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 a man 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 demand of 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.

"Thou dost satisfy 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:—

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—

Having thus done justice to his General, the Puritan endeavoured 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—

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 was approaching 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 had other 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."