She paused and eyed him. Evander’s face was unchanged.
“No more than that?” he commented, so quietly that, reassured, she rippled on, volubly:
“No more than that. We can be wed, dear love. We can go away together to France, Italy, where you please. I have always had a mind to see Italy. And when England is quiet again we can come home, come here and be happy.”
She felt as if she were flinging herself at his feet, shamelessly offering herself, to tempt him, to dazzle him, conquer him that way; to witch his promise out of him before he had time to think. Yet for all her vehemence there was a chill at her heart and a cloud seemed to hover over her sunny words. Unwillingly she looked away from him, but she held out her hands in appeal.
“Hush, Brilliana!”
The grave, sweet voice sounded on her ears as the knell of hope. But she faced him again with a useless, questioning glance.
“Why talk of what cannot be?” Evander asked, sadly.
Brilliana denied him feverishly.
“What can be—what must be!” she cried. “The King has promised.”
“I am a soldier of the Parliament,” Evander asserted. “I cannot abandon my cause.”