Part 17 (1/2)

Enter, L., Sir HARRY VANE, HACKER, same time._

_Brad._ [_A letter in his hand. To VANE and HACKER, who have just entered._] So, gentlemen--Had you been here just now, you would have heard at length, this precious information, which our worthy General Cromwell, and Ireton here, have laid before us. A letter to the Queen, and secret intercourse with France--a rare betrayal, and richly worded too.

'Tis well we have friends at court, ere now it had been at Dover.

_Vane._ I thought he did stand pledged to all we ask'd.

_Har._ The royal Judas! [_Cromwell comes forward._]

_Crom._ O sirs! It is but A king's prerogative to break his faith.

We are not fitting judges of this thing.

_Har._ But we will judge. I say, whose dogs are we!

_Crom._ Peace, Harrison. Thou naughty traitor!

Peace.

_Ireton._ Away with all, save vengeance on the deed.

_Brad._ [_After placing the letter in the saddle._]

There! in that greasy, patch'd and reeking leather, Lies a king's royal word, a Stuart's honour, The faith of Charles, his most majestic pledge Broken, defil'd, dishonour'd evermore.

_Har._ Why cry ye not, ”G.o.d save our righteous King”?

_Crom._ Through me, he did proclaim, he would accept Our army's terms. Alas! had we been cozen'd, I, that believed his false tongue, had betray'd The hope of Israel---

_Vane._ It is true, indeed, He is the slave of his pernicious Queen.

_Mar._ I say the King of England henceforth is An alien in blood, a bitter traitor-- What doth he merit of us?

_Ireton._ This! 'Tis right That one man die for all, and that the nation For one man perish not--

_Crom._ Ho! what? son Ireton.

_Vane._ Alas! indeed he merits not to live.

_Brad._ What say ye?

_Ireton._ Death!

_Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker._ [_Severally._] Death!

Death!

_Brad._ I think, Sir Harry, You said, ”not live,” the others all say, ”Death,”

Why then we are agreed-- Stay! General Cromwell, There was no word from you--

_Crom._ I thought to save My breath; ye were so eager.

_Arth._ Hold, a moment.

I do desire your ears--

_Crom._ Our _ears_? Your _years_ Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders, Till they have said-- We would hear Master Milton: He hath to speak. [_To Milton._]

What think you of the man, The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd In Ireland against our English throats?