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 A turncoat subject of the Stuarts, you Have not remembered it. Broghill. That glance—that voice! Who are you, in God's name? Ormond. Broghill doth ask! Remember you, my Lord, the Irish wars? Together in those days we served the King. Broghill.'Tis my Lord Ormond! My old friend, 'tis you!
 * [He grasps his hands affectionately.

In London—you! Great God! and on the eve Of the very day when, flushed with victory, Cromwell doth clothe himself with power supreme! What do you here, unhappy man? Ormond. My duty. Broghill.Have I misjudged thee? But this sombre air, My lord—the passing years—and above all This ministerial garb—you are so changed! Ormond.Less changed than you, Broghill. You bend the knee, Ay, Broghill does obeisance at the feet Of Cromwell, execrable regicide ! In garb I've changed, but you in heart and soul! So you who in our combats loomed so grand, You rose so high, to fall so low at last ! Broghill.Ah! vanquished, I do pity you; proscribed, I you revere; but language of this sort— Ormond. Is no less just than harsh. But list to me: You may atone for all. Serve me— Broghill. With Cromwell? Oh, yes, I hasten to implore his grace. You are proscribed, and I can save your life.