IRETON. Yea, when he signed the warrant, dost thou mind How, with the pen yet wet, he crossed thy face, My honest Harry! ('twas a scurvy trick!) And laughed till merry tears coursed down his cheek, To see thy ruddy hues so streaked with black? Ha! Ha!—and yet it was a scurvy trick! And thou didst give him back the boon again, And both laughed loud, like mad-caps at a school, When the grim master is not by. I was The man who, next to Cromwell, planned the act Which sealed old England's freedom; yet that laugh Made me look back—and start—and shudder! MARTIN. Tush! Thou know'st thy kinsman's merry vein what time The humor's on him. I'll be sworn, nor he Nor I thought lightlier of the solemn deed For that unseemly moment;—'twas the vent Of an excited pulse; and if our own, The scaffold we were dooming to the Stuart, We should have toyed the same. HARRISON. Why prate ye thus— Lukewarm and chill of heart? When Barak broke The hosts of Sisera, after twice ten years Of bondage, did the sons of Israel weep? Or did they seek excuses for just mirth? No; they sang out in honest joy—“Awake! Captivity is captive! and the stars Fought from their courses against Sisera.” Our Sisera is no more—we will rejoice! IRETON. (_aside to Martin_) Humor him Harry, or we 'scape not so This saintly porcupine of homilies Bristling with all the missiles of quotation: Provoke him,—and he pricks you with a text. (_aloud_) Right, holy comrade, thou hast well rebuked us. But to return to earth. The General feels, My Harry, how the eyes of the dumb world Are fixed on us—how all of England's weal Weighs on our shoulders, and with serious thought Inclines him to the study of the HOUR: For every moment now should womb designs, And in the air we breathe the thundercloud Hangs mute:—may Heaven disperse it on our foes! MARTIN. Ireton, his soul foresees, and is prepared. He will not patch new fortune with old fears, Nor halt 'twixt doubt and daring. We have done That which continued boldness can but bless; And on the awful head we have discrowned Must found our Capitol of Liberty! HARRISON. (_who has been walking to and fro, muttering to himself, suddenly turns round_) Who comes? thou hast ill omen on thy brow. Art thou—nay, pardon!—soldier of the Lord! SCENE II.—To them Sir Hubert Cecil. CECIL. Where is the General? Where the lofty Cromwell? IRETON. Young Cecil! Welcome, comrade! Just from Spain? What news I pray? The dust upon thy garb Betokens weary speed. CECIL. False heart, away! Where is thy master, bloodhound? IRETON. Art thou mad? Is it to me these words?—Or that my sword Were vowed to holier fields, this hand—— {606}