“Howbeit, lady,” quoth Jocelyn slyly, “my poor comrade is surely bewitched by her none the less. She hath wrought on him spell so potent that he groweth mopish and talketh of her eyes, her hair, her sweet and gentle voice, her little foot, forsooth.”
“And doth he so, indeed?” said Melissa softly, and, twiddling one of her own pretty feet, she smiled at it. “Doth he sigh o'er much?” she questioned.
“Consumedly! By the minute!”
“Poor soldier!” she murmured.
“Aye, poor rogue!” said Jocelyn; whereupon she frowned again, and turned her back upon him.
“And he is thy comrade.”
“Even so—poor knave!”
“And destitute—even as thou?”
“Aye, a sorry clapper-claw—even as I, lady.”
“Then, pray thee, why doth he wear gold chain about his neck?”