CROMWELL. Friend, let him enter. Henry, leave us now! At eight, remember! (_exit Ireton_) It hath lamely chanced That Cecil should return upon the heat And newness of these fierce events; a month Had robbed him of their horror! While we breathe Passion glides on to Memory:—and dread things, That scared our thoughts but yesterday, take hues, That smooth their sternness, from the silent morrow. (_Enter Cecil—Cromwell leaning on his sword at the farther end of the stage, regards him with a steadfast look and majestic mien_) Well, sir, good day! What messages from Spain? (_Cecil presents him despatches—Cromwell glances over them, looking, from time to time, at Cecil_) CECIL. (_aside_) What is there in this man that I should fear him? Hath he some spell to witch us from ourselves, And make our natures minion to his own? CROMWELL. Plead they so warm for Stuart? 'tis too late! CECIL. It is too late! CROMWELL. Since last we parted, Hubert, He, the high author of our civil wars, Hath been their victim. 'Twas an evil, Hubert; But so is justice ever when it falls Upon a human life! CECIL. God's mercy!—justice! Why justice is a consequence of law— Founded on law—begotten but by law! By what law, Cromwell, fell the King? CROMWELL. By all The laws he left us! Prithee silence, Cecil! Sir, I might threaten, but I will not:—hold! And let us, with a calm and sober eye, Look on the spectre of this ghastly deed. Who spills man's blood, his blood by man be shed! 'Tis Heaven's first law—to that law we had come— None other left us. Who, then, caused the strife, That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's moor? It was the Stuart:—so the Stuart fell! A victim, in the pit himself had digged! He died not, Sir, as hated kings have died, In secret and in shade—no eye to trace The one step from their prison to their pall; He died i' the eyes of Europe—in the face Of the broad Heaven—amidst the sons of England, Whom he had outraged—by a solemn sentence, Passed by a solemn court. Does this seem guilt? (It might be error—mortal men will err!) But _Guilt_ not thus unrobes it to the day; Its deeds are secret, as _our_ act was public. You pity Charles! 'tis well; but pity more The tens of thousand honest humble men, Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled To draw the sword, fell butchered in the field! Good Lord—when one man dies who wears a crown, How the earth trembles—how the nations gape, Amazed and awed!—but when that one man's victims, Poor worms uncloth'd in purple, daily die, In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet, Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes: Ye weep the ravening vulture when he bleeds, And coldly gaze upon the countless prey He gorged at one fell meal. Be still young man;