Oliver Cromwell looked over the deep, bright, green leaves towards Whitehall which lay bathed in the gold and amber light of the sinking sun.
"Hark!" he said, "hark!"
"Thou hast sharp ears," said Mr. Pym. "I hear nothing."
"I hear," returned the other, "the citizens of London rising——"
John Pym listened intently. A distant murmurous sound was soon audible enough, a hoarse sound of human shouting, a blend of human voices with clash of weapons and the tramp of feet.
"'Tis the train-bands fighting the apprentices, and those of the baser sort, belike," said Mr. Pym. "Yesterday they were like to have burnt down Lambeth Palace when they discovered His Grace had again fled."
Mr. Cromwell continued to gaze towards the end of the street, across which several people were beginning to run, attracted by the now common event of a street riot.
"The Lord is leading the nation through bitter ways," he observed. "And I do see ahead of us a time of much trouble, for if His Majesty is stubborn, these," he pointed down the street to the hurrying crowds, "will fight."
"Parliament," replied Mr. Pym, "will settle all grievances without bringing the mobile into it. Mr. Cromwell, to-morrow I will go to the Bar of the House of Lords and impeach the King's favourite of high treason, and there will be a many following me. Wilt thou be one of them?"
Oliver Cromwell turned swiftly round to face his friend.