“To congratulate me — what for?”
“On the capture of Charles Stuart. You are now master of
England.”
“I was much more really so two hours ago.”
“How so, general?”
“Because England had need of me to take the tyrant, and now
the tyrant is taken. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, sir.” said Mordaunt.
“What is his bearing?”
Mordaunt hesitated; but it seemed as though he was
constrained to tell the truth.
“Calm and dignified,” said he.
“What did he say?”
“Some parting words to his friends.”
“His friends!” murmured Cromwell. “Has he any friends?” Then
he added aloud, “Did he make any resistance?”
“No, sir, with the exception of two or three friends every
one deserted him; he had no means of resistance.”
“To whom did he give up his sword?”
“He did not give it up; he broke it.”
“He did well; but instead of breaking it, he might have used
it to still more advantage.”
There was a momentary pause.
“I heard that the colonel of the regiment that escorted
Charles was killed,” said Cromwell, staring very fixedly at
Mordaunt.
“Yes, sir.”
“By whom?” inquired Cromwell.
“By me.”
“What was his name?”
“Lord Winter.”
“Your uncle?” exclaimed Cromwell.
“My uncle,” answered Mordaunt; “but traitors to England are
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no longer members of my family.”
Cromwell observed the young man a moment in silence, then,
with that profound melancholy Shakespeare describes so well:
“Mordaunt,” he said, “you are a terrible servant.”
“When the Lord commands,” said Mordaunt, “His commands are
not to be disputed. Abraham raised the knife against Isaac,
and Isaac was his son.”
“Yes,” said Cromwell, “but the Lord did not suffer that
sacrifice to be accomplished.”
“I have looked around me,” said Mordaunt, “and I have seen
neither goat nor kid caught among the bushes of the plain.”
Cromwell bowed. “You are strong among the strong, Mordaunt,”
he said; “and the Frenchmen, how did they behave?”
“Most fearlessly.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured Cromwell; “the French fight well; and
if my glass was good and I mistake not, they were foremost
in the fight.”
“They were,” replied Mordaunt.
“After you, however,” said Cromwell.
“It was the fault of their horses, not theirs.”
Another pause
“And the Scotch?”
“They kept their word and never stirred,” said Mordaunt.
“Wretched men!”
“Their officers wish to see you, sir.”
“I have no time to see them. Are they paid?”
“Yes, to-night.”
“Let them be off and return to their own country, there to
hide their shame, if its hills are high enough; I have
nothing more to do with them nor they with me. And now go,
Mordaunt.”
“Before I go,” said Mordaunt, “I have some questions and a
favor to ask you, sir.”
“A favor from me?”
Mordaunt bowed.
“I come to you, my leader, my head, my father, and I ask
you, master, are you contented with me?”
Cromwell looked at him with astonishment. The young man
remained immovable.
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“Yes,” said Cromwell; “you have done, since I knew you, not
only your duty, but more than your duty; you have been a
faithful friend, a cautious negotiator, a brave soldier.”
“Do you remember, sir it was my idea, the Scotch treaty, for
giving up the king?”
“Yes, the idea was yours. I had no such contempt for men
before.”
“Was I not a good ambassador in France?”
“Yes, for Mazarin has granted what I desire.”
“Have I not always fought for your glory and interests?”
“Too ardently, perhaps; it is what I have just reproached
you for. But what is the meaning of all these questions?”
“To tell you, my lord, that the moment has now arrived when,
with a single word, you may recompense all these services.”
“Oh!” said Oliver, with a slight curl of his lip, “I forgot
that every service merits some reward and that up to this
moment you have not been paid.”
“Sir, I can take my pay at this moment, to the full extent
of my wishes.”
“How is that?”
“I have the payment under my hand; I almost possess it.”
“What is it? Have they offered you money? Do you wish a