“Be merry more gently, friends. Sure, I cannot hear the gentleman speak. Though,” she added, reflectively, as she closed the door and returned again to the table she had quitted—“though God knows he talks big enough.”
The Puritan clapped his palms together as if in applause, an action that somewhat amazed her in him, while a kindly humor kindled in his eyes.
“Bravely staged, bravely played,” he admitted, while he shook his head. “But it will not serve your turn, for it may not deceive me. I had a message this morning from my Lord Essex. There has been hot fighting; Heaven has given us the victory; the King’s cause is wellnigh lost at the first push.”
Brilliana felt her heart drumming against her stays, but she turned a defiant face on the news-monger.
“I do not believe you,” she answered. “The King’s cause will always win.”
The soldier took no notice of her denial; he felt too sure of his fact to hold other than pity for the leaguered lady. He quietly added:
“My Lord Essex advises me further that reinforcements are marching to me well equipped with artillery against which even these gallant walls are worthless. Be warned, be wise. You cannot hope to hold out longer. For pity’s sake, yield to the Parliament.”
Brilliana waved his pleas away with a dainty, impatient flourish.
“You chatter republican vainly. I have store of powder. I will blow this old hall heaven high when I can no longer hold it for the King.”
Her visitor looked at her sadly, made as if to speak, paused, and then appeared to force himself to reluctant utterance.