A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung
As he rode down to Camelot.
JANE. I know, dear. But of course they don't nowadays.
MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose—perhaps just a rose.
JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? (She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather—you know. Rather forward.
MELISANDE. Forward!
JANE (upset). Well, I mean—Well, of course, I suppose it was different in those days.
MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?
JANE. Well, of course, there is that.