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It was already twilight on a sweet August evening,
and the streets were fast growing thin, as the
many-tongued and busy crowd, that had chafed and
fretted throughout the day, like waves, in every
channel of the great metropolis, gradually passed
away, to seek for relaxation in their peaceful homes
from all the cares, anxieties, and sorrows which
had increased to them the heat and burden of their
daily labours. A few, however, might be still seen
studding in scattered groups the shadowy thoroughfares,
some hurrying, as belated men, with hasty
footsteps homeward, some loitering aimlessly along,
as if to catch the pleasant coolness of the evening
breeze. Among these groups was one, if it could
properly be termed so, consisting of two persons;
the one a man perhaps a little past the middle age,
with soft and pensive features, and long light brown
hair, waving in loose and scattered curls over the
collar of his plain gray doublet—the other a boy,
richly attired, as might beseem the page of a high
family, upon whose shoulder the elder person leaned

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somewhat heavily with his left hand, while with
the right he moved a staff of ebony before him, as
if to feel his way, for he was blind, although no
scrutiny could have discovered any speck or blemish
in the clear but cold gray eyes which, seeming to
see all things, were, in truth, sealed up in rayless
night. No words were interchanged between the
pair as they passed onward to Whitehall at a pace
suitable to the infirmity of the chief personage; but,
when they reached the palace gate, the page spoke
shortly in a low voice to the sentinel on duty—who
was engaged in parleying with a gentleman on
horseback, of military air and noble bearing—and
was already passing in, when suddenly the stranger,
who, it seemed, had been refused admittance, cast
his eye on the boy's companion, and instantly addressed
him.

“Well met—and in good season,” he exclaimed;
“if my eyes play me not a trick, my excellent
friend Milton!” The blind man's countenance
flashed with a joyous light as he replied—“Well
met, indeed! well met, and welcome, after long
years of absence; for sure I am mine ears deceive
me not, though it be one whose accents I but little
counted should ever greet them more—Sir Edgar
Ardenne!”

“It is, indeed!” answered the horseman. “After
long years of wandering in the transatlantic
wilds, I have at length turned my feet homeward;
I landed only three days since at Portsmouth, and,
riding with all diligence, have but this hour arrived
in London. Right glad am I to see one of the two
sole persons with whom I have now any ties on
earth, so early, and, if I may judge from appearances,
so well in health.”

“I thank you!” answered the poet, grasping affectionately
his friend's hand; “I thank you

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heartily; by His great mercy, and beside my one infirmity,
I am sound, as I trust, both mind and body!
But, tell me—for, in that I see you here, I judge
who is the other person with whom you still esteem
yourself united—can I do aught for you? I am,
you know, his secretary?”

“I would, if it were possible,” Sir Edgar answered,
“see the protector—I owe him some
amends, and would fain tell him how highly I esteem
the fruits of his good government at home
and his wise policy abroad. The soldier here on
duty tells me that he is ill at ease, and has denied
me entrance. I trust he is not seriously diseased.”

The Latin secretary shook his head, and the expression
of his countenance, so joyful at the recognition
of his friend, altered perceptibly. “He is,
indeed, much ailing—we trust not mortally; but
his old ague hath returned on him, and what with
that, and deep anxiety for Lady Claypole's health,
and over-labouring in the service of the state, he is
reduced so greatly that his physicians fear. Yet
is he marvellously held up by faith in the Lord;
and all his chaplains have assurance strongly impressed
upon their hearts that he shall live, not
die! I doubt not he will see you, and forthwith;
for often hath he spoken of you recently, and as of
one whom he once cherished greatly, and greatly
regrets alway.”

And, without farther words, he bade the page
send some one straightway to lead hence Sir Edgar's
horse, and to desire the chamberlain acquaint
his highness that John Milton was below, with an
old friend and comrade, even Sir Edgar Ardenne.
After a few minutes, which the friends consumed
pleasantly in slight though interesting conversation,
a private of the guard relieved Sir Edgar of his
horse, and shortly afterward an officer of the

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protector's household made his appearance, and, informing
them that his highness was engaged at
present in his meditations with worthy Master
Peters and others of his chaplains, but that he
shortly would find leisure to receive them, ushered
them with no little courtesy into an antechamber,
as Milton whispered to his friend, of the same suite
which Oliver at present occupied. Nearly an hour
passed away'before they received any farther word;
but each of those congenial spirits had so much to
hear and narrate to the other, that the moments
did not lag, and it was with a feeling nearly akin to
wonder that they heard the clocks striking ten just
as the chamberlain announced to them the wish of
the protector to see them in his chamber.

They entered; and, propped up by cushions on
his feverish bed, careworn, and hollow-cheeked,
and heavy-eyed, and with a wild expression of anxiety
and pain on his thin features, there lay the
mighty being from whom Sir Edgar had last parted
in the pride of manhood, in the plenitude of power,
in the indomitable confidence of his own unresisted
faculties. On one side of his pillow sat Hugh
Peters, his familiar chaplain, a stern and gloomy-looking
fanatic, intently occupied, as it would seem,
in studying his pocket Bible; and on the other
his wife, a lady of majestic bearing, although wanting
somewhat in the easy dignity which is acquired
only by residence from childhood upward in courtly
circles, and two of her daughters, the ladies Falconbridge
and Rich, who had been summoned from
their sister's deathbed by an express, bearing tidings
of their father's dangerous seizure. An air
of deep gloom pervaded the apartment, and melancholy
sat like a cloud upon the comely faces of
the younger ladies, his wife repressing all outward
demonstrations of disquiet in obedience to the wish

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of Oliver, who pertinaciously maintained that full
assurance had been vouchsafed him from on high
that he should yet be spared, until his usefulness
should be completed to the Lord and to the people
whom he had been placed in trust to govern for
their good. Calm as he was, and self-restrained at
all times, Ardenne could not so far command his
voice as to prevent it trembling as he addressed
his old commander, and a large tear rolled slowly
down his cheek as he beheld the ravages which grief,
and time, and terror had wrought on his expressive
features and Herculean form. But Cromwell saw
not the tear nor noticed the unusual tone of Edgar's
salutation. As he perceived his chosen officer,
a mighty gleam of exultation flashed over his worn
lineaments, and his pale lip was curled with honest
triumph. He well remembered, and had often
pondered on the last words he had heard from the
sincere and conscientious man who stood beside
him; he knew his former doubts; he had interpreted
aright his silence, his protracted absence; and
now, that he had sought him out unsummoned, he
felt the proud conviction that this man's mind was
altered—that this late visit was a confession of his
error—a token of his approbation and good-will.
All this rushed on the dying sovereign's soul at
once—and in the midst of pain, and doubt, and
peril, he exulted! Exulted, that the only man in
his whole realm whose disapproval he had dreaded,
and whose applause he valued, had, by this
long-delayed approach to reconciliation, sealed his
avowal, that, in ruling England, he had ruled, not for
his own aggrandizement, but for his people's welfare.

“Ha! Edgar Ardenne!” he cried, in tones resembling
more his ancient voice of power than any
which, for many a mournful day, he had sent forth.

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“Though late, I greet thee—I rejoice to see thee—
yea, as a trusty friend—a valued and long-lost
companion! Varily hath it relieved me of wellnigh
half my ailment to grasp this honest hand of
thine, to hear once more the accents of a voice
which no man ever heard to utter aught save words
of truth and honour. I thank thee, good John Milton,
that thou hast brought to me this—I had wellnigh
said—this son. Surely, though not a prodigal,
for him shall there be slain a fatted calf, and that
right early.”

Again Ardenne was much affected, so much that
Oliver perceived it; and pressing Edgar's hand,
which he had still retained in his own burning
grasp, “Think not,” he said, “so gravely of this
matter. 'Tis but a little sickness—a paltry fever.
Surely we two have ridden on such real perils, and
ridden, though I say it, with an unblenching heart
and a calm brow, that it is not for us to quake and
tremble in the soul if that a petty ague shake these
our mortal sinews. I tell thee, man, the Lord hath
heard our prayer—mine, and these holy men's—He

hath yet need of me in mine appointed place on
earth—nor will he yet yield up his servant into the
jaws of death. I tell thee, years are yet before us—
years full of usefulness, and happiness, and glory—
and we will part no more. Thou wilt not leave
me any more, Sir Edgar?”

“Not on this side the grave,” Ardenne replied.
“When last we parted, I was—I own it—blinded!
blinded by wrongful and unmerited suspicion. I
thought you selfish and ambitious—I foresaw that
you must be the ruler of this land, and I fancied
that to be so had been the aim and object of your
life! that you had wrested circumstance to your
advantage—made time and tide your slaves. I own
I was in error—and, with me, to own is to repair.

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The elder Charles was, I confess, unfit to reign,
unfit to live! for, had he lived, we must have warred
with him for ever. He dead—there was no choice
save between you and a republic! and pardon me
that I believed it your intent to seize the reins of
government at once on the king's death; and that,
believing so, I deemed your agency in that great
trial as mere deceit and fraud. Justly, however—
honestly—you suffered the experiment to work;
and had the people been—as in my poor opinion
never people were nor will be while this universe
exists—capable of self-government, fit to elect their
rulers, or willing to submit to laws of their own
making, they had been still self-governed, and, as
they term it, free! I thank God that they are so
no longer. Better, far better—if it must be so—one

tyrant than ten thousand. But you, sir, are no
tyrant; but the sagest, boldest, and most prosperous
monarch that ever yet has governed Britons.
Dreaded abroad, honoured at home, you have indeed,
as you did prophecy to me long years ago—
you have indeed caused the mere name of Englishman
to be as greatly and as widely honoured as
ever was the style of antique Roman. You know
that I nor flatter nor deceive, but always speak
straight onward. I owed you reparation for unjust
suspicion, and I have made it. So far, then, we
are quits! Now, then, as to the man who has made
England mightier, freer, happier than ever she has
been before—as to the undisputed and only fitting
ruler of the soil, I tender you my service and allegiance!”

“True friend! true friend!” cried Cromwell.
“You, and you only, have judged of me, and have
judged aright—the boldness of your former censure
confirms the frankness of your present praise!
You only dared upbraid me with ambition—you

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only envy not the greatness which has been thrust
upon me. Surely, could England have been free,
and tranquil, and at peace, never had I sat on this
thorny eminence; but the Lord willed it so; and,
as he wills, it must be. I thank you, and most cordially
do I accept your service, and frankly do I tell
you it will avail me much—for you I may trust, and,
save only you and excellent John Milton, I know
not any other. The heathen have come round
about me, and digged pits, and wove snares on every
side!—traitors are in my guard!—false prophets in
my chamber!—spies and assassins everywhere!—
daggers around my pillow!—and ratsbane in my
cup! Yet, by the Lord's help, have I set them all
at naught; and confident am I that he will not
abandon me. Truly, of all his mercies, none do I
esteem more wonderful than this, that he hath given
me once more in you a friend after mine own heart
and a faithful coadjutor!” The veteran's eye kindled
as he spoke, and his cheek wore a healthful
colour, and his voice sounded with all its wonted
firmness; it was, indeed, as he himself had worded
it, as if one half his ailment had been banished
by this most opportune and unexpected visit from
the man whom, perhaps alone, he truly loved and
honoured.

There is no truth more certain, than that those
most practised in deceit themselves most sensibly
perceive and fully honour the absence of deceit in
others; and it may be that Cromwell, who was unquestionably,
in some sort, though, for the most part,
self-deceived, a deceiver of the world, admired Ardenne
for that very frankness of bold honour which
he himself possessed not. It may be, also, that,
misguided by his wild fanatical opinions, he at one
time, believing himself the object of immediate inspiration,
looked on his own worst actions as his

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brightest deeds; and at another, when the dark fit
succeeded to the fancied vision, brooded despairingly
over his own misdoings, till he conceived himself
entirely reprobate and outcast. Doubtful and
wavering, then, in his own sense of right in his
own conscience, how natural that he should draw
deep comfort to his unquiet soul from the assurance
that a man, whom he knew to have perused his
heart more narrowly than any living being, and to
have judged of him at one time with such harshness
as to abandon him, now looked on his career
with an approving eye—now bade him hail as the
protector of his country's honour—now tendered his
allegiance, and professed his willingness to follow
wherever he should lead. How natural that he
should feel this as a confirmation of that which he
would fain believe—as a proof to himself of his
own half-suspected honesty. Such were, it is
most probable, the causes of the almost supernatural
effect produced on Oliver by the return of
Ardenne; and, truly, it was wellnigh supernatural!
Till a late hour of the night he kept him by his
side, conversing cheerfully, nay, almost joyously, on
his own future prospects, on the advancement of
his country's interest abroad, on the diffusion of intelligence
and of religion, which is philosophy, at
home! And Ardenne, who—feeling that he had
wronged Cromwell in his first suspicion, when he
expected him to seize the sceptre immediately upon
the death of Charles; convinced that, when he
had usurped that sceptre, he was entirely justified
in wresting it from the vile faction which was
plunging England into misery and madness; perceiving
that he had in all things used his acquired
power with wisdom, justice, and moderation, for
the present welfare and the future glory of his people—
had rushed, perhaps, too hastily to the

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conclusion that he had acted in all things, and from the first,
on motives purely patriotic—Ardenne responded to
his cheerful mood; and amid pleasant memories of
those past evils, which it is often pleasurable to
contemplate when we are safe and happy, and
high anticipations for the future, the hours wore
onward, and midnight was announced from many
a steeple, and yet that friendly conclave thought
not of separation.

At that dead hour of the night a guarded step
was heard without the door, and an attendant, entering,
called out the Lady Cromwell; and she, after
an absence of some small duration, returned
far paler than before, and with the traces of fresh
tears upon her cheek, and whispered Lady Falconbridge,
who, in turn, left the chamber for a while,
and, coming back, again called out her sister. It
was most strange that this dumb show continued
for so long a time, that Ardenne, and even the blind
poet, perceived that something must be seriously
amiss, ere Cromwell noticed it. He was, however,
so much reinvigorated, his spirits had so wondrously
regained their elasticity, that he talked on,
and smiled, and even jested, until so deep a gloom
had fallen on his auditors, infected by the evident
and hopeless sorrow engraved in characters so
legible upon the wo-begone and pallid face of Lady
Cromwell, that he could not continue longer in his
happy ignorance.

“Ha! What is this?” he cried, looking around
from face to face in blank bewilderment. “What
is to do? Speak out, I say,” he gasped; his voice,
which had but lately been so strong, now scarcely
audible—“Ardenne, speak out—you never have deceived
me;” and then, before he could receive an
answer, had it been possible for Edgar to have
answered, as his eye met his wife's, “I see,” he

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said, “I see,” in tones resigned, but inexpressibly
sad and heartbroken. “Elizabeth is dead! my
daughter, oh my daughter!” Gradually he sank
down from the pillows, upon which he had been
raised in a half-sitting posture, and, though he
struggled hard still to maintain his wonted and severe
composure, the effort was too great for his enfeebled
frame. For a few seconds' space he was
successful; then stretching out his wasted arms
while his teeth chattered in his head, and all his
limbs shook as if palsied, and the large scalding
tears poured down his hollow cheeks—“My God,”
he cried, “my God—why—why hast thou forsaken
me!” He pulled the coverlet about his temples,
turned his face to the wall, and burst into an
agony of sobs, and groans, and fierce convulsions,
that haunted Edgar's ears long after he had left the
apartment of the bereaved and dying parent.