In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster.  As we went he reminded me of what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, I entered the chamber without having once reflected on my purpose.  Adrian remained in the coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his desire, took my seat in St. Stephen’s.  There reigned unusual silence in the chamber.  I had not visited it since Raymond’s protectorate; a period conspicuous for a numerous attendance of members, for the eloquence of the speakers, and the warmth of the debate.  The benches were very empty, those by custom occupied by the hereditary members were vacant; the city members were there—­the members for the commercial towns, few landed proprietors, and not many of those who entered parliament for the sake of a career.  The first subject that occupied the attention of the house was an address from the Lord Protector, praying them to appoint a deputy during a necessary absence on his part.

A silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to me, whispered that the Earl of Windsor had sent him word that I was to move his election, in the absence of the person who had been first chosen for this office.  Now for the first time I saw the full extent of my task, and I was overwhelmed by what I had brought on myself.  Ryland had deserted his post through fear of the plague:  from the same fear Adrian had no competitor.  And I, the nearest kinsman of the Earl of Windsor, was to propose his election.  I was to thrust this selected and matchless friend into the post of danger—­ impossible! the die was cast—­I would offer myself as candidate.

The few members who were present, had come more for the sake of terminating the business by securing a legal attendance, than under the idea of a debate.  I had risen mechanically—­my knees trembled; irresolution hung on my voice, as I uttered a few words on the necessity of choosing a person adequate to the dangerous task in hand.  But, when the idea of presenting myself in the room of my friend intruded, the load of doubt and pain was taken from off me.  My words flowed spontaneously—­my utterance was firm and quick.  I adverted to what Adrian had already done—­I promised the same vigilance in furthering all his views.  I drew a touching picture of his vacillating health; I boasted of my own strength.  I prayed them to save even from himself this scion of the noblest family in England.  My alliance with him was the pledge of my sincerity, my union with his sister, my children, his presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth.

This unexpected turn in the debate was quickly communicated to Adrian.  He hurried in, and witnessed the termination of my impassioned harangue.  I did not see him:  my soul was in my words,—­my eyes could not perceive that which was; while a vision of Adrian’s form, tainted by pestilence, and sinking in death, floated before them.  He seized my hand, as I concluded—­ “Unkind!” he cried, “you have betrayed