“Maiden,” were the words, “thy sorrows and thy history, are those of our mother country. I know that thou wert formed by God for happiness, and was not England? Now she is bowed in the dust,--but there is an outstretched rod for the oppressor, and an outstretched arm of deliverance for the oppressed. Both gleam from the clouds of her adversity, and soon, soon they reach those for whom they are destined! Liberty cannot die while man has one heart-string. My maiden, cheer is for thee. Thy father lost his head, sayest thou? Others may lose theirs also.” Hans, after these words were uttered, turned the latch, and walked in. At the little window a soldier, not in the uniform of an officer, but well accoutred, was sitting. He was gazing upon the vale without, and his dark grey eye glowed, as it moved restlessly on all the objects. The features were not finely formed: indeed, they might be called coarse, though not plain, for a wild power was expressed. From his broad and prominent forehead, the light red locks were put back. His countenance, one moment, was so calm and sanctified, that he might have been set down as a preacher of the gospel: but the next, it was so troubled and fiery, that he appeared a fierce and ambitious warrior. Although his eye seemed upon the full stretch of resolution and thought, his hand was placed softly upon the bending head of Mary Evelyn, whom he had, evidently, been attempting to console. Old Rachel was seated at a short distance from him, with a bible in her hand, but many a look was stolen from its pages to the countenance of the stranger. Her ears caught the sounds of her husband’s footsteps. “Hans,” she exclaimed, “is all well, that you have left the church so soon? You have only been gathering crumbs beneath the table, like a graceless dog. Woe, woe unto short sermons, and impatient hearers! You have come home before the pudding is ready. What’s the matter, Hans?” But the miller neglected to answer the queries of his dame, being employed in obsequiously bowing to the stranger. “Friend, kneel not to me; I am only thy fellow-servant. See that thou do it not. I am _but_ Oliver Cromwell!” As he pronounced the word _but_, there was a proud smile passed over his features, and he arose from his seat for a moment, in that air of command which was natural unto him. His proud bearing attested that though he refused to receive homage, he considered himself entitled to it. Hans Skippon, on hearing the name of the stranger, bent down on his knees. “Nay, I kneel not to thee, but to the Most High, who hath raised thee up for a horn unto his people.” “I am, indeed, but an instrument in the Divine hands; and an atom, created for working out the Divine counsels. I am but a small stone, cut out of the mountains, to break down the image of the beast. Good miller, arise from thy knees.” “A very sensible advice,” muttered Rachel, who was not altogether pleased with the lowly posture of her husband.