When Charles the First was King by J.S. Fletcher

It was about the middle of the afternoon of that eventful day that I set out from my lodging in Westminster, and walked by way of Whitehall towards Charing Cross. Whither I was bound or with what aim I do not now remember; most likely I had neither aim nor definite destination in my mind, but was simply moving about to calm myself, for the scene of the morning had wrought upon me heavily. Whatever most of his friends felt, none of them could exceed me in sympathy for the unfortunate King; and my heart had been further wounded during the morning by an account of his last interview with his two youngest children, which must indeed have been a bitter matter, and worse to face than the death which so soon followed. All these matters we had spoken of at Master Goodfellow's, until I could bear no longer to talk of the subject, and had gone forth to walk about the city. I was half minded to saddle my horse and ride away from London, for it seemed to me, who from my birth had been trained to pray for the King's good estate, that a curse must rest upon the city that had witnessed his murder. But I reflected that I had a duty to perform to myself and my friends -- namely, the recovery of my money -- and I resolved to stay a while longer, but made up my mind that if I got no redress within reasonable time, I would go home and trouble myself no more in the matter.

It was beginning to grow dark when I came over against Whitehall, where groups of people still lingered about the scene of the King's death. The scaffold had by that time been removed, and there were no traces of the terrible scene of the morning. I was hurrying past the banqueting house, when a man in a cloak came across from the gardens which lie between Whitehall and the river, and walked behind me for a short space. Suddenly his steps quickened, and he gained upon me and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned quickly to look at him. There was an oil-lamp burning close at hand, and by its light I saw that the man was General Cromwell. His hat was drawn down over his face, and his uniform was hidden by a large horseman's cloak, but there was no mistaking him when he lifted his head to look at me.