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Midnight was on the mighty city. The happy
sleep had swept away the cares of thousands in
its still deathlike oblivion. The multitudes who
had assembled to sate themselves with gazing on
the sad yet exciting spectacle of the morning,
wearied and worn out with the unnatural tension
of their nerves during that day of horror, had passed
away to seek a contrast in the repose of their domestic
chambers. The very guards were slumbering
on their posts about the precincts of Whitehall,
and not a sound or breath disturbed the silence
of the night. Within the palace, in one of those
sublime apartments which he had loved so well
while living, upon a lofty bed, adorned with crimson
curtains, and rich ostrich plumes, and the gold-blazoned
arms of England, lay a plain oaken coffin,
half covered with a pall of sable velvet. Many
tall waxen torches blazed around the room in candlesticks
of solid silver, six feet at least in height,
and their light glanced upon a narrow plate of silver
decking the coffin's lid, whereon were these
few words, “King Charles—1648.” No mourning
crowds wept round the couch whereon the
hapless prince slept that cold sleep that knows no

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earthly waking. No coroneted peers watched over
the embalmed remains—no flippant pages hushed
their accustomed merriment in reverence to the
ashes of their master—no guard of honour, with
trailed arms and downcast visages, stood sentinel
without the door; but, with their carbines loaded,
sheathed in their buff coats and bright armour, two
privates of the ironsides strode to and fro, passing
each other and repassing at brief intervals—the
ringing of their heavy armature, and the loud sounds
of their spurred and booted footfalls, awakening
strange echoes in that apartment of the dead. The
night wore onward, and the stars began to wink in
the cold skies, and the first coming of the morn
was felt in the increasing chillness of the air; hitherto
had the watch of those unusual mourners been
lonely and uninterrupted. The clock, however,
was just striking three, and its loud cadences were
vocal still through the long vacant halls and vast
saloons of the deserted palace, when a remote and
stealthy footstep broke upon the silence which was
succeeding fast to the loud chimes. The soldiers
interchanged alarmed and jealous glances, blew
their slow matches to a vivid flame, and, listening
with wary ears and ready weapons, resumed their
guarded walk. Nearer and nearer came the step,
firm, regular, and low, but evidently not desirous
of avoiding observation—now it was at the door—it
paused, and, bringing simultaneously their weapons
to the level, the soldiers halted between the
body and the door, and challenged loudly, “Stand,
ho! the word. Stand, or we shoot!”

“Justice and freedom!” answered a harsh and
croaking voice—and, bearing in his right hand a
small waxen taper, and in his left a staff of ebony,
Oliver Cromwell entered. He was dressed plainly
in a full suit of black cloth, with silken hose, and

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a loose cloak of broadcloth faced with velvet, a
very light black-hilted rapier hanging from his girdle
in lieu of the long heavy broadsword which he
so rarely laid aside; his face was very pale, but
perfectly composed and grave, with the mouth
firmly closed, and the eyes shining with a steady
and unaltered light.

“Good watch,” he cried, as he came in, “you
keep good watch. Cold work, I trow, and cheerless.
What would ye say now to a flagon of October—
hey! Stephenson, hey! Bowtell? So! so!
ye are on duty, ye would say—well, interrupt me
not for that—I will relieve ye for a brief space—
but one at a time—one only! Stephenson, give
me thy carbine and the match—and now get thee
down to the buttery; tarry not over half an hour,
and return straightway to take bluff Bowtell's
place!” The soldier grinned significantly, gave
up his weapon to his officer, and walked off greatly
pleased at this brief intermission of an unpleasant
duty. Cromwell looked after him as he departed,
and, when his footsteps had sunk into silence, depositing
the carbine he had taken in a corner, he
walked up slowly to the coffin with a strong stately
step and unmoved aspect.

“He hath not broken on thy watch, then?” he
demanded, with a grim smile, but evidently speaking
thoughtfully and with emotion, although wishing
to conceal his feelings by an assumption of unfeeling
merriment; “he hath not waked to scare
ye?”

“Now may the Lord forbid,” returned the superstitious
soldier, half alarmed at the words and
manner of his officer; “what mean you, worthy
general?”

“Why, how now, simpleton?” Cromwell replied;
“you look, in truth, as if he had walked forth in

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his untimely cerements to affright you. But fear
not, Bowtell, fear not!—the king sleeps sound!—
and shall sleep till the day when the great trumpet
of Jehovah shall call him to a mightier judgment,
and, it may well be, to a darker doom! Have they
screwed down the coffin?” he continued; “I fain
would look upon him;” and he moved closer to the
bed, and, throwing back the pall of velvet, tried to
raise the lid; but, though not permanently fastened
down, it yet resisted the attempt, being held tightly
by some two or three stout spikes. After a
moment's pause he thrust the ferrule of his staff into
the chink, and made an effort thus to draw the
nails out of their sockets; but they had been driven
in too firmly, and the staff creaked as though it
would have broken. “Lend me thy rapier,” he exclaimed;
“its steel hilt will have strength enough;”
and, with the word, he forced the pommel into the
aperture between the lid and side, and, leaning
heavily upon the weapon as a lever, wrenched up
the cover with an impetus so sudden that the
nails flew into the air, and struck against the canopy
which overhung it. Then he stood fixed, and,
for a short time, speechless, regarding, with a disturbed
and cloudy brow, the mangled body of his
victim. The body, which had been opened and embalmed,
was swathed in bandages of linen drawn
so tightly round the limbs, that, when the shroud
was lifted, the perfect form and the development
of all the muscles might be traced as plainly as
while he was in life—the head, partially covered
by an embroidered napkin bound about the brows,
and a broad riband of white silk fastened beneath
the chin, was in its proper place; but a small interval,
that showed like a discoloured streak of dingy
red, marked its disseverment. The face was pale,
but scarcely more so than its wont, and far less

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ashy in its hues than that of the undaunted warrior
who leaned over it. The lips retained their usual
and healthful colour, with something of a smile still
visible about them; the eyes were closed, but
naturally, and as if in sleep; the nose preserved
its wonted form, unsharpened as yet by the iron
hand of death. There was, indeed, no sign or
symptom of a painful and untimely dissolution on
those serene and comely lineaments—something
there might be of a languor not characteristic of
the living man, of a placidity and peace more deep
than usual; but nothing which could have led any
one to fancy that the thread of life had been snapped
violently, for him who slumbered there so
tranquilly, by the rude weapon of the executioner.
For a long time Cromwell spoke not a word—nor
moved a limb—nor even winked an eyelid—steadfastly,
solemnly gazing on the features of his fallen
foe and rival. “He sleeps indeed!—he sleeps,
how peacefully and well! That eye shall flash no
more with kingly pride; that lip be wreathed no
more into the calm but haughty sneer! The busy
brain, that plotted so much wo to England—the indomitable
mind, that would not swerve one hairbreadth
from its purpose, no, not to purchase life—
are these—are these, too, in repose, like that cold
voiceless lip, that nerveless and inanimate right
hand? Is that sleep dreamless? Doth the soul,
plunged in a dark and senseless torpor, lie paralyzed
and shorn of its pervading vigour in the abyss
of Hades?—or hath it but awakened from this
trance, after the turmoil of mortality, to more complete
perfection—to consciousness, and wisdom,
and unchanged immortality? Dost thou know,
thou cold form—dost thou know now who stands
beside thee? He who continually strove against
the tyranny thou wouldst have set up in the land!

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—he who beat down thy banner in the field, and
swept thy gallant cavaliers like dust before the
whirlwind!—he who brought down thy glory from
the throne, and paved thy path to that still hostelry—
the grave? Dost thou know this—and yet not
start from out thy bloody cerements? I do but
dream,” he went on, after a moment's pause—“the
king is nothing! a mere clod in the valley! `Hell
from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy
coming: it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all
the chief ones of the earth; it hath raised up from
their thrones all the kings of the nations. All they
shall speak and say unto thee—Art thou also become
weak as we?—art thou become like unto us?
Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the
noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under thee,
and the worms cover thee! How art thou fallen
from Heaven, oh Lucifer, son of the morning! how
art thou cut down, which didst weaken the nations!'
Thus was it written of a mightier one than thou—
thus hath it been with thee! Thy place is empty
upon earth—thy country no more knows thee!
Verily thou art fallen asleep—asleep for many a
thousand years—until thou shalt be summoned to
make answer in the spirit for all thy deeds wrought
in the flesh. Yet then, even then, wilt thou have
nothing, fallen great one, nothing to witness against
me. But for thine own self-will—thine own tyrannical
and senseless folly—thine own oppressing of
the saints, and trampling under foot the delicate
and tender consciences of men—nay, more than all
this, but for thine own false-dealing and foul treachery
toward those who would have served thee truly—
thou mightst have still sat in the high place
of thy forefathers!—thou mightst have outshone
them, so far as the sovereign of a free and mighty
nation outshines the chieftain of an enslaved and

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paltry tribe!—thou mightst have been served by
hands and swords, through the Lord's help, invincible—
honoured and loved by hearts loyal, sincere,
and single-minded!—thou mightst have fulfilled
the number of thy days, dying in green old age
amid the tears and lamentations of thy people, and
bequeathing to thy sons that puissant and time-honoured
sceptre which now shall never more be
wielded by thy race. Alas! alas! for man! Who
that looked on thee in thy fair and princely youth
would have presaged so sad an end to thy brightseeming
fortunes? Surely this frame of thine,
which mine own eyes have seen so proud-enthroned
upon thy charger's back, rallying thy followers
through the havoc and the terror of the battle—
surely this frame of thine, so strongly knit, and
muscular, and manly, was formed to baffle hardships
and to brave long years! Surely, but for
thine own insane and selfish folly, thou wast formed
to die old! Lo!” and, as he thus spoke, he laid
the finger of his right hand in the gaping wound, and
with cool scrutiny examined the consistency and
texture of the muscles, “lo! how sound is this
flesh, how wiry and elastic these dissevered sinews.
There is no symptom here of disease or debility!—
no decay—no corruption of the system! But
for the axe, he had lived years—ay! many and
long years! But, verily, all things are of the Lord—
and had He not predestined him to die, then
had he hardened not his heart, nor raised up foes
against him, of whom it is a scripture that `none
shall be weary nor stumble among them; none
shall slumber nor sleep; neither shall the girdle of
their loins be loosed, nor the latchet of their shoes
be broken.' Whom the Lord listeth to destroy,
surely he striveth but in vain; for who shall find
strength in the sword, or refuge in the speed of

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horses, against the Lord of Hosts? Then say not
that I slew thee, but the Lord—for how had I defended
thee against the God of Battles—or how
had I acquitted whom He had judged to destroy?”
He paused from the long wild declamation which
he had poured out in the perturbation of his spirit,
half conscious, and, perhaps, half self-convicted of
criminal ambition, and struggling to convince himself
entirely of the truth of the dark creed he had
adopted, and thus to satisfy his restless spirit by a
halt voluntary self-deception. The sentinel, meantime,
had stood beside him, with his hand still
outstretched as when he first extended it to receive
again his sword, gazing partly in admiration, partly
in fear and awe, now on the calm and rigid countenance
of the dead king, now on the varying
and agitated features of his almost remorseful
judge, but less astonished at the scene than would
have been expected, in consequence of the prevailing
custom of his party to pray and preach,
with every species of whining cant or furious raving,
on all occasions anywise uncommon or surprising.
For several minutes' space Oliver gazed
again in silence on the body, and then replacing
the lid gently and almost tenderly—“Farewell,”
he said, “farewell on earth for ever! Strangely
have we been linked together here below, and
wonderfully do we part! Hadst thou prevailed,
my fate had been more bitter! Farewell! farewell!
we meet no more, whether for good or evil,
until that final meeting when God must judge between
us two—till then, sleep soundly—and then
awake—He only knows—to what!”

He then replaced the screws, and threw the
pall across the coffin as before, the soldier Bowtell
holding a torch, which he had taken from the
nearest candelabrum, to assist him; this finished,

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he withdrew a pace or two, wrapped his cloak
closely round him, and sat down upon a settle near
the bed. The soldier, having replaced the light,
stood for a little time in silence, and then—“I pray
you tell me now,” he said, “heutenant-general,
what mode of government shall we now have?”

“The same as then was!” he answered, in a
sharp decisive tone; and, instantly relapsing into
silence, sat in deep sullen thought, until the other
soldier came back from the buttery; then, forgetting
quite or disregarding his first promise of relieving
Bowtell in his turn, he took up the small
taper he had brought with him, and left the room
in his dark mood, speaking no word to either of the
sentinels.