said that fiends dragg'd his, 'tis mine they tug.
Avaunt! I meant well. [_Shouts are heard without._]
Hark! hear without
A Babel of hoarse demons clamouring loud
For Cromwell, the Protector!

[_His daughter points upward._]

No! not there.
I cannot follow thee. A Spirit stands,
Anointed, in the breach of Heaven's walls,
Behind him streams intolerable light,
His floating locks are crown'd--His look repels--
I was his murderer on earth--His gaze
Speaks pity; but not pardon--Let me rise,
There's mercy on his brow--I fall, I fall.
I tell ye loose me, ere I see him not:
His form recedes, clouds hide him from my sight:
A hand of midnight grasps me by the throat.
They call'd me Cromwell when I liv'd on earth,
And said I slew a king. There is no air--

[_He sinks exhausted on a chair._]

_Enter PEARSON._

_Eliz._ [_To PEARSON._]
Pearson, thou lov'st him?

_Pear._ Madam, with a love
Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap.

[_Looks at CROMWELL._]

The dark fit is upon him. I have found
'Tis best to leave him to himself;--

_Eliz._ No! no!
There is no time. My breath is short. O Pearson,
Rouse him from that cold torpor, ere I die.
Life will not turn my hour-glass any more,
Whose thin sands, sinking at their centre fast,
Ebb hollowly away. I would but speak
A few soft words of comfort, pray him to
Repent; there is repentance,--for his heart
Sinn'd not so deeply as the world may think.

_Crom._ [_Raising himself._] Who said repentance?
What's done, is done well.
I stand acquitted. Daughter, cheer thee, rise.
Thou shalt recover, my sweet darling. List!
It was the Lord reveal'd it to me.

_Eliz._ Cease!
Father, blaspheme no longer; with such words
Feed the wild fever of the enthusiast crew,
Pander to hypocrites; but not here, now,
Deceive thyself, or me--

[_During this Pearson has slowly withdrawn._]

_Crom._ This is not well;
As the Lord liveth, those poor lips, my child,
Speak foolishness. Who taught thee to rebuke
Thy father? Know, he stands 'twixt thee and God,
Not thou between the living God and him.

_Eliz._ What was that agony that tore thee now?--
Why didst thou swoon and talk of murder, kings,
Of hell and sulphur and the mocking fiends?

_Crom._ Must thou now learn that when my soul is dark
With sorrow, agitation, melancholy,
I am possess'd with black delirious fits?--
'Twas so ere thou wert born, ere I was call'd
Unto a burden heavier, than man
Unsuffering