Some hours later Rufus Quaryll sat alone in the garden-room, writing. It was coming on dusk; candles had been lit, the fire was ruddy on the hearth. Rufus, as he wrote, was well content with the turn of things. He raged at Brilliana, but she should marry him all the same when the Puritan dog was dead. He had, as he believed, convinced the King at meat that the plea Evander raised was valueless, that Evander’s life was rightly forfeit. Evander was under close guard; so, indeed, was Brilliana, for he had stationed a sentry at the door of her apartments: he was determined that she should not see the King again. Now the King lay in the inner room, sleeping; when he rose it would be easy to get the order for Evander’s death. Furious in his hate, furious in his love, he would neither spare Evander nor surrender Brilliana. She should be his wife, if he had to drag her before an altar.

As he thought and wrote, the door opened and Halfman entered the room. Rufus, lifting his head, faced him with a finger on his lips while with the other he pointed to the door of the inner chamber.

“Hush!” he whispered; “the King sleeps. But all is well. He has as good as promised the Puritan shall die.”

“All is not so well as you think,” said Halfman, sardonically. “Here comes one more pleased to see you than you to see him.”

He went to the door again and ushered in a man who had waited outside, a man muffled in a cloak, and his face hidden by the way his hat was pulled over it. The man advanced slowly towards the surprised Rufus, and suddenly dropping his cloak and throwing back his hat uncovered a youthful, jovial face. Rufus gaped at him in despair and gasped a name:

“Randolph!”

Randolph Harby dropped into a chair and chuckled.

“No wonder you stare as if you faced a spectre. But I’m flesh and blood, lad.”

Rufus, trying to collect himself against this staggering blow, again raised a warning hand.

“For Heaven’s sake speak lower! The King is asleep yonder. How do you come here?”

Randolph leaned over and whispered, giggling, into Sir Rufus’s ear. Halfman watched with grim amusement. If he loved Evander little, come to think of it he loved Rufus less, all said and done; so he grinned at his discomfiture.

“A wonder,” Randolph said. “When they had the time to try me, their fools’ court-martial, thanks to that damned Cromwell, settled me for a spy and sentenced me to be shot. But the jailer where I lay had a daughter. Need I say more? We Harbys are invincible. Any way, there was no prisoner when the shooting-party came to claim me, and here I am, in time, I hope, to save the life of that poor Puritan devil.”

Sir Rufus’s wits were busy hatching mischief. He looked with aversion at the smiling, self-complacent ass whose resurrection tangled his plan. But his voice was very amiable as he asked:

“Do any in the household know of your return?”

“Devil a one,” the youth answered, cheerily, and Sir Rufus would have liked to drive a knife into him for his mirth, though his spirits rose at his answer. “I thought to take my cousin by surprise, scare her with my ghost, maybe. So I came skulking through the park and ran on this good sir, who nabbed me.” He indicated Halfman with a wave of the hand. “I explained to him, so that my joke should not spoil, and he smuggled me in here to surprise you. Where is Brilliana?”

Rufus looked at him thoughtfully.

“Are you fresh enough to ride?” he asked.

“If need be,” Randolph replied, astonished.

Rufus talked rapidly, writing a letter as he spoke.

“Then you may save your Puritan yet. We sent your hostage to Oxford for safe-keeping. News came of your death, and but now the King sent an order to have the fellow shot. But you can overtake the order, outstrip it. Here is a reprieve for the prisoner.”

Rufus folded the paper, sealed it, and handed it to the bewildered Randolph.

“Pick what horse you please, and ride for the honor of our cause.”

Randolph gasped.

“May I not see the King?”

Rufus refused him firmly.

“Impossible. His Majesty sleeps.”

“My cousin Brilliana?” Randolph asked. “What of my joke?”

Rufus spoke very solemnly.

“The one thing now is to save a man’s life. Ride hard, and God speed you.” Randolph yielded cheerfully.

“Well, well, I should be sorry the rebel dog should die wrongfully. You will justify me to the King for not attending him?”

Rufus nodded.

“I will justify you to his Majesty.”

“And not a word to Brilliana,” Randolph iterated. “I will have my joke on my return. Farewell.”

He muffled himself again and went out quickly. Rufus sat biting the end of his quill. Halfman stepped forward and made him a series of extravagant salutations, which parodied the most elaborate congees of a dancing-master. Rufus glared at him.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked, savagely. Halfman leered apishly at him.

“You are a splendid scoundrel,” he vowed. “Do not frown. I have lived with such and I speak in praise.”

Rufus struck his hands upon the table.

“I will have this Puritan devil,” he swore, “if the King do not play the granny.”

Halfman winked at him, diverted by his heat and hate.

“Say that more softly, for I think I hear him stirring.”

The two listened in silence. The curtains of the inner room were parted and Charles entered the room. He still looked haggard, ill at ease.

“Was any one here?” he asked, as the two men rose respectfully. Rufus answered, glibly:

“No, your Majesty. We spoke in whispers to respect your rest. Did your Majesty sleep well?”

“Ill, very ill,” Charles answered, drearily. “I had bad dreams and could not wake from them. Leave me, sirs.”

Rufus solicited his eyes.

“And the prisoner?”

Charles looked at him vaguely.

“The prisoner?”

“The rebel hostage for murdered Randolph Harby,” Rufus reminded him.

Charles looked vexed.

“Oh yes, I suppose he must die. Surely he must die. His plea is specious, but Randolph Harby is dead.”

“Brave, murdered Randolph.” Rufus’s regret was pathetic. “Shall I give order for the firing party?” He made as if to write. Charles frowned.

“You are over-zealous, sir; I have not made up my mind.”

Rufus read obstinacy in the royal face and knew that it were useless to argue further then.

“As your Majesty please,” he submitted.

The King seated himself heavily at the table and fixed his eyes upon an open map. Behind his back Rufus shrugged his shoulders and left the room. Halfman followed, a very Jaques of meditations, touched by the pathos of the tired King, grimly diverted by the ruffianism of Rufus. A mad world!