And there began to be whispers about the succession, which hitherto no one had dared name.
It was vaguely believed that His Highness had named him, some while ago, and the sealed paper containing his wishes was at Hampton. Thurloe and the Lord Fauconberg sent there for it, but the paper could not be found; and His Highness' body was fast sinking into eternal slumber, and his spirit escaping them, and they were all confused and amazed at what might be before them.
The faithful Thurloe approached his bed and asked him who was to be his successor.
At which His Highness turned his head and was silent.
"The Lord Richard?" whispered Thurloe, and the Lord Protector was believed to answer, "Yes, yes," but no man could be sure of what he said. Henry Cromwell was absent; the rest of his family were near him, but he seemed to forget them. Only twice he asked intensely for "Robert, Robert, my eldest son."
He fell now into great pains, but with them came great cheerfulness of spirit.
"God is good," he was heard to say—"indeed, He is—God is good—my work is done. Yet God be with His people."
On the eve of the thanksgiving day, which shall never be kept as a thanksgiving day again, save by an oppressed people, secretly in their hearts, the victor of the battles which made the 3rd of September glorious was seen to be very near the end of his restlessness and his pain.
He spoke to himself continually, judging and abasing himself, and his eyes were continually turned upward to that rich canopy and rich ceiling, which was certainly neither covering nor concealment to him who saw the light beyond the palace roof.
His sad, forlorn wife (who saw but dark days ahead of her) besought him to drink and sleep and held out a cup to him.