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; and on 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 pax redeat 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 tuck sword 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.

Mrs. Griffiths now woke from her stupor of dismay and rushed from one body to another as they lay yet warm at her feet.

And when she found that they who had lately been speaking to her were hideously dead, and her hands all blooded with the touching of them, she turned and cursed the soldiery in her agony.

"Silence! thou railing woman!" one of them cried.

She seized one of the empty pistols from the window-seat and struck at the man.

"God's Mother avenge us!" she shrieked.

The fellow, still in the heat of slaughter, hurled her down.

"Spawn of the scarlet woman!" he exclaimed.

She got up to her knees, her head-dress fallen and her face deformed.

"Thrice damned heretic!" she said. "Thou shalt be thrust into the deepest pit——"

"Stop her mouth!" cried another, coming up; he gave her an ugly name, and hit her with his arquebus.

She fell down again, but continued her reproaches and railing, till they made an end, one firing a pistol at her at close range, the ball thereof mercifully killing her, so that she lay prone with her two companions.

After this the soldiers joined Major Harrison, whom they found with Lieutenant-General Cromwell at the end of this noble suite of apartments, having there at last brought to bay the indomitable lord of this famous and wealthy mansion, the puissant prince, John Pawlet, Marquess of Winchester.

The place where this gentleman faced his enemies was the chapel of his faith, pompous and glorious with every circumstance of art and wealth.

Windows of jewel-like glass transmitted the October sunshine in floods of softly coloured light; the walls were of Italian marble, curiously inlaid; on the altar blazed, in full pride, an image of the Virgin, the height of a man and crowned with gems; a silk carpet covered the altar steps, and cushions of velvet were scattered over the mosaic floor.

In front of the altar lay a dead priest; the violet glow from the east window stained his old shrunken features, and beside him on the topmost step stood the Marquess; above the altar and the Virgin hung a beautiful picture brought from Italy at great expense by my lord, and showing a saint singing between some others—all most richly done; and this and the statue was the background for my lord.

He had his sword in his hand—a French rapier—water-waved in gold—and he wore a buff coat embroidered in silk and silver, and Spanish breeches with a fringe, and soft boots, but no manner of armour. He was bareheaded; his hair, carefully trained into curls after the manner of the Court, framed a face white as a wall; one lock fell, in the fashion so abhorred by the Puritans, longer than the rest over his breast, and was tied with a small gold ribbon.

"Truly," said Major Harrison exultingly, "the Lord of Israel hath given strength and power to His people! 'As for the transgressors, they shall perish together; and the end of the ungodly is, they shall be rooted out at the last!'"

Then Lieutenant Cromwell demanded my lord's sword.

"The King did give me this blade, and to him alone will I return it," replied the Marquess.

"Proud man!" cried Cromwell. "Dost thou still vaunt thyself when God hath delivered thee, by His great mercy, into our hands?"

He turned to the soldiers.

"Take this malignant prisoner and cast down these idolatrous shows and images—for what told I ye this morning? 'They that make them are like unto them, so is every one who trusteth in them'—the which saying is now accomplished."

When the Marquess saw the soldiers advancing upon him, he broke his light, small sword across his knee and cast it down beside the dead priest.

"Though my faith and my sword lie low," he said, "yet in a better day they will arise."

"Cherish not vain hopes, Papist," cried Harrison, "but recant thine errors that have led thee to this disaster."

At this, Mr. Hugh Peters, the teacher, who had newly entered the chapel, spoke.

"Dost thou still so flourish? When the Lord hath been pleased in a few hours to show thee what mortal seed earthly glory groweth upon?—and how He, taking sinners in their own snares, lifteth up the heads of His despised people?"

The Marquess turned his back on Mr. Peters, and when the soldiers took hold of him and led him before the Lieutenant-General, he came unresisting, but in a silence more bitter than speech.

Cromwell spoke to him with a courtesy which seemed gentleness compared to the harshness of the others.

"My lord," he said, "for your obstinate adherence to a mistaken cause I must send you to London, a prisoner to the Parliament. God soften your heart and teach you the great peril your soul doth stand in."

Lord Winchester smiled at him in utter disdain, and turned his head away, still silent.

Now Colonel Pickering came in and told Cromwell that above three hundred prisoners had been taken, and that Basing was wholly theirs, including the Grange or farm where they had found sufficient provisions to last for a year or more and great store of ammunition and guns.

"The Lord grant," said the Lieutenant-General, "that these mercies be acknowledged with exceeding thankfulness."

And thereupon he gave orders for the chapel to be destroyed.

"And I will see it utterly slighted and cast down," he said, "even as Moses saw the golden calf cast down and broken."

The soldiers needed little encouragement, being already inflamed with zeal and the sight of the exceeding rich plunder, for never, since the war began, had they made booty of a place as splendid as Basing.

Major Harrison with his musket hurled over the image of the Virgin on the altar, and his followers made spoil of the golden vessels, the embroidered copes, stoles, and cloths, the cushions and carpets.

The altar-painting was ripped from end to end by a halbert, slashed across, and torn till it hung in a few ribbons of canvas; the gorgeous glass in the windows was smashed, the leading, as the only thing of value, dragged away, the marble carvings were chipped and broken, the mosaic walls defaced by blows from muskets and pikes.

After five minutes of this fury the chapel was a hideous havoc, and the Marquess could not restrain a passionate exclamation.

Cromwell turned to him.

"We destroy wood and stone and the articles of a licentious worship," he said, "but you have destroyed flesh and blood. To-day you shall see many popish books burnt—but at Smithfield it was human bodies."

The Marquess made no reply, nor would he look at the speaker, and they led him away through his desolated house.

Wild scenes of plunder were now taking place; clothes, hangings, plate, jewels were seized upon, the iron was being wrenched from the windows, the lead from the roof; what the soldiers could not remove they destroyed; one wing of the house was alight with fierce fire, and into these flames was flung all that savoured of Popery; from the Grange, wheat, bacon, cheese, beef, pork, and oatmeal were being carried away in huge quantities; amid all the din and confusion came the cries for quarter of some of the baser sort who had taken refuge in the cellars, and divers groans from those of the wounded who lay unnoticed under fallen rubbish and in obscure corners.

Cromwell gave orders to stop the fire as much as might be, for, he said, these chairs, stools, and this household stuff will sell for a good price.

The pay of his soldiers was greatly in arrears, and he was glad to have this pillage to give them.

"It will be," he remarked, "a good encouragement—for the labourer is worthy of his hire, and who goeth to warfare at his own cost?"

He and his officers, together with the Marquess and several other prisoners, now came (in the course of their leaving of the House) on the bedchamber of my lord, which caused the Puritans to gape with amaze, so rich beyond imaginings was this room, especially the bed, with great coverings of embroidered silk and velvet and a mighty canopy bearing my lord's arms, all sparkling with bullion as was the tapestry on the walls.

Some soldiers were busy here, plundering my lord's clothes, and others were fighting over bags of silver, and the crown-pieces were scattered all over the silk rugs.

Then Mr. Peters, who had been arguing with my lord on his sinful idolatrous ways, pressed home his advantage and pointed to the disaster about him and asked the Marquess if he did not plainly see the hand of God was against him?

Lord Winchester, who had hitherto been silent, now broke out.

"If the King had had no more ground in England than Basing House, I would have adventured as I did and maintained it to the uttermost!"

"Art so stubborn," cried Mr. Peters, "when all is taken from thee?"

"Ay," said the Marquess, "Loyalty House this was called, and in that I take comfort, hoping His Majesty may have his day again. As for me, I have done what I could; and though this hour be as death, yet I would sooner be as I am than as thou art!"

And he said this with such sharp scorn and with an air so princely (as became his noble breeding) that Hugh Peters was for awhile silenced.

But Oliver Cromwell said, "Thou must say thy say at Westminster."

And so fell Basing in full pride.