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lord was too great a man to be discourteous, he touched his beaver to the gentlemen and rode on with his guard, serene and aloof.

      John Pym looked after the little cavalcade flashing in the dust and sunlight.

      "There goeth the chief enemy of these realms," he said. "Marked you his haughty eye when he did salute us?"

      "He cometh from Whitehall," returned Mr. Cromwell. "Hath he advised the King to call a Parliament, think you, Mr. Pym?"

      John Pym pointed to Westminster Hall behind them.

      "There you and I will sit before the summer be burnt out," he answered, "whether the King issue the writs or no."

      They both stood silent, looking after my lord, who presently turned in his saddle and gazed back at the Parliament House.

      "My head or thy head," he thought, as he rode through the sunlight.

      Strafford did not want to die.

CHAPTER III

       MR. PYM AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

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      When Mr. Cromwell had seen Lord Strafford ride away into the late summer dust of gold, he returned to his lodging and, packing up his effects, went back to Huntingdon. He was lately removed from St. Ives to Ely, and was become of late a more quiet, sombre man than even formerly, for he had received a blow his soul had staggered under, namely, the death of his eldest son, a gallant youth still at college. Yet he was soon withdrawn again from his grazing grounds and his cattle, his harvesting, and buying, and selling, for the King called a Parliament, and the people sent up from the boroughs and shires all the flower of English gentlehood, the Cursons, Ashtons, Leighs, Derings, Ingrams, Fairfaxes, Cecils, Polles, Grenvils, Trevors, Carews, and Edgcombes, all fine old names deep rooted in English soil—most of them the very men who had formed the late Parliament which the King had so summarily dismissed—and with them came Mr. Cromwell, borough Member for Cambridge, a silent man still, waiting for the Divine guidance which had been promised him when he entered into Covenant with the Lord.

      Soon after the session opened, a motion was moved for inquiry into Irish affairs, and Mr. Cromwell, seeing Mr. Pym as they left the House together, called out to him and said—

      "It is my Lord Strafford you strike at, is it not?"

      And Mr. Pym answered "Yes."

      The two gentlemen walked together down Whitehall. There were a great many of the meaner sort abroad, hustling and clamouring and passing rumour from mouth to mouth about the progress of the Scots and the humour of the King, all of them big with hopes of the things the Parliament men would do, now they were gotten together; of how the bishops would be put down for ever, the new taxes taken off, and His Majesty's design for bringing over an army of Irish or French Papists finally defeated.

      As they neared Whitehall—that portentous and haughty palace behind whose closed gates Majesty endured humiliation as best might be—Mr. Pym, looking round him in his stately way at the robust and eager crowd, touched his companion's arm.

      "Mr. Cromwell," he said, "there is good material here if the right man could be found to handle it."

      "'Tis a great nation," answered Mr. Cromwell, "but 'tis to the ancient blood we must look—not to these."

      "That was my meaning," returned John Pym; "there are among us many able men—but who will be called?"

      "Thou thyself, Mr. Pym," said his friend warmly, "art surely a man after God's own heart, one whom he hath raised up to be a captain, even as he raised up David."

      "I do what I can," returned Mr. Pym quietly, "but I am not the man for whom England waiteth."

      By now they had reached the post office at Charing Cross and halted at a cutler's shop near by, for Mr. Cromwell had left his sword there in the morning to be repaired, and now came to call for it. As there was press enough of people buying and testing arms about the door, they were delayed a little, and as they waited, a young gentleman, thrusting a brace of new pistols into his belt, pushed his way through the crowd, mounted a horse a groom held for him, and rode away with great speed.

      Mr. Pym looked after him.

      "That is a friend of my Lord Strafford," he whispered, "posting to York to warn him to keep from London."

      "Has it come to that?" asked Mr. Cromwell in a moved voice. "Is my lord afraid?"

      John Pym looked at him sharply.

      "Hast thou not seen that temper in the House whereof any man might be afraid?" he answered.

      "But my Lord Strafford!" exclaimed the other gentleman in a tone as if he named the King himself.

      "Thinkest thou I have not the courage to impeach my Lord Strafford?" demanded Mr. Pym grimly. "He is the chief author of these troubles, and must answer for them to the Commons of England."

      "I well believe thou hast the courage," answered Mr. Cromwell quietly, taking up the sword which was waiting for him, "as I believe my lord hath the courage to answer you."

      "He hath courage," returned John Pym. "You speak as if you favoured him," he added with a smile.

      Mr. Cromwell smiled also and they left the shop, turning towards St. Martin's Lane where Mr. Cromwell had his lodgings beyond the fields, and there, when they had reached his chamber, they sat quiet awhile, oppressed by the sense of great events which, gathering force and momentum with every day, were marching forward with the majestic strength of fate—events in which they, these two modest gentlemen sitting silent in this modest chamber, felt that they might be involved, might indeed be piece and part of the new pattern into which the destinies of England were being rapidly woven.

      Presently Mr. Cromwell rose and opened the window on to the light of the setting sun which fell aslant the narrow street.

      "There is a great battle before us," he said.

      "Now the Parliament is called, half that battle is won," replied Mr. Pym.

      "Dost thou see things so easily?" returned the other. "This Earl now will make a fight."

      "This Earl will bend," flashed John Pym, "as the King will bend."

      "The King?" repeated Mr. Cromwell thoughtfully. "Wilt thou threaten even the rock of Divine authority on which the throne standeth?"

      John Pym laid his hand on his friend's arm with a great eagerness and intensity of gesture. He stood now in the full light of the open window, and it was noticeable that, despite his strong and passionate air, his person was emaciated and there was a look of disease and fatigue very marked in his mobile face, as if he felt the full weight of his years.

      "Hark ye, Mr. Cromwell," he said, "thou art now much hearkened to in the House and do often obtain the mastery thereof; thou wilt come to great things yet, for, methinks, thou hast power over men; help us now to rid England of this Strafford. I ask thee, for hitherto thou hast kept silence on this matter. And I do not know thy mind on it."

      Mr. Cromwell regarded him gravely, almost mournfully.

      "Dost thou mean to have the Earl's head?" he asked.

      "That is my inner and final meaning—even as it is his to have thine and mine, and that of every man in England who dare speak his mind.'

      "Then there is failure before thee," answered Oliver Cromwell, "for this man is the King's friend, and the King will protect him."

      "The King will have neither the power nor the will to protect a man whom the Commons demand."

      "The Duke of Buckingham——"

      Mr. Pym broke the sentence.

      "Ay—the Duke of Buckingham—would the King have saved him? Felton's knife

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