“Sweet Sir Rufus,” he said, “I have lived in places where a little persuasion has often led folk to act much against their personal inclinations and desires. Out swords and force the toast.”
As he spoke he drew his sword with his best Mercutio manner, and the suggestion and the naked steel carried contagion. Every gentleman unsheathed his sword; all advanced upon Evander, a line of shining points.
“Bait him, bait him!” Bardon shouted.
Ingrow shrilled, “Tickle him, prick him, pink him till he drinks!”
Though Evander surveyed his enemies as composedly as if they had been children threatening him with pins, Brilliana knew that the spirit of mischief was alive and that the Cavaliers would not boggle at cruelty, six to one, for the sport of making a Parliament man honor the King against his will. She hated the man, but she would not have him so handled. Instantly she stepped between Evander and the Cavaliers, who fell back with lowered points before their hostess.
“Wait, sirs,” she ordered, “let me see if my entreaties will not make the bear more gracious.”
She took up the cup where Rufus had set it down, and, coming close to Evander, held the vessel to him with her sweetest smile, the smile which, she had been assured a thousand times, would tame a savage and shatter adamant. “Will you not pledge the best gentleman in England?” she asked, with a voice all honey.
Very courteously Evander took the proffered cup from her fingers and gave her back her smile. Brilliana’s heart thrilled with pleasure at this new proof of beauty’s victory.
“I will drink at your wish,” he said, looking at her with a quiet smile and speaking as if he and she were alone together in the great hall. “I will drink at your wish, but with my own wit.” Still looking into the gratified eyes of Brilliana, he lifted the cup.