“In church,” replied Hans to the repeated inquiries of his dame, “we were disturbed by the noise of the cannon firing from the castle. Ah! it is no longer true that we can sit under our vine and fig-tree,--none daring to make us afraid.” “Fig-tree!” exclaimed Rachel, whose memory had not retained the passage, and whose reason applied it in a literal sense, “why we cannot even sit under the cherry-tree in the garden without somebody troubling us. Miss Evelyn and I--draw nearer, Hans, and I shall whisper it--were seated there, when this noble officer, attended by five or six troopers, came to the gate. And yet, he has not disturbed us much. I feel proud that he has come to our dwelling. As he entered, his sword was clashing on the threshold, but he said, ‘Peace be unto this house.’ But go on; you mentioned a disturbance in the church.” “Yes, cannons were fired from the castle. They drowned the piping of the parson. We all rushed out, and made for the castle. The governor stood on the battlements, as motionless as a sack of flour. But his eyes were fixed upon some distant object, and he exclaimed ‘Cromwell, Cromwell.’” These words were repeated by the miller in a loud voice. Cromwell started up. Hans turned his back and busied himself with an examination of the pudding in the pot. “Who called me by name. Who called me?” No one answered. “Yes, it was an angel’s voice! Stay,” and Cromwell took his boots from off his feet. “Now speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.” His eyes were wildly raised. Not one of his enemies could have laughed at his grotesque appearance, for the face was expressive of an unearthly communion. It was pale; the very breath of the angel whom he imagined to be there, might have passed over it. “Nay, thou wilt not stay! It is well. I could not execute a commission of vengeance on the Sabbath.” It is singular that this great man was often deluded by visions, and communications from the other world. His sudden conversion from extreme dissipation had invested him, in his own eyes, with something of a wonder and a miracle. It was the same with Mohammed. But although this was a weakness, it was the source of his energies, and inflexible resolution. He could not believe that these fancies were the dreams of youth; for he had already passed the meridian of life. He knew that his bodily senses were becoming blunted, and he therefore was willing to think that his spiritual senses were more acute and could distinguish sounds and sights, which were strange to all but his gifted self. But let not his enemies mock him. He might assert and believe that he heard sounds urging him to go to the field of battle, to dare more than any other warrior, and usurper; but did he ever hear any urging him to fly, to leave undone what he had resolved to do? Nay, had he actually heard such, he would have rejected them. Religion,--the tones of every angel above,--nay, the very voice of God himself, could not have made Cromwell a coward!