“Nay,” she laughed, yet flushing to the worship of his eyes, “and my habit woefully torn of wicked bramble-thorns, and my hair ill-braided and all uncombed and—”
“Ah, Yolande, I thought thee fled and I left to loneliness, and my pain was very sore.”
“Then am I avenged thy mockery, Joconde, and thy song of 'Derry down.' 'Twas for this I stole away! But now, if thou 'rt hungry man, come this ways.” And she reached him her hand. So she brought him to a little dell where burned a fire of sticks beneath a pot whence stole right savoury odour.
“O most wonderful!” quoth he. “Whence came these goodly viands?”
“Where but from the wallet behind thy horse's saddle, Joconde?” Then down sat they forthwith side by side and ate heartily and were very blithe together; and oft-times their looks would meet and they would fall silent awhile. At last, the meal ended, Jocelyn, turning from Yolande's beauty to the beauty of the world around, spake soft-voiced:
“Yolande, were mine a selfish love, here, lost within these green solitudes, would I keep thee for mine own—to serve and worship thee unto my life's end. But, since I count thy happiness above my dearest desires, now will I go saddle the horse and bear thee hence.”
“Whither, Joconde, whither wilt thou bear me?”
“Back to the world,” said he ruefully, “thy world of prideful luxury, to thy kindred.”
“But I have no kindred, alas!” sighed she, stooping to caress a daisy-flower that grew adjacent.
“Why, then, thy friends—”