To him Oliver Cromwell turned eagerly.
"Tell me," he asked, in a voice of intense wistfulness, "is it possible to fall from Grace?"
"Nay," said the pastor, "it is not possible."
"Then," said the dying man, "I am saved, for I know that I was once in Grace."
He clasped his hands, and the family and friends about him, whom he seemed to have forgotten, heard, in the pauses of the wind, his prayer—
"Lord, though I am a miserable and wretched creature, I am in Covenant with Thee through Grace! And I may—I will—come to Thee, for Thy people! Thou hast made me, though very unworthy, a mean instrument to do them some good, and Thee service—many of them have set too high a value on me, others wish and would be glad of my death—Lord, however Thou do dispose of me, continue and go on and do good for them."
His voice rose now like the voice of a well man, almost as strong as the voice that had greeted with a psalm the rising sun before Dunbar.
"Give them consistency of judgment, one heart, and mutual love—and go on to deliver them, and with the work of reformation—and make the Name of Christ glorious in the world. Teach those who look too much on Thy Instruments to depend more upon Thyself. Pardon such as desire to trample on the dust of a poor worm, for they are Thy people too.
"And pardon the folly of this short prayer—even for Jesus Christ's sake. And give us a good night, if it be Thy pleasure. Amen!"
And after this he lay down among his pillows and slept, despite the storm.