“As how presumptuous, proud lady?” he questioned humbly.
“In that thou dreamest I—stoop to fear thee!”
“Aye, verily!” sighed he. “Alas, thou poor, solitary, foolish, fearful maid, thou art sick with fear of me! So take now my dagger! Thus Fool offenceless shall lie defenceless at thy mercy and, so lying, sleep until joyous day shall banish thy so virginal fears!” Which saying, he tossed off belt and dagger and setting them beside her, rolled his weather-worn cloak about him, stretched himself beneath the dim willows and straightway fell a-snoring. And after some while she questioned him in voice low and troubled:
“O Joconde, art truly sleeping?”
“Fair lady,” he answered, “let these my so loud snores answer thee.”
Up sprang Yolande and, coming beside him in the gloom, cast back his girdle, speaking quick and passionate:
“Take back thy dagger lest I be tempted to smite it to the cruel, mocking heart of thee!” Then turned she stately back and left him, but, being hid from view, cast herself down full length upon the sward, her pride and stateliness forgotten quite. Now Jocelyn, propped on uneasy elbow, peered amid the gloom for sight of her and hearkened eagerly for sound of her; but finding this vain, arose and, creeping stealthily, presently espied her where she lay, face hidden in the dewy grass. Thus stood he chin in hand disquieted and anxious-eyed and wist not what to do.
“Lady?” he questioned at last; but she stirred not nor spoke. “Yolande!” he murmured, drawing nearer; but still she moved not, though his quick ear caught a sound faint though very pitiful. “Ah, dost thou weep?” he cried. Yolande sobbed again, whereupon down fell he beside her on his knees, “Dear lady, why grievest thou?”
“O Joconde,” she sighed, “I am indeed solitary—and fearful! And thou—thou dost mock me!”
“Forgive me,” he pleaded humbly, “and, since thou'rt solitary, here am I. And, for thy fears, nought is here shall harm thee, here may'st thou sleep secure—”