“And what of thy lord? How of Duke Jocelyn, thy master?”
“He is but man, lady, even as I. Moreover for thee he existeth not since thou hast ne'er beheld him—to thy knowing.”
“Nay, then—what of this?” she questioned, drawing the jewelled picture from her bosom.
“'T is but what it is, lady, a poor thing of paint!”
“But sheweth face of noble beauty, Fool!”
“Aye, nobly painted, Yolande! A thing of daubed colours, seeing naught of thy beauty, speaking thee no word of love, whiles here stand I, a sorry Fool of beauty none, yet therewithal a man to woo thee to my love—”
“Thy love? Ah, wilt so betray thy lord's trust?”
“Blithely, Yolande! For thee I would betray my very self.”
“And thyself art Fool faithless to thy lord, a rhyming jester, a sorry thing for scorn or laughter—and yet—thy shameful habit shames thee not, and thy foolish songs hold naught of idle folly! And thou—thou art the same I saw 'mid gloom of dungeon sing brave song in thy chains! Thou art he that overthrew so many in the lists! O Joconde, my world is upside down by reason of thee.”
“And thou, Yolande, didst stoop to me within my dungeon! And thou didst pray for me, Yolande, and now—now within this sweet night thou dost lean down to me through the glory of thy hair—to me in my very lowliness! And so it is I love thee, Yolande, love thee as none shall ever love thee, for man am I with heart to worship thee, tongue to woo thee, eyes to behold thy beauties, and arms to clasp thee. So am I richer than yon painted duke that needs must woo thee with my lips. And could I but win thee to love—ah, Yolande, could I, despite these foolish trappings, this blemished face, see Love look on me from thine eyes, O—then—”