n._ Ay, I have heard good Jepherson tell
of it, and how the Lord blinded them all.

_1st Iron._ I mind his very words,--
"Charles Stuart begs a little loyal blood
To do him right--a charge, but one more charge!
Come on, we do command, come on.
O cowards!
Had I but fifty of my nephew Rupert!"
And then he waved his sword, as 'twere the whole
cut and thrust exercise in the air at once, and his
plume fluttered like a white bird in the eye of a
tempest. If he should speak now--[_A footstep is
heard, both look round._]

_2nd Iron._ Didst thou hear nought?

_1st Iron._ O for a stoop of strong waters!

_2nd Iron._ Hist! 'twas like a soldier's tread in the
long gallery beyond.

_1st Iron._ Nay, 'tis the echo of thine own feet.

_2nd Iron_ 'Tis a footstep. Hark, it stops!

_1st Iron._ Do thou speak.

_Enter CROMWELL, L._

[_They bring their matchlocks to bear._] The word, or
else we fire!

_Crom._ [_Muttering._] Had Zimri peace, who slew
his master?

_2nd Iron._ Hold! 'Tis the General.

_Crom._ Ha! how fare you?

[_The Soldiers move towards the door, coming from
the coffin._]

Stay, Bowtell!
Open me yonder coffin, dost not hear?
Quick, fool! Thy mouth is all agape; as if
Thou didst lack tidings. What dost quiver for?
Give me thy sword. [_Wrenches open the coffin._]
I would see how he looks:
Perchance, I may undo the look he sent, [_Aside._]
In search of me this morn from off the scaffold.

_Bow._ My Lord!
Shall we go?

_Crom._ Ay, I would lift my voice
In prayer awhile. Nay, leave your matchlocks. So.

[_Exeunt Soldiers._]

[_The steps of the Soldiers are heard gradually
retreating. CROMWELL following them to the side._]

It is an hour since I did speak to them!
The air is life-like and intelligent,
I seem to fret it as I move along;
Yet this is Death's abode!

[_Looks cautiously round--calls in another tone._]

Ho! there--hola!
We are alone. I do forget me--stay--

[_Advances to the coffin._]

Like the hot iron to the quivering flesh
Be this test to my soul, to look on him,
To set my living face by his dead face;
Then tax him with the deeds for which I slew him.

[_Opens the coffin very gently._]

O Thou discrowned and insensible clay!
Thou beggar corpse!
Stripp'd, 'midst a butcher'd score, or so, of men,
Upon a bleak hill-side, beneath the rack
Of flying clouds torn by the cannon's boom,
If the red, trampled grass were all thy shroud,
The scowl of Heaven