“How—then—Joconde?”
“Then should Fool, by love exalted, change to man indeed and I—mount up to heaven—thus!” So saying, Jocelyn began to climb by gnarled ivy and carven buttress. And ever as he mounted she watched him through the silken curtain of her hair, wide of eye and with hands tight-clasped.
“Ah, Joconde!” she whispered, “'t is madness—madness! Ah, Joconde!” But swift he came and swung himself upon the balcony beside her and reached out his arms in mute supplication, viewing her wistfully but with scarred face transfigured by smile ineffably tender, and when he spoke his voice was hushed and reverent.
“I am here, Yolande, because methought to read within thy look the wonder of all wonders. But, O my lady, because I am but what I am, fain would I hear thee speak it also.”
“Joconde,” said she in breathless voice, “wouldst shame me—?”
“Shame?” he cried. “Shame? Can there be aught of shame in true love? Or is it that my ass's ears do shame thee, my cock's-comb and garments pied shame the worship of this foolish heart, and I, a Fool, worshipping thee, shame thee by such worship? Then—on, cock's-comb! Ring out, silly bells! Fool's love doth end in folly! Off love—on folly—a Fool can but love and die.”
“Stay, Joconde; ah, how may I tell thee—? Why dost thou start and fumble with thy dagger?”
“Heard you aught, lady?”
“I heard an owl hoot in the shadows yonder, no more.”
“True, lady, but now shall this owl croak like a frog—hearken! Aha—and now shall frog bark like dog—”