“I hope you hate all Roundheads,” he said. “All damned rebels.”
Halfman’s only answer was to whistle very softly the first few bars of a roaring Cavalier ballad. The grasp on Halfman’s shoulder tightened.
“There is one damned Roundhead here who vexes me,” Sir Rufus said, fiercely.
“I think his name is called Cloud,” said Halfman.
Sir Rufus swore a round oath.
“I wish he were dead,” he said.
“If wishes were coaches,” Halfman observed, sententiously, “beggars would ride.”
“He would have been dead ere this if she had not wheedled the King out of his wits. His Majesty is in a forgiving disposition to-day, and forgets his friends at the prayer of a pretty face. I wish this rebel were dead, friend.”
“He will die in time,” Halfman commented, philosophically. Sir Rufus growled.
“You are as dull as mud. It would be money in your pocket, friend Halfman, ay, money running over your pocket-holes, if this rebel were to be your quarry.”