"Then what will the King do?" she insisted.
"Thou art very tender towards the King."
"I am sorry for him, surely. And I have heard thee say—he must have his rights again."
"He hath forfeited his rights," said Cromwell, glooming. "He is a hypocrite."
"Once you were his friend," said Elisabeth Claypole; "is that over? Why, Major Harrison even called you royalist."
"Yes, it is over," returned her father, "and now you may sooner call me republican—a name I did use to hate. The King is not one to be trusted, neither is he fortunate. God is against him, and will not have him raised up again; even as the Lord's judgment went forth against Tyrus, so hath it gone forth against Charles Stewart. What hath God said—'I shall bring thee down with them that descend to the pit—and thou shalt be no more—thou shalt be sought for, but never shalt thou be found!'"
"But what wilt thou do with the tyrant?" asked Mrs. Cromwell.
"He is not my prisoner, nor am I his judge," replied Cromwell, with sudden vehemence. "Ask me not what his fate will be! Ask me not to pity the King—'he that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity, and the rod of his anger shall fail.'"
He crossed to the sideboard and set his glass there.