It was the army who had ordered the King's removal to a place of greater security, the army who had now resolved to make an end of these long negotiations between King and Parliament.

On the day after Charles was closed into Hurst Castle the army marched into London, Cromwell not yet with them; but other men, embued with his spirit, were his representatives. He had proposed that the Parliament should be forcibly dissolved and a new one elected, and a Declaration to this effect had been issued by the army now openly at variance with the assembly, which had flung aside their great Remonstrance. Leading officers spoke darkly, yet unmistakably, of what they would do to the King, ay, and to the Parliament.

The Commons, undaunted, voted that the King's concessions were sufficient ground for treating of a general peace; the reply of the army was to send Colonel Pride down to the House to arrest every member who had voted to continuing negotiations with the King.

"It was the only way," said Henry Ireton, "to save the kingdom from a new war into which King and Parliament conjointly would plunge us—that is our warrant and our law for what we do."

Cromwell, coming the evening of that day to London, approved. "Since it is done, I am glad of it," he said, "and will endeavour to maintain it."

Meanwhile, Harrison had gone down to Hurst Castle and removed the King from that melancholy solitude to Windsor.

The now purged House of Commons, which consisted of a mere handful of Independent members, was nothing but the mouthpiece of the army, who were now the masters of the hour. In council they decided against bringing the King to trial if he could be brought by any means to reason, and Lord Denbigh was sent to Windsor again—once more and for the last time—to offer Charles terms.

The same terms—the abandonment of Episcopacy and of his own absolute sovereignty.

All illusion was at last stripped from the proceedings; no meaningless courtesies or formalities obscured the issue. The army were treating Charles as they would treat a vanquished enemy, and he at last saw it—saw there was no hope, no evasion possible, no succour at hand, no shift, no expedient to which he could turn; saw, too, for the first time, the sharp and bitter nature of the alternative of his refusal of these terms.

The army talked freely of his trial and death; there was barely a disguise given to the fact that Lord Denbigh gave him his choice between the Church of England, his Crown—and his life.

This struck not at the King's ambition or lust of power or love of authority, but at his conscience, for he believed as firmly that he was there to uphold the Divine ordinance in Church and State as Cromwell believed that God was mocked by Lawd's surplices, candles, and genuflexions.

On the gloomy day in the end of December when the return of Lord Denbigh with the King's answer was expected, Henry Ireton was with his father-in-law in his house in Drury Lane. Both men showed signs of the tremendous physical and spiritual stress they had lately undergone. Cromwell especially was haggard; the burden which he had assumed was no light one, nor was the responsibility he was about to undertake one which could be worn easily.

Up to the very last he had hoped that the King would give way. Lord Denbigh's journey had been on his recommendation, and he still clung to the possibility that Charles, now absolutely with his back against the wall, might make those concessions which would enable the army to spare him.

But the other and more likely alternative had to be faced.

"Can we," said Henry Ireton, in a tone almost of awe, "bring to trial the crowned and anointed King?"

The thing was indeed unheard of, appalling in its audacity even to the men who had been already years in arms against their King—a thing without precedent, full of a nameless horror. But Oliver Cromwell was not troubled by this consideration. He was uplifted by his stern enthusiasm from all fears of laws and tradition; he knew himself capable of moulding the movement to suit the need; and he was of an incalculable courage.

Yet in this affair he had shown himself more moderate, almost more hesitating, than many of his colleagues; he did not see clearly; he was not sure what God had meant him to do, and his personal feeling, despite his absolute refusal to deal further with Charles after his treachery had been made manifest, was still towards some arrangement by which the King could be returned to the throne and forced to keep his people's laws.

His trust in the King had been utterly scattered; his sentiments had become almost republican; yet in his heart he struggled to find some means of saving the King as he had struggled since the end of the first civil war.

He still hesitated before committing himself to the fierce measures advocated by the great body of the army; yet Charles had done some things which Cromwell could never forgive.

Notably the calling in of the Scots.

To the Englishman, English of the English in every fibre, this "attempt to vassalage us to a foreign nation," as he had called it, was the intolerable, unforgivable wrong—a thing which burnt the blood to think of—a wrong which the Scots, beaten back across the border and Hamilton waiting death in London, did not soften or make amends for. Cromwell had broken the Scots, but he could not forgive them.

"Had he not done that," he cried aloud, "it had been easier to forget his manifold deceits."

"God hath witnessed against him," replied Ireton.

But he, too, was for moderation; he had suggested a trial of the King and then a decorous imprisonment.

Such a compromise did not please the Lieutenant-General, who was waiting for the indication for swift, prompt action. He wanted an impetus to an irrecoverable decision, not an expedient for avoiding it; nothing in the nature of a shift was ever tolerable to him.

"Until Lord Denbigh return," he broke out, "we can decide on nothing. I know not what the Providence of God may put upon us; but this I know, the King hath one more chance, and if he take it not—there will be no excuse but folly and cowardice to delay our dealings with him."

"And when we have dealt with him—what then?" asked Ireton, and he looked gloomy and apprehensive, like a man oppressed with many heavy thoughts.

Oliver Cromwell rose from the table at which both had been sitting; through his air of weariness the indomitable fire of his inner conviction, his inner faith glowed. Ireton, looking at him, thought that he always, even in his moments of deepest dejection or melancholy, gave that impression of one carrying a flame.

"I have much rested on these words of late," he said: "'They that shine with thee shall perish. They that war against thee shall be as nothing; and as a thing of nought. For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.'"

As he spoke he moved to the window and stood with his back against the dark curtains which hung before it. His clothes were dark too, his white band and his tanned but pale face, his brown hair and clasped hands were all picked out and shone upon by the candlelight; for the rest, his figure was in shadow. Ireton, gazing at him, was impressed by something about him which, hearty and homely as were his manners, seemed to always put him beyond his brother officers: the quality of greatness, Henry Ireton thought it was; but he wondered wherein lay greatness.

Cromwell did not speak again, and Ireton took his leave.

"I am going to Sir Thomas Fairfax," he said, "and if any messenger comes from Windsor to-night, I will send one over to you with the news."

After he had been alone a little while Cromwell went upstairs, still with a thoughtful face, with eyes downcast and a frowning brow.

The room he entered was rendered cheerful by the bright firelight and the glow of the candles in the wall sconces of polished brass, and it formed the setting to a fair and tender picture.

Cromwell's wife was seated at the spinet which occupied one corner of the room, and either side of her stood one of her younger daughters, singing. The lady and the children were all dressed in a brown colour, and the purity of their fair-complexioned faces and the delicacy of their soft and waving gold-brown hair was heightened by their collars and caps of white cambric enriched with exquisite needlework.

At the Lieutenant-General's entrance they paused, and Elisabeth Cromwell was about to rise, but he bade them continue and crossed to the fireplace, where he stood quietly, with his head hanging on his breast.

With a blush for the presence of their father at their simple performance, the two little girls began again; the fresh voices, sharply pure and sweetly tremulous, rose clearly and echoed clearly in the high-ceiled chamber, accompanied by the faint, half-muffled notes of the spinet.

"Ye Holy Angels bright,
Who wait at God's right hand,
Or through the realms of light
Fly at your Lord's command.
Assist our song,
Or else the theme
Too high doth seem
For mortal tongue."

The little singers had forgotten the embarrassment of an audience; their eyes sparkled, their little round mouths strained open in a rapture.

Elisabeth Cromwell, as her fingers touched the keys to the simple melody, looked across the spinet to her husband.

"Ye blessed souls at rest,
Who ran this earthly race,
And now from sin released,
Behold the Saviour's face.
His praises sound
As in His light
With sweet delight
Ye do abound."

The mother's head bent a little; she dropped her eyes. She was thinking of Robert and Oliver, and wondering if they were leaning from heaven to listen to this song—"blessed souls at rest." Ah, well!

"Ye saints, who toil below,
Adore your Heavenly King,
And onward as ye go
Some joyful anthem sing.
Take what He gives
And praise Him still
Through good and ill,
Who ever lives!"

The young voices gathered greater fervency on the next lines—

"My soul, bear thou thy part,
Triumph in God above,
And with a well-tuned heart
Sing thou the songs of love!
Let all thy days
Till life shall end,
Whate'er He send,
Be filled with praise!"

Frances and Mary Cromwell, having ended their hymn, came round from behind the spinet and curtsied to their father.

"A sweet song," he said, "and sweetly sung. Who wrote the words, Mary?"

"Mr. Richard Baxter, sir," she replied; "he taught them to the troop he was chaplain of at Kidderminster—and Henry copied them and brought them home to us."

"Learn Mr. Baxter's hymns," he smiled, "but not his tenets. He is lukewarm and unstable."

Mrs. Cromwell rose.

"And now they must to bed—I fear it is already over-late."

The Lieutenant-General stooped and kissed each of them on the fair, untroubled brow.

"A good night, my dears, my sweets. A good night, my little wenches."

He lingered over the farewell caress half wistfully, and as they left the room his tired eyes followed them.

Elisabeth Cromwell came to her husband's side and glanced up at him, then down at the fire.

"You are troubled to-night," she said, in a low voice.

"No," he answered, "no."

"About Richard's marriage settlements," she returned. "It is over a year since that affair was first opened."

"I know," he replied, "I know. But what can I do? I cannot settle on Dorothy Mayor moneys which I have not got for my own. There is Henry to think of, and the two little ones—and thou knowest, Bess, I am not rich."

She knew well enough from many economies of her own. He had strained his estates at the commencement of the first war, when he had raised and equipped, at his own expense, his troop in Cambridgeshire; his pay was in arrears and had lately been reduced; he had waited many ancient debts due to him from the Government; and he had returned the larger portion of the income arising from the grant of Lord Worchester's lands to the Parliament to be used in settling that unhappy country, Ireland. Therefore he was now more hampered and with less money to dispose of than when in private life, and all his frugal living and all his wife's good management would not permit him to afford Mr. Mayor what he demanded for his daughter; therefore Richard's match had hung a year, and seemed likely to hang longer.

"I would rather," said Richard's father abruptly, "that the lad was more like his brother Henry, and less eager to take a wife and live easily."

"All cannot be as thee," answered Elisabeth Cromwell half sadly, "wrapped in great affairs."

He turned.

"Why, Bess," he said, taking her hand, "that did sound as a reproach."

"Nay, my lord, my dear," she replied, in a subdued passion; "but thou art so much away."

"But thou art not alone," he said, eagerly bending over her.

"A woman is always alone, Oliver, when she is away from him she loves. I think a man doth not understand that—he hath so much else—thou—thou hast so much—and I am gone right into the background of thy life!"

He took both her hands now and laid them on his heart.

"Thou art dearer to me than any creature in the world," he said. "Let that content thee."

She sighed and smiled together. By her great love for him she could measure her great pain because of him—the separations, the anxieties, the apprehension, the knowledge that she was only a part of his life, that he had now many, many other things to think of more important than her, while she had nothing but him—always him. But he could not understand.

"Well, well," she said.

"Why art thou sad, Bess?" he asked tenderly. "Is it about Dick's marriage?"

She shook her head; her gentle face flushed with the thought that came to her.

"Oh, Oliver, I have been sorry about the King," she said simply.

"The King!" He dropped her hands.

Elisabeth Cromwell lifted her large, clear grey eyes.

"What is to be the fate of the King?" she asked, trembling.

"That hangs in the balance," he replied briefly. "Bring not these questions on to my own hearth, Bess."

Thus rebuked, she moved away, trembling more.

Her husband looked at her kindly.

"It is not for me or thee," he said gently, "to discuss the fate of the King, but for God in His good time to disclose it. Maybe He will harden His heart as He hardened the heart of Pharaoh, and maybe He will turn it to peace."

"These are terrible times," replied Elisabeth Cromwell rapidly. "I cannot but think of how terrible—being a woman I cannot but tremble—fearful things are said now about the King—about—bringing him to trial."

"Why not?" asked her husband sternly. "Hath he not been the author of two civil wars, and would he not have brought about a third save that God struck his forces at Preston Battle?"

"But he—he is the Governor of England," she answered timidly.

"Nay, no longer," returned Oliver Cromwell; "that high office hath he defiled. God hath overturned him—'He shall put down the mighty from their seats and exalt the humble and meek.' The King hath sinned against God, against his people, against the laws of England."

"Alack—it is beyond my understanding," sighed his wife; "but it seems to me he is the King!"

"Be not deceived by high-sounding words," replied the Lieutenant-General. "Charles Stewart is a man and must pay as men pay—for their sins and their follies."

As he spoke the servant entered with a note, which had just been brought, he said, by General Fairfax's man.

Cromwell gazed at the seal—Henry Ireton's arms pressed into wax scarcely cold—a full minute before he opened it, and the blood rushed to his face.

When he opened the letter his fingers shook.

It contained a few words from his son-in-law, the sand yet sticking to the ink.

The King had utterly refused to see Lord Denbigh, and utterly refused to have any dealings either with Parliament or army.

He defied them. Now, driven to the last extremity, he had flung aside all subterfuge and all evasion; he stood by his conscience, and no matter what the consequences, he refused terms which he regarded as a betrayal of God's laws in Church or State.

Oliver Cromwell crumpled up the letter with a gesture of, for him, unusual agitation.

"So it is over!" he muttered. He gazed at his wife with eyes that did not see her; drops of sweat stood out on his forehead and his lips quivered.

"What is over?" asked Elisabeth Cromwell, in terrified tones.

He drew himself together with an effort.

"The reign of Charles Stewart," he replied simply.