CECIL. There is no other. I came to chide thee, Cromwell; ay, to chide, Girt as thou art with power: but thou hast ta'en The sternness from my soul, and made the voice Of duty sound so grating to my ear, That, for mine honor, I, who fear thee not, Do fear my frailty, and will trust no more My conscience to our meeting. CROMWELL. Wouldst thou say That thou wilt leave me? CECIL. Yes. CROMWELL. And whither bound? CECIL. The king's no more; and in his ashes sleep His faults. His son as yet hath wronged us not: That son is now our king! CROMWELL. Do I hear right? Know'st thou, rash boy, those words are deadly? Know'st thou, It is proclaimed “whoever names a king In any man, by Parliament unsanctioned, Is criminal of treason?” CECIL. So 'tis said; And those who said it, were themselves the traitors. CROMWELL. This, and to me!—beware; on that way lies My limit of forbearance. CECIL. Call thy guards; Ordain the prison; bring me to the bar; Prepare the scaffold. This, great Cromwell, were A milder doom than that which I adjudge Unto myself. 'Tis worse than death to leave The flag which waved above our dreams of freedom— The Chief our reverence honored as a god— The bride whose love rose-colored all the world— But worse than many deaths—than hell itself, To sin against what we believe the right. CROMWELL. [_moved and aside_] And this bold soul I am about to lose! [_Aloud_] If me thou canst forget, and all my love, Remember Edith! Is she thy betrothed, And wilt thou leave her too? Thou hid'st thy face. Stay, Hubert, stay; I, who could order, stoop And pray thee stay. CECIL. No—no! CROMWELL. [_with coldness and dignity_] Then have thy will. Desert the cause of freedom at her need,— False to thy chief, and perjured to thy love. I do repent me that I have abased Myself thus humbly. Go, Sir, you have leave; I would not have one man in honest Israel Whose soul hath hunger for the flesh of Egypt. CECIL. [_approaching Cromwell slowly_] Canst thou yet make the doubtful past appear Done but in sorrowing justice?—canst thou yet Cement these jarring factions—join in peace The friends alike of royalty and freedom, And give the state, secured by such good laws As now we may demand, once more a king? CROMWELL. A king! Why name that word? A head—a chief, Perchance, the Commonwealth may yet decree! Speak on! CECIL. I care not, Cromwell, for the name; But he who bears the orb and sway of power Must, if for peace we seek, be chosen from The Stuarts' lineage. Charles the First is dead: Wilt thou proclaim his son? CROMWELL. [_laughing bitterly_] An Exile, yes! A Monarch, never!