ur brow, every tremulous infirmity which
constant watchfulness has introduced into your frame, acting as mementos
that the day of account cannot be far distant.--The iron you wear on
your bosom, that by its stern pressure tells you what you deserve.--The
public clamour, which will not now permit you to immolate the confined
victims whom your own lips have pronounced innocent of recent
provocations, and against whom you dare not revive the charge of
acknowledged resistance, which, by long impunity, you seem to have
pardoned. All these reasons are pledges for our safety. You cannot
further tempt the sufferance of Englishmen. Your declining health makes
you fear to add to the long indictment which your crimes have prepared
against you.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
Upon Death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
All heads must come to the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust."[1]

As Neville uttered this bold appeal to the feelings of an alarmed and
conscious villain, a cold shivering ran through the Protector's frame,
and his eye expressed a vain supplication, that it were possible to
exchange his garlands and his glories for those ever-fragrant actions
which blossom on the grave of the just. He strove to rally his air of
moody dignity, to recover the austere deliberate tone of his
expressions; but his manner was embarrassed, and his voice inarticulate.
A groan, such as only tortured guilt can utter, partially relieved his
swollen bosom. "Neville," said he, "I will not expect you to be my
friend; but will you cease to be my enemy?"

"Miserable victim of ambition," said Neville to himself; "how much
happier is my lot than thine!" Cromwell persisted in asking if there was
any favour he would receive at his hand. Neville paused, and answered,
"Yes; liberty."

"And what pledge," said Cromwell, "can you give me that you will not use
freedom to my prejudice?"

"My own honour," returned Neville, "which will never allow me to use the
instrument you put in my hand to destroy you."

"No equivocation!" said Whitlock; "in receiving freedom from His
Highness you acknowledge his authority."

"No," returned Neville, "I simply own he has a power to confine me. The
question of right is undetermined. If a Usurper restores me to the free
use of light and air, I need not examine his title before