"Never!" cried Charles fiercely. "Never will I yield! I have sworn that I will defend the Church of England and my rights—even unto death. I will not deal with these rebels save by the sword. The sword? Nay, the halter. I hope, Digby, that God will give me the day when I can see these rogues marched to Tyburn. Thou canst scarcely conceive," he added, with great intensity, "what a hatred I have for them—how my mortifications, my humiliations, my losses, all the loyal blood shed for me cry out for repayment! How I loathe them and their heretical opinions and their canting speech—how I detest them for mine own helplessness!"
He flung himself into the arm-chair beside the hearth, where a feeble fire burnt neglected.
"Hamilton's a prisoner," he said gloomily. "What will they do with my faithful lord? How many noble lives have I not to avenge?"
As he spoke he thought (as he thought often now, too often for his own peace) of Strafford, his first great, awful, and useless sacrifice.
"If it cost my heart's blood I will not submit," he muttered, biting his lip.
But Lord Digby would not so easily relinquish his point—that the Parliament was a surer refuge from the army than Rupert or Ormonde, or any possible ships or possible men either of these Cavaliers might be able to command.
"Fairfax," he reminded the King, "sent Ireton to the House with a remonstrance from the army, protesting against the Parliament dealing with Your Majesty, and even daring to say that you should be brought to trial."
"But the House," replied the King, with a grim smile, "refused to consider these demands of 'armed sectaries.'"
"But the army," persisted Lord Digby, "hath the power."
"I will be free of all of them," cried Charles passionately. "Of the army, of the Parliament, of all their cursed sects and heresies."