“Yes, in a few moments I shall be with them.”
The soldier retreated to the door slowly, whilst he said,
“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”
Cromwell, in a little, walked forth alone. The miller looked at his form. It was muscular, but not strong, and well built, but not handsome; but all its movements were expressive of power.
“He will save the nation,” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, “and for all his greatness, he is yet so pious and devout.”
“I could trust that man,” replied Rachel, “but I could not feel any attachment or affection to him. He might perish to-morrow, and yet, but for our country, I would not mourn at his loss.”
The good dame here expressed what was the universal feeling of all Cromwell’s supporters towards him. He had their confidence, but not their affection. His own daughters, at one time, were proud of him, but they were never fond. And in the glowing panegyric of Milton, we can but trace a high admiration of Cromwell.
“Arthur Montressor,” said Mary to herself, “must not belong to Cromwell’s troops, else he would surely have come to see me. He is not false or faithless. Oh! when shall civil war be at an end, and we know a home?”
Cromwell returned an hour before sunset. His step was slow. He was in a quiet contemplative mood, evidently not thinking of war. His head was uncovered, and he allowed the air to breathe its fragrance upon it. He paused at the threshold, as if it were painful to enter a dwelling after having wandered about the vale.
The night was beautiful and still. It was early in the month of May, and the sunshine had all its young summer innocence. In mirth it seemed now to rest upon the little green knolls, and then to retreat to the mountain. The shadows were passing over the white cottage, as if chiding the bright rays which shone within.