Ireton prepared to follow him.
"A good repose, Harry," said Cromwell affectionately. "We have talked over long, and I fear to little purpose. We must come to these arguments again at Westminster. Get now some sleep—farewell."
When Henry Ireton had gone, Cromwell continued to walk up and down the worn turf that formed the floor of the tent.
"Ah, soul, my soul," he muttered, "art thou wandering again in blackness, not knowing which way to turn? Do the waters come in and overwhelm thee? Yet did not the Lord receive thee into His grace, and make with thee a Covenant and a promise? The sword of the Lord and Gideon!—has it not been given thee to wield that weapon, and to triumph with it? Was not the Lord's hand plainly shown in that they have felled the malignants as the bricks of Basing that fell down one from the other? And hast thou not permitted them to be utterly consumed from the land, even from Havilah unto Shur?"
While he thus exhorted and chided some inner weakness or sadness that was liable to come over him, most often at night, and when he was inactive, speaking aloud, as was his wont when thus excited, he was startled by the sudden entry of one of his officers.
The man was preceded by the soldier in attendance on Cromwell, who had kept guard outside his tent, and now carried a lantern, the strong beams of which, disturbing the dubious light of the tent, showed the figure of Cromwell standing by the camp-bed on which his armour was piled.
"Sir," began the officer, "we have made, outside the city, a prisoner, whom it is expedient Your Excellency should see."
"For what purpose, Colonel Parsons?" asked Cromwell wearily, and hanging his head on his breast, as he did when tired or thoughtful.
"Because the malignant, defying us, with much fury, did declare a strange thing. He said that the King had escaped from Oxford two days or so ago."
Cromwell looked up sharply; his face seemed full of shadows.