"Ride on, madam," said Mr. Pym sombrely. "Your way is clear."
"I want not your succour," she returned, with great heat and force; "false friend and subtle enemy, I know what you contrive against us!"
"Against you nothing," he replied, "since once I enjoyed your grace and entertainment—and, madam, it was your lord left us, not we him."
"Oh, what a land is this become!" answered the Countess, "when every designing, rebellious knave may endeavour to strike even at the very architects of the realm!"
"Architects of tyranny, madam," said Mr. Pym; "and every plain fellow who can handle a sword may rightly endeavour to strike at them."
"Your presence flouts me," cried Lady Strafford. "Drive on!"
The coach swung forward on the leathers and jolted off down Whitehall, still pursued by a few boys shouting and hooting.
"In the old days when I knew her," said John Pym, "she was a most modest, excellent lady, but now I doubt but that she is proud and blinded even as her lord."
"She seemed to me," replied Mr. Cromwell, "to be not so much as one proud, but as one in a mortal fear."
"She has heard somewhat of this inquiry into Irish affairs, and is off to the King to pray protection for her lord. Poor, silly woman, as if she could prevail against the Commons of England!"