“If you kill him, you kill me,” she said.
“By God, you deserve to die!” was Rufus’s answer.
In the headiness of their brawl none of the party had noticed how the door had opened again and how a man stood at gaze in the doorway. A slender man of middle height, in travel-stained riding-habit of black; a man with a comely, melancholy face and sad eyes; a man who seemed very weary. He wore a jewelled George. For a moment the new-comer stood unheeded, then he advanced into the room. Sir Rufus heard him, turned, and cried, “The King!” Evander sent his sword back into its sheath. Brilliana knelt in reverence. This was the hero, almost the divinity, the monarch she worshipped, the sovereign she had never seen.
“Gentlemen, what is this?” the King asked. He turned to Brilliana.
“Lady, why did you not come to greet me?”
Brilliana rose.
“Your Majesty—” she began, but Rufus interrupted her hotly.
“Forgiveness, sire. I dashed ahead to warn her of the great honor you offered, halting here from Banbury, only to find her slobbering on a Roundhead gallows-bird.”
Brilliana looked steadfastly at the King. She was very pale but not at all afraid.
“Your Majesty, this man slanders basely. This gentleman is honorable.”