“Yet Fool of all fools singular, Yolande. And for all his motley a very man, methinks, and of a proud, high bearing.”
Here Yolande's soft cheek grew rosy again:
“Yet is he but motley Fool—and his face—marred hatefully—”
“Hast seen him smile, Yolande, for then—how, dost sigh again, my sweet?”
“Nay, indeed; but talk we of other matters—thy so sudden flight—tell me all that chanced thee, dearest Benedicta.”
“Why first—in thine ear, Yolande—my jewel is not—see!”
“How—how, alas! O most sweet lady—hast lost it? Thy royal amulet?”
“Bestowed it, Yolande.”
“Benedicta! On whom?”
“A poor soldier. One that saved me i' the forest from many of Sir Agramore's verderers—a man very tall and strong and brave, but dight in ragged cloak and rusty mail—”