"Come, madam, come, come," he began, but his speech was broken by the entry of a soldier with some dispatches from Fairfax, who remained at Naseby, and with the statement that there was no surgeon conveniently to be brought.
"As for that," returned Cromwell, "the malignant is now in the hands of the Living God. But let that little white horse I saw be looked to." He turned to Lady Pawlet. "He is mine by right of war, but I will give thee a fair price for him if he be thine, since we are ever in need of horses."
She made no reply; Cromwell glanced at her frowningly.
"Gaveston," he said, "is there nought but this burnt ale in the house? Search for a glass of alicant for the malignant's wife, she hath neither strength to speak or move."
"Methinks the King did take the fleshpots with him when he fled from this Egypt," returned Gaveston. "There is scarce enough in the village to refresh the outer men of the saints themselves—but I will see if I can find a bottle of sack or alicant, General Cromwell."
Lady Pawlet, hitherto so immovable as to appear insensible, now suddenly rose to her feet, and, turning so that she stood with her back to her husband's body, stared at the General who remained at the table, not two paces away from her.
"Art thou Oliver Cromwell?" she cried, with a force and energy that was so in contrast to her former despairing apathy that the two men were startled, and Cromwell turned as if to face an accuser.
"I am he," he answered.
"Rebel and heretic!" cried the unfortunate lady. "May the curse of England rest on thee! May all the blood that has been spilt, and all the tears shed for those thou hast slain, cry out to the throne of God for a bolt to strike thee down!"