Part 29 (1/2)

My daughter GILLIAN expostulateth:

GILL: O, father, now You must allow That your herald is rather a bore.

He talks such a lot, And it seems frightful rot--

MYSELF: I hate slang, miss! I told you before!

If my herald says much, Yet he only says such As by heralds was said in those days; Though their trumpets they blew, It is none the less true That they blew them in other folks' praise.

If my herald verbose is And gives us large doses Of high-sounding rodomontade, You'll find they spoke so In the long, long ago, So blame not--O, blame not the bard.

But while we are prating Our herald stands waiting In a perfectly terrible fume, So, my dear, here and now, The poor chap we'll allow His long-winded speech to resume:

”'Tis here declared by order of the Ten, Fair Benedicta's guardians--worthy men!

Thus they decree--ye lovers all rejoice!

She shall by their command, this day make choice Of him--O, him! O blest, thrice blessed he Who must anon her lord and husband be.

'Tis so p.r.o.nounced by her grave guardians ten, By them made law--and they right reverend men!

And this the law--our lady, be it said, This day shall choose the husband she must wed; And he who wins our d.u.c.h.ess for his own Crowned by her love shall mount to ducal throne, So let each knight, by valiant prowess, prove Himself most worthy to our lady's love.

Now make I here an end, and ending, pray Ye quit you all like val'rous knights this day.”

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 d.u.c.h.eSS:

”I say, my sweeting, 'tis quite plain That I must run away again!

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--”