“That will I not,” returned the clergyman stoutly, “and all your tyranny cannot compel me to do so.”
“The wench,” continued Cromwell, unmoved, “you already know. She is Frances Wentworth, daughter of the late Earl of Strafford. The groom stands here before you; William Armstrong, a Scot, who has but lately carried a message from the man Charles, at Oxford, to Traquair on the Border. I should hang him, but he prefers the noose you can tie to the one my hands might prepare.”
The old clergyman looked at Armstrong with an interest he had not displayed on entering the room.
“Have you, then, seen his gracious Majesty, the King?”
“Yes, reverend sir, and but a few days ago.”
“And carried his message safe through these rebellious hordes now desecrating the land?”
“There was some opposition, but I won through, thanks to my horse.”
“And thanks, no doubt, to your own loyal courage. God bless you, sir, and God save the King. The lady you have chosen is worthy of you, as you of her. In God’s shattered temple, I will marry you, if its walls remain.”
When the colonel came in with Frances, the girl turned a frightened look upon the group as she saw who stood there.
“Oh,” she cried impulsively, “I told you not to come.”