“Stay, Joconde, the forest is haunted of wolves and—worse, 'tis said!”
“Then will I watch beside thee till the day. And now will I go cut bracken for thy bed.”
“Then will I aid thee.” So she arose forthwith and, amid the fragrant gloom, they laboured together side by side; and oft in the gloom her hand touched his, and oft upon his cheek and brow and lip was the silken touch of her wind-blown hair. Then beneath arching willows they made a bed, high-piled of springy bracken and sweet grasses, whereon she sank nestling, forthwith.
“O, 'tis sweet couch!” she sighed.
“Yet thou'lt be cold mayhap ere dawn,” quoth he, “suffer me to set my cloak about thee.”
“But how of thyself, Joconde?”
“I am a Fool well seasoned of wind and rain, heat and cold, lady, and 'tis night of summer.” So he covered her with his travel-stained cloak and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to his watch. And oft she stirred amid the fern, deep-sighing, and he, broad back against the tree, sighed oftener yet.
“Art there, Joconde?” she questioned softly.
“Here, lady.”
“'Tis very dark,” sighed she, “and yet, methinks, 'tis sweet to lie thus in the greenwood so hushed and still and the stars to watch like eyes of angels.”