"He was a child," replied Cromwell, with infinite tenderness, with infinite regret. "A little, useless child. Dying so, he remains a child—never higher than my shoulder. My eldest born. Oliver laughed when he did go, for joy to die in God's service, but Robert wept. Ay, they at Felsted told me he wept because I was not there to take his hand in the sharpness of his passing. Oh, that went to my heart, my innermost heart ... but God saved me."
The young Elisabeth returned, followed by the servant with the two branched candlesticks of brass which stood on the black polished table, where they reflected their full shining length.
With a shudder the Lieutenant-General roused himself and turned to face the room.
"What hast thou been doing?" asked Elisabeth Claypole when the maid had gone.
"It would not please thee to know," he answered sombrely.
Now the room was lit she noticed his pallor, his heavy air.
"Thou art tired, father," she cried.
"Ay—tired—tired—bring me a glass of wine, dearest." He turned round again to the fire and said abruptly, "There hath been a mutiny in the army. A rebellious meeting at Corkbush field—these levellers it was—but I did stamp it out; we must have no disaffection in the army."
"A meeting?" exclaimed his daughter, taking a bell-mouthed glass from the sideboard; "but it is ended—how?"
"They drew lots," replied Cromwell, "and one was shot. One Arnald—a brave man."