sk him for mercy. 'Tis
For him to say--

_Will._ Ay, ask us, ask me!--Hanging is too good
for you. You are found out, and [_points to the Host_]
'twas this blessed old fool that has undone you. Yes,
you may look, but your hair will not curl any
longer. Your plot is discovered. Noll knows all,
and will only spare your life on condition of the
colonies. [_During this time Florence and Arthur
are locked in each other's arms._] Look there!
There is happiness--there's fish-hooks and broken
glass bottles and tin-tacks in your gullet. Stomach
that. Tol de rol!

_Host._ While now they are here, I have a great
mind to charge that Wyckoff with my little bill!

_Basil._ O guilt, guilt, guilt!
Success ne'er lit yet on thy feeble brow,
But ever mock'd thee with dissembling leer,
Whilst at thy feet graves open, at thy heart
Remorse points daggers, and thou walk'st the world,
Blood on thine hand and fever in thine eye,
Friendless, by that thou lovest scorn'd the most.

_Arthur._ [_To Florence._] Thou wilt live now?

_Flor._ I would have died for thee,
Joy doth not kill! [_Points to BASIL._]
O, order them to free him;
He is thy brother, would have sav'd thee, though
For a base guerdon; yet he would have sav'd thee.

_An Officer._ We cannot free him!

_Basil._ [_Points to Wyckoff._] Why not take him too?--
He is guiltier than I am.--

_Wyck._ [_Aloud._] Traitor! O
Thou most pernicious traitor. [_Aside._] Damn him, coward!
He will tell all, unless I stop it thus.

[_Draws his sword._]

This for the Commonwealth! [_Stabs BASIL._]

_Basil._ O, I am kill'd!
Will ye see this?-- [_To Arthur._]
Revenge me, some of you!

[_Falls into the Soldiers arms and is borne off, U.E.R._]

_Officer._ [_Points to WYCKOFF._]
Seize him, ye have a warrant for his life.
The scaffold were defil'd. Unto the gallows!

[_WYCKOFF is borne off struggling._]

_Wyck._ 'Twas for the state! O mercy!
Arthur Walton!
He would have slain you! Mercy! mercy--

_Arth._ [_Supporting Florence._] Heaven!
How just and awful these thy punishments.

_Enter CROMWELL attended, L._

_Crom._ I did you wrong, yet eagerly excused
The death I thought you merited.

_Arth._ My Lord,
I owe no malice, and I wish you well,
As you shall deal with England, whose sad shores
I fain would quit awhile with her I love,
After these heavy griefs.

_Crom._ And you will leave me?
I would it were not so; for all around
I am hemm'd