"May Your Majesty soon find it," he said, in a broken voice, "and live long to enjoy it."
"If it were possible!" murmured Charles. "But we must get to Ireland—it is very needful that we should get to Ireland."
Lord Digby lowered his voice, as if somewhere in this lonely, desolate-looking room a spy of Parliament or army might lurk.
"The preparations are all complete," he said. "It only needs to wait until the commissioners have left the Island."
A little shudder shook the King.
"What will it feel, Digby," he murmured, "to be free again—free!"
Then, as if rousing himself from thoughts that threatened to be overwhelming, he put out his hand and took up a small brown volume tooled in gold, and, turning over the thin pages rough with print, let slip his mind from the leases of care and suffered himself to be distracted by Lucan's Pharsalia.
The mist changed to rain, which slashed at the window; a winter wind disturbed the tapestry and flickered the flames on the deep hearth, which hissed beneath the drops falling down the wide chimney.
Charles, sunk in the deep, worn leather chair, with one thin hand supporting his thin face, the long curls flowing over his breast, gathered consolation from those ancient deeds of melancholy heroism and fated endeavour.
Lord Digby left the room to concert with the few personal attendants left the King about the final arrangements for the King's flight from Newport as soon as the Parliamentarians should have returned to London.