he said, 'you are colour and you are magic. I have come to worship you and you have captured my heart.'
The emotion spilled out of him. A Father. A Man. And here was Woman. Woman who looked undeniably pregnant, full with seed, the highest state of feminine being.
'My heart,' he said, 'is yours, Fair Lady.' And he offered himself in the purest sense.
Janice took this very well. She did not run away nor scream, for threat was not in the air in those days. A stranger bending his knee to her on a wet pavement was, however, unusual, so she looked down at him and gave a hesitant half-smile, revealing a pair of pretty dimples.
'Ah, Mother of God, the Night Queen has dimples,' said Dermot to the empty street.
'Perhaps you should get up,' said Janice, 'for your knees must be quite wet.'
But Dermot, as much feeling the gravitational pull of the Guinness as the overwhelming thrill of the moment, stayed where he was. Janice continued to be unafraid, so she smiled at him again. Smiles from girls to sober men are pleasing. Smiles from girls to inebriate men are bewitching. Dermot Poll was duly bewitched and said so.
Janice blinked, astonished. Modern men were philanderers and brutes, were they not? Yet this one knelt before her like some knight of old.
Courtly Love, she thought, and she whispered aloud, 'Love unto Death.'
'Is that more of your poetry, O Lady of Colours?'
'What?' said Janice, who had already gone back in time to see it emblazoned upon a courtier's shield.
'More ... of your poetry?'
Janice, obedient, heard this as a request.
'Well,' she said, 'it is not the sort of poetry I really care for you to see, but of its kind it has a certain ring.'
Dermot nodded encouragingly. What did it matter what the vision said, so long as she stayed here in the dark and the cold with him? It was infinitely more joyful than being alone.
So Janice continued with Campion, realizing that this sort of thing was some people's preference.
'"This night by moonshine leading merry rounds/Holds a-"'
'Moonshine!' Dermot Poll felt indignant. 'This is not moonshine . ..' And indeed, he felt quite convinced it was not. He took her hand, in its woolly glove, and kissed it chastely. On the whole he was enjoying himself and was now firmly entrenched in the undemanding role of lyrical enslavement.
Janice blinked again. Something stirred within her. A little urge to reach out and touch his face with her other woolly glove, an urge she resisted. Very possibly he might bite after all. Courtly Love, she found herself saying, first made its appearance in twelfth-century poetry, term probably originated in Islamic culture, original European tenets set down by Guillaume de Lorris before 1240, but. . .
Vous ou Mort. ..
Vous ou Mort ...
It just kept getting in the way.
Dermot Poll looked about him for inspiration. He wanted to go further, he wanted to see signs, give symbols, but he had nothing. And then, like a miracle, he saw. He rose from his knees, clasped the hand he had so recently kissed, and led its owner, as if she floated, towards the lighted shop window near by.
'See,' he said, gesturing towards an enormous satin heart that rested in the window. 'A sign .. .'
She looked cautiously from Dermot to window and back again. She looked unconvinced. It was therefore Dermot Poll's absolute requirement to convince her.
'You are my heart's delight,' he began to sing, placing his free hand McCormack-like on that area of his anatomy.
Janice's eyes widened even further, though whether at the sentiments expressed or at the manner of their expression he could not tell. So he stopped singing and spoke to try it both ways.
'You are my heart's delight,' he said, 'because you are colour. You are radiance. You glow like an exotic flower and I wish to worship you.'
Janice's heart bumped again.
'A picture made of jewels,' he continued, quite caught up in the joy of it all.
Book of Days, thought Janice excitedly, Les Tres Riches Heures
'In your lovely
The emotion spilled out of him. A Father. A Man. And here was Woman. Woman who looked undeniably pregnant, full with seed, the highest state of feminine being.
'My heart,' he said, 'is yours, Fair Lady.' And he offered himself in the purest sense.
Janice took this very well. She did not run away nor scream, for threat was not in the air in those days. A stranger bending his knee to her on a wet pavement was, however, unusual, so she looked down at him and gave a hesitant half-smile, revealing a pair of pretty dimples.
'Ah, Mother of God, the Night Queen has dimples,' said Dermot to the empty street.
'Perhaps you should get up,' said Janice, 'for your knees must be quite wet.'
But Dermot, as much feeling the gravitational pull of the Guinness as the overwhelming thrill of the moment, stayed where he was. Janice continued to be unafraid, so she smiled at him again. Smiles from girls to sober men are pleasing. Smiles from girls to inebriate men are bewitching. Dermot Poll was duly bewitched and said so.
Janice blinked, astonished. Modern men were philanderers and brutes, were they not? Yet this one knelt before her like some knight of old.
Courtly Love, she thought, and she whispered aloud, 'Love unto Death.'
'Is that more of your poetry, O Lady of Colours?'
'What?' said Janice, who had already gone back in time to see it emblazoned upon a courtier's shield.
'More ... of your poetry?'
Janice, obedient, heard this as a request.
'Well,' she said, 'it is not the sort of poetry I really care for you to see, but of its kind it has a certain ring.'
Dermot nodded encouragingly. What did it matter what the vision said, so long as she stayed here in the dark and the cold with him? It was infinitely more joyful than being alone.
So Janice continued with Campion, realizing that this sort of thing was some people's preference.
'"This night by moonshine leading merry rounds/Holds a-"'
'Moonshine!' Dermot Poll felt indignant. 'This is not moonshine . ..' And indeed, he felt quite convinced it was not. He took her hand, in its woolly glove, and kissed it chastely. On the whole he was enjoying himself and was now firmly entrenched in the undemanding role of lyrical enslavement.
Janice blinked again. Something stirred within her. A little urge to reach out and touch his face with her other woolly glove, an urge she resisted. Very possibly he might bite after all. Courtly Love, she found herself saying, first made its appearance in twelfth-century poetry, term probably originated in Islamic culture, original European tenets set down by Guillaume de Lorris before 1240, but. . .
Vous ou Mort. ..
Vous ou Mort ...
It just kept getting in the way.
Dermot Poll looked about him for inspiration. He wanted to go further, he wanted to see signs, give symbols, but he had nothing. And then, like a miracle, he saw. He rose from his knees, clasped the hand he had so recently kissed, and led its owner, as if she floated, towards the lighted shop window near by.
'See,' he said, gesturing towards an enormous satin heart that rested in the window. 'A sign .. .'
She looked cautiously from Dermot to window and back again. She looked unconvinced. It was therefore Dermot Poll's absolute requirement to convince her.
'You are my heart's delight,' he began to sing, placing his free hand McCormack-like on that area of his anatomy.
Janice's eyes widened even further, though whether at the sentiments expressed or at the manner of their expression he could not tell. So he stopped singing and spoke to try it both ways.
'You are my heart's delight,' he said, 'because you are colour. You are radiance. You glow like an exotic flower and I wish to worship you.'
Janice's heart bumped again.
'A picture made of jewels,' he continued, quite caught up in the joy of it all.
Book of Days, thought Janice excitedly, Les Tres Riches Heures
'In your lovely
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