“Yolande,” he questioned, “Yolande, wilt trust thyself to Love and me?” But seeing how she shrank away, his eager arms fell and he bowed his head. “Nay, I am answered,” quoth he, “even while thine eyes look love, thy body abhorreth Fool's embrace—I am answered. Nay, 't is enough, trouble not for words—ha, methinks it is too late, the wolves be hard upon us—hark ye to their baying!”
And now was sudden uproar, a raving clamour of fierce shouts, and a thundering of blows upon the great door below.
“Yolande—ha, Yolande, yield thee! Open! Open!”
“Ah—mercy of God! Is it me they seek?” she whispered.
“Thee, Yolande! To bear thee to their lord's embraces—”
“Rather will I die!” she cried, and snatched the dagger from his girdle.
“Not so!” quoth he, wresting the weapon from her grasp. “Rather shalt thou live a while—for thou art mine—mine to-night, Yolande—come!” And he clasped her in fierce arms. “Nay, strive not lest I kiss thee to submission, for thou art mine, though it be for one brief hour and death the next!” So, as she struggled for the dagger, he kissed her on mouth and eyes and hair until she lay all unresisting in his embrace; while ever and anon above the thunder of blows the night clamoured with the fierce shout:
“Open—open! Yolande, ha, Yolande!”
“There is death—and worse!” she panted. “Loose me!”
“Stay,” he laughed, “here thou 'rt in thy rightful place at last—upon my heart, Yolande. Now whither shall I bear thee? Where lieth safety?”