“And am I not thy wife, Pertinax?”
“Aye, most dearly loved, and I, thy husband—and yet—needs must I seek this Fool, Melissa.”
“O Pertinax—wilt leave me?”
“Leave thee?” groaned Sir Pertinax. “Aye—for a while! Leave thee? Aye—though it break my heart needs must I! He, my—brother-in-arms. My duty calleth—”
“And what of thy duty to me?”
Now as Sir Pertinax wrung his hands in an agony of indecision, rose a whisper of sweet sound, the murmur of softly-plucked lute-strings, and into the glade, cock's-comb aflaunt and ass's ears a-dangle Duke Jocelyn strode and sang as he came a song he had made on a time, a familiar air:
“Good Pertinax, why griev'st thou so?
Free of all duty thou dost go,
Save that which thou to Love dost owe,
My noble Pertinax.”
“And love from heaven hath stooped thus low To me!” quoth Pertinax.
But here came Robin with certain of his men leading a snow-white palfrey richly caparisoned.
“Right noble lady,” said he, “behold here a goodly, fair jennet to thy gracious acceptance.”