“All”—repeated Cromwell, fixing his eye on young Lee. “Yes, young sir, your conduct has devoted to death thy father, thy kinsman, and the stranger that was in thine household. Such wreck hast thou brought on thy father’s house.”
“My father, too—my aged father!” said Albert, looking upward, and endeavouring to raise his hands in the same direction, which was prevented by his bonds. “The Lord’s will be done!”
“All this havoc can be saved, if,” said the General, “thou wilt answer one question—Where is the young Charles Stewart, who was called King of Scotland?”
“Under Heaven’s protection, and safe from thy power,” was the firm and unhesitating answer of the young royalist.
“Away with him to prison!” said Cromwell; “and from thence to execution with the rest of them, as malignants taken in the fact. Let a courtmartial sit on them presently.”
“One word,” said young Lee, as they led him from the room. “Stop, stop,” said Cromwell, with the agitation of renewed hope—“let him be heard.”
“You love texts of Scripture,” said Albert—“Let this be the subject of your next homily—‘Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?’”
“Away with him,” said the General; “let him die the death.—I have said it.”
As Cromwell spoke these words, his aide-de-camp observed that he became unwontedly pale.
“Your Excellency is overtoiled in the public service,” said Pearson; “a course of the stag in the evening will refresh you. The old knight hath a noble hound here, if we can but get him to hunt without his master, which may be hard, as he is faithful, and”—