And then he told me of a solemn prayer-meeting, held throughout the day before at Windsor Castle, by the army leaders. How some of them, being "sore perplexed that what they had judged to do for the good of these poor nations had not been accepted by them, were minded to lay down arms, disband, and return each to his home, there to suffer after the example of Him who, having done what He could to save His people, sealed His life by suffering." But others were differently minded, and striving to trace back the causes of their present divisions and weakness, they came at last to what they believed the root, those cursed carnal conferences which their own conceited wisdom had prompted them to the year before with the king's party. Then Major Goffe solemnly rehearsed from the Scripture the words, "Turn you at my reproof, and I will pour out my Spirit unto you;" and thereupon their sin and their duty was set unanimously with weight on each heart, so that none was able to speak a word to each other for bitter weeping, at the sense and shame of their sins and their base fear of men." "Cromwell, Ireton, and his Ironsides weeping bitterly! It was a thing not to forget," said Roger, pausing. "Then, Roger," said I, trembling, "if this was the sin they wept for, what is the _duty_ they see before them?" Roger bowed his forehead on his hands as they rested on the table before him, and his reply came muffled and slow. "'To call Charles Stuart, that man of blood, to an account for that blood he hath shed and mischief he hath done to his utmost against the Lord's cause and people in these poor nations.' This is what they deem their duty," he said. "Call the king to an account, Roger!" I said, "the king!" I could scarce speak the word for horror. "Kings have to be called to account," he said. "Yes, in heaven," I said. "But on earth, Roger, on earth never." "Herod was called to account on earth, Olive," said he. "True, but it was by God, Roger," I said. "Not by man! never by man!" "By the law, Olive," he said; "by God's law, which is above all men." "But what men can ever have right to execute the law on a king?" I said; "on their own king?" "Woe to the men who have to do it," said Roger; "but bitterer woe to the man who does not the work God sets him to do, whatever woe it brings on the doing. Olive, who gave," he added, mournfully, "sanction to Laud and Strafford's oppressions, and to Prince Rupert's plunderings?" I could only weep. "Oh, Roger," I said, "let the thunderbolt, or the pestilence, or any of God's terrible angels do this work in His time. They are strong and swift enough. It is not for men." He made no reply. "What lies between this terrible resolve and its execution?" I asked at length. "Chepstow and Pembroke to be besieged and taken; Wales to be reconquered; the Scottish army of forty thousand to be driven back over the borders," he replied. "Then there is a hope of escape for the king yet."