“None in the least. He is honest and kind.”
“Ah! Do not dwell too much on his kindness in your thoughts, nor trust anything to his honesty. Make it your business to know where he keeps the King’s letter, and when it is once in your possession speed at once to Broughton Castle and deliver it into my hands. I will exchange for it full pardon and a Captain’s commission for your brother, and if you have further to ask my ear will be inclined toward you.”
“I shall have nothing to ask except that this Scot be allowed to pass unscathed to his home.”
Cromwell gazed intently at her for a moment, and she returned his look clear-eyed and unabashed. He replied slowly: “If I were willing to harm the Scot the case would be much simpler than it is. You left your home thinking only of your brother, but now the stranger occupies at least a part of your mind.”
“It is natural we should feel compassion for those we injure.”
A short time before the General had intimated that her tongue was an unruly member, and for a moment it seemed that her impulsive inexperience in dealing with men was about to wreck her plans, for now even the girl was shrewd enough to see that she was sowing distrust of herself in her opponent’s mind by incautious utterances. Cromwell leaned back in his chair, and a look of rapt meditation crept over his features. The girl saw she had vanished from his vision, and that the grim man was alone with himself, inwardly questioning his thoughts and demanding an answer. She realized intuitively that once this answer were given, nothing she could say or do would turn him from the purpose decided upon.
“O Youth, Youth!” he murmured, “how unstable thou art! A broken reed; undependable! Give me the middle-aged; the steadfast. Youth is the flash of the burning flax; middle age the steady flame of a consuming fire. Is it not better to imprison this man secretly or hang him openly? He is a convicted spy; every law of war will uphold me. If I grasp the thistle it may sting me, but I shall uproot it. Yet——yet, why at this time bring upon me the brawling Scots? Could I be but sure——the brother risks all at the supreme moment and falls as the fool falleth. Why should she be more firm? Were I sure of her——”
“Sir, you can be sure of me,” cried the girl in a panic, terror-stricken at the sight his muttered phrases conjured before her.
“What! What! What! What say you?” Cromwell shook himself as a man rudely awakened from sleep.
“I say you can be sure of me. I shall not falter.”