“Ay,” he agreed, more cheerily. “That’s it, that’s true. ’Tis but a walk to loyal Oxford, ’tis but a march on disloyal London, and all’s done.”
“London will prove loyal when your Majesty enters in triumph,” Brilliana cried. A bright look came over the King’s worn face. As in a dream he saw himself, the rose of that triumphant entry, flowers at his feet, flags in the air, loyalty abroad in its bravest, huzzaing its loudest, and all grim, sour-hearted fellows safe out of sight under lock and key. Exultantly he held out his hand for Brilliana to salute.
“Farewell, Lady of Loyalty.”
“Nay,” Brilliana protested, “I must bring your Majesty to the gate. If the fitting welcome were missing, you shall not lack the ceremonial ‘God speed you.’”
“I thank you, madam,” gravely answered Charles. Brilliana dipped him a reverence, and then, opening the door, conducted her royal guest out of the chamber. In the corridor they found Halfman waiting to kiss the King’s hand. Charles felt for a moment for his purse, and then swiftly and regally changing his mind, he drew a ring from his finger.
“Wear this for me, friend,” he requested, graciously, “in memory of old days.”
Halfman rose from his knees and drew himself up as if on parade.
“God save the King!” he thundered, and with that loyal music in his ears the King followed Brilliana down the great staircase over which the carven angels kept watch and ward. Halfman, leaning over the rail-way, saw the pair pass through the hall, then he turned and entered the apartment that Charles had left, and stood there, rigid in meditation.