“A very sensible advice,” muttered Rachel, who was not altogether pleased with the lowly posture of her husband.
“Didst thou pass my troops?” inquired Cromwell, “and how were they employed?”
“They were listening to the exhortations of a preacher, and the very horses even seemed attentive, for they stood silent.”
“How different,” exclaimed the dame, “from all other soldiers, who make the sabbath a day of wanton sport. They curse and swear like the king himself. They stay at the wine-cup till their eyes are red, and their great toes cannot balance the bulk above them. Put a cap sideways on a monkey, teach him to say ‘damn,’ to look and be wicked; take him to the king, and get him knighted, and he is a good cavalier. Knight him with a sword! Bring him to me, and I should do it to better purpose with a rough stick!”
Cromwell smiled at this ebullition of feeling. Throughout all his life he was never known to laugh.
“You speak warmly, dame,” said he. “But since a sword is the only weapon of knighthood, they shall have one. Here,” and he pointed to his own, lying sheathed on the casement, “is the sword of Gideon. That sword has been blessed as often as the food which I partake of. But, miller, thou wert at church to-day. ’Tis well; yet I have a few things to say against thee; I would thou wert either cold or hot.”
Rachel was looking in at the large pot on the fire, in which the pudding was boiling, as she thought, too slowly. Her temper was provoked, and she muttered, as she raised the pudding on the end of a stick;
“I would thou wert either cold or hot.”
“I have a few things to say against thee, my trusty miller,” repeated Cromwell.
“A few things to say against Hans,” exclaimed Rachel with much warmth, while she left the pot, and faced round to Cromwell. “Take care what thou sayest against Hans!”