Thus the birds awaking sounded pretty warnings summoning each to each for that the day-spring was at hand, while ever the brightness changed to radiance and radiance to an orient glory and up flamed the sun in majesty and it was day. And now, from brake and thicket, from dewy mysteries of green boskage burst forth the sweet, glad chorus of bird-song, full throated, passionate of joy.
And Jocelyn, sitting broad back against a tree, felt his soul uplifted thereby what time his eyes missed nothing of the beauties about him: the rugged boles of mighty trees bedappled with sunny splendour, the glittering dew that gemmed leaf and twig and fronded bracken, and the shapely loveliness of her who slumbered couched beneath his worn cloak, the gentle rise and fall of rounded bosom and the tress of hair that a fugitive sunbeam kissed to ruddy gold. Thus sat Jocelyn regardful, gladness in the heart of him, and a song of gladness bubbling to his lips.
Suddenly he saw her lashes quiver, her rosy lips parted to a smile and, stirring in her slumber, she sighed and stretched shapely arms; so waked she to a glory of sun and, starting to an elbow, gazed round, great-eyed, until espying him, she smiled again.
“Good morrow, Joconde! Ne'er have I slept sweeter. But thou hast out-watched dark night and art a-weary, so shalt sleep awhile—”
“Nay,” he answered, “a plunge in the stream yonder and I shall be blithe for the road—an we find one. And I do fear me thou'rt hungry, Yolande, and I have nought to give thee—”
“And what of thyself, man? Verily, I read hunger in thy look and weariness also, so, an thou may'st not eat, sleep thou shalt awhile here—in my place.”
“Nay, Yolande, indeed—”
“Yea, but thou must indeed whiles I watch over thee. 'Tis a sweet bed—come thy ways.”
“And what wilt thou do?” he questioned.
“Much!” she answered, viewing her rumpled, gown with rueful eyes. “As thou sayest, there is the pool yonder! So come, get thee to bed and—sleep! Come, let me cover thee with thy cloak and gainsay me not; sleep thou must and shalt.”