To this mood fortune sent interruption in the person of Sir Blaise Mickleton. Sir Blaise had opened the door expecting to find in the room Brilliana, whom he had come with a purpose to visit, and instead of Brilliana he found this queer soldier swinging his legs from the table and scowling truculently. From what Sir Blaise had already seen of Halfman he found him very little to his mind, but he reflected that he had come on a mission, that Brilliana was nowhere in sight, and that Halfman, who had served her during the siege, might very well direct him where he should find her.
As Halfman took no notice whatever of him, Sir Blaise deemed it advisable, in the interests of his mission, to attract his attention. So he gave a politic cough and followed it with a "Give you good-morrow" of such sufficient loudness that Halfman could not choose but hear it. He did not change his attitude, however, or turn his face from the window, as he answered, in a sullen voice,
"I should need a good-morrow to mend a bad day."
Sir Blaise had not the wit to let a sleeping dog lie, but must needs prod it to see if it could bark. So he very foolishly said what were indeed obvious even to a greater fool than he.
The sleeping dog could bark. Halfman turned a scowling face upon the knight as he answered, malevolently:
"Swamped, water-logged, foundering. You are a pretty parrakeet to come between me and my musings."
The tone of Halfman's speech, the way of Halfman's demeanor were so offensive that the knight's cheap dignity took fire. He swelled with displeasure, flushed very red in the gills, and cleared his throat for reproof.
Halfman proved too indifferent or too self-absorbed to take umbrage. He stared into the garden again with a sigh.
"No, I remember myself, and the memory vexes me. I dreamed I was a king, a kaiser, a demigod. I wake, rub my eyes, and am no more than a fool."
Sir Blaise was patronizingly forgiving. He was thirsty, also the morning was chilly.
"Let us exorcise your devil with a pottle of hot ale," he suggested. Halfman shook his head wistfully.
"I should be happier in a sable habit, with a steeple hat, and a rank in the Parliament army."
It was plain to Sir Blaise that a man must be very deep in the dumps who was not to be tempted by hot ale.