_2nd Troop._ Not so--for this morning, when a
surrender was demanded, they would have hanged
our messenger. That raging Beelzebub, Rupert, in
expected hourly to the relief. [_Distant firing._]
There! there! he is come.

_1st Troop._ What say the generals?

_2nd Troop._ Our own Cromwell is very prompt;
but the rest chafe much, and the Scots are sore backsliders.

_3rd Troop._ I would we might be led on and the
trumpets sounded, that the walls of yon Jericho
might fall about their ears, and deliver them into our
hands alive.

_Will._ Worthy martialist! may I speak?

_1st Troop._ Ay so?

_Will._ Is the King there in person?

_2nd Troop._ Surely not; he is in that city of
abomination, Oxford.

[_Here CROMWELL enters, U.E.R., with his face covered._]

_Will._ Is it not true that ye did ask them that
guard the city to yield it in the King's name?