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My Turkish carpets and Bohemian leather.—
The Jebusite! Death!
[As if suddenly struck with an idea.
The Jebusite! Death! Ay, but who will pay,
When he's not here? The august Deborah
Left not her nail within the sinner's head;
Samson risked nought, when from its somnolence
His strength awoke refreshed and overthrew
A temple of his enemies; and Judith,
She who the sleeping Holofernes slew,
Fled from the bloody feast, still richly clad,
And saved her head nor lost a single gem.
But who will me indemnify? What profit
Will compensate my loss in Cromwell's death?
Is 't not my bounden duty to bequeath
A competence to her I leave behind?
Meseems the question 's novel in this form.
I'll think on't.—Ah! our worthy friends the saints.

[Enter the Puritan conspirators, Lambert at their head. All are enveloped in huge cloaks; they wear tall cone-shaped hats whose very broad brims are turned down over their gloomy and threatening faces. They walk slowly, as if lost in absorbing thoughts. Several seem to be mumbling prayers. Dagger-hilts gleam beneath their cloaks, which are partly open.

Scene 4.—Barebones, Lambert, Joyce, Overton, Plinlimmon, Harrison, Wildman, Ludlow, Syndercomb, Pimpleton, Palmer, Garland, Pride, Jeroboam d'Emer, and other Roundhead conspirators.

Lambert [to Barebones.] Well, friend?

[Barebones makes no other reply than to point to