dered in going to their seats, but against any acts of the Parliament being considered valid which should pass during their absence.
“Who was that bishop?” asked Nathanael.
“Archbishop Williams, I should imagine,” Lady Carewe replied.
“Williams, of course,” said her brother: “and he will be answerable for whatever may happen before New Year’s Day.”
“What will happen?” Alice asked.
“Possibly episcopacy may be overthrown altogether. Possibly it may be saved by the bishops humbling themselves. We may see a dozen of them on their knees at our bar in a day or two, begging pardon for their impertinence.”
“A dozen bishops on their knees!” cried Kitty, laughing: “I should like to see that.”
“I should not,” said Nathanael; and his aunt and Alice agreed with him. When the thing actually happened within three weeks, they were sorry for those who were obliged to be present to witness such a humiliation of any ministers of religion.
Other visitors told of the fury of the people against Colonel Lunsford, who had done infinite mischief this day. He had rushed among the apprentices in Westminster Hall, sword in hand, and had slashed right and left, wounding several. It was said that one man was killed.
“That one-eyed bully!” exclaimed Philip Hampden, who had just entered. “Why did not one of them close his one eye with all gentleness, and lead him home to the Tower?”
“Is he gone to the Tower? Did the King—?”
“Yes, the King sent him there. Not as a prisoner. Do not suppose that. He is gone as Lieutenant of the Tower.”
“Surely that is not possible!” exclaimed Lady Carewe.
“It is too true,” Philip declared. “My father confirmed it when I asked him an hour ago. The appointment will be annulled. The country will not endure it.”
“But will the King yield?”
“He must.”
“He will make no difficulty,” Sir Amyas declared. “He has become accustomed to take back his acts: and it now costs him almost as little as to forsake his word.”
“Sir Amyas Denton, do you know you are speaking of the King?” cried Nathanael, turning from the window with a kingly air of his own.
“I do, my boy; and sorry I am to remember it. We will not argue the matter now; but do you fix your attention from this night forward on the King’s words and acts, and then judge for yourself whether he is to be trusted.”
Nathanael said that other people might play the spy upon his Majesty, but he never would. His brother Philip told him that it was now the first duty of every good citizen to do what Sir Amyas Denton had said. It could not be permitted that more royal promises should be broken. Then Nathanael supposed that Colonel Lunsford would remain Lieutenant of the Tower.
“What is the truth about what Colonel Lunsford has done?” asked a lady who now entered the room, thickly veiled. It was Lady Carlisle.
“Surely, Lady Carlisle, you would be better at Hampton Court?” said Lady Carewe.
“Better anywhere than in London on such a day as this,” said Philip.
“Never mind about me: I am safe enough,” replied Lady Carlisle; “and if I were not, their Majesties’ friends must run some risks in such times. My dears, I am so glad to see you all!” she said to the young people, embracing the girls: “We have much to say to each other; but I must know now, before all things, what is the truth about Colonel Lunsford. What has he actually done?”
The story of the scene in Westminster Hall was told by degrees by one and another witness of parts of it. When Lady Carlisle was gone, it was agreed by all present that she had a right sense of the ruffianism of the man, and that there was therefore a strong probability that Colonel Lunsford would be sent adrift,—a thing which also came true within a few days. Not, however, without the army of apprentices having come armed to the doors of Parliament, challenging Colonel Lunsford to fight them now.
As it grew late the crowds went home. There were still knots of people in the road, voluble and vigorous in gesture: and there was a patrol which was understood to be established for the night: but the torches burned out and were not renewed. The shouts from the river behind ceased. It became too cold for the citizens to remain abroad without strong reason, and Mr. Hampden’s house was closed. The young people sat up till late in hope of seeing their father; but at length they gave in, and went to rest;—the more willingly because it was not certain that he would come home at all that night. On some less portentous occasions he had been detained in the House till morning.
It was not so now, however. Lady Carewe and Philip were talking by the fireside when he entered. He looked jaded and old; but he declared it was hunger that made him look so; and he sat down at once to the supper that was on the table.
It was not the time, Lady Carewe saw at once, for the conversation she desired to have with him. She was sorry; but she saw she must wait. He was so hoarse, and so exhausted after the clamour and the portentous proceedings in the House, that he must have no further fatigue, nor any working upon his feelings.
“Only this, father,” said Philip, as all rose at the end of Mr. Hampden’s supper. “Lady Carlisle has been here.”
“No doubt, Philip. She was at Pym’s house all day. It was certain that she would come also to mine.”
“Is Mr. Pym sufficiently wary about that lady?” asked Lady Carewe.
“I believe he is. My own opinion is that she is not dangerous. Not dangerous to us.”
“She came here,” said Philip, “to inquire about some of this day’s transactions: and such inquiry cannot tend to danger, and may to safety;