Throughout this war between the king and nobles on one side, and the people of England on the other, there was a famous leader, who did more towards the ruin of royal authority, than all the rest.  The contest seemed like a wrestling-match between King Charles and this strong man.  And the king was overthrown.

When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader sat in the judgment-hall.  Many judges were present, besides himself; but he alone had the power to save King Charles, or to doom him to the scaffold.  After sentence was pronounced, this victorious general was entreated by his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty from death.

“No!” said he sternly.  “Better that one man should perish, than that the whole country should be ruined for his sake.  It is resolved that he shall die!”

When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall.  He beheld the poor victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he laid his head upon the block.  He looked on, with a steadfast gaze, while a black-veiled executioner lifted the fatal axe, and smote off that anointed head at a single blow.

“It is a righteous deed,” perhaps he said to himself.  “Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights.”

At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin, in a gloomy chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch.  Its gleam showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with the many battles in which he had led the van; his brow was wrinkled with care, and with the continual exercise of stern authority.  Probably there was not a single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the little Noll, who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles.  Yet this was he!

He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his torch to fall upon the dead monarch’s face.  Then, probably, his mind went back over all the marvellous events, that had brought the hereditary king of England to this dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, an humble individual, to the possession of kingly power.  He was a king, though without the empty title, or the glittering crown.

“Why was it,” said Cromwell to himself—­or might have said—­as he gazed at the pale features in the coffin,—­“Why was it, that this great king fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the realm?”

And, indeed, why was it?

King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a child, he disdained to feel that every human creature was his brother.  He deemed himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were created only for a king to rule over.  And Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many faults, he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of his fellow-men; and therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent their strength to him.