The great man dying and the great storm raging became mysteriously connected in the minds of those watching and waiting breathlessly; there were not wanting those who said that it was the Devil come for His Highness, nor those who thought it was the sound of the wings of God's angels, nor those who thought that it was devils and angels both wrestling together.
It was drawing near to that most glorious day for Oliver Cromwell and his cause, the 3rd of September, the anniversary of Dunbar and Worcester, and of the calling of the first Parliament of His Highness—a day of general thanksgivings and triumph to all Puritans.
As the stormy winds rocked Whitehall Palace and rattled at the window out of which Charles Stewart had stepped to die, and at the window of the room where the Lord Protector lay, His Highness rallied from his slumbers and sat upright in his great bed and listened to the tempest, as a soldier might sit up in the dark and listen the night before a battle.
"I think I am the poorest wretch alive," he said, "but I love God, or, rather, am beloved by Him—I am a conqueror and more than a conqueror—'through Christ which strengtheneth me'"—so he repeated again the words which had saved him once, long ago. But as he sat up, hearkening to the blowing winds without, his comfort seemed to go from him.
"It is a fearful thing," he said, "to fall into the hands of the Living God!"
He raised himself up and stretched out his hand towards the wind as if he appealed to something in that tumult outside his palace.
"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God!" he cried again.
So high and loud the wind howled that those about him shivered as if they feared to be struck by some supernatural force; but Cromwell sat erect, and again cried out, "I say it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God!"
One of the chaplains praying in the adjoining chamber heard His Highness' raised and agonized voice and entered the sick-room.