Sir Blaise scowled.
“I am ill to provoke, my master. Those quarrels end sadly that are quarrels picked with me.”
Again Evander shrugged his shoulders.
“I pick no quarrel, sir. You asked me very straightly what I knew of Sir Blaise Mickleton, and very straightly I tended you my knowledge. It is not my fault, but rather your misfortune, that you happen to be Sir Blaise Mickleton.”
Sir Blaise dropped his hand to his sword-hilt.
“You Puritan jack,” he shouted, “will you try sharper conclusions?”
In a moment and involuntarily Evander’s hand sought his own weapon. It was in that moment that Halfman burst into the pleasaunce.
“Why, what’s the matter here?” he cited, wielding his staff as if it had been the scimitar of the Moor. “Hold, for your lives! For Christian shame put by this barbarous brawl.”
The disputants greeted their interrupter differently. Evander paid Halfman’s memory the tribute of an appreciative smile. Sir Blaise turned to him as to a sympathizer and backer.