Anna Temple was the only earthly being that withdrew his thoughts for a moment from the prosecution of his great and holy purpose; but when her soft blue eyes pleaded, as they often did, with her lips, for an hour’s relaxation and amusement in the park or garden, he would sometimes unbind the mental chain for a little space, and go forth with spirit unfettered and free. Then he would talk to the fair child of his lost home—of the icy palaces of the Alps, pure as spirit-haunts—of the wild-flowers springing from their rocky beds, and of the holy starlight of the mountains, until the enthusiastic creature would regard Francois as a being of purer mould, more spiritual and good, than any other person with whom she held companionship. And thus years passed; Francois still saw in the beautiful Anna Temple, or fancied he saw, the image of his lost Christine; and the young girl read in the large, soul-earnest eyes of the Vaudois student, the first mysterious leaf of womanhood—and they were both happy. Meantime a shadow was darkening the sky of England—a storm-cloud, destined to shake from its foundation her political fabric, and place another Stuart on the throne. Cromwell, the Protector—the hero of the seventeenth century, was summoned to repose! Bravely had he borne his armor on the great battle-ground of life, and his valiant heart had not fainted in the heat of the conflict. The humble plebian had dared boldly to take up arms against his country’s foes in defiance of his king; and subsequently, at the same country’s call, and in defense of her liberties, with the Book of God in his hand, and a psalm on his lips, to affix his signature to the death-warrant of the sovereign traitor. Ever, where duty called, was he found foremost in the ranks of the faithful, battling for the right; and when in the maturity of manhood the sun of glory brightened his gray hairs with the splendor of royalty, he turned coldly away from the crown of a king, preferring the simple title of Protector of the Commonwealth. His sword was still girded against the Lord’s enemies, when a voice from above summoned him from earthly glory to heavenly rest; and on the third of September, one thousand six hundred and fifty-eight, Oliver Cromwell stood girded for his last conflict. Historians have recorded _that_ as a fearful night when the Lord Protector lay struggling with the final enemy. Wildly wailed the wind around that earthly palace; but the eye of the dying was on the eternal mansion, and so amid the fury of the elements, the great spirit of Cromwell achieved its final victory.