Evander rose from his seat and rested his hand for a moment lightly on Halfman’s arm, while he said, impressively:
“Say nothing of this to your lady, for Sir Randolph is her kinsman, and I think she holds him dear. Let ill news come late. But if Colonel Cromwell has taken a spy prisoner, that spy will very surely die.”
Halfman stiffened himself. His eyes had never left Evander’s, and he knew that Evander spoke what he believed. He gave a short laugh.
“And very surely if Sir Randolph be shot over yonder you will be shot down here.”
“That,” said Evander, still smiling, “is why I say that I have come to stay at Harby.”
“You take your fate blithely,” Halfman commented, scanning Evander with curiosity. He was familiar with the sight of men in peril of death; in most men he took courage for granted, but it was courage of a gaudier quality than the composure of the young Puritan, who had fenced with him and played bowls with him that very morning and talked so learnedly of roses with Luke, the gardener. Was there really something in the Puritan stuff that strengthened men’s spirits? Evander answered his words and unconsciously his thoughts.
“I should not have taken up arms if I held my life too precious. It will need three days to get the answer, the inevitable answer, and in the mean time the autumn air is kind and these gardens delightful.”
Halfman stared at him in an ecstasy of admiration, and then dealt him an applauding clap on the shoulder.
“Come to the kitchen-garden, philosopher,” he cried. “A fellow of your phlegm should find pleasure in the contemplation of cabbages.”
“It is a sage vegetable,” Evander answered. “But I fear I tax your time. There must be much for you to do.”