heart of me.    “What is love? A joyous pain That I ne'er may lose again, Since for ever I am fain To think and dream of thee.”    Now hasted she to part the leafy screen, And one in motley habit thus beheld. But when 'neath flaunting cock's-comb she did mark His blemished face, she backward from him drew And caught her breath, and yet upon him gazed   'Neath wrinkled brow, the while Duke Jocelyn Read the expected horror in her eyes:   Wherefore he bowed his head upon his breast And plucked at belt with sudden, nervous hand As, cold and proud and high, she questioned him:   “What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth show A visage that might shame the gladsome day?”    Whereto he answered, low and humble-wise:   “A Fool! The very fool of fools am I—   A Fool that fain would pluck the sun from heaven.”    “Begone!” she sighed. “Thy look doth make me cold, E'en as I stand thus i' the kindly sun. Yet, an thou 'rt poor as thy mean habit speaks thee, Take first this dole for tender Jesu's sake.”    Then answered Jocelyn on lowly knee:   “For thy sweet bounty I do thank thee well, But, in good sooth, so great a fool am I,   'Stead of thy gold I rather would possess Yon happy flower that in thy bosom bloometh. Give me but this and richer fool am I Than any knight-like fool that coucheth lance—   Greater I than any lord soever, Aye—e'en Duke Jocelyn of Brocelaunde.”    Smiled now Yolande with rosy lip up-curving, While in soft cheek a roguish dimple played. Quoth she: “Duke Jocelyn, I've heard it said, Is great and rich, a mighty man-at-arms, And thou but sorry Fool in mean array, Yet”—from white fingers she let fall the flower—   “Be thou, Fool, greater than this mighty Duke! And now, since mighty Fool and rich I've made thee, In quittance I would win of thee a song.”    Now sat Yolande, white chin on dimpled fist, Viewing him o'er with cruel, maiden-eyes, So swift to heed each outward mark and blemish   (Since maids be apt to sly disparagement, And scorn of all that seems un-beautiful)   While he did lean him by the marble rim, His wistful gaze down-bent upon the pool, Feeling her look and knowing while she looked:   What time he touched his lute with fingers skilled, And so fell singing, wonder-low and sweet:    “Though foul and harsh of face am I, Lady fair—O lady! Fair thoughts within my heart may lie, As flowers that bloom unseen to die, Lady fair—O lady!    “Though this my hateful face may fright thee, Lady fair—O list! My folly mayhap shall delight thee, A song of fools I will recite thee, Lady fair—O list!”    Herewith he sighed amain, but smiled anon, And fell anon to blither, louder note:    “Sing hey, Folly—Folly ho, And here's a song of Folly, All 'neath 

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