A barren title hast thou bought too dear,

Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?

HENRY IV. PART I.

Oliver Cromwell arose from his seat as the two veteran soldiers, Zerubbabel Robins and Merciful Strickalthrow, introduced into the apartment the prisoner, whom they held by the arms, and fixed his stern hazel eye on Albert long before he could give vent to the ideas which were swelling in his bosom. Exultation was the most predominant.

“Art not thou,” he at length said, “that Egyptian which, before these days, madest an uproar, and leddest out into the wilderness many thousand men, who were murderers! — Ha, youth, I have hunted thee from Stirling to Worcester, from Worcester to Woodstock, and we have met at last!”

“I would,” replied Albert, speaking in the character which he had assumed, “that we had met where I could have shown thee the difference betwixt a rightful King and an ambitious Usurper!”

“Go to, young man,” said Cromwell; “say rather the difference between a judge raised up for the redemption of England, and the son of those Kings whom the Lord in his anger permitted to reign over her. But we will not waste useless words. God knows that it is not of our will that we are called to such high matters, being as humble in our thoughts as we are of ourselves; and in our unassisted nature frail and foolish; and unable to render a reason but for the better spirit within us, which is not of us. — Thou art weary, young man, and thy nature requires rest and refection, being doubtless dealt with delicately, as one who hath fed on the fat, and drunk of the sweet, and who hath been clothed in purple and fine linen.”

Here the General suddenly stopt, and then abruptly exclaimed —“But is this — Ay! whom have we here? These are not the locks of the swarthy lad Charles Stewart? — A cheat! a cheat!”

Albert hastily cast his eyes on a mirror which stood in the room, and perceived that a dark peruke, found among Dr. Rochecliffe’s miscellaneous wardrobe, had been disordered in the scuffle with the soldiery, and that his own light-brown hair was escaping from beneath it.

“Who is this?” said Cromwell, stamping with fury —“Pluck the disguise from him.”

The soldiers did so; and bringing him at the same time towards the light, the deception could not be maintained for a moment longer with any possibility of success. Cromwell came up to him with his teeth set, and grinding against each other as he spoke, his hands clenched, and trembling with emotion, and speaking with a voice low-pitched, bitterly and deeply emphatic, such as might have preceded a stab with his dagger. “Thy name, young man?”

He was answered calmly and firmly, while the countenance of the speaker wore a cast of triumph, and even contempt.

“Albert Lee of Ditchley, a faithful subject of King Charles.”

“I might have guessed it,” said Cromwell. —“Ay, and to King Charles shalt thou go as soon as it is noon on the dial. — Pearson,” he continued, “let him be carried to the others; and let them be executed at twelve exactly.”

“All, sir?” said Pearson, surprised; for Cromwell, though he at times made formidable examples, was, in general, by no means sanguinary.

“All”— repeated Cromwell, fixing his eye on young Lee. “Yes, young sir, your conduct has devoted to death thy father, thy kinsman, and the stranger that was in thine household. Such wreck hast thou brought on thy father’s house.”

“My father, too — my aged father!” said Albert, looking upward, and endeavouring to raise his hands in the same direction, which was prevented by his bonds. “The Lord’s will be done!”

“All this havoc can be saved, if,” said the General, “thou wilt answer one question — Where is the young Charles Stewart, who was called King of Scotland?”

“Under Heaven’s protection, and safe from thy power,” was the firm and unhesitating answer of the young royalist.

“Away with him to prison!” said Cromwell; “and from thence to execution with the rest of them, as malignants taken in the fact. Let a courtmartial sit on them presently.”

“One word,” said young Lee, as they led him from the room. “Stop, stop,” said Cromwell, with the agitation of renewed hope —“let him be heard.”

“You love texts of Scripture,” said Albert —“Let this be the subject of your next homily —‘Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?’”

“Away with him,” said the General; “let him die the death. — I have said it.”

As Cromwell spoke these words, his aide-decamp observed that he became unwontedly pale.

“Your Excellency is overtoiled in the public service,” said Pearson; “a course of the stag in the evening will refresh you. The old knight hath a noble hound here, if we can but get him to hunt without his master, which may be hard, as he is faithful, and”—

“Hang him up!” said Cromwell.

“What — whom — hang the noble dog? Your Excellency was wont to love a good hound?”

“It matters not,” said Cromwell; “let him be killed. Is it not written, that they slew in the valley of Achor, not only the accursed Achan, with his sons and his daughters, but also his oxen and asses, and his sheep, ............