"Mr. Cromwell," he said, "there is good material here if the right man could be found to handle it."
"'Tis a great nation," answered Mr. Cromwell, "but 'tis to the ancient blood we must look—not to these."
"That was my meaning," returned John Pym; "there are among us many able men—but who will be called?"
"Thou thyself, Mr. Pym," said his friend warmly, "art surely a man after God's own heart, one whom he hath raised up to be a captain, even as he raised up David."
"I do what I can," returned Mr. Pym quietly, "but I am not the man for whom England waiteth."
By now they had reached the post office at Charing Cross and halted at a cutler's shop near by, for Mr. Cromwell had left his sword there in the morning to be repaired, and now came to call for it. As there was press enough of people buying and testing arms about the door, they were delayed a little, and as they waited, a young gentleman, thrusting a brace of new pistols into his belt, pushed his way through the crowd, mounted a horse a groom held for him, and rode away with great speed.
Mr. Pym looked after him.
"That is a friend of my Lord Strafford," he whispered, "posting to York to warn him to keep from London."
"Has it come to that?" asked Mr. Cromwell in a moved voice. "Is my lord afraid?"