"Canst thou deny," cried Mr. Cromwell, "that she and her priests of Baal have ever given pernicious advice to the King? Oh, wretched country that ever had this cursed Frenchwoman set over it!"
"Let the Queen go," said John Pym. "We are not concerned with her, we cannot strike at her; our business is with the King. Compose thyself—I am come to confer with thee."
"I cannot so easily be calm," answered Mr. Cromwell, "when I consider how God's English have been treated—are, at this moment, being tormented and slain!"
"This is the sowing," returned Mr. Pym grimly. "By and by will come the harvest."
"May I be there to help gather it!" cried the Member for Cambridge. "May God preserve me to a little aid in avenging His people."
"The time will come," said John Pym, "'for the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open to their prayers; but the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.'"
Oliver Cromwell dropped his chin on his breast, as his fashion was when deeply moved; but John Pym raised his authoritative face and spoke again.
"At this moment we must consider how this event is like to bear on the issues at Westminster. We must be ready. I do not dare to hold the King responsible for this most horrible work in Ireland, though I fear he will find it hard to clear his name before the popular eye; but this much is proven—he had a plot with the Irish gentry to gain Dublin for himself, and there to raise an army to send against us."
"Aye, the sword," muttered Cromwell, "the power of the sword!"