He stood rigid, with clasped hands. Brilliana shuddered at his words.
“Sire! sire! this was some lying vision.”
With an effort the King controlled himself; his features softened to their habitual melancholy, his hands relaxed their clasp, and he seated himself again by the table.
“Belike, belike; I am unwise to think upon it,” he said, in a low voice. Leaning across the table, he struck a bell sharply. The door opened and the soldier in immediate attendance upon the King entered.
“Tell Sir Rufus to attend us,” the King said. The soldier bowed and withdrew. Charles looked up at Brilliana. “Sir Rufus will be loath to lose his prey,” he said. “He is a fierce hawk that clings to his quarry.”
“He was once my friend,” Brilliana said, sadly. The King smiled his melancholy smile.
“If I were in his place,” he said, gravely, “I think I might be tempted to play his part. You are a very fair maiden.”
Brilliana shook her head. “The love that makes a man base is no good love. He will never be my friend again.”
“Here, as I think, he comes,” Charles said. The door opened and Sir Rufus entered the room. He was so amazed at facing Brilliana that for a moment he forgot to render salutation to the King. Charles’s eyes brightened as they used to brighten at the playhouse. Here was a living play being played before him, tragical, comical—man and woman fighting for a man’s life.
“Sir Rufus,” he ordered, “send to our presence the prisoner, the Parliament officer.”