Page:CromwellHugo.djvu/244

Scene 8.—The Same, Cromwell.

Cromwell [spying Rochester at Frances's feet.
If—By what chance, my master, do I find
You at my daughter's feet?
Rochester [dumbfounded, without changing his position, aside.
You at my daughter's feet? 'Tis Cromwell! God!
I am a dead man! 'Tis a grievous thing
For a mere peccadillo to be hanged!
Taken red-handed, too! No punishment
Will be too great for me!
Cromwell. Will be too great for me! How now, my chaplain!
Lady Frances [aside.
I must e'en be indulgent. He is mad!
Cromwell [to the terror-stricken Rochester.
You did not reckon on my vengeance, sirrah!
Lady Frances [aside.
My father in his wrath might kill the poor
Unfortunate!
Cromwell. Unfortunate! The misbegotten knave!
He dares to be enamoured of my daughter!
And to his serpent's tongue my Eve gave ear!
What, Frances! You permit—
Lady Frances [with an embarrassed air.] Your pardon, father—
My lord—not of myself he spoke to me.
Cromwell.Prithee, of whom spake he, upon his knees?
Lady Frances.He but implored my aid to crown his flame;
He seeks the hand of one of my tire-women.
Rochester [springing to his feet in amazement, aside.
What does she say?
Cromwell. What does she say? Whose hand?
Lady Frances [smiling.] … say? Whose hand? Dame Guggligoy's.