So Duke Jocelyn stretched himself obediently upon the bed of fern and suffered her to cover him with the cloak; but as she stooped above him thus, he lifted the hem of her dress to reverent lips.
“My lady!” he murmured. “My dear lady!”
“Now close me thine eyes, wearied child!” she commanded. And, like a child, in this also he obeyed her, albeit unwillingly by reason of her radiant beauty, but hearing her beside him, was content, and thus presently fell to happy sleeping.
When he awoke the sun was high and he lay awhile basking in this grateful radiance and joying in the pervading quiet; but little by little, growing uneasy by reason of this stillness, he started up to glance about him and knew sudden dread—for the little glade was empty—Yolande had vanished; moreover the horse was gone also.
Cold with an awful fear he got him to his feet and looked hither and yon, but nowhere found any sign of violence or struggle. But like one distraught he turned to seek her, her name upon his lips, then, checking voice and movement, stood rigid, smitten by hateful doubt. For now it seemed to him that her gentle looks and words had been but sweet deceits to blind him to her purpose and now, so soon as she had lulled him to sleep, she had stolen away, leaving him for the poor, piteous fool he was. And now his despair was 'whelmed in sudden anger, and anger, little by little, changed to grief. She was fled away and he a sorry fool and very desolate.
Full of these bitter thoughts he cast himself upon his face and, lying as in a pit of gloom, knew a great bitterness.
Slowly, slowly, borne upon the gentle wind came a fragrance strange and unexpected, a savour delectable of cooking meat that made him know himself a man vastly hungry despite his grievous woe. But, lying within the black gulf of bitterness, he stirred not until, of a sudden, he heard a voice, rich and full and very sweet, upraised in joyous singing; and these the words:
“Rise, O laggard! See the sun,
To climb in glory hath begun:
The flowers have oped their pretty eyes,
The happy lark doth songful rise,
And merry birds in flowery brake,
Full-throated, joyous clamours make;
And I, indeed, that love it not,
Do sit alone and keel the pot,
Whiles thus I sing thee to entreat,
O sleepy laggard—come and eat!”
“Forsooth and art sleeping yet, Joconde?” the voice questioned. Duke Jocelyn lifted woeful head and saw her standing tall and shapely amid the leaves, fresh and sweet as the morn itself, with laughter within her dream-soft eyes and laughter on her vivid lips and the sun bright in the braided tresses of her hair wherein she had set wild flowers like jewels.
“Yolande!” he murmured, coming to his knees “Yolande—how glorious thou art!”