Evander nodded. “I guessed as much,” he commented. “But, indeed, it was bravely done.”
“It was bravely devised,” Halfman asserted. “It was my lady’s thought. She would never let a rascally Roundhead—I crave your pardon, she would never let an enemy—dream that we were in lack of aught at Harby that could help us to serve the King.”
“Your lady is a very brave lady,” Evander said, quietly. Halfman caught at his words with a kind of cheer in his voice.
“Hippolyta was not more valiant, nor Parthian Candace, nor French Joan. She is the rose of the world, the fairest fair, the valiantest valor. There is no wine in the world that is worthy to pledge her, but we must do our best with what we have.”
He filled himself a spacious tankard as he spoke and drained it at a draught. Evander listened to his ebullient praises in silence. He did not think that the Lady of Harby should be so spoken of and by such an one. Over-eating and especially over-drinking were ever distasteful to him, and he took it that Halfman was on the high-road to becoming drunk. But in this he was wrong. When Halfman set down his vessel he was as sober as when he had lifted it, but of a sudden a shade graver, as if Evander’s silence had shadowed his boisterous gayety. He pushed the beaker from him with a sigh, and then, seeing that Evander’s plate was empty, offered to ply him with more food. On Evander’s refusal he pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said, “if your stomach is stayed, are you for a stroll in the gardens—will you see lawns and parks of fairyland?”
Evander willingly acquiesced, and the strangely assorted pair rose and quitted the chamber. They met Mistress Satchell on the threshold, and Tiffany hiding slyly behind her highness. Evander smilingly complimented Mistress Satchell on the excellence of her table, to the good dame’s great gratification. But much to Tiffany’s indignation he paid little heed to her pretty face.