"Thou art all of a fatalist," remarked Harrison grimly; "there is no ruffling thee."
The Lieutenant-General picked up his gloves and hat and riding-stock.
"Can I alter God's decrees that I should fret because of them?" he answered earnestly. "I am but the flail in the hand of the thresher. The Lord's will be done on me and on His Majesty, who are both the instruments of His unsearchable judgments on these lands."
He saluted the General respectfully, but left without further speech. He might call himself the instrument of the Lord: it was clear that he did not consider himself the instrument of Sir Thomas Fairfax.
He seemed, indeed, quietly but fully conscious that he and he alone could move the army (which at present still held the balance of power), and that he, therefore, and no other was become the arbiter of these realms.
When he left the guard-room he sent his servant for his son-in-law, Henry Ireton, who soon joined him; the two mounted and, through the October sun, rode to Hampton Court.
They exchanged little conversation on the way, partly because each thoroughly understood the other, and partly because their minds were full of busy thoughts.
The King, who was still treated with formality and respect, with his own servants and his own friends about him, made no delay in seeing them. He had lately had several interviews with Cromwell, with Fairfax, with Ireton, and walking about Wolsey's groves and alleys had discussed with them, through more than one summer and autumn afternoon, the prospects before England.
It was in the garden, in one of the beautiful walks of yellowing oak and beech that sloped to the river, that he received them now.
As usual his manner was gentle and gracious, as usual he kept his seat (he was resting on a wooden bench) and did not uncover, though the two Generals doffed their hats: power still paid this respect to tradition.