Crom. Ay! Master Walton, Thou thinkest so?—
Arth. I do!—
Crom. And dar'st to speak it?
Arth. Dare! General Cromwell! [Takes off his sword.] Here, look, is my sword, I'll never more bear arms with thee or thine.
Crom. I do protest thou wilt not—
Take his sword; [To an Officer.]
I did not think to find this kite so tame.
Good, honest Master Walton, tell me now
What news from Langley, virtuous Master Walton?
Nay, never look with that blank wonderment,
Friend Arthur Walton—
[ARTH. attempts to speak.] Tush, sir, not a word—
As the Lord liveth, thou shalt die the death—
Take him away. I hate his open brow
More than a dozen dark-fac'd royalists
In arms against us.
Arth. What doth this mean?— Frenzy Hath surely seized him—
Crom. No! the sense To know thee, hypocrite!
Flor. O Arthur! Arthur!
What has he done? [Rushes to his arms.]
Forgive me, dearest Arthur!
Sir, he's not guilty— [To Cromwell.]
Crom. Silence, woman! Take him Away!
Eliz. My veins thrill! Parted?—No! No! No!
Perish the mean thought—
Let me aid them, though
I die; then o'er my quiet grave, my thought
Doth sculpture them in prayer—
[To Cromwell.] He is innocent,
My father! Let him go—Do you not see
They love each other?—