Part 22 (2/2)

[_Last Grooves._]

_A State Room in Whitehall. The moon s.h.i.+nes through the windows._

_On a large bed with crimson hangings, surmounted with black plumes, is seen a Coffin and pall, richly emblazoned with the royal arms of England. On each side an Ironside keeping guard with a matchlock.

They walk to and fro, and speak as they meet._

_1st Iron._ I tell thee, Bowtell, I would this watch were over.

_2nd Iron._ I would it were a bright morning, with our pike-heads glittering in the sun. I would rather it were a charge of Rupert's best cavalry in our rear.

_1st Iron._ I mind when I saw him once alive, 'twas at the close of the fight, and he would have charged once more, but a false Scotch n.o.ble held him back to his ruin. Had I been he, I would have cloven the false Scot to the chine. I was a prisoner, and near him; he had a tall white plume then. His dark face showed very eager beneath it.

_2nd. Iron._ 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.

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