The reverend mother drew Angela to her side, took off the little black silk
hood, and laid her hand caressingly on the soft brown hair.
"Was it Cromwell's work?" she asked.
"Nay, reverend mother, I doubt whether of his own accord Cromwell would
have done this thing. He is a villain, a damnable villain--but he is a
glorious villain. The Parliament had made their covenant with the King at
Newport--a bargain which gave them all, and left him nothing--save only his
broken health, grey hairs, and the bare name of King. He would have been
but a phantom of authority, powerless as the royal spectres Aeneas met in
the under-world. They had got all from him--all save the betrayal of his
friends. There he budged not, but was firm as rock."
"'Twas likely he remembered Strafford, and that he prospered no better for
having flung a faithful dog to the wolves," said the nun.
"Remembered Strafford? Ay, that memory has been a pillow of thorns through
many a sleepless night. No, it was not Cromwell who sought the King's
blood--it has been shed with his sanction. The Parliament had got all, and
would have been content; but the faction they had created was too strong
for them. The levellers sent their spokesman--one Pride, an ex-drayman, now
colonel of horse--to the door of the House of Commons, who arrested the
more faithful and moderate members, imposed himself and his rebel crew
upon the House, and hurried on that violation of constitutional law, that
travesty of justice, which compelled an anointed King to stand before the
lowest of his subjects--the jacks-in-office of a mutinous commonalty--to
answer for having fought in defence of his own inviolable rights.
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