“Master Halfman, Master Halfman,” she cried, “how do you measure our rebel?”
Halfman’s gravity lightened amazingly at the thought of his prisoner.
“I take him,” he answered, emphatically, “for as proper a fellow as ever I met in all my vagabond days. Barring his primness he would have proved a gallant”—he was going to say “pirate,” but paused in time and said “seaman.” “God pardon him for a Puritan,” he went on, “for he has in him the making of a rare Cavalier.”
Brilliana turned to Tiffany, whose cheeks were very red.
“Hang your head, child,” she cried; “for you are outvoted in a parliament of praise. Beat a retreat, maid Tiffany.”
The crimson Tiffany fled from the pleasaunce.
“Where is your prisoner?” Brilliana asked.
“I have envoyed him over park and garden,” Halfman answered, “and brought him to port in the library.”
“Alas! I pity him,” sighed Brilliana; “it holds few books of divinity. But come, recruiting-sergeant, what of our volunteers?”