“Here and now, if there is one to knot us.” “You know that a promise given under coercion does not hold?” “I know it well, but the word of General Cromwell is enough for me, once it is passed, however given.” “Then take down your sword; I promise, and am well rid of you both.” With a deep sigh of relief Armstrong sheathed his sword and lifted his hat from the floor. Cromwell rose from his chair and paced twice up and down the long room between the great moonlit windows and the table. He paused in his march, looked up at the dim gallery, and said: “Cobb, come down.” To Armstrong’s amazement, who thought he had been alone with the General, he heard lurching heavy steps come clumping down the wooden stair, and a trooper, with primed musket in his hand, stood before his master. “Cobb, why did you not shoot this man dead when you saw him draw his sword?” “Because, Excellency, you did not give the signal.” “If I had, what then?” “He was a dead man before he could move an arm, or your finger was on the table again.” “You have done well. That is what I like; exact obedience, and no panic. Keep your lips closed. Go and tell your colonel to come here.” The man withdrew, and Cromwell resumed his walk, making no comment on the brief dialogue. William blew a long whistle, then he laughed a little. When the colonel came in, Cromwell turned to him and said: “Is that malignant brawler, chaplain to Lord Rudby, in the cells yet?” “Yes, Excellency.” “Tell your men to clear out the chapel at once and light it. There are some stores in it, I think, and bring the reverend greybeard to me.” In a few moments the colonel returned, accompanied by an aged clergyman, who, despite his haggard and careworn look and bent shoulders, cast a glance of hatred at the General, which seemed to entitle him to the epithet Cromwell had bestowed upon him. To this silent defiance Cromwell paid no attention, but said to him: “Sir, you may earn your liberty to-night by marrying two young people in the chapel.” “That will I not,” returned the clergyman stoutly, “and all your tyranny cannot compel me to do so.” “The wench,” continued Cromwell, unmoved, “you already know. She is Frances Wentworth, daughter of the late Earl of Strafford. The groom stands here before you; William Armstrong, a Scot, who has but lately carried a message from the man Charles, at Oxford, to Traquair on the Border. I should hang him, but he prefers the noose you can tie to the one my hands might prepare.” The old clergyman looked at Armstrong with an interest he had not displayed on entering the room. “Have you, then, seen his gracious Majesty, the King?” “Yes, reverend sir, and but a few days ago.” “And carried his message safe through these rebellious hordes now desecrating the land?” “There was some opposition, but I won through, thanks to my horse.”