e to become a dying Christian, and,
in a separate paper, begged his friend to suppress what he had said of
these men "Only this I must acknowledge," he mildly added; "they were
not governable."

Most of his few remaining hours were passed in devotion, and in
affectionate intercourse with some members of his family. He professed
no repentance on account of his last enterprise, but bewailed, with
great emotion, his former compliance in spiritual things with the
pleasure of the government He had, he said, been justly punished. One
who had so long been guilty of cowardice and dissimulation was not
worthy to be the instrument of salvation to the State and Church. Yet
the cause, he frequently repeated, was the cause of God, and would
assuredly triumph. "I do not," he said, "take on myself to be a prophet.
But I have a strong impression on my spirit, that deliverance will come
very suddenly." It is not strange that some zealous Presbyterians should
have laid up his saying in their hearts, and should, at a later period,
have attributed it to divine inspiration.

So effectually had religious faith and hope, co-operating with natural
courage and equanimity, composed his spirits, that, on the very day on
which he was to die, he dined with appetite, conversed with gaiety at
table, and, after his last meal, lay down, as he was wont, to take a
short slumber, in order that his body and mind might be in full vigour
when he should mount the scaffold. At this time one of the Lords of the
Council, who had probably been bred a Presbyterian, and had been seduced
by interest to join in oppressing the Church of which he had once been
a member, came to the Castle with a message from his brethren, and
demanded admittance to the Earl. It was answered that the Earl was
asleep. The Privy Councillor thought that this was a subterfuge, and
insisted on entering. The door of the cell was softly opened; and there
lay Argyle, on the bed, sleeping, in his irons, the placid sleep of
infancy. The conscience of the renegade smote him. He turned away sick
at heart, ran out of the Castle, and took refuge in the dwelling of a
lady of his family who lived hard by. There he flung himself on a couch,
and gave himself up to an agony of remorse and shame. His kinswoman,
alarmed by his looks and groans, thought that he had been taken with
sudden illness, and begged him to drink a cup of sack. "No, no," he
said; "that will do me no good." She prayed him to tell her