So he took his leave and came glooming into the courtyard, and mounted amid his escort, and rode down Whitehall.
The streets were empty, by reason of the heat; only the vendors of oranges and a few idlers were abroad, but when my lord reached Westminster Hall, he saw by the corner-posts of the road two men standing, and his bright, quick glance knew them at once for two enemies of his—one his chief enemy, Mr. Pym, and the other one of his followers who had sat for Cambridge in the Little Parliament, and been marked unfavourably by my lord—a certain Oliver Cromwell.
My lord was too great a man to be discourteous, he touched his beaver to the gentlemen and rode on with his guard, serene and aloof.
John Pym looked after the little cavalcade flashing in the dust and sunlight.
"There goeth the chief enemy of these realms," he said. "Marked you his haughty eye when he did salute us?"
"He cometh from Whitehall," returned Mr. Cromwell. "Hath he advised the King to call a Parliament, think you, Mr. Pym?"
John Pym pointed to Westminster Hall behind them.
"There you and I will sit before the summer be burnt out," he answered, "whether the King issue the writs or no."
They both stood silent, looking after my lord, who presently turned in his saddle and gazed back at the Parliament House.
"My head or thy head," he thought, as he rode through the sunlight.