“For that it was but painted toy, even as thou sayest!” she answered. “Moreover, I—love not Duke Jocelyn.”
“And't was for this thou didst break the picture?”
“Nay, 'twas because these painted features may never compare with the face of him I love.”
“And whom—whom dost thou love?” quoth he, in voice low and unsteady. Speaking not, she pointed with slender finger down into the placid, stream. Wondering, he bent to look and thus from the stilly water his mirrored image looked back at him; now as he stooped so stooped she, and in this watery mirror their glances met.
“Yolande?” he whispered. “O my lady, shall a Fool's fond dream come true, or am I mad indeed? Thou in thy beauty and I—”
“Thou, Joconde,” said she, fronting him with head proudly uplift, “to my thought thou art man greater, nobler than any proud lord or mighty duke soever. And thou hast loved and wooed as never man wooed, methinks. And thou art so brave and strong and so very gentle and—thus it is—I do love thee.”
“But my—my motley habit, my—”
“Thy cap of Folly, Joconde, these garments pied thou hast dignified by thy very manhood, so are they dearer to me than lordly tire or knightly armour. And thy jingling bells—ah, Joconde, the jingle of thy bells hath waked within my heart that which shall never die—long time my heart hath cried for thee, and I, to my shame, heeded not the cry, wherefore here and now, thus upon my knees, I do most humbly confess my love.”
“Thy love, Yolande—for me? Then dost truly love me? Oh, here is marvel beyond my understanding and belief.”
“Why, Joconde, ah, why?”