Basil. Yes! yes! but come, assist—­[They lift up a plank, U.E.L., in the floor, and deposit papers; as they do so, enter HOST, still asleep, U.E.R.  He goes to a cup-board, which he opens, and then pouring out a glass of spirits—­drinks, and gives a kind of satisfied grunt.] Hold! we are seen. [Draws a dagger.]

Wyck. [Springing up.] The devil! where is my knife?—­Hist!  Do you not see?—­he sleeps.  I have seen this before.  Did I not tell you of the girl?—­I have heard them teaze him about this. [To Basil.] Be quiet, fool! [They watch the HOST; he takes a pitcher of water and pours into the flask he had been drinking from.] The damned old thief!  I could have sworn it yesterday.  He waters his strong drink.  That’s why I have not been so well here.  I have a cursed cholic these three days, and missed the warm nip it should give my stomach.  The poisonous old dog!

Basil. Are you sure?

Wyck. Look at his eyes.  You shall see me flourish my blade before them, and he shall not wink.  But don’t touch him. [He goes up to him and menaces him.] ’Tis all safe; he will go now. [The HOST replaces the things, and goes slowly out, U.E.R.  The clock strikes twelve.] Come, let us see where he puts his keys. [They steal out after him.]

SCENE VI.

[Last Grooves.]

A large apartment dimly lighted.  Tables with writing materials.  A practicable door and stairs in L.F., practicable doors, R. and L.U.E.’S, chairs, &c.

CROMWELL enters, R., very much agitated, followed by his daughter ELIZABETH.  After pacing across and back, he stops short in the middle of the stage and speaks.

Crom. Have I not promis’d thee that I will save him, If he will save himself? [To his daughter.]

Eliz. Thou hast, dear father. 
And then, with blessings on thy righteous name,
Rejecting all they offer thee, vain titles,
And selfish, mean, dishonourable honours,
Thou wilt return unto our natural home
At Huntingdon, and I will read to thee,
As I was wont.  Thy hair then will not whiten
So fast, and sometimes thou wilt have a smile
Upon thy countenance, that grows so stern
Of late, I hardly dare look up to thee,
And call thee “dearest father”—­
Shall it be? 
Did the king speak thee fair?

Crom. [Gloomily.] Too fair, too fair!  E’en to be honest fair.  Our good John Milton Speaks bitter words.  He saith Lord Strafford grac’d Right well the block, that put his trust in him.  What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?

Eliz. ’Twas not the fault of Charles that Strafford died.

Crom. It was his fault to sign—­
He should have died
Himself first.  Daughter! urge me not—­I’ll do
What the Lord wills in this.  Go! mind the household,
Thou little Royalist.