“By me.”
“What was his name?”
“Lord Winter.”
“Your uncle?” exclaimed Cromwell.
“My uncle,” answered Mordaunt; “but traitors to England are no longer members of my family.”
Cromwell observed the young man a moment in silence, then, with that profound melancholy Shakespeare describes so well:
“Mordaunt,” he said, “you are a terrible servant.”
“When the Lord commands,” said Mordaunt, “His commands are not to be disputed. Abraham raised the knife against Isaac, and Isaac was his son.”