Flor. Never!

Basil. How?—­ Hast thou not sworn?

Flor. There is a point where all
That binds the struggling wretch to aught on earth,
Be it a bond of hate and grief like mine,
Or sweet communion of young hearts that love,
Be it a sacrifice to infamy, or pride
Of mothers in their offspring, or the work
Of master-spirits’ high philosophy,
Doth rank with things that were—­

Basil. Thou speakest riddles.

Flor. A colder hand than thine is on my heart, I am another’s bride!  A month must pass Ere thou can’st claim me.  Was not that the bond?

Basil. In these brisk times, a month goes quickly by.

Flor. Within a week I’ll wed, but not with thee.  Pray, sir, go hence, you do distract my thoughts From my lov’d bridegroom.

Basil. Speak, whom mean’st thou?

Flor. Death. 
A thousand deaths, ere wed with thee.  Dost hear? 
I am faint.  Lo! thy cruel, eager gaze
Grows grimly dark and indistinct.  Pray Heaven
I shall not see it any more.  Farewell,
I pardon thee.

Basil. Not so!  May curses blight me, If I do lose thee thus. [Seizes her.]

Flor. Help!

Basil. Wilt thou budge Thus from thy promise?—­Nay then—­

Flor. Help!  O help!

Enter ARTHUR, Soldiers, WILLIAM, HOST, &c., U.E.R.  After them WYCKOFF, who stands at a little distance.  Loud cries of “Pardon, a free pardon from the Protector."

Basil. What does this mean?  Look to your prisoner:  seize him.

An Officer. [Seizing Basil.] In the Protector’s name, we do!

Basil. Away!  Let go!

An Officer. [Points to Arthur.] ’Twere best ask him for mercy.  ’Tis For him to say—­

Will. Ay, ask us, ask me!—­Hanging is too good for you.  You are found out, and [points to the Host] ’twas this blessed old fool that has undone you.  Yes, you may look, but your hair will not curl any longer.  Your plot is discovered.  Noll knows all, and will only spare your life on condition of the colonies. [During this time Florence and Arthur are locked in each other’s arms.] Look there!  There is happiness—­there’s fish-hooks and broken glass bottles and tin-tacks in your gullet.  Stomach that.  Tol de rol!

Host. While now they are here, I have a great mind to charge that Wyckoff with my little bill!

Basil. O guilt, guilt, guilt! 
Success ne’er lit yet on thy feeble brow,
But ever mock’d thee with dissembling leer,
Whilst at thy feet graves open, at thy heart
Remorse points daggers, and thou walk’st the world,
Blood on thine hand and fever in thine eye,
Friendless, by that thou lovest scorn’d the most.

Arthur. [To Florence.] Thou wilt live now?