely self, so am I that same poor,
motley Fool whose hateful face--"
"Joconde," she cried, "hush thee--Oh, hush thee! Thy words are whips to
lash me!" and catching his hand she kissed it and cherished it 'gainst
tear-wet cheek.
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