The commotion at Westminster was intense; never, even at the arrest of Sir John Eliot or at the impeachment of the Earl of Strafford, or at the passing of the Great Remonstrance, had excitement run so high.

For the King, without acquainting his new advisers, in direct violation of his recent promises, to the astonishment and dismay of his friends, the rage and horror of his enemies, had made a move which put his legal position in the wrong and showed at once and for ever that alliance between him and the popular party was impossible. He had sent the Attorney-General to the Bar of the House of Lords to impeach Lord Kimbolton and five members of the Lower Chamber—Pym, Strode, Holles, Haselrig, and Hampden.

Immediately afterwards a guard was sent from Whitehall to arrest the five members. The Commons refused to deliver them, and sent a message to the King to say that the gentlemen charged were ready to answer any legal accusation. They also ordered the arrest of the officers who had been sent to search the rooms of the five members and seize and seal up their papers.

This was the answer of the House to the challenge cast down by the King, and all England thrilled to it; all England waited too, in a kind of passionate suspense, the answer that would come from Whitehall. Was the King, who had so suddenly declared himself an enemy of the nation, baffled, checked or only further enraged? What would he do next?

Few slept that night of the 3rd of January; and from thousands of Puritan households prayers and lamentations ascended.

It was now clear that not by gentle means could the people of England hope to regain their cherished liberty, and that neither consideration nor fair dealing was to be hoped from a King who had so contemptuously disregarded faith and the law.

Falkland, Culpeper, Hyde, and their following were utterly confounded and dismayed, ashamed and humiliated, but in the stern hearts of Pym, Hampden, Holles, Haselrig, Strode, and Cromwell was a certain exultation.

Their enemy (for so by now these men had come to regard the King) had put himself in the wrong, and alienated that vast mass of the nation which in all great crises long remains neutral, and which had, hitherto, declared for neither King nor Parliament.

But the recent action of the King, after his open promise before Parliament, caused the least reflective and humble of men to entertain a jealousy of their liberties, and a strong murmur of indignation arose over the whole country, which was a good help and encouragement to these men at Westminster.

Added to this satisfaction, the popular leaders, who had already dared so much and ventured so far, felt a deep, if stern, gratification, which was not, perhaps, shared by their followers, that affairs were coming at length to a conclusion. Charles had now raised the issue, and it was their task to answer his challenge as decisively as he had given it. Three at least of the Commoners—Pym, Hampden, and Cromwell—did not shrink from the immense responsibilities which this involved on them, nor from the high stakes on which they had to play.

Pym and Hampden already stood as near to death as had Pym the year before, when Strafford had come glooming to Westminster to impeach him, for there could be little doubt of the King's intention to appease that proud blood of his forsaken minister by the blood of those who had sent him to his death.

Cromwell, one of a younger generation and of no such importance in the eyes of either King, his own party, or the nation, ran no such risk as his leaders and incurred no such responsibility. He was, however, their able and indefatigable lieutenant, and Pym at least thought highly of him as a driving force of courage and fortitude, enthusiasm and resolution.

On the morning of the 4th of January, the House met in an incredible state of tension and excitement, but during the morning hours nothing untoward occurred, and the Commons adjourned at midday without there having been any sign or message from Whitehall.

It was a dun day, the river ran slate-coloured between grey houses, the sky was murk and low, an east wind blew gusts of icy rain along the streets, and at midday the light was obscure and dismal; the mild, hopeful winter had changed after Christmas, and now had the full Northern bitterness.

Mr. Cromwell returned to the House early, as did most, and when Mr. Pym was in his place the benches were again crowded. Denzil Holles, Strode, Hampden, and Haselrig were near the entrance, talking earnestly with Lord Kimbolton, the Member of the House of Lords who had been impeached with them.

Mr. Cromwell looked at them with some admiration and even envy; they had a splendid chance to exercise all those qualities which he felt strongly burning in himself.

He rose up and made his way to Mr. Pym, who was sitting silent, and looked ill and fatigued. But his calm, resolute expression, the light of energy, command, and courage in his glance showed him to be, as always, the intrepid, prompt leader of men—the leader of wit and resource and vigour.

"Any news yet to hand?" asked Mr. Cromwell eagerly. "You have gathered nothing either in the lobbies or the streets?"

Mr Pym smiled.

"What is to be gathered but wild, bottomless rumours such as are to be looked for in these divided times? I have some of our own people posted near Whitehall that we may know as soon as possible the action of His Majesty."

"Maybe," said Mr. Cromwell, "he will do no more, finding his threats have failed."

"You do not know the King as well as I," returned John Pym. "He is the very haughtiest and most revengeful of men, and is not like to suffer in silence such an affront (for so he will call it) as hath been put on him."

"What, then, will he do?" asked the Member for Cambridge. "What can he do?"

"I have tried for many years," replied John Pym, "to work with His Majesty to form a ministry of loyal men proven by the Parliament—but it could never be, as you know—and all my dealings with the King, down to this last interview when I saw him face to face, have taught me his variableness, his unstability, his pride, and his insincerity. Therefore I cannot judge nor guess what he will do."

The four members talking at the entrance had now returned to their places, and Oliver Cromwell hastened to meet his friend, Lord Kimbolton, who was about to leave for the Upper House. The Member for Cambridge accompanied him into the antechamber, and while they were there, talking on the one absorbing topic of the moment, a fellow with his face pinched by the wind and a little breathless, came up asking for Mr. Pym, and, showing his credentials, was admitted into the Chamber.

Mr. Cromwell, taking a hasty leave of Lord Kimbolton, hurried back to his place in the House.

He found the Members already in a state of deep emotion and excitement, for the most momentous of news was flashing from mouth to mouth.

Mr. Pym's messenger had brought word that the King himself, accompanied by some hundreds of armed men, was riding down to Westminster. There was no time to lose; the royal party had been issuing from Whitehall gates when the man had seen them, and, though some little delay might be caused by the dense crowd thronging the street, it could not be long.

Deep cries of "The city! safety in the city! To the river!" echoed through Westminster Hall, and the five members were pushed from their places by friendly hands and hurried from the Hall to the lobbies, from the lobbies to the Thames, and there into the first boat available with directions to hasten to the sanctuary of the city.

The thing was done with desperate swiftness, but if it had lacked this haste it would have been too late, for the House was scarcely returned to wonted order when the King with his cavalcade of ruffling Cavaliers arrived at Westminster.

A deep hush fell on the Chamber, as if every man held his breath. Mr. Cromwell leant forward in his seat, every line in his powerful face tense, like a great mastiff on the watch, entirely absorbed by the movements of his foe.

The King's men now filled Westminster Hall, and on the threshold of the inviolable Chamber itself the King appeared.

When he first saw these rows of hostile faces, darkened, silent countenances of men who had defied him and whom he hated and scorned, he paused for a moment full in the doorway and calmly and deliberately gazed round him.

There was something awful in the moment; the two opponents, King and Parliament, so suddenly and violently brought together, seemed like actors pausing before they enter on a tragedy.

The King, in rose-coloured cloth and a crimson cloak, great boots with gilt spurs, his hat in his left hand, and his right pressed to his heart, the bleak light of the wintry day falling over his fair head and melancholy face, looked a frail figure to be opposed to these gathered ranks of gentlemen who had the whole strength and feelings of a great nation behind them, while he was only armed with the intangible weapons of traditional authority and such virtue as he might find in the royal blood of his unfortunate race.

Beside him was his nephew, the young Elector Palatine, whose dark, haughty features expressed mingled curiosity and doubt. He had known exile and wandering, misfortunes and defeat, and it might be that he thought his uncle was daring those disasters which had broken his father's heart. His own presence there was an additional outrage on the Commons, but neither he nor Charles thought of this, so completely had they in common the family recklessness.

The two Princes, Charles slightly before his nephew, advanced down the floor of the House. Mr. Cromwell, turning in his seat, watched him; there was a deep silence.

The King mounted the step of the chair and faced the Speaker; his voice, very pleasant and slow as always, rose clearly through the crowded, still Chamber.

"Sir," he said, "we demand certain of your Members—Mr. Pym, Mr. Strode, Mr. Haselrig, Mr. John Hampden, and Mr. Denzel Holles."

There was a second's pause, then the King added in a voice slightly varied and strained with anger—

"Where are these men?"

"Your Majesty," replied the Speaker, "I have neither ears nor eyes in this place save as the House may be pleased to direct."

A low, deep murmur followed these words, and the blood ran up from the King's fair beard to his fair curls, and remained there, a fixed red in his haughty face.

"It is no matter," he replied. "I think my eyes are as good as another's."

He turned and glanced round the House and scrutinized the packed benches in which were those five notable empty places; through the open doors his own followers peered in with a show of pike and pistol. Oliver Cromwell looked at them and smiled. When the King's swift glance for one instant rested on him, that grim smile was still on his lips; he turned and looked down full into the flushed face of the King.

Charles smiled also with a bitterness beyond words.

"I perceive that my birds are flown," he said; "but I shall take my own course to find them."

The Speaker neither moved nor spoke; a few deep cries of "Privilege!" rose from the benches, and the King seemed to suddenly lose that proud composure he had hitherto maintained. His painful colour deepened and his countenance was confused and troubled, as if he realized how many and powerful his enemies were and how completely he was now encompassed by them.

"Hold us excused that we thus disturb you," he stammered, and he took his hand from his heart, where he had hitherto kept it, and caught his nephew by the arm as if to assure himself of the presence of one friend in the midst of this hostile assembly.

"God save you, sire!" muttered the Elector Palatine. "Do not give these rogues the power of disconcerting you."

Charles replied something that was lost in the ever deepening and growing murmur from the benches, and, turning on his heel, passed with his usual dignity of carriage through the ranks of the angry and triumphant Commons, and joined his own followers in the lobby.

As the rose-coloured habit flashed out of sight, a great murmur arose, and the Members turned passionately one to the other. There was neither noise nor disorder; they were the very flower of English gentlemen, nearly all of famous names and ancient lineage, and they had not acted lightly nor for a trivial cause, but with full gravity and weight and for the sake of civic liberty.

"His Majesty," said Mr. Cromwell to his neighbour, "is as great a blunderer as any I have ever seen."

Further down the benches a member remarked—

"The die is cast. Now there is no turning back."

The next day the Parliament moved into the city for safety, and there went into committee on the state of affairs in the kingdom. Mr. Cromwell moved the consideration of means to put the kingdom in a state of armed defence.

The King left Whitehall and sent his Queen from Dover to gain help from France, and to pledge the Crown jewels in Holland.

So was the die cast indeed, as all men began to see as the stormy spring merged into the stormy summer.