Hitherto John Pym had not looked upon Oliver Cromwell as other than an able and enthusiastic lieutenant; he had ranked him below men of the intellectual calibre and fine culture of Hampden and Falkland, and though he had never doubted his willingness in the cause of freedom, he had not given much thought to his capacity. But lately—when Cromwell had fired at the King's appointment of the obnoxious priests, when he had spoken by his side for the exclusion of the bishops from Parliament, when he had seconded the attack on the Prayer Book—Pym had noticed in him the gleam of rare and splendid qualities.
And as he looked at him now, a man of homely simplicity in appearance, yet conveying, by some magic of the spirit, a splendour and a force such as is found once among tens of thousands, his heart leapt with a deep inward joy.
"Thou art very fit to challenge the King," he said quietly.
The Calvinist was in no way moved by this.
"I may be an instrument," he said, "but the way is confused and troubled; we draw near the whirlpool, and unless God make Himself manifest, how are we to avoid being sucked into destruction?"
He began to pace the room with uneven and agitated steps.
"I would not be the first to draw the sword!" he cried; "but if the Lord make it law and putteth it into my hands, shall I not strike? Oh, Mr. Pym, war is an awful thought, and we hang on the edge of dreadful conclusions; but is this the moment to turn back or pause? 'Teach me, O Lord, the way of Thy statute, and I will keep it to the end! Give me understanding and I will keep Thy law; yea, I will keep it with my whole heart!'"
He paused by the farther wall, resting one hand against the wood panelling, and with the other wiping his brow and lips with a plain cambric handkerchief.
John Pym sat motionless in the great arm-chair, leaning forward a little and looking intently and with a kind of quiet eagerness at the younger man.