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answer."

      "This makes His Majesty without honour," said Mr. Cromwell. "I cannot imagine that he ever could or would abandon one whom he hath twined so closely in his affections."

      "The Earl must go and all he standeth for," returned John Pym.

      "Ay, all he standeth for—the Star Chamber, the ship money, the Court of High Commission, the power of the bishops—but the man thou canst not touch, and thou mayst well leave his life when thou hast destroyed his life work."

      "Surely thou art always too compassionate," replied Mr. Pym.

      "I have no natural hatred against the Earl of Strafford," smiled Mr. Cromwell, "and it seemeth to me a hopeless task you do attempt, for the King can never surrender him."

      "I may fail," said John Pym. "I know that I play a desperate game, but I feel the Lord is with me and that for His ends and His people I work. Only a little while we have, the bravest and best of us, and how much there is to do! How much!"

      Mr. Cromwell leant further out of the window; there was a pot of geranium slips on the sill, and their perfume was strengthening with the fall of evening, and filling the quiet air with richness.

      Oliver Cromwell looked over the deep, bright, green leaves towards Whitehall which lay bathed in the gold and amber light of the sinking sun.

      "Hark!" he said, "hark!"

      "Thou hast sharp ears," said Mr. Pym. "I hear nothing."

      "I hear," returned the other, "the citizens of London rising——"

      John Pym listened intently. A distant murmurous sound was soon audible enough, a hoarse sound of human shouting, a blend of human voices with clash of weapons and the tramp of feet.

      "'Tis the train-bands fighting the apprentices, and those of the baser sort, belike," said Mr. Pym. "Yesterday they were like to have burnt down Lambeth Palace when they discovered His Grace had again fled."

      Mr. Cromwell continued to gaze towards the end of the street, across which several people were beginning to run, attracted by the now common event of a street riot.

      "The Lord is leading the nation through bitter ways," he observed. "And I do see ahead of us a time of much trouble, for if His Majesty is stubborn, these," he pointed down the street to the hurrying crowds, "will fight."

      "Parliament," replied Mr. Pym, "will settle all grievances without bringing the mobile into it. Mr. Cromwell, to-morrow I will go to the Bar of the House of Lords and impeach the King's favourite of high treason, and there will be a many following me. Wilt thou be one of them?"

      Oliver Cromwell turned swiftly round to face his friend.

      "Count on me," he said quietly, "to not leave thy party until thou hast brought the King to reason, but I believe that this will be a longer and bloodier business than any of us reckon on as yet."

      "I trust we shall leave blood out of it," answered Mr. Pym gravely. "But God directs as He will, and we are not of a temper to shrink from fighting for His word and our liberty."

      By now the crowd had gathered in considerable proportions, and the two spectators at the window observed that the centre of this agitated throng was a coach and four which, protected by several constables, footmen, and two gentlemen on horseback, was endeavouring to make headway down Whitehall, probably to the palace.

      "Who is this," wondered Mr. Pym, "whose appearance causeth such a riot?"

      They were, however, too far off to discern the occupant of the coach, and therefore presently descended into the street to discover who it might be whose progress was thus impeded, and to offer, if need be, some assistance against the clamour of the mobile, for violence and outrage were not wished for by these two, even though the cries of the populace might be but an echo of their own sentiments.

      As they began to push their way, into the fringe of the crowd, they perceived that the coach had been brought to a standstill and was densely surrounded by shop boys and the meaner kind of citizen.

      The coachman, buffeted by various missiles, leant from his box and cried—

      "My lady, I cannot go on!"

      At this the leathern curtains of the coach were drawn back and a woman's face appeared at the window. She regarded the press before her fixedly, and with a curious blankness of expression, her high-bred and sensitive countenance had a cold look of either pride or terror, or preoccupation, which made it mask-like as a carving.

      Mr. Pym touched his companion's arm.

      "It is Lady Strafford," he said.

      Mr. Cromwell had never before seen the wife of the great minister who was now no better than a doomed man, and he gazed with vast interest and pity at the face staring from the coach window.

      "We should save her from this," he answered, and, lifting his sword hilt, with a few rude blows he forced his way through the crowd to the coach.

      "Stop this fooling!" he shouted, and his voice, when raised, was of an extraordinary depth and harshness. The rioters turned, startled, and, with a quick movement of his powerful arm, he swept two youths from the wheels to which they were clinging to impede the movement of the coach.

      Mr. Pym was now beside him, rather breathless with pushing his way through.

      The Countess never moved or altered her bitter calm; the two gentlemen both saluted her, and when Mr. Pym's hat was off and she had a clear view of his countenance, she gave a great start and the hot blood rushed to her face and burnt up her pallor.

      "Mr. Pym!" she cried. "Oh, John Pym!"

      At the sound of this name, which was now famous throughout England as the champion of the people, the crowd quieted and began shamefacedly to give way, being at heart good humoured and not disposed to more than rough horse-play, after the nature of English crowds.

      "Ride on, madam," said Mr. Pym sombrely. "Your way is clear."

      "I want not your succour," she returned, with great heat and force; "false friend and subtle enemy, I know what you contrive against us!"

      "Against you nothing," he replied, "since once I enjoyed your grace and entertainment—and, madam, it was your lord left us, not we him."

      "Oh, what a land is this become!" answered the Countess, "when every designing, rebellious knave may endeavour to strike even at the very architects of the realm!"

      "Architects of tyranny, madam," said Mr. Pym; "and every plain fellow who can handle a sword may rightly endeavour to strike at them."

      "Your presence flouts me," cried Lady Strafford. "Drive on!"

      The coach swung forward on the leathers and jolted off down Whitehall, still pursued by a few boys shouting and hooting.

      "In the old days when I knew her," said John Pym, "she was a most modest, excellent lady, but now I doubt but that she is proud and blinded even as her lord."

      "She seemed to me," replied Mr. Cromwell, "to be not so much as one proud, but as one in a mortal fear."

      "She has heard somewhat of this inquiry into Irish affairs, and is off to the King to pray protection for her lord. Poor, silly woman, as if she could prevail against the Commons of England!"

      The autumn dusk was now rapidly approaching, and the two friends turned into the Strand to find a tavern to get themselves some dinner before they returned to the House.

      Meanwhile the Countess of Strafford drove furiously into the courtyard of the palace and, hastening through the public halls and galleries, demanded an audience of the Queen.

CHAPTER IV

       THE QUEEN'S POLICY

       Table of Contents

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