Fairfax with his staff galloped to a little eminence beyond some apple orchards that fenced in the broad graveyard of the church. By the aid of perspective glasses they could very clearly see the army of the King—the flower of the loyal gentlemen of England, the final effort and hope of Majesty (for this force was Charles' utmost, and all men knew it)—marching in good array and with a gallant show, foot and horse, from Harborough. The Royal Standard was borne before, and, they being not much over a mile away, Cromwell, through the glasses, could discern a figure in a red montero, such as Fairfax wore, riding at the head of the cavalry.
"'Tis Rupert, that son of Baal," he muttered sternly. "The false Arminian fighteth well—yet what availeth his prowess, when his end shall be that outer darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth?"
Near by, higher than the old copper ball of the church, a tiny lark sang; the bees hovered in the thyme at their feet; the stainless blue of the heavens deepened with the strengthening day. A sudden sense of the peace and loveliness of the scene touched the sensitive heart of Sir Thomas Fairfax.
"English against English, on English land!" he cried. "The pity of it! God grant that we do right!"
Cromwell turned in his saddle, his heavy brows drawn together.
"Dost thou doubt it?" he demanded. "Art thou like the Laodicean, neither hot nor cold?"
"I think of England," replied the General, "and of what we destroy herein—fairness and tranquillity vanisheth from the land like breath from off a glass!"
Cromwell pointed his rough gauntleted hand towards the approaching royal forces.
"Dost thou believe," he asked, "that by leaving those in power we secure tranquillity and repose? I tell thee, every drop of blood shed to-day will be more potent to buy us peace than years of gentle argument."