On a summer afternoon in the year 1647, an officer, with a small escort of arquebusiers, rode from Putney to Hampton village, and turning briskly towards the palace, passed unchallenged, and saluted by the sentries, through the great iron gates, over the moat, and stopped at the principal entrance.

The captain of the guard-house came out.

"'Tis Lieutenant-General Cromwell!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, Colonel Parsons," returned the other pleasantly. "I do recall that thou went here——"

"Things have changed since we besieged Oxford, sir," said Parsons.

"Ay, and gotten themselves into a fine confusion," replied Cromwell; "but I will see the King. Tell His Majesty who waits."

"Nay, sir, step in," said Parsons; "the days are gone by when men had to wait for an audience of His Majesty."

"Yet I trust to it that he is entertained with civility?" said the Lieutenant-General. "Were it otherwise it would look very ill."

Without waiting for a reply to this, which was intended more as a rebuke to Parsons' tone of speech than as question, for Cromwell knew very well how the King was treated and lodged, the Lieutenant-General passed up the stairs and along the galleries towards the royal apartments, preceded by one of the palace attendants.

Parsons looked after him with mingled admiration and envy.

"There goes the darling of the army and the terror of the Parliament," he said to another officer who had joined him. "They no more know what to do with Noll Cromwell than they know what to do with Charles Stewart."

He voiced the common view of the situation of the Parliament men; the which had indeed found themselves in greater difficulties during the peace than they had done during the war, though they had succeeded in getting the Scots out of the kingdom and the King into their own hands.

After wearisome and confused negotiations between the King, the Scots, and the Presbyterians had come to nothing through Charles' haughty refusal to forsake the Church of England and take the solemn Covenant, the Parliament had paid the Scots 20,000, as an instalment of the pay due to them, and on this the Northerners had marched away across the Borders to the endless disputes among themselves, headed by Argyll, the Covenanter, and Hamilton, the royalist, who were now one up, now one down, like boys on a see-saw.

The King had been delivered to the Parliamentary Commissioners and lodged with great respect at Holmby.

And then the Parliament was confronted with other problems: On one hand the clamours of the people for a good understanding with His Majesty, and on the other side the claims of the army, which refused to be disbanded without the arrears of pay owing, which arrears were not forthcoming except in so small a proportion as to be indignantly refused by the soldiers.

Some of the right was on the side of the army and all the might. Neither Parliament nor nation could do anything with them, especially as all the force and fervour of the new Puritan religion which had defeated the King was to be found in the ranks of the soldiers, for nearly all the Parliament men were Presbyterians, and nearly all the army belonged to one or other of the enthusiastic sects commonly named 'Independents'; and oft either side of this cleavage of religious belief was nearly as much bitterness as had animated Puritan and Papist against each other.

Denzil Holles had resolved to stay in England, and was busy leading a party in Parliament against the chiefs of the army, principally against the Lieutenant-General, who was looked upon as the great man of his side, nay, by some, as the great man of the nation.

He, on his part, maintained a singular quiet, nor put himself forward in any way. He had moved his family from Ely to London, and there resided quietly or moved about from place to place as his duties called, contradicting no man and interfering with none; yet somehow his figure was always in the background of men's thoughts, and all either feared him, or looked to him hopefully as their case might be, as if from him must come, sooner or later, the healing of the schisms, the twisting together of the intricate strands of faction, the smoothing out of the tangled confusions that now maddened and bewildered men.

There were able, honest leaders in every sect and faction, there were clever, high-minded politicians like Sir Harry Vane, there were energetic and successful soldiers like Sir Thomas Fairfax, and there were men like Ireton who combined the qualities of both—all of whom were respected and followed by their several parties. But none stood out so vividly in the eyes of both friend and foe as did the figure of Oliver Cromwell, whose cavalry charges had turned the tide of battle at Marston Moor and Naseby, who was the idol of that army which seemed now to hold the balance of power, and whose utterances in Parliament had shown him to be as decisive, as wary, as brilliant in attack, as quick in resource, as commanding a personality in politics as he was on the battlefield.

Yet there was perhaps no one, among all the men whom the times had made prominent, who kept so in the background of events during the last turmoils, confusions, and intricacies of the negotiations and consultations between the King, the Scots, the Parliament, the Army, the Presbyterians, and the Independents.

Since the conclusion of the Civil War, the King had been, and continued to be, the great element of discord and difficulty. No one could resign themselves to do without him, and no one knew what to do with him; the Scots had given him up in despair, and the parliamentary Commissioners found him equally impossible to deal with. A general deadlock had been solved, Gordian knot fashion, by the army; Cornet Joyce and six hundred men, acting under what orders no one knew, but acting certainly according to the general wish, had carried off the King (very much to his will and liking), from Holmby, to the great dismay of the parliamentary Presbyterians, and lodged him at Hinchinbrook, from whence he moved about with the army, treated in kingly style. He was finally taken to Hampton Court, the army headquarters being now at Putney, in such ominous nearness to London that the great city itself was believed to tremble, and at Westminster there was open turmoil.

Lieutenant-General Cromwell, who, with the other officers, had been ordered to his regiments when news came of Cornet Joyce's amazing action, but who had already gone (not without some haste, his enemies said, for fear of an arrest from the incensed Parliament, for it was credited that his was the authority under which Joyce had acted), had remained at Putney for some weeks before this visit of his to Hampton Court.

He was, with little delay, admitted to the King's antechamber, where Lord Digby received him, and soon into the King's presence. The apartment was one of the beautiful chambers built and decorated by Henry VIII; old oak, carved in a deep linen pattern and worn to a colour that was almost dark silver, formed the walls, and round the deep blue painted ceiling ran a design of "A. H." and the Tudor roses, quartered thus to please the first English Queen who died a public and shameful death.

An oriel window, brilliant with painted blazonry, was set open on to the gardens which sloped to the willow trees and the river, and in the red-cushioned window-seat the King's white dog slept.

The furniture was very handsome stately oak and stamped Spanish leather; above the low mantelshelf hung a picture by Antonio Mor, a portrait of the sad-faced Mary Tudor, in white cambric and black velvet, gold chain, and breviary.

Charles was seated at a coral-red lacquer cabinet or desk powdered with gold figures—a princely piece of furniture, rich and costly. Cromwell, seeing him, paused in the doorway and took off his broad-leaved hat.

The two exchanged a quick and steady look. Cromwell had last seen the King at Childerly House, only a few weeks before, when he and General Fairfax had ridden down to Huntingdon to meet His Majesty; but the interview had been brief, by torchlight, and the Lieutenant-General had taken little part in it. The King, too, had been largely obscured by a horseman's hat and cloak, so that the last clear remembrance Cromwell had of the King remained that of the famous day when Charles had come to Westminster to seize the five members.

That scene and the central figure of it remained very vividly in Cromwell's mind, even across all the stormy years which lay between then and now. He recalled the unutterable haughtiness, the poise, the splendour, the rich attire of the King then; he would not have known the man before him for the same.

Charles wore a brown cloth suit passemented with silver, grey hose, and shoes with dark red roses on them; his whole attire was careless, even neglected, and he had no jewellery, order, or any kind of adornment, save a deep falling collar of Flemish thread lace.

But the change in his attire was not so remarkable as the change in his appearance; his hair, which still fell in love-locks on to his shoulders, was utterly grey, and his face had a grey look too, so entirely devoid was it of any brightness of colour, his features were swollen and suffused, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and unutterably weary.

It gave Oliver Cromwell a sudden start to see the King, whose mere name was such a tower of strength, who had vaunted himself so proudly, and been so tenacious of his royal rights, reduced to this semblance of beaten humanity who bore on his face the marks of how he had suffered in body and soul. Cromwell himself had changed too; he was a year older than Charles, but, in his untouched vigour and ardent air of strength and enthusiasm, looked many years younger; his buff and soldierly appointments were richer than formerly, and he carried himself with an air of greater authority and decision.

Charles set down the quill with which he was writing, and pointed to a chair with arms near the window.

"What can Lieutenant-General Cromwell," he said, with a most delicate, most scornful, emphasis on the title, "want with me?"

Cromwell gazed at him with unabashed grey eyes. It might be acutely in the King's mind that it was strange for a country gentleman to be thus facing a King of England, but no such thought disturbed the Puritan.

"Sir," he returned, "the nation is in a crisis that must end soon—the army and the Parliament are in disagreements. We are the victims of unsearchable judgments."

"Yes," agreed Charles, who was not sorry to hear it, and who hoped, in the troubled waters of these divisions, to fish for his own benefit; he was already like a wedge between Parliament and army, splitting them further apart.

"I am here," continued Cromwell, "as representing the army."

"Sent by a deputation?" asked the King keenly. His greatest hope was in the army.

"Sent by no deputation," returned the other firmly. "Inspired only by the Lord, yet what I offer I could engage the fulfilment of."

There was a quiet assumption of power in these words that was wormwood to the King, but he controlled himself.

"You have come to propose terms," he said. "I have been listening to terms for long weary months. What are yours?"

"Nay, I make no terms with Your Majesty," said Cromwell. "I only wish you to be sincere with your people."

It was what John Pym had said at the very beginning—before the war, Charles remembered; he remembered, too, that he had offered Pym a price and Pym had refused. "You did not bid high enough," the Queen said afterwards. Charles, ever untaught by experience, proceeded to repeat with Cromwell the tactics he had used with Pym. What, after all, could this man have come for, save to drive a bargain? And he was worth bargaining with, as Pym had been—powerful rebels both!

The King's eyes shot hate at the quiet figure before him, but he answered smoothly—

"Sincere! You and I speak a different language, sir, but I will try to understand you. You mean that the army will do something for me? That you might influence them on my behalf?"

Cromwell rose and moved to the oriel window; an expression of agitation swept into his face.

"Sir," he said, with deep earnestness, "Your Majesty is the only remedy for these present divisions—until a good peace be established, and you be again at Whitehall, the nation is but like a parcel of twigs which, unbound, cannot stand. Sir, I know there are extreme men who think otherwise, but they are of the sort who are always there, and must be never heeded."

A wave of exultation made the blood bound in the King's veins: he was then indispensable to the nation. His swift, secret thought was that he might regain his throne on his own terms, without yielding a jot of his prerogatives, since his arch-enemy admitted what he had admitted.

"The army desires to see Your Majesty in your rightful place," continued Cromwell, "and would and could bring you to London despite the Parliament."

"Well?" asked Charles.

"We must have," said Cromwell, with a certain heaviness, "the things for which we have fought, for which we have poured out our blood."

A bitterly sarcastic smile curved the King's thin lips. Cromwell was coming to his price, he thought; he wondered what he would ask, and what might be promised with safety.

"We must have toleration for God's people," said the Puritan.

The King interrupted.

"I will not take the Covenant. I have already refused an army because of that condition."

"You are now, sir," returned Cromwell bluntly, "dealing with Englishmen, not Scots. We set no such store by the Covenant. I said, sir, toleration."

"A word," remarked Charles, "beloved of fanatics."

"A word," said Cromwell, unmoved, "dear to honest men. We would have all deal with God according to their conscience."

The King did not think it worth while to probe into the reservation this tolerance made in disfavour of Prelacy and Papacy, the two faiths he believed in. The whole gamut of theological questions had been run through and argued upon during the conferences at Newcastle, and had left Charles as firm an adherent as before of the Anglican Church. The whole subject of the Puritan faith, associated as it was with vexation, disloyalty, and rebellion, was too distasteful a one for him to enter on; he reserved his wit and strength for the more practical issues.

"Will you tell me briefly, sir, the main purpose of this visit?"

"I wished," said Cromwell, "to sound Your Majesty. The army would not waste its labours—and Your Majesty hath been slippery," he added calmly.

The outraged blood stormed the King's cheeks; but the several instances of his duplicity were too well known and too well attested to be for an instant denied.

"I am a prisoner," he said haughtily, "and therefore forbidden resentment."

With trembling fingers he drew nearer to him a bowl of yellow roses that stood on his desk and nervously pulled at the leaves.

Cromwell did not look at him, but at the peaceful and lovely view of garden and river beyond the oriel window.

"The army," he pursued quietly, giving weight to every word, "would have no trafficking with foreign powers, no bringing of foreign forces, no stirrings and meddlings in Ireland or Scotland, no vengeance taken on any of their number, a free Parliament, and free churches. To a king who could agree to these things—sware to them—on the word of a king, and on that pledge keep them—there would be small difficulty in his coming again to his ancient place and power. Remember these things, Your Majesty; consider and ponder them. I shall come again to consult with you. 'Put thou thy trust in the Lord, and be doing good: dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed—delight thou in the Lord, and He shall give thee thy heart's desire.' Cast thyself on these words, sir, that God hath moved me to say to thee."

He spoke with such earnestness, dignity, such extraordinary conviction that the King's sneer died on his lips, and though his sensation of respect was instantly gone, still it had been there.

"Above all," added Cromwell, "I pray Your Majesty be sincere. If you mislike what I have said, what I have asked of you—bid me not to come again."

The King took this to mean, "Will you deal with me or no?" and he answered without hesitation, for he was well aware of Cromwell's power and prestige.

"Come again and let us talk of these things at leisure. I commonly walk in the galleries in the afternoon. Let me some day have your company."

He rose; a smile softened his haggard face into something of its ancient grace.

"Do not disappoint me of your second coming," he said.

He held out his hand. Cromwell, without hesitation or confusion, kissed it and left.

While his steps were yet sounding without, Charles rang a bell on his desk that instantly summoned Lord Digby from the adjoining apartment.

"Open the window wider!" cried the King, with a shudder. "The air is tainted...."