Crom. [Muttering.] Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?
2nd Iron. Hold! 'Tis the General.
Crom. Ha! how fare you?
[The Soldiers move towards the door, coming from the coffin.]
Stay, Bowtell!
Open me yonder coffin, dost not hear?
Quick, fool! Thy mouth is all agape; as if
Thou didst lack tidings. What dost quiver for?
Give me thy sword. [Wrenches open the coffin.]
I would see how he looks:
Perchance, I may undo the look he sent, [Aside.]
In search of me this morn from off the scaffold.
Bow. My Lord! Shall we go?
Crom. Ay, I would lift my voice In prayer awhile. Nay, leave your matchlocks. So.
[Exeunt Soldiers.]
[The steps of the Soldiers are heard gradually retreating. CROMWELL following them to the side.]
It is an hour since I did speak to them!
The air is life-like and intelligent,
I seem to fret it as I move along;
Yet this is Death's abode!