Yet last night was a scaffold, there! all black,
And one stood visor’d by, with glittering axe
Who struck the bare neck of a kneeling form—­
Methought the head of him that seem’d to die,
With ghastly face and painful, patient stare,
Glided along the sable, blood-gilt floor,
As unseen fiends did pull it by its mass
Of dank and dabbled hair, and when I turn’d
Mine eyes to see it not, the headsman’s mask
Had fallen to the ground—­
Thou didst not do it? 
For it was thy face.  Father, answer me! [She
implores in a very earnest attitude, and gradually
falls back.]

Crom. [Stands amazed at his daughter’s action.]
I’ll hear no more.  ’Twas not my daughter spoke—­
She’s dead, and Heaven reproves me with a voice
From yon pale tenement of clay.  My hair’s on end. 
She said that fiends dragg’d his, ’tis mine they tug. 
Avaunt!  I meant well. [Shouts are heard without.]
Hark! hear without
A Babel of hoarse demons clamouring loud
For Cromwell, the Protector!

[His daughter points upward.]

No! not there. 
I cannot follow thee.  A Spirit stands,
Anointed, in the breach of Heaven’s walls,
Behind him streams intolerable light,
His floating locks are crown’d—­His look repels—­
I was his murderer on earth—­His gaze
Speaks pity; but not pardon—­Let me rise,
There’s mercy on his brow—­I fall, I fall. 
I tell ye loose me, ere I see him not: 
His form recedes, clouds hide him from my sight: 
A hand of midnight grasps me by the throat. 
They call’d me Cromwell when I liv’d on earth,
And said I slew a king.  There is no air—­

[He sinks exhausted on a chair.]

Enter PEARSON.

Eliz. [To PEARSON.] Pearson, thou lov’st him?

Pear. Madam, with a love Born of those moments when men’s lives are cheap.

[Looks at CROMWELL.]

The dark fit is upon him.  I have found
’Tis best to leave him to himself;—­

Eliz. No! no! 
There is no time.  My breath is short.  O Pearson,
Rouse him from that cold torpor, ere I die. 
Life will not turn my hour-glass any more,
Whose thin sands, sinking at their centre fast,
Ebb hollowly away.  I would but speak
A few soft words of comfort, pray him to
Repent; there is repentance,—­for his heart
Sinn’d not so deeply as the world may think.

Crom. [Raising himself.] Who said repentance? 
What’s done, is done well. 
I stand acquitted.  Daughter, cheer thee, rise. 
Thou shalt recover, my sweet darling.  List! 
It was the Lord reveal’d it to me.

Eliz. Cease! 
Father, blaspheme no longer; with such words
Feed the wild fever of the enthusiast crew,
Pander to hypocrites; but not here, now,
Deceive thyself, or me—­