On the young Cavalier's fair face was a dreadful look of his own son Oliver, who had died at Newport Pagnell, and of that nephew who had died in his arms after Marston Moor; and with these two memories came that of his first-born, Robert, dead in early youth, and the intolerable pain of that loss smote him afresh.
"Bring the youth into the house," he said sombrely.
Lady Pawlet made no answer and gave no sign of gratitude; she followed the soldiers who were carrying her husband, and helped them to support his head.
"Surely the young man is dying," said Oliver Cromwell gloomily. "Bring him into the parlour and fetch a surgeon if one may be found. And look you, Gaveston," he added to the sergeant, "see this letter is dispatched to Mr. Lenthall, in London."
The candles had now been replaced on the table, and the General took up his letter to the Speaker, but while he was addressing the soldier and handing him the dispatch, his frowning eyes were fixed on the Cavalier, who was now extended on the couch with his cloak for a pillow.
Lady Pawlet, as if despairing of better accommodation, perhaps too sunk in grief to notice anything, went on her knees by the side of her husband, and knelt there as still as he, holding his hand to her breast.
The black scarf had fallen back over her tumbled grey dress and soiled ruffles, and the red-gold of her disordered hair glittered round a face disfigured with fatigue and sorrow—a face that had once been fair enough and gay enough. They were both very young and scarcely past their bridal days.
Oliver Cromwell stood with his back to the table, the light behind him, watching them; she seemed forgetful of his presence.
Sir William was bleeding in the head and the arm; these at least were his visible hurts, probably he had other wounds beneath his battle bravery of silk and bullion fringe, Spanish leather, and brocaded scarf.
His wife, bending over him still and helpless, as if she, too, was secretly wounded and dying of it, suddenly moved.