N goes out, and returns with BASIL. PEARSON retires, L._]

_Basil._ Health to the General!

_Crom._ Good Master Basil, welcome.
I am griev'd,
Most griev'd in spirit for your brother; yet
I must not pardon him. I have receiv'd
Your protestation--

_Basil._ I have done much service,
Good service to the state; I ask his life,
Not liberty.

_Crom._ It cannot be, and yet
I lov'd him well myself. It must not be,
[_Pause._] Yet you have done good service. I am glad
You do insist on it. I had not yielded
To any other--but you have a right
To ask this thing, and I am bound to grant it;
I am glad it comes from you, his brother, here--

[_Signs a paper and hands it to BASIL._]

What will you do with him?

_Basil._ I fear, my Lord,
There is such treason prov'd--the colonies--

_Crom._ Nay! Let him where he will; but not to stay
In England for his head--he dies, if found here
Two days hence--

_Basil._ Thanks, my Lord, it shall be seen to.
A brother's thanks--farewell-- [_He goes out, L._]

_Crom._ How different is
The aspect of these brethren, most unlike
The soul of each to his face--The brow of Arthur
So open and so clear, and yet a traitor.
Indeed, methinks the countenance, which oft
Is the mask fitted to the character
Of gross and eager sensualists, is but
A lying index to the subtle souls
Of villains more acute.
Come hither, Pearson!
Thou know'st me well. Speak, wherefore doubting thus
I feel my soul aghast at its own being?
Methought just now all Hell did cry aloud,
"Conscience can give no peace, the liar Conscience,
That knows not what she prates"--Out, out on
Conscience!
She that did whisper peace unto my soul,
But now, before the fearful shadow came
That since my boyhood often visits me,
And with dark musings fills my brain perturb'd;
Making the current of my life-blood stagnate,
My heart the semblance of a muffled bell,
Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like
The prickly writhings of a new-slough'd snake;
Each several moment as the awaken'd glare
Of the doom'd felon starting from his sleep,
While the slow, hideous meaning of his cell
Grows on him like an incubus, until
The truth shoots like an ice-bolt to his brain
From his dull eyeball; then, from brain to heart
Flashes in sickening tumult of despair--
As in this bosom.

_Pear._ 'Tis black Melancholy!
I've read of such, my Lord; it hath no part
With what men think, or do;--'tis physical--
A holy preacher feels the