“See!” he cried, flinging back his head. “Look now upon this blemished face—here where the cruel sun may shew thee all my ugliness, every scar—behold! How may one so beautiful as thou learn love for one so lowly and with face thus hatefully marred? I have watched thee shrink from me ere now! I mind how, beside the lily-pool within thy garden, thou didst view me with eyes of horror! I do mind thy very words—the first that e'er I heard thee utter:
'What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth show A visage that might shame the gladsome day?'
Yolande, Yolande, this poor blemished face is nothing changed since then; such as I was, such I am!”
“Alas, Joconde!” she cried, reaching out her hands in passionate appeal. “My words were base, cruel—and hurt me now more, ah, much more, than e'er they wounded thee. For I do love thee with love as deep, as true as is thine own! Wilt not believe me?”
“Oh, that I might indeed!” he groaned. “But—thou'rt alone, far from thy home and friends, thy wonted pride and state forgotten all—mayhap thou dost pity me or mayhap 'tis thy gratitude in guise of love doth speak me thus? But as thou art still thine own lovely self, so am I that same poor, motley Fool whose hateful face—”
“Joconde,” she cried, “hush thee—Oh, hush thee! Thy words are whips to lash me!” and catching his hand she kissed it and cherished it 'gainst tear-wet cheek. “Ah, Joconde,” she sighed, “so wise and yet so foolish, know'st thou not thy dear, scarred face is the face of him I love, for love hath touched my eyes and I do see thee at last as thou truly art, a man great of soul, tender and strong-hearted. So art thou a man, the only man, my man. Oh, that I might but prove my love for thee, prove it to thee and before all men, no matter how, so I might but banish thy cruel doubts for ever. But now, for thy dear, scarred face—”
Her soft, round arms were about his neck; and drawing him to her lips she kissed him, his scarred brow and cheek, his eyes, his lips grown dumb with wondering joy. Thus, lip to lip and with arms entwined, knelt they beside that slow-moving stream that whispered softly beneath the bank and gurgled roguish laughter in the shallows.
A dog barked faintly in the distance, a frog croaked hoarsely from the neighbouring sedge, but lost in the wonder of their love, they heeded only the beating of their hearts.
“A-billing and a-cooing! A-cooing and a-billing, as I'm a tanner true!” exclaimed a hoarse voice. Up started Jocelyn, fierce-eyed and with hand on dagger-hilt, to behold a man with shock of red hair, a man squat and burly who, leaning on bow-stave, peered at them across the stream.
“And is it Will the Tanner?” quoth Jocelyn, loosing his dagger.