Though he had been twenty-four hours in the saddle, he was too strong a man to feel more than an ordinary weariness, and the exaltation of his spirits made him forget the slight fatigue of his body.
The two soldiers said little while they were eating, save to now and then make some remark on the number of the malignants slain or captured, or some ejaculations as to the might and power of the Lord who had now so signally demonstrated that His countenance was turned towards them.
Henry Ireton was a man after Cromwell's own heart, one of the choicest of that little band who had taken the place of the older patriots, such as Pym and Hampden. Blake and Sidney were two others; Sir Harry Vane, who was of my late Lord Falkland's temper, Cromwell considered less well suited to the times; Fairfax he had some doubts of; and Manchester, Essex, and their kind he regarded as little better than Laodiceans.
When he had finished his meal he pushed back his chair and regarded his companion fixedly. Ireton had taken off his corselet, bandoleer, and sword, and his left arm was bandaged; his extreme pallor and the drooping way he sat showed the severity of his wound, but it had not had power to dismay his spirit or to soften his stern bearing.
He was a man of five-and-thirty, well born and well favoured, his features showing resolution, enthusiasm, capacity, and courage.
"Hast thou no mind to take a wife?" asked Cromwell abruptly.
"It is not for me to be thinking of marriage when the land is in mourning," replied Ireton. "Even a wilderness with the water-springs dried up and a fruitful land become barren."
"Peace cometh soon," said Cromwell grimly.
"Yet the King hath escaped into Oxford by now, and many places hold out against us," returned Ireton.