"And the green spring grew subtle," sang the dame, "With song of birds and laughter, and the woods Were white for maying. So fair Guinivere Loosed her long hair like rivulets of gold That stream from the broad casement of the dawn. And her sweet mouth was like one lovely rose, And her white bosom like a bowl of flowers; So wandered she with Launcelot, while the wind Blew her long tresses to him, and her eyes Were as the tender azure of the night." Of such things sang Duessa, while the friar spread his colours. And then she questioned him. "Love you the old legends, Balthasar?" "Madame, as I love life." "Ah! they could love in those old days." "Madame, men can love even now." She put her lute aside, and knelt upon the couch before the window, with her elbows on the cushioned sill. Her silks swept close upon her shapely back, her shoulders gleamed under her purple hair. In the west the world grew red; the crimson kisses of the sunset poured upon the ecstasied green woods. The mere was flaked with a myriad amber scales. The meadows broidered their broad laps with cowslips, as with dust of gold. "Balthasar." "Madame?" "Look yonder at the sunset. You must be tired of gazing on my face." He rose up like one dazed--intoxicated by colours, sounds, and odours. Duessa’s hand beckoned him. He went and knelt on the couch at her side, and looked out over the flaming woods. "And the other woman?" she said. "The other woman?" "This Madonna of my lord’s chapel." "Yes?" "She amuses me; I am not jealous; what is jealousy to me? Tell me about her, Balthasar; no doubt it is a pretty tale, and you know the whole." "I, madame?" "I, Duessa." "But----" "You are my Lord Flavian’s friend; he was ever a man to be garrulous: he has been garrulous to you. Tell me the whole tale." "Duessa!" "Better, better, my friend." She put her hands upon his shoulders, and stared straight into his eyes. Her lips overhung his like ripe red fruit. Her arms were fragrant of myrrh and violet; her bosom was white as snow under the moon. "Can you refuse me this?" "God, madame, I can refuse you nothing." XVIII The girl Yeoland saw nothing of the leper for a season. For several days she did not venture far into the pine forest, and the nameless grave heard not the sound of her lute. The third night after the incident, as she lay in her room under her canopy of purple cloth, she heard distinctly the silver clangour of a bell floating up through the midnight silence. She lay as still as a mouse, and scarcely drew breath, for fear the man in grey should venture up the stairway. The casement was open, with a soft June air blowing in like peace. The bell continued to tinkle, but less noisily, till it vanished into silence.