With trembling fingers he drew nearer to him a bowl of yellow roses that stood on his desk and nervously pulled at the leaves.
Cromwell did not look at him, but at the peaceful and lovely view of garden and river beyond the oriel window.
"The army," he pursued quietly, giving weight to every word, "would have no trafficking with foreign powers, no bringing of foreign forces, no stirrings and meddlings in Ireland or Scotland, no vengeance taken on any of their number, a free Parliament, and free churches. To a king who could agree to these things—sware to them—on the word of a king, and on that pledge keep them—there would be small difficulty in his coming again to his ancient place and power. Remember these things, Your Majesty; consider and ponder them. I shall come again to consult with you. 'Put thou thy trust in the Lord, and be doing good: dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed—delight thou in the Lord, and He shall give thee thy heart's desire.' Cast thyself on these words, sir, that God hath moved me to say to thee."
He spoke with such earnestness, dignity, such extraordinary conviction that the King's sneer died on his lips, and though his sensation of respect was instantly gone, still it had been there.
"Above all," added Cromwell, "I pray Your Majesty be sincere. If you mislike what I have said, what I have asked of you—bid me not to come again."
The King took this to mean, "Will you deal with me or no?" and he answered without hesitation, for he was well aware of Cromwell's power and prestige.
"Come again and let us talk of these things at leisure. I commonly walk in the galleries in the afternoon. Let me some day have your company."
He rose; a smile softened his haggard face into something of its ancient grace.
"Do not disappoint me of your second coming," he said.
He held out his hand. Cromwell, without hesitation or confusion, kissed it and left.