"I rejoice," she answered, in a voice unsteady with happiness--such
might have been the voice of Semele at the coming of her god--"I
rejoice that Loyalty House boasts a roof to shelter his Majesty. For
I was minded to blow the place to pieces rather than yield it to this
gentleman who would so speciously persuade me to surrender."
As she spoke she glanced disdainfully in the direction of Evander
Cloud, who now for the first time since the irruption of the
Cavaliers became in any sense an object of public interest. None of
the new-comers had paid any heed to the sombre-habited prisoner;
Halfman had forgotten his captive in his jealous study of the men who
had raised the siege; Thoroughgood, with the Puritan's sword resting
idly on his left arm, was as absorbed in the converse of Sir Rufus
and his comrades as were his subordinates Garlinge and Clupp, who,
though they gripped their prisoner tightly, were as indifferent to
his existence as if he had been the turbaned dummy of a quintain.
But now on the instant every glance was turned on Evander, and Sir
Rufus, eying him with much disfavor, asked of Brilliana, "Who is your
prisoner?"
Evander made a step forward unrestrained by his guards, and answered
for himself composedly.
"I am Captain Cloud, of the parliamentary army, snared under a flag
of truce."
He was so well restrained in his speech and carriage, so quiet a
contrast to the heated gentlemen who glared at him, that to an
uninformed observer he might very well have seemed the judge rather
than the one on trial. Rufus snapped at him like an angry dog.
"Well, you tub-thumper, you see that the gentlemen of England are
more than a match for pestilent pennyweight rebels."
Evander surveyed his truculent opponent with a tranquil contempt
which had its effect in increasing the irritation of the Cavalier.
"You play the valiant braggart to a captive," he commented, quietly.
Then he turned to Brilliana as one who had no further desire for
treaty with a fellow of this kind.
"Let me remind you, lady, that I came here under a flag of truce."
Brilliana had forgotten Evander in the exhilaration of her relief.
But now that he had come into her mind again, so with his image had
flooded in again all the prejudices he provoked, the scorn, the
hatred.
"That plea cannot release you," she answered, hotly. "Your time was
up, your sword was drawn; I am very sure you would have joined your
men."
Evander, whose arms were now released from bondage by Garlinge and
Clupp, made a gesture of absolute acquiescence.
"I am very sure I should have joined my men," he answered, calmly.
Brilliana rounded on him triumphant.
"Then you are a prisoner of war, fairly taken. Let me have no more
words."
As indifferent to her words as to the angry carriage of the
Cavaliers, Evander stepped tranquilly back to his place between his
warders.
"I have no more words to waste," he said, with a scorn in his voice
that stung Brilliana's cheeks to crimson. She turned hurriedly to the
little knot of Cavaliers, who chafed at having to witness what they
held to be the presumption of a Puritan in daring to bandy words with
a lady of quality.
"Gallants," she said, "this merry meeting calls for its baptism of
wine." As she spoke she struck upon the bell, shrewdly confident that
her wishes would be met. "Wine," she added, "the more precious that
it is wellnigh the last in our cellars."
As the Cavaliers came about her applauding with word and look, the
doors of the banqueting-room parted and Mrs. Satchell entered, full
of pomp and apple-red with pleasure, followed by Shard bearing a tray
of glasses, and by pretty, dimpling Tiffany bearing a goodly flagon
of wine and observing with demure approbation the covey of King's
gentlemen.
Mistress Satchell swam like a gall on towards the Cavaliers, her
great, red, spoon-shaped face damp with satisfaction. Playing at
heroine behind bombarded walls was all very well, but greeting of
timely gentry who had set heroines free was infinitely better.
"Heaven bless you, merry gentlemen," she chirruped. "Here is a cup of
comfort for you."
"Heaven bless you, merry matron," Bardon answered, as soberly as he
could, for indeed the sight of Mistress Satchell in her Sunday best
and in her most coming-on humor was not of a nature to strengthen
sobriety. Lord Fawley gasped as the virago swaggered towards his
companions, and young Ingrow popped his handkerchief into his mouth
and bit at it while he stared with eyes of nursery wonder at the
dame. Radlett winked as if dazzled by the whimsical apparition, and
Sir Rufus, familiar with Mrs. Satchell and her vagaries, was the only
member of his party who kept his countenance unchanged on her
entrance.
Brilliana was sympathetically swift to explain her astonishing
handwoman.
"Gentles," she said, "this is Mistress Satchell, who queens it in
times of peace over my kitchen, but who has proved herself my very
valiant adjutant during the siege."
The dame bridled with pride.
"I can handle a pike, my lords, I promise ye," she asserted; and
then, turning to Halfman for confirmation, "Can I not, Master
Halfman?"
Halfman slapped his thigh approvingly and answered to the Cavalier
with grave voice and smiling eyes.
"Never was pike so handled before, I promise ye."
The tone of his voice mimicked Mrs. Satchell's manner even as the
words of it aped her matter, but the dame was too pleased with
herself and the world to heed what it was that set the gentlemen
laughing.
"So, so," Radlett hummed approval. "Mrs. Satchell, will you ride with
me to the King?"
Mrs. Satchell dipped him a swimming reverence, but she shook her head
decisively.
"Your honor means well, but I cannot leave my lady. The Roundheads
might come again."
The Lord Fawley had by this seen his glass filled by Tiffany and was
staring boldly into her pretty face, much to the exasperation of
honest Thoroughgood, chafing in the background.
"Do you handle a pike, prettikins?" Fawley asked. Prettikins dropped
him a courtesy and shook her curls.
"No, my lord," she whispered, "I am not very soldierly."
It was now Ingrow's turn to have his glass filled and to stare
admiration at the pretty serving-woman.
"If you have a mind to enlist," he said, temptingly, "you shall be
ensign in my troop and we'll carry your kirtle for a flag."
Whether Mrs. Satchell considered that Tiffany was like to be
embarrassed by the attentions of the gentry, or whether she
considered that those attentions diverted too much notice from
herself as the heroine of the servants' hall, she certainly came to
the rescue, edging her bulk between the girl and Ingrow.
"She is too green for your grace," she insisted. "You need a fine
woman like me for your flag-bearer."
Even Ingrow's readiness found him something at a loss for an answer.
He looked as if he feared lest dame Satchell might take him in an
embrace. Brilliana, now that all the glasses were charged, decided
that the company had tasted enough of Mrs. Satchell's humors.
"I thank you, Mistress Satchell," she said, quietly, and Mrs.
Satchell, rightly reading in the tones of her mistress's voice
permission to retire, withdrew in good order, beaming and bobbing to
all the gentlemen and followed by Shard and Tiffany, who, with lids
demurely lowered, avoided recognition of the admiring glances of
Fawley and Ingrow.
Brilliana turned to her company and lifted her glass.
"Drink, gentles," she summoned. "Drink 'The King!'"
All the Cavaliers shouted the loyal toast so that the words "The
King!" seemed to ring in every nook of the great hall; then every
Cavalier drained his glass.
"Ah," sighed Lord Fawley, as he set down his empty vessel, "I could
drink the King's health forever."
"I swear it would sweeten sour ale," Bardon declared.
Young Ingrow took him up. "When it floats on such noble tipple I am a
god-swilling nectar." Halfman slapped his chest.
"Come, lads!" he cried; "when Cavaliers drink the King's health they
should sing the King's song," and in another moment his mellow voice
was setting his friends a sturdy example. "Gallants of England," he
warbled:
"Gallants of England, shall not the King land
Safely in town to knock Parliament down?
Shall we not ever strive to endeavor
Glory to win for our King and our crown?
Shall not the Roundhead soon be confounded?
Sa, sa, sa, sa, boys, ha, ha, ha, ha, boys,
Then we'll return home in triumph and joy.
Then we'll be merry, drink sack and sherry,
And we will sing, boys, God save the King, boys,
Cast up our hats, and sing Vive le Roy."