Vain is the bugle horn,
Where trumpets men to manly work invite!
That distant summons seems to say, in scorn,
We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT
Constantia Cecil watched with much anxiety the progress of the carriages
and horsemen which composed the train and body-guard of the Protector,
as they passed slowly along the road that led to Cecil Place. A troop,
consisting of twenty men, preceded; their bright arms, and caps, and
cuirasses, reflecting back the blaze of the setting sun, like so many
burnished mirrors. Then came Cromwell's own carriage, drawn by four
strong black horses;--they had need of strength, dragging, as they did,
a weight of plated iron, of which the cumbrous machine was composed. The
windows were remarkably narrow, and formed of the thickest glass, within
which was a layer of horn, that, if it were shattered by any rude
assault, would prevent the fragments from flying to the inside. Behind
this carriage rode four mounted soldiers; it was succeeded by another,
and at each side a horseman rode; a third conveyance, the blinds of
which were closely drawn, brought up the procession; and behind this was
only a single soldier. At some distance, perfectly unattended, and
seeming as if unconnected with the party, came the simple vehicle of the
Jew Manasseh Ben Israel. However great was Cromwell's partiality for
this learned and distinguished man, he was fully aware of the impolicy
of permitting one of so despised a race to associate with him publicly,
or to travel abroad under his direct protection.
Frances Cromwell joined her friend at the window from whence she looked,
and at once congratulated her on the tranquillity Sir Robert had enjoyed
during the last two hours.
"The physician has done much," she replied; "yet I can hardly trust
myself to cherish any feeling that tells of peace or hope. Dearest
Frances! what will be the fate of your poor friend?"
Constantia hid her face on the Lady Cromwell's shoulder, and wept; but
her grief appeared of a less feverish kind than heretofore.
"Hope for the best--my father can work marvels when he wills. He may
read all right; and as yet you are unwedded."
"He cannot restore the sweet life of one I loved so dearly,--one whose
place I can never see filled, and upon whose innocent countenance I can
ne'er again look."
"I wonder who is in my father's carriage?--Colonel Jones, I dare say,
and a couple more of the same severe cast," observed Lady Frances,
trying to divert her friend's attention from the thought of poor
Barbara; "not a joyful face amongst a troop of them; the very soldiers
look like masses of grey stone, stuck on the horses' backs with iron
paste."