University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

During the first part of the night which followed
this aggression of the monarch, the city was all tumult
and confusion—men running to and fro, in
crowds or singly, conversing eagerly with white
and panic-stricken visages—women, increasing,
with their shrill and anxious voices, the wild din—
and children, long hours past the wonted time
when they should have been sleeping peacefully in
their warm chambers, wandering to and fro, with
looks of frightened and inquiring wonderment cast
upward toward the agitated features of their parents;
but the necessity of rest will conquer even
the quickest and most moving causes of excitement;
and ere the stars began to pale in the cold,
frosty sky, the thoroughfares of the metropolis
were quiet and deserted as though no turbulence
of party strife had ever interrupted their security
and silence. The morning broke in its due season,
and the only thing observable in the demeanour of
the groups who gradually filled the streets, passing
this way or that, as men engaged in their accustomed
avocations—in their pursuits of profit or of
pleasure—was an air of general and pervading

sternness—not merely gloom, but resolute and
dark determination. There was no light or trifling
conversation! no jests! no laughter! Whatever
of discourse seemed absolutely needful was
couched in brief and pithy sentences, and uttered
in a tone not puritanic nor morose, but sad, and at
the same time full of energy, grave, and severe,
and wellnigh awful in its character. Then, as the
day advanced, the members of the lower house
might be seen hurrying toward St. Stephen's—
some mounted, some on foot, but all accompanied
by at least one retainer; and these were greeted
severally by the multitude with shouts of approbation,
or with groans of censure and reviling, accordingly
as they were known for men of popular
or loyal principles. Meanwhile, in a small chamber
of the palace at Whitehall, richly adorned with
painted walls and splendid oaken carvings, and
overlooking, from its lofty casements, the street
through which the crowds were flowing toward the
parliament, sat Henrietta, with a single lady, and
a page awaiting, near the door of the apartment,
the pleasure of his royal mistress. A frame filled
with embroidery stood before her, at which it seemed
she had but recently been occupied; though now
she held a volume of some French romance, from
which, however, her eyes glanced so often toward
the windows, attracted by the mingled clamours of
applause and hatred, rising at times even until they
penetrated her reluctant ears, as to denote that little
of her mind was given to the wild, witty author
who apparently engaged her. Her eyes were full
of bright and keen excitement; a hectic flush glowed
in a spot of vivid crimson high up on either
cheek, and her hands trembled with a visible and
nervous agitation. Her conversation, also, if the
light and frivolous sentences that fell from her lips
at intervals merited such a title, was broken, interrupted,
and evidently embarrassed by some internal
conflict which she hesitated to disclose. For
a considerable time she struggled to maintain a
semblance of composure; but, as the hours passed
onward, her trepidation became more and more apparent.
At every step that sounded in the long corridors,
at every closing of a distant door, she started;
and once or twice, when the rattle of a carriage
or the clatter of a horse's hoofs appeared to
cease before the gates, she actually hurried to the
balcony and gazed abroad into the town, exposing
herself, as if unwittingly, to the rude stare of the
transient multitudes, who failed to greet her with
the smallest tokens of affection or respect. Twice
or thrice, ere the bells chimed ten, the page in
waiting was despatched to learn whether no tidings
had arrived from parliament—and each time he returned
the bearer of a negative, a peevish exclamation
of disgust escaped her, not unnoticed by the
lady who attended on her privacy. At length, peal
after peal, the steeples rang forth ten, and then,
with an exulting smile, as though she could contain
herself no longer—“Rejoice!” she cried, in
high, triumphant tones—“Rejoice, my Carlisle—
for ere now the king is master in his states—ay!
and his enemies are all in custody!”

“His enemies, your grace?” exclaimed the patriotic
lady, to whom, with indiscretion equalled
only by that of the rash, doting husband whom she
thus betrayed, she had divulged her secret—“His
enemies?”

“His enemies, said I?” returned the queen, in
accents sharper than before. “In truth, then, I
spake wrongly! His traitors, rather! His false,
rebellious, and blood-thirsty traitors—by God's
help, now his captives—Hampden, and Pym, and

all their rabble rout!” And, as she spoke—sweeping
across the room with such a port as would have
well beseemed a Britomart striding upon the prostrate
necks of Romans, in their turn subdued and
humbled—and entering again the balcony, she cast
a wistful glance down the long avenue. But
scarcely had she turned her back before the high
born lady whom she had addressed hastily tore a
leaf from out her tablets, traced on it some half
dozen words, and pleading, on the queen's return,
some casual indisposition, quietly left the chamber.
Ten minutes had not well elapsed ere she re-entered
it—nor would the change in her demeanour
have escaped the close and subtle watchfulness of
her imperial mistress, had not that royal lady been
herself perturbed too deeply to investigate the
mood of others. The Countess of Carlisle's features,
cast in the purest and the calmest mould of
conscious aristocracy, had worn throughout the
morning an expression of grave feminine anxiety,
and her broad, placid eye had followed, with a
quiet yet observing scrutiny, every unwonted
movement, every nervous start, and every change
of colour that had resulted from the queen's excitement;
nor had she tardily discovered that some
dread crisis was at hand—though what that crisis
was, not having been a party to the councils of the
regal circle on the previous night, she might not
even guess. The thoughtless words, however, of
the fickle-minded Henrietta had given her at once
the clew, which her quick apprehension followed,
as it were, intuitively through all its labyrinth;
and she at once availed herself of the discovery she
had made with a degree of cool and present courage,
that, even in that age of prompt and daring
action, failed not to wake the admiration which it
merited. Now, however, when the hardening excitement
had passed over—when the nerves, which
had been strung so tensely to the performance of
her duty, were no longer kept in play—when she
knew that her trusty messenger was on his way,
and past the palace gates already, bearing the
tidings of approaching insult—outrage—and peril
—to the liberties of England's parliament, the majesty
of England's laws, she for the first time trembled,
not for herself, but for her country! She for
the first time began to fear that she might be too
late, and that the blow might have already fallen,
ere her warning should arouse the destined victims
to perception of their danger. Her face was paler
than its wont, and her blue eye, so tranquil in its
usual expression, was slightly anxious. Yet it was
but a little while that her uncertainty continued—
for, ere an hour had elapsed, the queen, whose passions
became more and more enkindled with every
moment of suspense, sending another messenger
to learn whether the houses were in session still,
received for answer that they had just adjourned
until one of the clock, and that the members even
now were passing to their lodgings.

“Heavens!” cried Henrietta, almost in despair
at this unpleasing and most unexpected news—
“Just Heavens! can it be that he hath failed me!”
and casting herself down at length upon a couch,
covered her head with a thick veil, and waited, in
an agonized and speechless fit of mingled hope and
terror, the result of her intriguing machinations.

In the meantime the house, which had assembled
at the usual hour, not altogether unexpectant
of some farther outrage on their privileges, had indeed,
on receiving the well-timed announcement
from the Countess of Carlisle, upon the instant
voted an adjournment; that they might better so
concert plans of resistance to that lawless violence

which they were now too well assured their sovereign
had resolved to perpetrate. It was at this
moment, when all were hastening homeward, that
Ardenne observed Cromwell hurrying to and fro
among the leading favourers both of the popular
and puritanic principles, and whispering to one a
word or two, then passing to another—and, as he
gazed upon his compressed lip, and eye flashing
with almost savage pleasure, he felt, even more
strongly than at any prior moment, the conviction
that this wily person was indeed engaged more intimately
in directing the important springs of party
action, than could have been supposed from the inferior
part which he was wont to play in its ostensible
and open movements. He knew not at the
time, any more than four fifths of the house, what
were the secret news which had so suddenly produced
adjournment; and had, indeed, himself voted
against a measure which he could not comprehend,
although the private hints of Oliver and Hampden
had not escaped his notice; nor could he now conceive
the meaning of the strong excitement which
kindled all who listened to the words of Cromwell,
as it were, with an electric spark. Not long, however,
was he destined to remain in ignorance; for,
with his harsh features even more than commonly
inflamed and ruddy, the puritan approached him.

“Ha!” he said, in a loud, sharp whisper—“Ha!
Master Ardenne; how is this, that you, to whom we
confidently looked for succour, should, in this strait
and peril, have turned against us, consorting with
the men of Belial?”

“I know not, Master Cromwell,” Ardenne replied—“I
know not, in good truth, to what you do
allude; nor have I heard of any strait or peril. I
saw, indeed, that you and Master Hampden were
desirous I should vote for this adjournment; but

seeing no cause wherefore, nor being, so far as I
knew it, your follower or pledged supporter, assuredly
I deemed it best for mine own honour to
abide by the poor dictates of mine own opinion.”

“Call it you then no strait,” asked Oliver, with
a dark sneer upon his lip—“no strait nor peril, that
Charles Stuart should dare come hither with his
accursed cavaliers—with his lewd yeomen and
rakehelly pensioners—seeking out whom they may
devour—having their swords new-whetted, and
their hearts a-fire, to shed the blood of the saints—
should dare come hither—hither, within these privileged,
time-honoured walls—to lay his violent, tyrannical
hands on those with whose salt only we
are savoured?”

“What mean you, sir?—speak out!” cried Ardenne.
“Will he indeed do this? Can he be so
infatuated—so insane?”

“Will Charles Stuart dare it?” said the other;
“say rather what he will not dare, if we, the watchers
and the guardians sitting on the tower, yea! on
the house-top, to give note of coming wo, blow not
the trumpet through the land. Yea! will he come,
and that right shortly—yea! will he come, and if
our hearts be not the stronger—and our arms too,
if need there be—will trample down the liberties
of England unto everlasting!”

“Never! no, never!” exclaimed Edgar, vehemently
moved—“No, never shall he do so! never
while I—if none beside—have sword to wield, and
hand with which to wield it.”

“Ay! is it so?” returned the other, his whole
face blazing out with a triumphant ecstasy—“Ay!
is it so? and would you draw the carnal sword if
it were needed?”

“Would I?” cried Ardenne—“would I unsheath
the sword to guard these holy walls from desecration?

Would I uplift my arm against the hireling
ministers of lawless and despotic violence?—ay,
were those ministers ten thousand sworded spirits!”

“Then fare thee well,” cried Oliver—“then
fare thee well, and hold fast to thy good resolve,
while I go wake the rest to a like sense; above all,
be thou in thy place when we again assemble, and
then call thou me fool and liar, an' thou see not
great things!”

The interval passed speedily away, consumed
in wise and seemly preparation. Notice was despatched
to the lord mayor and corporation of the
threatened danger; the citizens were all admonished
to stand upon their guard; and members
were sent down to the Temple and the Inns of
Court to warn the students that the house was well
aware how they had been already tampered with;
and to command they should not come, on any plea,
to Westminster; and, ere the time appointed, the
house was crowded. Edgar was in his place
among the first; and as he saw the five obnoxious
members calmly resume their seats, as though no
peril threatened them, a mingled sentiment of admiration
and regret thrilled to his heart at the idea,
that, if indeed the king, with his wild, dissolute attendants,
should forcibly attempt to seize them,
they surely would resist, and but too probably be
slaughtered on the very spot which they had made
to ring so often with their proud, patriotic eloquence.
As he thus thought, a new impression
shot with the speed of light into his mind—“If
they be absent—if they be absent when he come—
the fearful consequences may be perchance averted,
which otherwise must, beyond doubt, result
from letting loose a band of reckless soldiery to
rush in, sword in hand, on gentlemen armed likewise,

and almost unanimous to guard their liberties
with life.” And on the instant he arose, and
in a few words, powerful and manly, moved that
the house should grant permission to those members
to withdraw themselves, lest tumult, and perhaps
even worse than tumult, fall of it. “I second
it,” cried Cromwell, starting to his feet—“I second
the most honourable member's motion. Let them
withdraw them straightway to the city until this
tyranny be overpast.” Without a single voice or
vote dissentient, the question then was carried;
and the house gave permission that they might retire;
and, at solicitation from their friends, they instantly
departed. Scarce had the hurry and confusion
consequent on their withdrawal ceased, ere
a dull, trampling noise was heard without, as of a
powerful band of men; a word to halt was given,
and for a while the sound was hushed, the members
sitting stern and silent in their places, disdaining
to show any sign either of wrath or terror.
Again the sounds were heard ascending the great
staircase; and now the clink of steel, as the broad
blades of partisan or halberd clashed together—and
now a shout, “Fall on! Fall on!” mixed with the
shuffling tramp of feet, the jingling of scabbards,
and all the bustle that accompanies a sudden and
disordered march. Nearer and nearer came the
tumult—the lobby was already filled, to judge from
the increasing clatter, with armed intruders; and
now the din of grounded arms rang audibly upon
the ears of the undaunted counsellors. Then for
the first time was a show of passion manifested
among the younger gentlemen—a dozen, at the
least, impetuously started to their feet, and not a
few grasped, with an energy that proved how fearlessly
they would have used them, the hilts of the
long rapiers which all of gentle birth at that time
carried. A single word, however, from the speaker
of the house—a single cry of order, sufficed to bring
them peacefully into their places. But there they
sat, with eyes that actually lightened with strong
indignation, and with that fiery aspect of the gladiator,
which marked how rapturously they would
have plunged into the fiercest conflict. At this instant
was the door thrown open, and a messenger
sent in, who reverentially enough informed the
house that the king was at the door, and that the
speaker was commanded to sit still, with the mace
lying on the board before him. Still not one word
was spoken—not a whisper—not a breath, nor
murmur, through that spacious hall!—and every
man sat fast, with head unmoved, and eyes fixed
sternly straight before him; as if they did not so
much as vouchsafe to cast a glance, still less a
thought, toward the violator of their rights. Had
there been aught of riot or confusion—had there
been aught of armed and passionate resistance—
nay, had there been any fear, or doubt, or wavering,
it then had been an easier task for the misguided
king to carry out his frantic and destructive
purpose. But hard it is, and most revolting to all
human feelings, to outrage and assault where there
is neither terror nor resistance. It was perhaps a
minute after the messenger retired, before aught
new disturbed the silence that prevailed unbroken
beneath the vaulted roof—a minute, fraught with
the thronged sensations of unnumbered years—a
minute, that seemed longer than a life to every patriot
seated there, as gravely steadfast as those senators
of early Rome, who waited in their robes of
dignity, and on their curule chairs, the moment
when the Gallic horde should pour out on their
white, unshrinking heads the cups of massacre
and vengeance. Then came a quick, irregular
tread, that readily betokened, by its uncertain time,
the irresolution and anxiety that were at work
within the breast of him who was approaching.
“Enter not, any of ye, on your lives!” was uttered
in the harsh voice of the king, before his person
came in view—an order understood by all who
heard, as it was doubtless meant by him who uttered
it, to be words, empty words, and spoken for
effect! Then, leaning on the shoulder of the palsgrave,
Charles Stuart advanced! Those who stood
nearest to his person might have seen a momentary
pause—a brief, involuntary hesitation—a reluctance,
hardly, perhaps, acknowledged to himself, to cross
what was to be the Rubicon of all his future fortunes;
but so short was the pause, so small the
effort it required to conquer that reluctance, that it
would seem indeed as if—according to the classic
proverb—destined already to destruction, he were
deserted by his sanity of intellect. Perhaps he had
expected fear—abject and tame submission!—had
supposed that he should stride in triumph, unopposed,
and sued to on the bended knee, through
that magnificent assemblage! Perhaps he had
expected anger, indignation, and defiance! But
now, as he looked up those lines of crowded
benches, and met no glance of recognition—encountered
no full front either of wrath or scorn—
but caught alone, row behind row, those stern and
masculine profiles, composed, severe, and passionless—profiles,
averted less in resentment than in
proud, contemptuous sorrow—his wayward spirit
for a moment's space recoiled, and he half wished
the perilous step untaken. It was but for the
twinkling of an eye, however, that his rash mood
of obstinacy failed him; for, without a quiver of
his nerves, a change of his dark features, he strode
across the threshold, about a pace before his foreign
kinsman. The Earl of Roxborough, a tall
and powerful man, armed, somewhat more than
commonly, with a long military sword and heavy
poniard at his belt, had followed close upon his
master's footsteps, until he also stood upon the
threshold; he crossed it not, however, but stood
there, leaning with his whole weight against the
door, which opened outwardly, so that it would
have been impossible for any from within the house
to close it—his right hand resting, as if carelessly,
upon the pommel of his war-sword, and his left
twirling, with a gesture of unbridled insolence, his
long mustaches—while many a fierce, licentious
countenance might be seen glaring from behind
him on the conservators of their country's freedom
with a wild and wolfish aspect of malignant hatred.
The king himself, attired as usual in a plain garb
of sable velvet, wearing no weapon but an ordinary
walking-sword, and carrying in his right hand, together
with his staff, the dark-plumed beaver which
he had doffed on entering, stalked coolly up the
house—the palsgrave following slowly, and, as it
seemed, with a half timid and reluctant step. Still
all was silence!—silence so profound, that, save the
heavy footsteps of the monarch, not a sound could
be perceived—unless it were when from without
some weapon-clang was heard, or some rude threat
or grisly imprecation was muttered in the antechamber
by the desperate attendants of a Lunsford
or a Digby. The face of Charles, grave and even
sorrowful by nature, was something paler than its
wont; but with that sort of paleness which conveys
no thought of cowardice or trembling, but of resolve
immoveable and icy. His mouth was firmly
closed, but not compressed, nor showing aught of
effort! His eye, calm, searching, cold—but keen
and hard as iron! His nostril only of his features
gave token of emotion, or of any feeling hotter than
determination; for it was dilated, wide, and slightly
quivering! Yet was his hand steady as the columns
which upheld the roof above him, and his
stride, now that he stood among his lieges—however
it had been irregular and hasty ere he entered
—was measured, long, and equal.

As he advanced along the floor, he turned his
head from side to side, perusing, with deliberate
and steady glance, the lineaments of every member
whom he passed; and if when at a distance not
one eye had sought him, so when he now stood
close beside them not one eye avoided him. Each,
as Charles came into his line of direct vision, met
his hard gaze with an unblenching and unloving
brow; for not one man—even of those the most devoted
to his will, of those who would have served
him at that moment, who afterward did serve him
with their whole hearts and lives—but was disgusted,
angered, full of deep sorrow, almost of despair.
Little there was, however, of the stronger
and more stormy passions painted upon the brows
of those who sat thus fearlessly, braving the temper
of a king whose wrath was no less lasting and
vindictive than it was hot and sudden. The expression
that prevailed most largely was of mingled
aspect, half pity, half defiance. But when
the tyrant—for that action, if that only, justified
the title—approached the seat of Cromwell—perhaps
at that day scarcely known by name to the
proud sovereign—and his glance fell upon those
grim, ungainly features—then Ardenne witnessed
—for his eye was still attracted, why he knew not,
with a strange sense of fascination toward the puritan—then
Ardenne witnessed that which in after
times he often called to mind, and never without
awe and wonder—a dark conflict—for such it

might indeed be termed—a conflict of eye, countenance,
and bearing, between those men so eminently
thrown together, and blended in their spheres
of good or evil action. The glance of Charles,
when first it fell upon the coarse and most unpleasing
lineaments of Oliver, was instantly averted;
but averted merely as men ever turn the eye
away from objects naturally hateful or unseemly.
At that point of time the face of Cromwell was as
tranquil, as immoveable, as that of his great future
rival; but the tranquillity was no less different, than
is the stillness of a hushed volcano and the peaceful
calm of heaven. The swollen and corded veins
upon the temple—the eyebrows lowered and contorted—the
balls gleaming beneath them with a
fixed and baleful light—the nostril rigidly distended,
and the lips pressed so tightly that they alone
of his whole aspect were of a livid whiteness!
Ere Edgar had the time to think, had there been
any matter yet for thought, the eye of Charles
stole back, half timidly as it appeared, toward that
tiger-like and glaring face. Then, as it met the
sinister and ominous stare of fierce defiance, it
brightened also—vivid, and keen, and with a falcon-like
and noble splendour. For some short
space they gazed—those two undisciplined and
haughty spirits—into each other's very souls—
mutually, as it seemed, conscious at a glance of
irremediable and desperate hostility. The king's
look, quiet, although high and angry, and most unutterably
proud!—Cromwell's, sarcastic, bitter, furious,
and determined—and withal so savagely triumphant,
so mirthful in its dire malignity, that
Ardenne thought he never had beheld a countenance
so fiendishly expressive! And Charles
Stuart's aspect—after a fixed encounter of ten
seconds' space—Charles Stuart's haughty aspect
quailed beneath it; and, as he passed along—for
the whole occurred in less time than were needful
to recite it—he gazed no more around him, but
went directly onward, looking—and that, too,
gloomily—upon the ground, toward the speaker's
chair. But the stern democrat, as conscious that
his genius had prevailed, cast his eyes round him
with an air of loftier and more sublimated feeling
than Edgar had as yet observed him wear. It was
a trifle at the period when it passed, and none but
he have noticed or recorded it; but after times and
after deeds stamped it, no more to be erased, upon
the tablets of his inmost soul. Meanwhile the
king had reached the chair; and Lenthall, the bold
speaker, who had hitherto sat still, as proud and
far more placid than his visiter, arose, and stepped
out stately and cold to meet him. Then the king
mounted to his place, and stood upon the step, but
spake not, nor sat down; and there he stood,
gloomily gazing on the house, with a dark look
of sullen anger, for many minutes—and after he
had looked a great while—“Gentlemen,” he said,
in a high voice, clearly audible, though neither musical
nor pleasing, to the most distant corner—
“Gentlemen of the Commons, I am sorry for this
my cause of coming to you. Yesterday I did send
a sergeant to demand some, who, by my order,
were accused of treason. Instead of prompt obedience,
I received—a message!” and he uttered
the last word with the most concentrated scorn
and insolence—“I must, then, here declare to you,
that though no king that ever was in England could
be more careful of your privileges than I have been
—and shall be—yet, I can tell you, treason hath
no privilege!—and therefore am I come to tell you
that I must have these men, and will, wherever I
may find them!” And, as he spoke, he looked
around the hall with a deliberate air, scanning the
faces of all present, if he might find his men; then,
raising his voice higher yet, he called aloud, till the
roof rang again—“Ho! I say, Master Hollis!—
Master Pym!” No answer was returned, nor any
sound; save an increased and angry tumult in the
lobby, with a brandishing of partisans and a producing
of concealed but ready pistols, so that some
members thought to see the soldiers instantly rush
into the chamber. After a little pause, finding he
got no answer, he turned to the speaker—“Say,”
he exclaimed—“say, Mr. Speaker, be any of these
men here present?” For a moment Lenthall
paused, as doubting whether to hurl his own defiance
and that of the assembled commons into his
very teeth; but, ere the echoes of the monarch's
voice had ceased, he had resolved upon the wiser
and more prudent part, and bending, with most
deferential courtesy, his knee—“I have, sir,” he
replied, “nor eyes to see, nor tongue to speak in
this place, save as this house, whose servant I am
sworn, shall order me. And therefore must I pray
your majesty to pardon me that I return no farther
answer!”

“Ha! sir,” returned Charles, sharply, and with
incipient fury—but a moment's thought convinced
him that the humble answer of the speaker defied
at once and rendered hopeless any charge or violence
against him. “Ha! sir,” again he said, but
in a milder tone—“I do believe my eyes are to the
full as good as yours, and I do see my birds are
flown; but this I tell you, and so look ye to it—I
hold this house to send them to me! Failing of
which, I shall myself go seek them! For, sirs,
their treason is most foul, and such as you shall
thank me, all of you, now to discover. And I assure
you—on a king's word I assure you—I never

did mean any violence, and they shall have fair trial
—I meant not any other!” He waited not for
farther words; perchance he doubted what reply
he might receive to this last false asseveration
—palpably, unquestionably false—for wherefore
brought he his disbanded soldiery, his rude and
ruffian bravoes, with rapier, partisan, and pistol,
into the very precincts of the house? Wherefore,
unless he had designed to hale the accused members
violently forth by the strong arm of tyrannous
authority?

Stepping down from the chair, he walked, uncovered
still, but at a quicker pace than that with
which he entered, toward the lobby; but now, as
he departed, his looks were not turned haughtily
from side to side, but sadly bent upon the floor;
nor was his passage silent as before—for member
after member started up as Charles went past him,
with bent brow and clinched hand; and groans
both loud and deep saluted him. As he came nigh
the seat of Cromwell, the king raised his visage,
haggard now and pale, as with an anxious curiosity
to look upon the man before whose eye he felt himself
to have recoiled—and, as he met it, Oliver
sprang upon his feet, his long tuck rattling in the
scabbard as he rose, and, stamping on the floor
with fury, shouted aloud, in tones not mild nor
measured, the word “Privilege!” A dozen voices
took it up, though not so loudly nor with so marked
defiance as the first daring speaker, and the whole
house was in the wildest and most uncontrolled
confusion. Delightedly would the despotic prince,
had he but dared it, at that moment have cried ON!
—have given the word, expected by his myrmidons,
for massacre and havoc—have bid the swords,
which were already thirsting in their scabbards,
leap forth and drink their fill of that most noble

blood of England. But, thanks to Heaven, he
dared not! There would have been no object
worthy of the risk—no gain to justify the detestation
he would have so heaped upon his head! He
did not dare; and therefore, smothering for the
time his virulent and vengeful fury, he departed—
the door rang heavily behind him; and with no
muttered curses on the head of him who lacked
the spirit to perform what he and they yearned
equally to execute, frustrate of their desired vengeance,
unsatisfied and balked, his hireling desperadoes
filed out from the venerable walls their presence
had so shamefully polluted.