Great Britain -- History -- Charles I, 1625-1649 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
On Sunday the immensity of the swaying crowd, shouting and moving like
a slow resistless flood through the streets, daunted her. There was no
employment that day to keep any one within doors, and it seemed as if
that labyrinth of human warrens called London had emptied itself into
the narrow thoroughfares. She hesitated like a timid swimmer on the
brink of a raging torrent, yet if she was to win access to the King
she must trust herself to the current, which had this advantage, it set
toward the direction in which she wished to go. If the streets could be
compared to sluggish streams, the broad avenue or square of Whitehall
might be likened to the lake into which they emptied. It was a packed
mass of humanity, surging to and fro, as if influenced by mysterious
tides, but making no progress. Way through it in any given direction
might well seem an impossibility; but an alert atom, by constantly
watching opportunity, could edge here and there, through chance
openings, and, by a constant devotion to a given direction, ultimately
attain any chosen point. Thus the girl, buffeted about, often well-nigh
exhausted and breathless, came by the entrance to the palace that stood
next the banqueting-house. The gates, however, were tightly closed,
and guarded on the outside by a double row of soldiery, who stood the
hustling of the mob with great good humour, being evidently cautioned
not to exasperate the populace by any hostile act. The crowd itself
seemed good-natured enough, although constant fighting took place here
and there along its choking surface; but the great bulk of those present
appeared to be out on a larking holiday, although they all riotously
lent breath to the unceasing roar, calling for justice on Strafford.
Occasionally there were shouts for the King, and demands that he should
speak to them, but the windows of Whitehall Palace were blank and gave
no sign of human occupancy.
Suddenly Frances found herself in new danger through one of those
unexplainable heaves of the many-throated beast at whose mercy she
stood.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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