The circumstances of the astonishing question brought for the moment a slight smile to the grave face of the Parliament man.
“It was scarcely with that thought,” he answered, “that I sought for a parley.”
Though the man’s smile had been short-lived, Brilliana had seen it and loathed him for it. Though the man’s manner was suave, it seemed to wear the suavity of success and she loathed him for that, too.
“We waste time,” she cried, impatiently, “with any other business than your swift submission.”
Then as she saw him make an amiably protesting gesture she raged at him with a rising voice.
“Oh, if you knew how hard it is for me to stand in the same room with a renegade traitor you would, if such as you remember courtesy, be brief in your errand.”
The man showed no consciousness of the insult in her words and in her manner save than by a courteous inclination of the head and a few words of quiet speech.
“Much may be pardoned to so brave a lady.”
Brilliana struck her hand angrily upon the table once and again.
“For God’s sake do not praise me!” she almost screamed, “or I shall hate myself. Your errand, your errand, your errand!”
The enemy was provokingly imperturbable.
“You have a high spirit,” he said, “that must compel admiration from all. That is why I would persuade you to wisdom. I came hither from Cambridge by order of Colonel Cromwell.”
Brilliana’s lips tightened at the sound of the name which the envoy pronounced with so much reverence.
“The rebel member for Cambridge,” she sneered – “the mutinous brewer. Are you a vassal of the man of beer?”
There was a quiet note of protest in the reply of the envoy.
“Colonel Cromwell is not a brewer, though he would be no worse a man if he were. I am honored in his friendship, in his service. He is a great man and a great Englishman.”
“And what,” Brilliana asked, “has this great man to do with Harby that he sends you here?”
“He sends me here,” the Puritan answered, “to haul down your flag.”
“That you shall never do,” Brilliana answered, steadily, “while there is a living soul in Harby.”
The Puritan protested with appealing hands.
“You are in the last straits for lack of food, for lack of fuel, for lack of powder.”
Brilliana made a passionate gesture of denial.
“You are as ignorant as insolent,” she asserted. “Loyalty House lacks neither provisions nor munitions of war.”
There was a kind of respectful pity in the stranger’s face as he watched the wild, bright girl and hearkened to the vain, brave words.
“Nay, now – ” he began, out of the consciousness of his own truer knowledge, but what he would have said was furiously interrupted by a volume of strange sounds from the adjoining banqueting-hall. There was a rattle and clink as of many pewter mugs banged lustily upon an oaken table; there was a shrill explosion of laughter, the work of many merry voices; there was the grinding noise of heavy chairs pushed back across the floor for the greater ease of their occupants; there was a tapping as of pipe-bowls on the board, and then over all the mingled din rose a voice, which Brilliana knew for the voice of Halfman, ringing out a resonant appeal.
“The King’s health, friends, to begin with.”
All the noises that had died down to allow Halfman a hearing began again with fresh vigor. It was obvious to the most unsophisticated listener that here was the fag end of a feast and the moment for the genial giving of toasts. Many voices swelled a loyal chorus of “The King, the King!” and had the great doors of the banqueting-hall been no other than bright glass it would have been scarce easier for the man and woman in the great hall to realize what was happening, the revellers rising to their feet, the drinking-vessels lifted high in air with loyal vociferations, and then the silence, eloquent of tilted mugs and the running of welcome liquor down the channels of thirsty throats. This silence was broken by some one calling for a song, to which call he who had proposed the King’s health answered instantly and with evident satisfaction. His rich if somewhat rough voice came booming through the partitions, carolling a ballad to which the Puritan listened with a perfectly unmoved countenance, while the Lady Brilliana’s eager face expressed every signal of the liveliest delight.
This was the song that came across the threshold:
“What creature’s this with his short hairs,
His little band and huge long ears,
That this new faith hath founded?
The Puritans were never such,
The saints themselves had ne’er so much,
Oh, such a knave’s a Roundhead.”
A yell of pleasure followed this verse, and a tuneless chorus thundered the refrain, “Oh, such a knave’s a Roundhead,” with the most evident relish for the sentiments of the song. Brilliana looked with some impatience at the unruffled face of her adversary, and when the immediate clamor dwindled she addressed him, sarcastically:
“These revellers,” she said, “would not seem to be at the last extremity. But their festival must not deafen our conference.”
She advanced to the door of the banqueting-room and struck against it with her hand. On the instant silence she opened the door a little way and spoke through softly, as if gently chiding those within.
“Be merry more gently, friends. Sure, I cannot hear the gentleman speak. Though,” she added, reflectively, as she closed the door and returned again to the table she had quitted – “though God knows he talks big enough.”
The Puritan clapped his palms together as if in applause, an action that somewhat amazed her in him, while a kindly humor kindled in his eyes.
“Bravely staged, bravely played,” he admitted, while he shook his head. “But it will not serve your turn, for it may not deceive me. I had a message this morning from my Lord Essex. There has been hot fighting; Heaven has given us the victory; the King’s cause is wellnigh lost at the first push.”
Brilliana felt her heart drumming against her stays, but she turned a defiant face on the news-monger.
“I do not believe you,” she answered. “The King’s cause will always win.”
The soldier took no notice of her denial; he felt too sure of his fact to hold other than pity for the leaguered lady. He quietly added:
“My Lord Essex advises me further that reinforcements are marching to me well equipped with artillery against which even these gallant walls are worthless. Be warned, be wise. You cannot hope to hold out longer. For pity’s sake, yield to the Parliament.”
Brilliana waved his pleas away with a dainty, impatient flourish.
“You chatter republican vainly. I have store of powder. I will blow this old hall heaven high when I can no longer hold it for the King.”
Her visitor looked at her sadly, made as if to speak, paused, and then appeared to force himself to reluctant utterance.
“Lady,” he said, slowly, “though we be opponents, we share the same blood. Let a kinsman entreat you to reason.”
If the civil-spoken stranger had struck her in the face with his glove Brilliana could not have been more astonished or angered. She moved a little nearer to him, interrogation in her shining eyes and on her angry cheeks.
“Are you mad?” she gasped. “How could such a thing as you be my kinsman?”
She had taunted him again and again during their brief interview and he had shown no sign of displeasure. He showed no sign