“You are a brave, blessed boy, and you shall not go hungry any more,” said little Anna Temple, forgetting her childish timidity; and going up close to him, she gazed earnestly and lovingly in his face. “Stay here, and we will all love you, because you have no sister—wont we, Mary?” said the child, in the warmth and innocency of her heart.
“Yes, darling,” replied she, “and he shall go to school, if he wishes, with you and Robert, and Eugene.”
The heart of Francois Waldo was nigh to bursting, as the gentle accents of the child fell on his ear—so like the tones of his own Christine, which had so often gladdened him in their happy home—and he bowed his head and wept for the first time since his bereavement; and every member of that lordly household wept in sympathy.
Months went by, and the Vaudois youth was still an inmate of the Protector’s family—a calm, intellectual, devoted student, destined as a preacher of that faith for which his kindred had suffered martyrdom. He went not back to his native valley, for here he might better fit himself for the work of the glorious mission he felt desirous of fulfilling; and Cromwell had been true to his word—the arm of oppression had been unnerved, and peace and plenty secured to the faithful survivors.
Anna Temple was the only earthly being that withdrew his thoughts for a moment from the prosecution of his great and holy purpose; but when her soft blue eyes pleaded, as they often did, with her lips, for an hour’s relaxation and amusement in the park or garden, he would sometimes unbind the mental chain for a little space, and go forth with spirit unfettered and free. Then he would talk to the fair child of his lost home—of the icy palaces of the Alps, pure as spirit-haunts—of the wild-flowers springing from their rocky beds, and of the holy starlight of the mountains, until the enthusiastic creature would regard Francois as a being of purer mould, more spiritual and good, than any other person with whom she held companionship.
And thus years passed; Francois still saw in the beautiful Anna Temple, or fancied he saw, the image of his lost Christine; and the young girl read in the large, soul-earnest eyes of the Vaudois student, the first mysterious leaf of womanhood—and they were both happy.
Meantime a shadow was darkening the sky of England—a storm-cloud, destined to shake from its foundation her political fabric, and place another Stuart on the throne. Cromwell, the Protector—the hero of the seventeenth century, was summoned to repose! Bravely had he borne his armor on the great battle-ground of life, and his valiant heart had not fainted in the heat of the conflict. The humble plebian had dared boldly to take up arms against his country’s foes in defiance of his king; and subsequently, at the same country’s call, and in defense of her liberties, with the Book of God in his hand, and a psalm on his lips, to affix his signature to the death-warrant of the sovereign traitor. Ever, where duty called, was he found foremost in the ranks of the faithful, battling for the right; and when in the maturity of manhood the sun of glory brightened his gray hairs with the splendor of royalty, he turned coldly away from the crown of a king, preferring the simple title of Protector of the Commonwealth. His sword was still girded against the Lord’s enemies, when a voice from above summoned him from earthly glory to heavenly rest; and on the third of September, one thousand six hundred and fifty-eight, Oliver Cromwell stood girded for his last conflict.
Historians have recorded that as a fearful night when the Lord Protector lay struggling with the final enemy. Wildly wailed the wind around that earthly palace; but the eye of the dying was on the eternal mansion, and so amid the fury of the elements, the great spirit of Cromwell achieved its final victory.
A loud wail burst from the whole army of Puritans, for well they knew there was none powerful like him to cope with their adversaries. The master-spirits among their opponents would not reverence his son, because the father had held them in check; and the inefficient Richard Cromwell had nothing to claim for himself. He beheld the country rent by faction, and having no power to quell insubordination, and, moreover, fearing the result to himself, he quietly resigned his Protectorate, and all that had been gained to England by Cromwell’s life, was lost in his death. Whither would now flee the fifty-nine judges who had decreed Charles Stuart to the scaffold, or where the friends of the Protector find safety?
——