Shouts of the Soldiers. Live, Cromwell! live, our worthy general!

[WILLIAM re-enters and joins the Soldiers.  Exeunt, B.]

Enter ARTHUR reading a letter, U.E.L.

“——­and so, cousin, I am very miserable, and if you have this influence with the General Cromwell, whose fair daughter I do so well remember, get me a home with her; for, alas!  I can stay no longer here.  And yet my father?  But to wed with one that I despise, it is impossible, and all things are prepared, I look to you alone for rescue.  Farewell. Florence.”

I will!  I will “Postscript.  I hear you are engaged in these dreadful wars.  Pray heaven! you have chosen aright; for I know not.  But peril not your life more than becomes true valour; for I have heard you are dear to many.  Adieu!” I dear to many?—­let’s see, there is my faithful serving-man—­poor fellow, he likes not this life, and doth assume an amusing kind of fear, but I do believe thinking more of me than himself.  Well then; I had a dog; but he was lost the night of our passage, when but for his inveterate barking, for which I beat him, I had surely been drowned in the cabin, where I slept, when the vessel was stranded—­he loved me; but for more—­I know them not.

O dearest Florence! were I lov’d indeed by thee, There were indeed a bright star in the sky, To guide my shatter’d bark of destiny! [Retires, U.R.]

Enter CROMWELL, IRETON, DESBOROUGH, and others, U.E.L., ARTHUR joins them.

Crom. Thus, gentlemen, the reports being ended, I would but detain you a short while in prayer.

Des. Nay! as I said before, we are fatigued, and the body needs refreshment.

Ire. [Apart to Cromwell.] How the pampered boar frets!

Crom. [To Desborough.] Will you to my tent?—­I can give you a soldier’s fare, with a soldier’s welcome, a crust and cup of ale, and we can discourse what remains.

An Officer. Indeed we are engaged; but if the General Cromwell would honour us—­

Crom. I thank you, I have supped ere you have dined.

[Drum rolls.  A loud shout of merriment and clatter is heard.]

Des. What is that—­in my tent too!

[Looking off, R. WILLIAM comes forward, R.]

By Heaven! rank mutiny.  I’ll have them shot.

Will. Nay! worthy sir, knock out the priming of your wrath from the matchlock of your vengeance, and abide till to-morrow, when you shall see many a stout fellow and gormandizer to boot levelled. [To Cromwell.] Great Sir! they complain that the wine is thin.

Crom. Go purchase some strong waters. [Gives him money.] I must not have my fellows’ stomachs unsettled.  Here, thou graceless knave.

Will. An’t please you, we had no time for grace; but we return thanks to you, under Heaven.