Old Man. I thought the day was ours.  The headlong Rupert
Swept all before him, like the wind that bends
The thin and unkind corn, his men were numb
With slaying, and their chargers straddling, blown
With undue speed, as they had hunted that
Which could not turn again—­e’en thus was Rupert,
When round to meet his squadrons came a host
Like whirlwind to the wind. 
There was a moment that the blood-surge roll’d
Hither and thither, while you saw in the air
Ten thousand bright blades, and as many eyes
Of flame flashed terribly.  Then Rupert stay’d
His hot hand in amazement,
And all his blood-stain’d chivalry grew pale: 
The hunters, chang’d to quarry, fled amain,
I saw the prince’s jet-black, favourite barb
Thrown on her haunches; then away, away,
Her speed did bear him safe.  Then there came one,
A grisly man, with head all bare and grey,
That shouted, “Smite and scatter, spare not, ho! 
Ye chosen of the Lord!” and they did smite,
As on the anvil; till the plumed helms
Of all our best bent down.  Alas! alas! 
That I should see this day—–­

[Looks about and finds his son.]

What’s this, my son! 
Wounded? my disobedient child? 
I thought of him
But now in charging, as I met a foe
That beat my sword-arm down—­had he been there
I had not suffer’d—­nay, what colours these?
Against the king?—­he is my son; I’ll bear
Him off, and win him to his king and me.

[Takes him up, several cross the stage flying.  Musketry from L. to R. A shot strikes the Old Man, who falls.  Several officers and soldiers enter fighting with swords and firearms.]

CROMWELL enters pursuing, L. to R.

Crom. Strike home! spare none!  The father with the son,
That fights for tyranny. [To a Trooper.] Give me thy sword! 
Mine own is hack’d with slaying—­
Where is Rupert? 
The haughty Rupert now?—­
Where is this king,
That tempts the God of battles?—­Are they gone,
That cost these precious lives?

[Here the sun breaks out in splendour and lights up the battle-ground behind.]

“Let God arise,
And let his enemies be scattered!”

END OF ACT II.

ACT III.

SCENE, I.

[1st Grooves.]

An apartment in Cromwell’s house.

Enter CROMWELL, ARTHUR, the LADY ELIZABETH, L.

Crom. To have a home, that is no fitting home, Is worse than the sad orphan’s part, who gathers His lean crumbs from the world’s wide eager table, And pares the flint-stones borne in stranger breasts, To eke him out against the cruel winds—­

[Crosses to his daughter.]

Thou say’st she was thy playmate—­
Come, thou hast
Mov’d the stern soldier to thy woman’s will. 
Go, sir! [To Arthur.] and fetch this Florence from her roof. 
There should be no such scandal done in England,
As the loud insult of a marriage forc’d
Before God’s altar.