“Madam,—The prisoner with whom you claim kinship was sentenced to be shot as a spy this morning. My loving greetings to my very dear friend, Mr. Cloud, who, if you chose enough to murder him, will, I know, meet death as a Christian soldier should.
“Oliver Cromwell.”
“The wicked villain,” Brilliana cried.
“Nay, lady,” Evander argued tranquilly—he must carry himself well now—“the true captain doing his duty. It hath cost him a pang to sacrifice me; he would have sacrificed his son Henry or his son Richard in the like case.”
Brilliana clasped and unclasped her hands.
“I care nothing for his son Henry or his son Richard.”
“You care nothing for me?” Evander affirmed, slowly.
“I do care,” she said, hotly. “We have broken bread together, played games together, masked at friendship till the sport became reality.”
“Lady,” said Evander, “I thank you for the kindness you imply. Our friendship has been brief, but passing sweet. I shall die on a divine memory.”