Charles Stewart, watching with agony and dismay the loss of his foot and guns, rode from point to point of the bitter battle, vainly endeavouring to rally his broken forces.
Such as was left of Langdale's horse gathered round him, and at this point up came Rupert, flushed and breathless, his men exhausted from the pursuit and loaded with plunder.
"Thou art too late," said the King sternly, pointing to the awful smoke-hung field. "Hadst thou come sooner some loyal blood might have been saved."
It was the sole reproach he made: he was past anger as he was past hope.
"God damn and the devil roast them!" cried Rupert, in a fury. "But we will withstand them yet!"
With swiftness and skill he seconded the King's courageous efforts to rally the remnant of the horse, and these drew up for a final stand in front of the baggage wagons and carriages, where the camp followers shrieked and cowered.
For the third time Oliver Cromwell formed his cavalry, being now joined by Ireton, who, though wounded, had rallied the survivors of Rupert's pursuit, and now, in good order and accompanied by the shotmen and dragoons, advanced towards the remnants of the royal horse.
The King seemed like one heedless of his fate: his face was colourless and distorted, the drying tears stained his cheek. He looked over the hillocks scattered with the dead and dying who had fallen for him, and he muttered twice, through twitching lips—
"Broken, broken! Lost, lost!"
The parliamentary dragoons commencing fire, Rupert headed his line for his usual reckless charge, and Charles, galloping to the front, was about to press straight on the enemy's fire, when a group of Cavaliers rode up to him, and one of them, Lord Carnwath, swore fiercely and cried out—
"Will you go upon your death in an instant?"
The King turned his head and gave him a dazed look, whereon in a trice the Scots lord seized the King's foam-flecked bridle, and turned about his horse.
"This was a fight for all in all, and it is lost!" cried Charles.
Seeing the King turn from the battlefield, his cavalry turned about too as one man, and galloped after him on the spur, without waiting for the third charge of Cromwell's Ironsides, who chased them through Harborough, from whence the Queen, on news of how the day was going, had an hour before fled, and along the Leicester road.
The regiments that remained took possession of the King's baggage, his guns and wagons, his standards and colours, his carriages, including the royal coach, and made prisoner every man left alive on the field.
In the carriages were many ladies of quality, sickened and maddened, shrieking and desperate, who were seized and hurried away in their fine embroidered clothes and fallen hair—calling on the God who had deserted them—carried across the field strewn with their slain kinsmen to what rude place of safety might be devised.
Nor was any roughness exercised against them, for they were English and defenceless.
The Irish camp followers were neither English nor defenceless, even the most wretched tattered woman of them had a skean knife at her belt, and used it with yelling violence.
What mercy for such as these, accursed of God and man—the same breed as those who rose and murdered the English in Ulster?
"What of these vermin?" asked an officer of Cromwell, when he galloped past in pursuit of the royalists.
"Is there not an ordinance against Papists?" was the answer, hurled harsh and rough through the turmoil. "To the sword with the enemies of God!"
It was done.
Midday had not yet been reached; the whole awful fight had hardly occupied three hours, and now the King had fled with his broken troops, and from among the baggage wagons, the stuffs, the clothes, the food, the hasty tents, the Puritans drove into the open the wretched Irish women, wild creatures, full of a shrieking defiance and foul cursing, pitiful too in their rags and dirty finery, their impotence, their despair.
Some were young enough and fair enough, but smooth cheeks and bright eyes and white arms worked no enchantment here; sword and bullet made short shrift of them and their knives and curses.
"In the name of Christ!" cried one, clinging half-naked to an Ironside captain.
"In the name of Christ!" he repeated fiercely, and dispatched her with his own hand.
Then that too was over; the last woman's voice shrieking to saint and Madonna was quieted; the last huddled form had quivered into stillness on the profaned earth, the carbines were shouldered, the swords sheathed, and the Puritans turned back with their captured colours and standards, such plunder as could be met with, and the King's secret cabinet, recklessly left in his carriage, and full, as the first glance showed, of secret and fatal papers.
The dial on the church front at Naseby hamlet did not yet point to twelve; across the graves lay Ireton's men and Rupert's Cavaliers, their blood mingling in the daisied grass; the copper ball which had overlooked a day of another such sights beyond the sea, still gleamed against a cloudless sky, and above it, in the purer, upper air, the lark still poured forth his immutable song which the living were as deaf to as the dead.
Lieutenant-general Cromwell pursued the King to within sight of Leicester, nine miles beyond Harborough, to which hamlet he returned with his troop towards the close of day.
The royalists, who had filled Harborough twenty-four hours before, were now scattered like dust before the wind; the house where the King and Queen had stayed the previous night was deserted, and this Cromwell and some of his officers took possession of, as the most commodious in the place.
The church, after being despoiled of painting, carving, coloured glass, and altar, was used partly as a stable and partly as a prison for the few captives the Parliamentarians had with them.
Cromwell watched this work completed, then rode across the fragments of broken tombs and shattered glass, flung out of the church, to the house where Charles Stewart had taken farewell of his wife the day before.
The furniture the Queen had used was still in its place; in the parlour where Cromwell entered with Ireton stood the clavichord open, as Henriette Marie had left it when she broke down over her French song; a glove and a scarf belonging to Margaret Lucas lay on the couch, the windows were wide on the beautiful garden which again sent up sweet scents to the evening air.
Cromwell noticed none of these things; he was not aman of exquisite senses; perfume and flowers, green trees and sunshine were as little to him as they could be to any healthy man, and as for delights of man's making, he abhorred them all as vanities, from pictures and music, fine dwellings and costly gardens, to ruffles and fringed breeches.
Ireton was, if anything, a man even stiffer and more rigid in his ideas. They both sat down to their supper in the delicate little room which had been some one's home, without the least regard to their surroundings, either the luxurious furniture or the fair garden giving forth sweets to the evening air.
Neither had changed their dusty, blood-stained leather and steel; Cromwell cast his beaver and gloves on to the satin couch, and Ireton flung his on to the polished floor.
A soldier brought in bread, meat, cheese, and beer from the inn; nothing more was to be had. Cromwell, who had not eaten since the night before, did not complain, but finished his food with a good appetite.
Though he had been twenty-four hours in the saddle, he was too strong a man to feel more than an ordinary weariness, and the exaltation of his spirits made him forget the slight fatigue of his body.
The two soldiers said little while they were eating, save to now and then make some remark on the number of the malignants slain or captured, or some ejaculations as to the might and power of the Lord who had now so signally demonstrated that His countenance was turned towards them.
Henry Ireton was a man after Cromwell's own heart, one of the choicest of that little band who had taken the place of the older patriots, such as Pym and Hampden. Blake and Sidney were two others; Sir Harry Vane, who was of my late Lord Falkland's temper, Cromwell considered less well suited to the times; Fairfax he had some doubts of; and Manchester, Essex, and their kind he regarded as little better than Laodiceans.
When he had finished his meal he pushed back his chair and regarded his companion fixedly. Ireton had taken off his corselet, bandoleer, and sword, and his left arm was bandaged; his extreme pallor and the drooping way he sat showed the severity of his wound, but it had not had power to dismay his spirit or to soften his stern bearing.
He was a man of five-and-thirty, well born and well favoured, his features showing resolution, enthusiasm, capacity, and courage.
"Hast thou no mind to take a wife?" asked Cromwell abruptly.
"It is not for me to be thinking of marriage when the land is in mourning," replied Ireton. "Even a wilderness with the water-springs dried up and a fruitful land become barren."
"Peace cometh soon," said Cromwell grimly.
"Yet the King hath escaped into Oxford by now, and many places hold out against us," returned Ireton.
"Be not as the children of Ephraim, but remember what the Lord hath done for us," said Cromwell. "I tell thee He shall this year make an end of His enemies, Papist, Prelatist, and Arminian, and all such as defy Him. Is not His hand truly visible amongst us? Surely it would be a very atheist to doubt it. And for what I was about to say, Harry, coming to a plainer matter, my daughter Bridget is marriageable and full of piety and fear of the Lord—a thrifty maiden and one well-exercised in household ways, and if thou hast a mind to this alliance we may celebrate a marriage with the peace."
Ireton flushed with pleasure at this undoubted honour; for Oliver Cromwell had become already a considerable man, and after the splendour of to-day's achievements was like to become more considerable still; beside, Ireton held him in sincere respect and affection.
"Sir," he replied, "I am very sensible of this kindness, and if I on my part may satisfy what you shall demandof me, I will take a wife from thy hearth with as much joy as Jacob took Rachel."
Oliver Cromwell's face softened into sudden tenderness.
"Thoudostsatisfy me, Henry!" he answered. "I have great and good hopes of thee. I know not why this came into my mind at this season, save that, seeing thee hurt and weary, methought a woman's care would not come ill."
He rose abruptly, to cut short Ireton's further thanks, and, going to the door, called for candles.
Colonel Whalley and some other officers now entered, and after some further talk they left, Ireton with them, to see to the deposition of the new troops who, bringing prisoners and plunder, were continuing to pour into Harborough. Cromwell, left alone, called for ink and paper, and, seating himself anew at the table where the candles now stood among the tankards, plates, and knives, commenced his letter to the Speaker of the House of Commons.
Little of the tumult filling the village reached this quiet room; outside the roses, lilacs, and lilies folded their parcels of sweets beneath the rising moon, and far off a nightingale was singing where the orchards dipped to a coppice, and the coppice dipped to the west.
Oliver Cromwell wrote—"Harborough, 14th June 1645," paused a minute, biting his quill and frowning at the candlelight, then briefly wrote the news of the great victory:—
"Sir,—Being commanded by you to this service, I think myself bound to acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us."We marched yesterday after the King, who went before us from Daventry to Harborough; and quartered about six miles from him. This day we marched towards him."He drew out to meet us; both armies engaged. We, after three hours' fight very doubtful, at last routed hisarmy; killed and took about 5000, very many officers, but of what quality we yet know not."We also took about 200 carriages—all he had; and all his guns, being 12 in number, whereof 2 were demi-cannon, 2 demi-culverins, and (I think) the rest sakers."We pursued the enemy from three miles short of Harborough to nine miles beyond, even to the sight of Leicester, whither the King fled."
"Sir,—Being commanded by you to this service, I think myself bound to acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us.
"We marched yesterday after the King, who went before us from Daventry to Harborough; and quartered about six miles from him. This day we marched towards him.
"He drew out to meet us; both armies engaged. We, after three hours' fight very doubtful, at last routed hisarmy; killed and took about 5000, very many officers, but of what quality we yet know not.
"We also took about 200 carriages—all he had; and all his guns, being 12 in number, whereof 2 were demi-cannon, 2 demi-culverins, and (I think) the rest sakers.
"We pursued the enemy from three miles short of Harborough to nine miles beyond, even to the sight of Leicester, whither the King fled."
Having said all he could think of with regard to the actual battle that was of importance, Cromwell paused again and thoughtfully sharpened his quill.
Both the mystical and practical side of him wished to improve the opportunity. He had lately heard how the Presbyterian party at Westminster was very hot against the Independents, especially such as would not take the Covenant, calling them Anabaptists, Sectaries, and Schismatics; and Cromwell, who was for liberty of conscience and toleration within Puritan bounds, and who was, if he was anything, an Independent himself and no lover of the Scots or their Covenant, wished to impress the Parliament with the worth of these despised sects, at the same time to magnify God for what He had done for them. He wished also to give praise to Fairfax, who, under the Lord, he considered the author of this victory.
After labouring a little further in thought, he added this to his letter—
"Sir, this is none other but the hand of God; and to Him alone belongs the glory wherein none are to share with Him."The General served you with all faithfulness and honour; and the best commendation I can give him is, that I dare say he attributes it all to God and would rather perish than assume to himself."Which is an honest and a thriving way, and yet as much for bravery may be given to him in this action as to a man."
"Sir, this is none other but the hand of God; and to Him alone belongs the glory wherein none are to share with Him.
"The General served you with all faithfulness and honour; and the best commendation I can give him is, that I dare say he attributes it all to God and would rather perish than assume to himself.
"Which is an honest and a thriving way, and yet as much for bravery may be given to him in this action as to a man."
Having thus done justice to his General, the Puritanendeavoured to do justice to his soldiers, and to give a timely warning to the Presbyterians. He dipped his quill into the ink-dish and added, with a firm hand and a bent brow, frowning—
"Honest men served you faithfully in this action. Sir, they are trusty; I beseech you, in the name of God, not to discourage them."I wish this action may beget thankfulness and humility in all that are concerned in it."He that ventures his life for the liberty of his country, I wish he trust God for the liberty of his conscience, and you for the liberty he fights for."In this he rests, who is your most humble servant,"Oliver Cromwell"
"Honest men served you faithfully in this action. Sir, they are trusty; I beseech you, in the name of God, not to discourage them.
"I wish this action may beget thankfulness and humility in all that are concerned in it.
"He that ventures his life for the liberty of his country, I wish he trust God for the liberty of his conscience, and you for the liberty he fights for.
"In this he rests, who is your most humble servant,
"Oliver Cromwell"
As he dried and sealed up his letter, the soldier, whose ears, though deaf to the nightingale and the lift of the wind in the trees without, were keen enough for all practical sounds, heard a certain tumult or commotion which seemed to be in the house and almost at his very door.
With the instinct that the last few years had bred in him, he put his hand to his tuck sword and shifted it farther round his thigh, then, taking up the standing candlestick, he hastily crossed to the door and opened it. A little group of soldiers were gathered round the front entrance to the house, which stood wide open, and Cromwell joined them, casting the rays of his two candles over a scene that had hitherto been illumined only by the pale trembling light of the rising moon.
A small, white, tired horse stood at the steps of the house, his head hanging down to his feet; at his bridle was a woman, a dark scarf about her shoulders, the slack reins in her hand, and on his back hung a man who had fallen forward on his neck, almost, if not quite, unconscious.
The woman, with the moonlight on her face, was speaking to the soldiers in a tone at once imperious and desperate, and from all parts of the garden a mingled crowd wasapproaching to ascertain the cause of this supplication at the gate of the General's house.
Cromwell stepped with authority to the front; the first flutter of the candlelight over the scene revealed to him that the man was desperately wounded and that the woman was wild with fear and anger, yet, by some fierce effort, keeping her composure. The look on her face reminded him of that he had seen on Lady Strafford's face when her coach was stopped by the mob in Whitehall.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Sir," replied one of the troopers, "this is none other than one of those calves of Bethel who did so levant and flourish to-day."
The lady now let go the reins and stepped forward, interrupting the soldier, and addressing herself directly to Cromwell, whom she perceived by his scarf and equipments to be an officer of some rank.
"Sir," she said, with a dignity greater than her sorrow, and a pride stronger than her grief, "this is my husband's brother's house."
"Thy brother hath doubtless fled with the King," returned Cromwell, "and his house is now the property of the Parliament."
"This is my husband," said the lady; "he was in the battalia to-day—and I went down to the field and found him, and one helped me set him on a horse and so we came here—to my brother's house."
Cromwell listened tenderly.
"Alas!" he said, "thou art over young for such scenes."
He gave the candlestick to one of the soldiers, and stepped into the garden.
The Cavalier, who was, by a desperate effort, holding on to his senses, now dragged himself upright and spoke—
"Since the rebels have the house, ask them not—for charity," he muttered, and then, with the attempt at speech, fainted, and dropped sideways out of the saddle into the arms of one of the Roundheads.
At this sight the lady lost all pride, and, glancing wildly round the ring of steel-clad figures, she clasped her hands in a gesture of appeal.
"May he not be taken into the house?" she stammered. "Oh, good sirs, for pity!"
"A malignant," said the corporal who had caught the Cavalier, pointing to his long locks and rich dress, "and one doubtless drunk with the blood of the saints! Shall I take him to the church, that plague spot of hierarchy, where the other children of Belial lie bound?"
"Nay," replied Cromwell, "take up the young man and bring him into the house."
He looked to the lady and added—
"Madam, what is your name and quality?"
"Sir," she replied, "my lord is Sir William Pawlet, of the House of the Marquis of Winchester, and I am Jane, his wife."
The look of pity died from the Puritan's expressive face.
"He who holdeth Basing House against us? That Winchester?" he cried grimly. "Art thou, as he, Papists?"
"Your tongue doth call us that," she replied faintly.
"Ha!" cried Cromwell, "must I then succour the children of filth and abomination, the brood of the Scarlet Women, whose bones I have declared shall whiten the valley of Hinnom and whose dust I promised to cast into the brook of Kedar?"
The lady pressed to her husband's side.
"God's will be done," she said in despair; "even in this pass I cannot deny my God nor my King."
The two soldiers who had lifted the Cavalier paused with their burden, expecting that the General would order both Papists to a common prison.
And such, indeed, was for a moment his intention, for no man was more hated by him than Lord Winchester, who had, since the beginning of the war, defied the Parliamentarians from Basing House.
But as he was about to speak he glanced down at the face of the unconscious man, and a shudder shook him.
On the young Cavalier's fair face was a dreadful look of his own son Oliver, who had died at Newport Pagnell, and of that nephew who had died in his arms after Marston Moor; and with these two memories came that of his first-born, Robert, dead in early youth, and the intolerable pain of that loss smote him afresh.
"Bring the youth into the house," he said sombrely.
Lady Pawlet made no answer and gave no sign of gratitude; she followed the soldiers who were carrying her husband, and helped them to support his head.
"Surely the young man is dying," said Oliver Cromwell gloomily. "Bring him into the parlour and fetch a surgeon if one may be found. And look you, Gaveston," he added to the sergeant, "see this letter is dispatched to Mr. Lenthall, in London."
The candles had now been replaced on the table, and the General took up his letter to the Speaker, but while he was addressing the soldier and handing him the dispatch, his frowning eyes were fixed on the Cavalier, who was now extended on the couch with his cloak for a pillow.
Lady Pawlet, as if despairing of better accommodation, perhaps too sunk in grief to notice anything, went on her knees by the side of her husband, and knelt there as still as he, holding his hand to her breast.
The black scarf had fallen back over her tumbled grey dress and soiled ruffles, and the red-gold of her disordered hair glittered round a face disfigured with fatigue and sorrow—a face that had once been fair enough and gay enough. They were both very young and scarcely past their bridal days.
Oliver Cromwell stood with his back to the table, the light behind him, watching them; she seemed forgetful of his presence.
Sir William was bleeding in the head and the arm; these at least were his visible hurts, probably he hadother wounds beneath his battle bravery of silk and bullion fringe, Spanish leather, and brocaded scarf.
His wife, bending over him still and helpless, as if she, too, was secretly wounded and dying of it, suddenly moved.
"A priest," she whispered, "is there not a priest? I think he is—dying."
"Pray that the light may come to him in the little time left," said the Puritan sternly. "And seek not to seal his eternal damnation by idolatry and devilry."
The lady looked up as if she had not heard what he said and did not know who he was.
"Oh, sir," she said, "will you come and look at my lord?"
Cromwell stepped up to the couch and gazed down at the Cavalier; his features were pinched, the wound at the side of the head, from which the blood had ceased to flow, was of a purplish colour.
The General touched him on the brow, moving back the clotted curls, and gazed into his agonized features.
"His heart—I cannot feel his heart," cried Lady Pawlet.
"He is not here," said Cromwell. "Even as we speak, he standeth before the Judgment Seat."
"Well, well!" stammered Lady Pawlet. "There are some shall answer to God for this. Well, well!"
"Get to thy friends if thou hast any," said the Puritan, "and let them put thee beyond seas. There is an ordinance against Papists."
She stared at him; the body of the dead Cavalier was between them; the red candlelight and the white moonlight mingled grotesquely over the dead and the living.
"Ah yes," she said; her eyes wandered to her husband's face. "The King will be sorry," she added.
"The King," replied Cromwell, "hath troubles of his own to mourn for. Up, mistress, and be going. This is no place for mourner and Papists. Tell me some friend's house and I will have thee conveyed thither."
Lady Pawlet made no reply, and remained kneeling by the couch which held her husband.
Cromwell moved away abruptly; though professional insensibility and his hatred of the Papist checked the pity that was natural to him at any sight of distress, still his mystic, melancholy nature had been moved by the sight of the young man brought in dead. He thought he beheld in him a type of all the fair lives that had been ruined or lost since this war began—wasted men! And how many of them, one, two, or three thousand to-day, now being shovelled into the trenches at Broadmoor ... all English like this one ... all with some woman somewhere to weep for them....
He turned again to the immobile woman.
"Come, madam, come, come," he began, but his speech was broken by the entry of a soldier with some dispatches from Fairfax, who remained at Naseby, and with the statement that there was no surgeon conveniently to be brought.
"As for that," returned Cromwell, "the malignant is now in the hands of the Living God. But let that little white horse I saw be looked to." He turned to Lady Pawlet. "He is mine by right of war, but I will give thee a fair price for him if he be thine, since we are ever in need of horses."
She made no reply; Cromwell glanced at her frowningly.
"Gaveston," he said, "is there nought but this burnt ale in the house? Search for a glass of alicant for the malignant's wife, she hath neither strength to speak or move."
"Methinks the King did take the fleshpots with him when he fled from this Egypt," returned Gaveston. "There is scarce enough in the village to refresh the outer men of the saints themselves—but I will see if I can find a bottle of sack or alicant, General Cromwell."
Lady Pawlet, hitherto so immovable as to appear insensible, now suddenly rose to her feet, and, turning so that she stood with her back to her husband's body, stared at the General who remained at the table, not two paces away from her.
"Art thou Oliver Cromwell?" she cried, with a force and energy that was so in contrast to her former despairing apathy that the two men were startled, and Cromwell turned as if to face an accuser.
"I am he," he answered.
"Rebel and heretic!" cried the unfortunate lady. "May the curse of England rest on thee! May all the blood that has been spilt, and all the tears shed for those thou hast slain, cry out to the throne of God for a bolt to strike thee down!"
"Fond creature," replied Cromwell, "I am in covenant with the Lord, and I do the Lord's work, and your blasphemies do but waste the air."
"No! I am heard!" answered Lady Pawlet, to whom horror and wrath had given an exalted dignity and a desperate strength. "Man of blood and disloyalty, a scourge upon this land, a bitterness and a terror to these unhappy people!"
"Shall I take her away?" asked Gaveston, advancing.
"Nay," replied Cromwell, "let her speak. Words no more than swords touch those who wear the armour of the Lord. As for thee, vain, unhappy one, go and wrestle with the evil errors that hold thee, and pray that light be given to thy eternal darkness."
Lady Pawlet moved aside and pointed to her husband.
"He is dead," she said. "Only I know how good he was, how excellent and loyal—but he is dead in his early summer. And I, too, have lived my life."
"'Man is a thing of nought, he passeth away like a shadow,'" returned the Lieutenant-General sombrely. "We are but a little dust that the wind bloweth as it will."
"A brazen face and an iron hand!" cried Lady Pawlet wildly. "A wicked heart and a lying mouth! What has this unhappy England done that she cannot be delivered of thee?"
To the surprise of Sergeant Gaveston, Cromwell neither left the room nor ordered the removal of the frantic lady, but answered her earnestly, even passionately—
"Was it the Parliament first set up the standard of war? Nay, it was the King. Was it the Parliament that ever refused to come to an accommodation? Again the King. Was it the Parliament that roused the Highlands of Scotland to war? Nay, Montrose, the King's man. Was it the Parliament did command these horrid outrages in Ireland? Nay, Phelim O'Neil, the King's man. Therefore accuse us not of bloodshed, for we do but make adefence against violence and tyranny. We fight for God's people that they may have repose and blessing, and for this land that it may have liberty."
"Thou to talk of God's people, heretic of heretic, who hast rejected even thine own deluded Church!"
"Ay, and the blue and brown of the Presbyter as well as the lawn sleeves of the Bishop," cried Cromwell, pacing up and down in that agitation that often came on him when he was excited by any attack on his religious sincerity. "If the prayer-book is but a mess of pottage, what is the preaching of the Covenanters but dry chips offered to the soul starving for spiritual manna? Men of all sects fight side by side in my ranks—would they could do so at Westminster." He suddenly checked himself as he perceived that he was saying more than his place and dignity required, controlled the agitation that had hurried him into speech, and turned to Lady Pawlet, not without pity and tenderness—
"Gaveston, conduct this lady to Naseby where are the other gentlewomen taken to-day, and give her name and quality to Sir Thomas Fairfax. Take out the malignant and place him with his fellows in the trenches."
At this the unhappy wife gave a shriek and hurled herself across the dead Cavalier, desperately clinging to his limp arms and pressing her bright head against his bloodied coat.
"My dear, they want to put you in the ground! I went to find you—you were alive; what has happened now? I found you; what has happened? They shall not take you away. Leave me," as Gaveston tried to move her from the body; "he is not dead." She looked up and the tears were falling down her cheeks. "I have nothing of him—no child. Would you take him away?"
"Leave them here," said Cromwell. Since he had beheld his wife mourning her two eldest sons he could not bear to see a woman weep, and the young Cavalier had still that dreadful look of young Oliver. "Send some womanfrom the village to her, and in the morning, when she is removed, you might bury him. Take my things upstairs—wait"——He broke open the packages and, holding them near the candlelight, looked over the contents.
"Nothing I need answer to-night," he said, and glanced again at the slim figure of the young woman as she clung to her dead in her agony, the bright unbounded hair all that was left of beauty that had been so fresh and lovely.
"So is it with the ungodly," he muttered sombrely. "How suddenly do they perish, consume, and come to a fearful end! Even like a dream when one awaketh!"
So saying, he turned abruptly into the garden and walked away from the house.
All the June flowers showed silver pale against the dark lines of the hedges and the box trees clipped into the forms of dragons and peacocks—monstrous, clumsy shapes now against a sky filled with the pale purity of the moonlight. Somewhere a fountain tinkled a thin jet of water into a shallow basin; a seat, a sundial, a statue showed here and there as the pleasance led to the fishpond, where the wet leaves of water-lilies gleamed, and, past that, a bowling-green, shaded with noble limes, then to the orchards of apple trees bending above the tall grass scattered with daisies, where the grounds ended in a wooden paling which fenced a little copse full of hidden birds and flowers.
The Puritan soldier passed through the garden without noticing the sleeping loveliness or reflecting on the desolation it soon would be: his mind was solely on his work, on what he had done, on what he must do—occupied with all the doubts and terrors of the struggle between the uplifted spirit and the still passionate human nature.
Outwardly he never faltered or hesitated, but inwardly all was often black and awful: a thousand perplexities assailed his strong understanding, a thousand different emotions warred in his warm and ardent heart.
Usually his spiritual enthusiasm went hand in hand with his physical courage and capacity, with his earthly feelingsand hopes; but sometimes these jarred with each other, and then the old melancholy rolled over his soul.
When he had walked unheeding as far as the paling and was stopped there, by lack of a gate, he folded his arms on the fence and gazed ahead of him into the sweet night.
He was fatigued, yet far from the thought of sleep; the excitement of the battle and the pursuit, the thrill of victory were still with him....
And yet ... and yet ... the dead face of Sir William Pawlet and the no less terrible countenance of his wife came before the soldier's vision.... And how many thousands of these were there not now in England, how many homes deserted like this one, how many fugitives flying beyond seas, how many comely corpses being tumbled into the trenches dug among the rabbit burrows on Broad Moor? So many that the rolling hillocks would be all great graves, and for long years no man would be able to turn the earth there with a plough but he would disturb the mouldering dead.
What if he had to answer for this blood? Was not he the man who had always urged war—been the soul and inspiration of the conflict, so that the malignants turned and cursed him, even as Lady Pawlet had this very evening, believing him to be the foremost of their enemies?
"Lord God," he cried out, grasping the fence with his strong hands, "I do not fight for gain or power, for pride or hot blood, but for Thy service, as Thou knowest! What am I but a worm in Thy sight, yet Thou hast given me success through Thy lovely mercy and made me a fear unto them who defy Thee! Hast Thou not declared that Thine enemies shall be scattered like the dust, and they who dwell in the wilderness kneel before Thee? Bring us that time, O Lord, bring Thy promised peace and scatter those who delight in war! For Thou hast said, 'I will bring My people again as I did from Basan, Mine own will I bring again, as I did sometime from the deep of the sea!'"
These words, which he spoke out loudly and in a strong voice, were wafted strangely over the sleeping copse, where even the nightingale was silent now; the sound of them seemed to be blown back again and to echo in his soul strongly even after his lips were silent.
He suddenly remembered when last he had rested against a fence; it was that November day outside St. Ives, when God had come to him as he walked his humble fields in obscurity and given him promise of grace.
His whole being shook with joy at the recollection; he put his hand to the cross of his sword, and as he touched the cold metal he again felt God stoop towards him, and saw the future and the labour of the future clear and blessed.
The Parliamentarians followed up the victory at Naseby with victories at Langport, Bridgewater, Sherborne, and Bath. The King was desolate at Newark, relying on Rupert, who held Bristol, that famous city, and had promised to stand siege for four months and more, and on the Marquess of Montrose, who had roused the gallant Highlanders to fight for their ancient line of kings, who had already been triumphant in many engagements, and was now marching to meet General Leslie, Cromwell's comrade-in-arms at Marston Moor, who had crossed the Tweed to crush the Scotch royalists.
It might seem that the reckless bravery of Rupert and the reckless loyalty of Montrose were poor props with which to support a crown; but the King, unpractical in everything, dreamt that these two might save him yet, though his cause, since first he set his standard up at Nottingham, had never looked so desperate.
His private cabinet of papers which had been taken at Naseby had done him more harm than the defeat, for there were many documents, letters, and memoranda which proved to the victors the insincerity of his dealing with the Parliament, the sophistries of his arguments, the hollowness of his professions, and the unreliability of his word.
They proved also, if the Parliamentarians had cared to make the deduction, that Charles, however frivolous he might be, however unstable and changing, however much he had temporized and given way, was on some pointsadamant, and these points were his devotion to the Church of England, to his Crown and all its prerogatives, his unshaken belief in his own divine right, and the sacred justice of his cause.
Charles, indeed, had never meant to come to an honest understanding with Parliament, which he regarded as rebellious and traitorous. He might have played with it, cajoled it, lured it, deceived it; but he had never intended to do more. Promises had been forced from him, but he had always found some sophistry with which he consoled his conscience for breaking them; concessions might have been forced from him, but he always meant, at the first opportunity, to withdraw. He would, if he had had the power, have replaced the Star Chamber to-morrow and treated the Puritans as they had been treated after the Hampton Conference in his father's time.
And he scarcely made a secret of the way he intended to treat the rebels if they were ever at his mercy. They embodied all that was hateful to him, and he had Strafford, Laud, and deep personal humiliations to avenge. He might sometimes talk of toleration, but there was none in his heart: his graceful exterior concealed a fanaticism as stern, as convinced, as unyielding as any that burnt beneath the rough leather of Cromwell's Independents.
In the autumn of the year of Naseby, so disastrous to his cause, he was in the besieged city of Newark, one of the few holding out for him; he had, indeed, now only a few cities, such as Oxford, Bristol, Exeter, and Winchester, besides that in which he lay.
The Marquess of Newcastle, that faithful soldier and loyal subject, and many faithful Cavaliers and a small loyalist garrison were with him; they were not under any immediate fear of an attack, because Fairfax and Cromwell were harrying Goring and Hopton in the south, and the Parliamentary force in the north was occupied with Montrose.
The Prince of Wales had followed his mother to theHague and then to Paris; the other sons, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, remained in St. James's Palace, together with the younger children. This safety of his wife and his heir gave the King a certain comfort and ease in his mind, and the long, idle autumn days did not pass unpleasantly in the beleaguered city for one whose delight was in dreams and repose and a retired leisure.
His soul was indeed sunk in melancholy, but it was a gentle sadness; and the quiet of the moment, the sunny days in the old castle and garden did not fail to touch with peace a soul so sensitive to surroundings.
He told Lord Digby, my Lord of Bristol's son (that nobleman having fled to Paris), that if he could not live like a king he could always die like a gentleman; no one, not the most insulting, crop-eared ruffian of them all, could take that privilege from him. So, too, he wrote to the Queen in reply to her letters, which always advised uncompromising courses and exhorted him not to give way on any single point in reality, though she said it might be well to yield in appearance.
Charles needed no such advice; he was calmly and patiently resolved to go to ruin on the question of episcopacy and his divine right rather than yield a tittle, and this was not any the less true that few believed it of him. Almost the entire country, including the Parliamentary leaders, thought that now the King was cornered he would make terms: their only concern was to find guarantees to make him keep these terms when made.
To some, in whom he put perfect trust, the King revealed his mind. Thus he had written to Rupert at Bristol: "Speaking as a mere soldier or statesman, I must say that there is no probability but of my ruin.
"But, speaking as a Christian, I must tell you that God will not suffer rebels and traitors to prosper or this cause to be overthrown. And whatever personal punishment it shall please Him to inflict on me must not make me repine, much less give over this quarrel.
"Indeed, I cannot flatter myself with expectations of good success more than this, to end my days with honour and a good conscience, which obliges me to continue my endeavours, as not despairing that God may in due time avenge His own cause.
"Though I must avow to all my friends—that he who will stay with me at this time must expect and resolve either to die for a good cause or (which is worse) to live as miserable in maintaining it as the violence of insulting rebels can make it."
As for the King's future plans, they were vague, uncertain, and waited on events. Every General in arms for him—Rupert, Goring, Hapton, Montrose—fought on their own, with no other guidance than what their talents and circumstances might give them, and Charles might either join the one of them who was most successful or return to Oxford, which had been for nearly three years his headquarters. He was not without hopes that the energies of the Queen might land another army in England, either Frenchmen supplied by her brother or Dutchmen sent by his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange.
He had some encouragement, too, to believe that the Scots, who disliked Independency almost as much as Prelacy, might yet be detached from their alliance with the Parliament. It was known that they did not love Cromwell nor he them, and the more that he gained in importance the more their ardour for the cause he represented cooled. It was said that they had even viewed the defeat of the malignants at Naseby with a cold and dubious eye, as they considered the discomfiture of the royalists quite balanced by the triumph of the Sectarists, Schismists, and Anabaptists who composed Cromwell's Ironsides.
Charles, therefore, nourished some fantastic hope that by deluding the Scots into thinking he would take the Covenant that was their shibboleth, he might altogether detach them from his enemies. It was a subtle anddifficult piece of policy, and could only be accomplished by those intrigues which had so often damaged the King before; but Charles dallied with the idea, while he waited for the news of a victory from Montrose which would put Scotland in a more submissive attitude.
The middle of September came, and there was no message from the Marquess. Charles soothed himself with memories of the Graeme's victories at Aberdeen, Perth, Inverlochy, and Kilsyth, and whiled away the time with reading, meditation, and the elegant companionship of the cultured and poetical Newcastle and the fantastical and brilliant Digby.
These two were with the King in the garden of the house, or castle, where he lodged in the afternoon of one lovely day when the sun sent a bloom of gold over the majestic scenery and glittered in the stately windings of the Trent.
The talk fell on the Marquess of Winchester, who had so long held Basing against the Parliament that the Cavaliers had come to call it Loyalty House and the Puritans to curse it as a cesspool of Satan or outpost of hell.
"I would that my noble lord was here," said Charles, with feeling.
"He doth better service to Your Majesty," returned Lord George Digby, "in defying the rebels from Basing House."
"But how long can he defy them?" asked the King. "Can a mere mansion withstand the onslaughts of an army? Nay," he added, in a melancholy tone, stooping to pat the white boarhound which walked beside him, "my Lord Winchester will be ruined like all my friends, and Loyalty House will be but burnt walls blackened beneath the skies, even as so many others which have been besieged and beleaguered by the rebels."
"Speak words of good omen, sir," said Newcastle, who had himself staked (and lost, it seemed) the whole of a princely fortune on the royal cause. "Methought that to-day you did have a more cheerful spirit and a more uplifted heart."
"Alas!" replied Charles. "I hope on this, on that, I trust in God, I believe that my own fate is in my own hands, and that I can make it dignified or mean as I will; but when I consider those who are ruined for me, then, I do confess, I have no strength but to weep and no desire but to mourn."
"Sir," said the Marquess, much moved, "Your Majesty's misfortunes but endear you the more to us; and as for any inconveniences or losses we may have suffered, what are they compared to the joy of being of even a little service to your sacred cause? Sir, the rebels may wax strong and successful, but believe me there are still thousands of gentlemen in England who would gladly lay down their lives for you."
"I do believe it, Newcastle," answered the King affectionately, "and therefore I am sad that I must see those suffer whom I would protect and reward."
They had now, in their leisurely walking, reached a portion of the garden laid out on some of the old disused fortifications of the castle, and looking towards the town.
The ancient earthworks and moat had been planted with grass and trees, and sloped to a shady park full of deer which stretched to the walls of the city.
The castle being upon gently rising ground, Charles and his companions, on leaving that part of the garden which was walled in, came upon a scene that was perfect in English fairness.
It had been a wet summer, and grass and trees were not yet dried or faded; an exquisite sweep of verdure filled the moat, and beyond the emerald lawns of the deer park rested, half in the shadow of majestic elms and oaks and half in the soft light of the sun striking open glades. Beyond was the strongly fortified town; towers, gables, roofs, and spires, interspersed with trees, shimmered in the ineffable glow of autumn, and between them rolled the golden length of the Trent.
The castle, which stood as an outpost to the town, was grimly fortified at the base, and the walls of Newark held cannon and soldiery; but none of this was visible to the three on the old ramparts. The scene was one of perfect peace, of that peculiar rich and tender beauty which seems only possible to England, and which not even civil war had here been able to destroy.
The King seated himself on a bench which stood against one of the buttresses of the castle, the white dog gravely placed himself at his feet, while the two Cavaliers remained standing. The three figures, aristocratic, finely dressed, at once graceful and careless, well fitted the scene.
The King, though worn and haggard, was still a person eminently pleasing to the eye; the Marquess, a little past the meridian of life, was yet notable for his splendid presence; and Lord Digby, at once a philosopher and a courtier, set out a handsome appearance with rich clothes, both gorgeous and tasteful.
Charles, after being sunk for some minutes in contemplation of the prospect below him, turned to Newcastle with a smile both tender and whimsical.
"The Queen writes me, my lord," he said, "that there is a certain gentlewoman with her in Paris who often discourseth of your excellencies. Have you any knowledge of whom this lady can be?"
The Marquess flushed at this unexpected allusion, and his right hand played nervously at his embroidered sword band.
"I only know one lady in Her Majesty's service," he smiled, "and she is scarce like to flatter me or any man, being most cold, most shy. Sir, it is Margaret Lucas, and I met her when she was attending the Queen at Oxford."
"It is Margaret Lucas that I speak of," replied Charles. "Dear Marquess, I think her a very noble lady. Will you not write to her in Paris and console her exile?"
The Marquess answered with a firm sadness—
"If Mrs. Lucas would accept of me I would take her formy wife. But these are not the times to think of such toys as courtships."
"Ah, my lord," said Charles earnestly, "a true and loyal love shall console thee in any times. What adversity is there a faithful woman cannot soften? Whatever be before thee, take, whilst thou may, this gentlewoman's love—thy sacrifices would not so vex my soul if I could see thee with a gentle wife."
He sighed as he finished, his thoughts perhaps turning to the one deep passion of his own life—the Queen—now so far away and so divided from him by dangers and difficulties. When would he again behold her in her rich chamber singing at her spinet, with roses at her bosom and her dark eyes flashing with love and joy? When again would he behold her among her court at Whitehall, honoured and obeyed? When again take her hand and look into her dear, dear face?... Were these days indeed over for ever, to be numbered now with dead things?...
He rose with a sharp exclamation under his breath: these reflections were indeed intolerable.
"Ah," he said impatiently, "this dearth of news is bitter to the spirit. I sometimes think it would be well to gather my faithful remnant round me and make a sortie into Scotland to join my Lord Montrose."
This was quite to the taste of the two noblemen, who were also tired of Newark, and Lord Digby, for whom no scheme was too fantastic, began to discourse on the advantages of the King's sudden appearance in the Highlands.
But the mood of Charles quickly changed; his resignation and melancholy returned.
"Nay," he said, "I must better the Scots by wits, not force. What would it avail to fall into the hands of the cunning Argyll and his Covenanters, and give the squinting Campbell the pleasure of making us prisoner?"
The Cavaliers were silent, and the three began to slowly continue their walk round the old ramparts.
"Methinks this might be the garden of the Hesperides," said Newcastle presently. "See how bright the gilded light falleth, how gently move the dappled deer, and how softly all the little leaves quiver. And all the young clouds that come abroad are soft as a lady's veil."
"It were good to die in such a place, at such an hour, if God gave us any choice," said Charles. "For one could think, in such a moment, that it was well to leave all sordid things and let the soul leap into the sunset sky as gladly as the body leapeth in cool water on a dusty day. But we must live and endure bloody times—and may the angels give us constancy!"
As he spoke he idly turned and saw, coming towards him, one of the gentlemen of his bedchamber.
He stood still.
"This is some news," he said. "Go forward, my lord,"—touching Lord Digby on the arm—"and ask."
He had become notably pale, and he looked down at the roses on his shoes and put his hand to his side as the two gentlemen came up to him.
Momentous news had arrived at last: one of Rupert's troopers had brought a dispatch from that Prince, and within a few minutes of him had come a Captain of some Irish who had been with Montrose.
He brought no dispatch; he had made his way with danger, difficulty, and great delay from Scotland. His news was put in a few words, but they were words which Lord Digby could scarcely stammer to the pale King.
"There is news come, sir—that David Leslie——"
"A battle," asked Charles, swiftly looking up. "There hath been a battle?"
"Alas! Your Majesty must speak with this Captain of Irish yourself," said the gentleman, in dismay. "He saith Leslie fell on the noble Marquess near Selkirk, and did utterly defeat and overwhelm him; it was at Philiphaugh, sir—and all the Scottish clans were broken and the Marquess is fled."
Newcastle gave an exclamation of bitter grief and rage. Charles stood silent a full minute, then said in a low voice—
"The Marquess is not taken?"
"Not that this Captain knoweth——"
"Then we have some mercy," said the King, with a proud tenderness infinitely winning. "My dear lord, what bitterness is thine to-day! Alas! Alas!"
Digby, with tears in his eyes, took the dispatch and gave it to the King, hoping that it might contain news that would soften the bitterness of Montrose's overthrow.
But for a while the King, struggling with his stinging disappointment and mortification, could not read, and when he did break the seals it was with a distracted air.
The very heading of the paper brought the hot blood to his pallid cheeks: it was not "Bristol," but "Oxford."
The Prince wrote laconically to say he had surrendered Bristol to Fairfax and Cromwell, and had gone under parliamentary convoy to Oxford.
When the King had read the letter he stared round upon his gentlemen.
"Is this my sister's son," he cried, with quivering lips, "or a hireling Captain? Was this my own blood did this thing? Rupert whom I trusted?"
None of them dare speak. Charles was so white that they feared that he would fall in a fit or swoon.
"My city, my loyal city!" he muttered; then he cast the Prince's letter on to the grass, as if it soiled his fingers, and turned slowly away. He had the look of a broken man.
Soon after Bristol surrendered, Winchester, that other loyal city, fell. Leicester, so lately taken from the Parliament, was by them recaptured soon after Naseby. Nearly twenty fortified houses had been taken this year. Goring's troopers were dispersed. Rupert and his brother had, in spite of all denials, followed the King to Newark: Rupert in high disgrace, deprived of his commissions, and ordered abroad, yet staying and endeavouring to justify himself to his outraged kinsman, succeeding somewhat, yet still in the unhappy King's deep displeasure, and hardly any longer to be considered as His Majesty's Commander of Horse, whether or no he held a commission, since His Majesty had no longer an army for any one to general.
In Scotland Montrose had fled to the Orkneys. Argyll and the Conventiclers were triumphant and biding their chance to make a bargain either with King or Independents, according as circumstances might shape themselves, or as either party might be ready to take the Covenant.
What, indeed, could the King hope for now but for some division among his enemies, or that the shadowy army of Dutch, Lorrainers, or Frenchmen should at last materialize and descend upon the coasts of Britain.
Ireland, in a welter of bloody confusion, was a broken reed to lean on. Ormonde, working loyally there, had too many odds against him, and was no more to be relied on than Montrose, who had paid a bitter price for his loyalty and his gallant daring.
It was in the October of this year which had meant such bitter ruin to the King's party that the Lieutenant-General of the parliamentary army, returning from the capture of Winchester, set his face towards Hampshire, where, at Basingstoke, stood Basing House, the mansion of the King's friend, the Marquess of Winchester, which had stood siege for four years, and was a standing defiance and menace to the Parliamentarians and a great hindrance to the trade of London with the West, for the Cavaliers would make sorties on all who came or went and capture all provisions which were taken past.
Cromwell had at first intended to storm Dennington Castle at Newbury, another fortified residence which had long annoyed the Puritans; but Fairfax decided otherwise, believing that nothing could so hearten and encourage the Parliament as the capture of that redoubtable stronghold, Basing House.
Accordingly, Cromwell, gathering together all the available artillery, turned in good earnest towards Basing, from whence so many had fallen back discomfited.
"But now the Lord is with us," said General Cromwell. "We have smitten the Amalekite at Bristol and Winchester, and shall he continue to defy us at Basing? Rather shall they and theirs be offered up as a sweet-smelling sacrifice to the Lord."
It was in the middle of the night of 13th October that the Parliamentarians surrounded Basing House.
Then, while the batteries were being placed and Dalbier, the Dutchman from whom Cromwell had first learnt the rudiments of the art of war, Colonel Pickering, Sir Hardress Waller, and Colonel Montague were taking up their positions, the Lieutenant-General, who had already been in prayer for much of the night, gave out to his brigade that he rested on the 115th Psalm, considering that those they were about to fight were of the Old Serpent brood, to be fallen upon and slain even as Cosbi and Timri were slain by Phineas—to be put to the sword even as Samuel put Agag to the sword.
Colonel Pickering chose for his text, "I will arise against the house of Jeroboam with the sword," and on that propounded a discourse to his troopers as they were getting the sakers and culverins into position; but Cromwell put his faith in the aforesaid psalm.
"Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy name give glory, for Thy mercy and Thy truth's sake.
"Wherefore should the heathen say, Where is now their God? Our God is in the heavens; He hath done whatsoever He hath pleased.
"Their idols are silver and gold, the work of men's hands....They that make them are like unto them; so is every one that trusteth in them."
With these words in his mind, Lieutenant-General Cromwell gave the order, near towards six of the autumn morning, for the attack.
All night the great lordly House, which had so long stood unscathed, had been silent among its courts, lights showing at the windows and above the Stewart standard floating lazily in the night breeze. There were two buildings—the Old House, which had stood, the seat of the Romanist Pawlets, for three hundred years, a fine and splendid mansion, turreted and towered after the manner of the Middle Ages, and before that the New House, built by later descendants of this magnificent family in the modern style of princely show and comfort, both surrounded by fortifications and works, a mile in circumference, and well armed with pieces of cannon.
As the sun strengthened above the autumn landscape, the steel of morion and breastplate could be discerned on the ramparts and the colour of an officer's cloak as he went from post to post giving orders: these were the only signs that the besieged were aware of the great number and near approach of the Parliamentarians.
Soon after six, the dawnlight now being steady, and the attacking parties being set in order—Dalbier near the Grange, next him Sir Hardress Waller and Montague; andon his left Colonel Pickering—the agreed-upon signal, the firing of four of the cannon, being given, the Lieutenant-General and his regiments stormed Basing House.
A quick fire was instantly returned, and the steel morions and coloured cloaks might be seen hastening hither and thither upon the walls and works, and a certain shout of defiance arose from them (it was known that they made a boast of having so often foiled the rebels as they termed them, and that they believed this bit of ground would defy them even when great cities fell), which the Puritans replied to not at all, but directed a full and incessant fire, as much as two hundred shots at a time at a given point in the wall, which, unable to withstand so fierce an attack, fell in, and allowed Sir Hardress Waller to lead his men through the breach and right on the great culverins of the Cavaliers, which were set about their court guard. They, however, with extraordinary courage and resolution, beat back the invader and recovered their cannon; but, Colonel Montague coming up, they were overpowered again by sheer numbers, and the Puritans flowed across the works to the New House, bringing with them their scaling ladders. There was another bitter and desperate struggle, the Cavaliers sallying out and only yielding the blood-stained ground inch by inch as they were driven back by the point of the pike on the nozzle of the musket.
Dalbier and Cromwell in person had now stormed at another point; the air was horrid with fire-balls, the whiz of bullets, the rank smoke of the cannon, the shrieks and cries that began to issue from the New House at the very walls of which the fight was now expending its force, like waves of the sea dashed against a great rock.
Not once, nor twice, but again and again did the stout-hearted defenders, in all their pomp of velvet and silk, plume and steel, repulse their foes; again and again the colours of my Lord Marquess, bearing his own motto, "Aymer loyaulte," and a Latin one taken from King Charles' coronation money, "Donec paxredeat terris," surged forth into the thickest of the combat, were borne back, and then struggled forward, tattered and stained with smoke.
But the hour of Loyalty House had come; the proud and dauntless Cavalier, whose loyalty had endured foul as well as fair weather, had now come to the end of his resistance to his master's enemies.
Nothing human could long withstand the rush forward of the Ironsides.
Colonel Pickering passed through the New House and got to the very gate of the Old House.
Seeing his defences so utterly broken down and his first rampart and mansion gone, the desperate Marquess was wishful to summon a parley, and sent an officer to wave a white cravat from one of the turrets with that purpose.
But the Puritans would listen to no parley.
"No dealings with this nest of Popery!" cried Colonel Pickering, whose zeal was further inflamed by the sight of a popish priest who was admonishing and encouraging the besieged.
After this the Cavaliers fell to it again with the sword, keeping up an incredible resistance, and all the works and the courtyards, the fair gardens, walks, orchards, and enclosed lands, the pleasances and alleys laid out by my lord with great taste after the French model were one bloody waste of destruction; sword smiting sword, gun replying to gun, men pressing forward, being borne back, calling on their God, sinking to their death, trampled under foot; the air all murky with smoke, the lovely garden torn up and in part burning from fire-balls, the wall of the noble House pierced by cannon-shot, the shrieks of women and the curses of men uprising, the colours of my lord ever bravely aloft until he who held them sank down in the press with a sigh, while his life ran out from many wounds, and the banner of loyalty was snatched by a trooper of Pickering's and flaunted in triumph above the advancing Parliamentarians.
At this sight a deep moan burst from the House and dolorous cries issued from every window, as if the great mansion was alive and lamented its fate pressing so near.
Lieutenant-General Cromwell was now at the very gates of the inner house, and these were, without much ado, burst open. The Cavaliers, pressed upon by multitudes and broken at the sword's point, fell back, mostly dying men, in the great hall; and on the great staircase were some, notably my Lord Marquess himself, who still made a hot resistance, as men who had nothing but death before them and meant to spend the little while left them in action.
From the upper floors might be heard the running to and fro of women and servants, the calling of directions, and the gasping of prayers, while from without the cannon still rattled and smoke and fire belched through the broken walls.
At last, my lord being driven up into his own chambers, and those about him slain, Major Harrison sprang to the first landing and called upon all to surrender; upon which eight or nine gentlewomen, wives of the officers, came running forth together and were made prisoners.
Major Harrison pushed into the nearest chamber, which was most magnificently hung with tapestries and furnished in oak and Spanish leather—a great spacious room with candlesticks of gold and lamps of crystal, brocaded cushions, and Eastern carpets—and there stood three people, one Major Cuffe, a notable Papist, one Robinson, a player of my lord's, and a gentlewoman, the daughter of Doctor Griffiths, who was in attendance on the garrison.
These three stood together warily, watching the door, and when the godly Harrison and his troopers burst in they drew a little together, the soldier before the others. Harrison called on him curtly to surrender, and named him popish dog, at which the Cavalier came at him with a tucksword that was broken in the blade, and with this poor weapon defended those who were weaponless.
But Harrison gave him sundry sore cuts that disarmed him, and, his blood running out on the waxed floor, he slipped in it and so fell, and was slain by Harrison's own sword through the point of his cuirass at the armpit.
Thereupon they called on the play-actor and the lady to surrender. She made no reply at all, but stared at the haggled corpse of Major Cuffe, twisting her hands in her flowered laycock apron.
And the player put a chair in front of him and turned a mocking eye upon the Puritans.
"I have had my jest of you many a time," he said, "and if I had lived I had jested still—but I choose rather to die with those who maintained me——"
Here Harrison interrupted.
"This is no gentleman, but a lewd fellow of Drury Lane."
He was dragged from behind the chair.
"I have been in many a comedy," he cried, "but now I play my own tragedy!"
Him they dispatched with a double-edged sword, and cast him down; he fell without a groan, yet strangely murmured, "Amen."
Major Harrison, with his bloody weapon in his hand, swept across the chamber through the farther entrance into the next, and his soldiers after him.