THE FIRST SOLDIER: Why, she scorned him, 'tis well beknown!

THE SECOND SOLDIER: Aye, and it doth not do to scorn the Red Gui, look 'ee!

THE THIBD SOLDIER: She'll lie snug in his arms yet, her pride humbled, her proud spirit broke, I'll warrant me!

THE FOURTH SOLDIER: She rideth hence in her litter, d'ye see; and with but scant few light-armed knaves attendant.

THE FIRST SOLDIER: Aye, and our signal my lord's hunting-horn thrice winded—

My daughter GILLIAN expostulateth:

Thus spake the Chief Herald and so paced solemnly down the lists while the long clarions filled the air with gallant music. But the lovely Benedicta, throned beneath silken canopy, knit her black brows and clenched slender hands and stamped dainty foot, yet laughed thereafter, whereupon Yolande, leaning to kiss her flushed cheek, questioned her, wondering:

“How say'st thou to this, my loved Benedicta?”

Quoth the DUCHESS:

Howbeit I care not one rush for their laws! Marry forsooth—a fig! Let them make laws an they will, these reverend, right troublesome grey-beards of mine, they shall never wed me but to such a man as Love shall choose me, and loving him—him only will I wed, be he great or lowly, rich or poor, worthy or unworthy, so I do love him, as is the sweet and wondrous way of love.”

“Ah, Benedicta! what is love?”

“A joy that cometh but of itself, all unsought! This wisdom had I of a Fool i' the forest. Go learn you of this same Fool and sigh not, dear wench.”

“Nay, but,” sighed Yolande, lovely cheeks a-flush, “what of Sir Agramore—hath he not sworn to wed thee?”

“I do fear Sir Agramore no longer, Yolande, since I have found me one may cope with him perchance—even as did a Fool with my Lord Gui of Ells upon a tune. Art sighing again, sweet maid?”

“Nay, indeed—and wherefore should I sigh?”

“At mention of a Fool, belike.”

“Ah, no, no, 'twere shame in me, Benedicta! A Fool forsooth!”

“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—”

“Ragged? A thief—”

“Mayhap!”

“An outlaw—”

“Mayhap!”

“A wolf's-head—a wild man and fierce.”

“True he is very wild and very fierce, but very, very gentle—”

“And didst give to such thy jewel? O Benedicta! The Heart-in-heart?”

“Freely—gladly! He begged it of me very humbly and all unknowing what it signified—”

“O my loved Benedicta, alas!”

“O my sweet Yolande, joy!”

“But if he should claim thee, and he so poor and wild and ragged—”

“If he should, Yolande, if he should—

O, if he should, Yolande, then I—must fulfil the prophecy. Nay, dear my friend, stare not so great and sadly-eyed, he knoweth not the virtue of the jewel nor have I seen him these many days.”

“And must thou sigh therefore, Benedicta?”

But now the trumpets blew a fanfare, and forth rode divers gallant knights, who, spurring rearing steeds, charged amain to gore, to smite and batter each other with right good will while the concourse shouted, caps waved and scarves and ribands fluttered.

And beholding all the beauty of her he smiled evilly and muttered to himself, glancing from her to certain lusty men-at-arms who, lolling 'gainst the barriers, bore at back and breast his badge of the bloody hand.

But the fair Yolande heeded him none at all, sitting with eyes a-dream and sighing ever and anon; insomuch that the Duchess, watching her slyly, sighed amain also and presently spake:

“Indeed, and O verily, Yolande, meseemeth we do sigh and for ever sigh, thou and I, like two poor, love-sick maids. How think'st thou?”

“Nay, O Benedicta, hearken! See, who rideth yonder?”

“Now as I live!” cried Benedicta. “By his device yon should be that foolish knight Sir Palamon of Tong!”

“Aye, truly!” sighed Yolande. “Though he wear no motley hither rideth indeed a very fool. And look, Benedicta—look! O, sure never rode knight in like array—see how the very populace groweth dumb in its amaze!”

But now cometh (and almost in haste) the haughty and right dignified Chief Herald with pursuivants attendant, which latter having trumpeted amain, the Herald challenged thus:

Whereto the Knight maketh answer forthwith:

Here the Chief Herald frowned, puffing his cheeks, and waved his ebony staff authoritatively.

Quoth he: “Enough, Sir Knight! Here is no place for love! For inasmuch as we—”

THE KNIGHT: Gentle Herald, I being here, here is Love, since I am lover, therefore love-full, thus where I go goeth Love—

The Herald: Apprehend me, Sir Knight! For whereas love hath no part in—

The Knight: Noble Herald, Love hath every part within me and without, thus I, from Love apart, have no part, and my love no part apart from my every part; wherefore, for my part, and on my part, ne'er will I with Love part for thy part and this to thee do I impart—

“Sweet Saints aid us!” The Chief Herald clasped his massy brow and gazed with eye distraught. “Sir Knight—messire—my very good and noble Lord of Tong—I grope! Here is that which hath a seeming ... thy so many parts portend somewhat ... and yet ... I excogitate ... yet grope I still ... impart, part ... thy part and its part ... so many parts ... and roses ... and songs o' love ... a lute! O, thundering Mars, I ... Sound, trumpets!”

But the Duchess up-starting, silenced Herald and trumpeters with imperious hand.

“Sir Knight of Tong,” said she, “'tis told thou'rt of nimble tongue and a maker of songs, so we bid thee sing if thy song be of Love—for Love is a thing little known and seldom understood these days. Here be very many noble knights wondrous learned in the smiting of buffets, but little else; here be noble dames very apt at the play of eyes, the twining of fingers, the languishment of sighs, that, seeking True-love, find but its shadow; and here also grey beards that have forgot the very name of Love. So we bid thee sing us of Love—True-love, what it is. Our ears attend thee!”

“Gracious lady,” answered the Knight, “gladly do I obey. But Love is mighty and I lowly, and may speak of Love but from mine own humility. And though much might be said of Love since Love's empire is the universe and Love immortal, yet will I strive to portray this mighty thing that is True-love in few, poor words.”

Then, plucking sweet melody from his lute, the Knight sang as here followeth:

Now while the clarions rang out proclaiming Sir Palamon's defiance, Benedicta looked on Yolande and Yolande on Benedicta:

“O, wonderful!” cried the Duchess. “My Lord of Tong hath found him manhood and therewith a wisdom beyond most and singeth such love as methought only angels knew and maids might vision in their dreams. Ah, Yolande—that such a love could be ... e'en though he went ragged and poor in all but love....”

“Benedicta,” sighed Yolande, hands clasped on swelling bosom, “O Benedicta, here is no foolish Lord of Tong ... and yet ... O, I am mad!”

“Why, then, 'tis sweet madness! So, my Yolande, let us be mad awhile together ... thou—a Fool ... and I—a beggar-rogue!”

“Nay—alas, dear Benedicta! This were shame—”

“And forsooth is it shame doth swell thy heart, Yolande, light the glamour in thine eyes and set thee a-tremble—e'en as I? Nay indeed, thou'rt a-thrill with Folly ... and I, with Roguery. Loved Folly! Sweet Roguery! O Yolande, let us fly from empty state, from this mockery of life and learn the sweet joys of ... of beggary, and, crowned with poverty, clasp life—”

Said Yolande to the duchess, said she:

“Nay, my Benedicta, these be only dreams, but life is real and dreams a very emptiness!”

“And is 't so, forsooth?” exclaimed the Duchess. “Then am I nought but a duchess and lonely, thou a maid fearful of her own heart, and yon singer of love only a very futile knight, Sir Palamon of Tong, nothing esteemed by thee for wit or valour and little by his peers—see how his challengers do throng. How think you?” But the lady Yolande sat very still and silent, only she stared, great-eyed, where danced the scarlet plume.

And indeed many and divers were the knights who, beholding the blazon of Tong, sent the bearer their defiance, eager to cope with him; and each and every challenge Sir Palamon accepted by mouth of his tall esquire who (vizor closed, even as his lord's) spake the Chief Herald in loud, merry voice, thus:

“Sir Herald, whereas and forinasmuch as this, my Lord of Tong himself, himself declaring fool, is so himself-like as to meet in combat each and every of his challengers—themselves ten, my lord that is fool, himself himself so declaring, now declareth by me that am no fool but only humble esquire—messire, I say, doth his esquire require that I, the said esquire, should on his part impart as followeth, namely and to wit: That these ten gentle knights, the said challengers, shall forthwith of themselves choose of themselves, themselves among themselves thereto agreeing, which of themselves, among themselves of themselves so chosen, shall first in combat adventure himself against my Lord of Tong himself. And moreover, should Fortune my lord bless with victory, the nine remaining shall among themselves choose, themselves agreeing, which of themselves shall next, thus chosen of themselves, themselves represent in single combat with this very noble, fool-like Lord of Tong, my master. Furthermore, whereas and notwithstanding—”

“Hold, sir!” cried the Chief Herald, fingering harassed brow. “Pray thee 'bate—O, abate thy speechful fervour. Here forsooth and of truth is notable saying—O, most infallibly—and yet perchance something discursive and mayhap a little involved.”

“Nay, Sir Herald,” quoth the esquire, “if involved 'twill be resolved if revolved, thus: Here be ten lords would fight one, and one—that is my lord who is but one—ten fight one by one. But that ten, fighting one, may as one fight, let it be agreed that of these ten one be chosen one to fight, so shall one fight one and every one be satisfied—every one of these ten fighting one, one by one. Thus shall ten be one, and one ten fight one by one till one be discomfited. Shall we accord the matter simply, thus?”

“Sir,” quoth the Chief Herald, gasping a little, “Amen!”

“O!” cried the Duchess, clapping her hands, “O Yolande, hark to this rare esquire! Surely, I have heard yon cunning tongue ere this?”

But Yolande gazed ever where Sir Palamon, having taken his station, set himself in array. For now, the ten knights having chosen one to represent them, forth rode their champion resplendent in shining mail and green surcoat with heralds before to proclaim his name and rank.

“Yolande,” quoth the Duchess softly, “pray—pray this Lord of Tong may tilt as bravely as he doth sing, for Sir Thomas of Thornydyke is a notable jouster.”

The trumpets blew a fanfare and, levelling their pointless lances, both knights gave spur, their great horses reared, broke into a gallop and thundered towards each other.

But the Knight of Tong, his gaudy shield a little battered, his fine surcoat frayed and torn, leaped from his wearied steed and forthwith mounted one held by his tall esquire, a mighty charger that tossed proud head and champed his bit, pawing impatient hoof.

“Aha!” quoth the esquire, pointing to ten fair steeds held by ten fair pages. “Oho, good brother, most puissant Knight of Tong, here is good and rich booty—let us begone!”

“Nay,” answered the Knight, tossing aside his blunt tilting-spear, “here is an end to sportful dalliance—reach me my lance!”

“Ha, is't now the Red Gui's turn, brother? The Saints aid thee, in especial two, that, being women, are yet no saints yet awhile—see how they watch thee, sweet, gentle dames! Their prayers go with thee, methinks, brother, and mine also, for the Red Gui is forsooth a valiant rogue!”

And now, mounted on the great black war-horse, the Knight of Tong rode up the lists:

Full upon this bloody hand smote the sharp point of Sir Palamon's lance; whereupon the watching crowd surged and swayed and hummed expectant, since here was to be no play with blunted weapons but a deadly encounter.

Up started Sir Gui and strode forth of his tent, grim-smiling and confident. Quoth he:

“Ha, my Lord of Tong, thou'rt grown presumptuous and over-venturesome, methinks. But since life thou dost hold so cheap prepare ye for death forthright!”

So spake the Lord of Ells and, beckoning to his esquires, did on his great tilting-helm and rode into the lists, whereon was mighty roar of welcome, for, though much hated, he was esteemed mighty at arms, and the accepted champion of the Duchy. So while the people thundered their acclaim the two knights galloped to their stations and, reining about, faced each other from either end of the lists,

Thus Sir Gui, Lord of Ells and Seneschal of Raddemore, wounded and utterly discomfited, was borne raging to his pavilion while the air rang with the blare of trumpet and clarion in honour of the victor. Thereafter, since no other knight thought it prudent to challenge him, Sir Palamon of Tong was declared champion of the tournament, and was summoned by the Chief Herald to receive the victor's crown. But even as he rode towards the silk-curtained balcony, a distant trumpet shrilled defiance, and into the lists galloped a solitary knight.

But from rosy-red to pale, from pale to rosy-red flushed the Duchess Benedicta, and clenching white teeth, she frowned upon Sir Agramore's fierce and warlike figure. Quoth she:

“Oh, sure there is no man so vile or so unworthy in all Christendom as this vile Lord of Biename!”

“Unless,” said Yolande, frowning also, “unless it be my Lord Gui of Ells!”

“True, my Yolanda! Now, as thou dost hate Sir Gui so hate I Sir Agramore, therefore pray we sweet maid, petition we the good Saints our valiant singer shall serve my hated Sir Agramore as he did thy hated Sir Gui—may he be bruised, may he be battered, may—”

“Oho, 'tis done, my sweeting! A-hee—a-hi, 'tis done!” croaked a voice, and starting about, the Duchess beheld a bent and hag-like creature,

“Nay, my Yolande,” cried the Duchess, “hast forgot old Mopsa, my foster-mother, that, being a wise-woman, fools decry as witch, and my ten grave and learned guardians have banished therefor? Hast forgot my loved and faithful Mopsa that is truly the dearest, gentlest, wisest witch that e'er witched rogue or fool? But O Mopsa, wise mother—would'st thou might plague and bewitch in very truth yon base caitiff knight, Sir Agramore of Biename!”

“'Tis done, loved daughter, 'tis done!” chuckled the Witch.

“He aileth sore yet waileth more—oho! I know, I have seen—in the chalk, in the ink, in the smoke—I looked and saw

“Nay, but, good Mopsa, how may this be? Sir Agramore rideth armed yonder, plain to my sight.”

“Child, I have told thee sooth,” croaked the Witch. “Have patience, watch and be silent, and shalt grow wise as old Mopsa—mayhap—in time.

“Go to, Mopsa, thou'rt mad!” quoth the Duchess. “For yonder is this hated lord very strong and hale, and in well-being whiles thou dost rave! Truly thou'rt run mad, methinks!”

But the old Witch only mumbled and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones as is the custom of witches.

Meantime, Sir Agramore, checking his fiery charger and brandishing heavy lance fiercely aloft, roared loud defiance:

“What ho! Ye knights, lords, esquires, and lovers of lusty blows, hither come I with intent, sincere and hearty, to bicker with, fight, combat and withstand all that will—each and every, a-horse or a-foot, with sword, battleaxe or lance. Now all ye that love good blows—have at ye!”

Here ensued great clamour and a mighty blowing of trumpets that waxed yet louder when it was proclaimed that Sir Palamon, as champion of the day, had accepted Sir Agramore's haughty challenge.

And now all was hushed as these two doughty knights faced each other and, as the trumpets brayed, charged furiously to meet with thunderous shock of breaking lances and reeling horses that, rearing backwards, fell crashing upon the torn and trampled grass. But their riders, leaping clear of lashing hooves, drew their swords and, wasting no breath in words, beset each other forthwith, smiting with right good will.

Sir Agramore's leopard shield was riven in twain by a single stroke, Sir Palamon's scarlet plume was shorn away, but they fought only the fiercer as, all untiring, the long blades whirled and flashed until their armour rang, sparks flew, and the populace rocked and swayed and roared for very joy. Once Sir Agramore was beaten to his knees, but rising, grasped his sword in two hands and smote a mighty swashing blow, a direful stroke that burst the lacing of Sir Palamon's great helm and sent it rolling on the sward. But, beholding thus his adversary's face, Sir Agramore, crying in sudden amaze, sprang back; for men all might see a visage framed in long, black-curled hair, grey-eyed, but a face so direly scarred that none, having seen it but once, might well forget.

“Par Dex!” panted Sir Agramore, lifting his vizor.

“Pertinax!” gasped Duke Jocelyn. “O Pertinax—thou loved and lovely smiter—ne'er have I been so sore battered ere now!”

Hereupon all folk stared in hugeous wonderment to behold these two champions drop their swords and leap to clasp and hug each other in mighty arms, to pat each other's mailed shoulders and grasp each other's mailed hands. Quoth Sir Pertinax:

“Lord, how came ye in this guise?”

“My Pertinax, whence stole ye that goodly armour?”

“Lord, oath made I to requite one Sir Agramore of Biename for certain felon blow. Him sought I latterly therefore, and this day met him journeying hither, and so, after some disputation, I left him lying by the way, nor shall he need armour awhile, methinks—wherefore I took it and rode hither seeking what might befall—”

But here, Sir Gui, all heedless of his wound, started up from his couch, raising great outcry:

“Ha—roguery, roguery! Ho, there, seize me yon knave that beareth the cognizance of Tong. Ha—treason, treason!” At this, others took up the cry and divers among the throng, beholding Duke Jocelyn's scarred features, made loud tumults: “The Fool! The Fool! 'Tis the Singing Motley! 'Tis the rogue-Fool that broke prison—seize him! Seize him!” And many, together with the soldiery, came running.

“Lord,” quoth Sir Pertinax, catching up his sword, “here now is like to be a notable, sweet affray!” But even as these twain turned to meet their many assailants was thunder of hoofs, a loud, merry voice reached them, and they saw Robin hard by who held two trampling chargers.

“Mount, brothers—mount!” he cried. “Mount, then spur we for the barriers!” So they sprang to saddle and, spurring the rearing horses, galloped for the barriers, all three, nor was there any who dare stay them or abide the sweep of those long swords. Thus, leaping the barriers, they galloped away and left behind roaring tumult and dire confusion.

And amid all this, hid by the silken curtains of her balcony, the Duchess Benedicta uttered a joyous cry and, clasping Yolande in her arms, kissed her rapturously.

“Yolande!” she cried, “O dear my friend, thou didst see—even as did I—a sorry fool and a poor rogue-soldier at hand-strokes with each other—O wise Fool! O knightly Rogue! Come, let us fly, Yolande, let us to the wild-wood and, lost therein, love, True-love, methinks, shall find us. Nay—ask me nothing, only hear this. Be thou to thine own heart true, be thou brave and Shame shall fly thee since True-love out-faceth Shame! How say'st thou, Mopsa, thou wise witch-mother?”

“Ah, sweet children!” croaked the Witch, touching each with claw-like hand yet hand wondrous gentle. “True-love shall indeed find ye, hide where ye will. For True-love, though blind, they say, hath eyes to see all that is good and sweet and true. A poor man-at-arms in rusty mail may yet be true man and a fool, for all his motley, wise. To love such seemeth great folly, yet to the old, love is but folly. Nath'less, being old I do love ye, and being wise I charge ye:

My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:

A short two years have elapsed and we find our hero Jocelyn tenderly playing with a golden-haired prattler, his beloved son and heir, while his beautiful spouse Yolande busied with her needle, smiles through happy tears.