"All this is he, my lords. Very humble and lowly--yet
do I love him! Oh, 'tis joy--'tis joy to thus confess my love--his cap and
bells and motley livery are fairer to me than velvet mantle or knightly
armour; he is but humble jester, a Fool for men's scorn or laughter, yet is
he a man, so do I love him and so am I his--unto the end. My lords, I have
no more to say save this--give me my jester--this man I love--and suffer us
to go forth hand in hand together, even as we came."
The Duchess Benedicta uttered a soft, glad cry, and seizing her husband's
arm, shook it for very joy. But now, as Yolande fronted them all, pale and
proudly defiant, was the ring of a mailed foot, and turning, she shrank
trembling to see Duke Jocelyn hasting toward her, his black armour
glinting, his embroidered surcoat fluttering, his long arms outstretched
to her; thus quick-striding he came but, even as she put out shaking hands
to stay him, he fell upon his knee before her.
"Most brave and noble lady--beloved Yolande," he cried, and lifted his
vizor.
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