MARTIN. Ireton, his soul foresees, and is prepared.
He will not patch new fortune with old fears,
Nor halt 'twixt doubt and daring. We have done
That which continued boldness can but bless;
And on the awful head we have discrowned
Must found our Capitol of Liberty!
HARRISON. (who has been walking to and fro, muttering to himself, suddenly turns round)
Who comes? thou hast ill omen on thy brow.
Art thou—nay, pardon!—soldier of the Lord!
SCENE II.—To them Sir Hubert Cecil.
CECIL. Where is the General? Where the lofty Cromwell?
IRETON. Young Cecil! Welcome, comrade! Just from Spain?
What news I pray? The dust upon thy garb
Betokens weary speed.
CECIL. False heart, away!
Where is thy master, bloodhound?
IRETON. Art thou mad?
Is it to me these words?—Or that my sword
Were vowed to holier fields, this hand——
CECIL. (fiercely) That hand!
Look on it well. What stain hath marred its white
Since last we met? And you, most learned Martin,
And you, text-mouthing Harrison—what saws
Plucked from the rotten tombs of buried codes,
What devilish garblings from the holy writ,
Gave ye one shade of sanction for that deed
Which murdered England's honor in her king?