And then they get married at last, and
everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly
jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell
everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going
for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about
bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible.
JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you?
MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I,
Jane?
JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this
_is_ the twentieth century, and--
MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my
lattice window.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,
The helmet and the helmet feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung
As he rode down to Camelot.
JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays.
MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave
one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage
for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose.
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