DRISCOLL.  God’s love!  I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler.

BUTLEK (tying the last bandage).  It’s a stout heart you have in you, Phelimy Driscoll—­you to be crying out for a scratch.  It’s better you would have been, you and the like of you, to be stopping at home with your mother.

(Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the fireplace.)

DRISCOLL.  You—­you dare—­you call me—­coward?  Ye black liar!  I’ll lesson ye!  I’ll—­

(Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests with his head upon the stool which BUTLER has quitted.)

BUTLER.  A’Heaven’s name, ha’ done with that hanging tune!  Ha’ done, Dick Fenton!  We’re not yet at the gallows’ foot.

(Joins JOHN TALBOT at the shot-windows.)

FENTON.  Nay, Myles, for us ’tis like to be nothing half so merry as the gallows.

BUTLER.  Hold your fool’s tongue!

NEWCOMBE (crying out in his sleep).  Oh!  Oh!

JOHN TALBOT.  What was that?

FENTON.  ’Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in the clutch of a nightmare.

BUTLER.  ’Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch.

JOHN TALBOT (leaving the window).  Nay, ’tis only a boy.  Let him sleep while he can!  Let him sleep!

BUTLER.  Turn and turn at the watch, ’tis but fair.  Stir yonder sluggard awake, Dick!

FENTON.  Aye. (Starts to rise.)

JOHN TALBOT.  Who gives commands here?  Sit you down, Fenton!  To your place, Myles Butler!

BUTLER.  Captain of the Gate!  D’ye mark the high tone of him, Dick?

JOHN TALBOT (tying a fresh bandage about his hand).  You’re out there, Myles.  There is but one Captain of the Gate of Connaught—­he who set me here—­my cousin, Hugh Talbot.

BUTLER (muttering).  Aye, and it’s a deal you’ll need to be growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot’s shoes.

JOHN TALBOT.  And that’s a true word!  But ’twas Hugh Talbot’s will that I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala.  And as long as breath is in me I—­

DRISCOLL (raising his head heavily).  Water!  Water!  Myles!  Dick!  Will ye give me to drink, lads?  Jack Talbot!  I’m choked wi’ thirst.

JOHN TALBOT.  There’s never a drop of water left us, Phelimy, lad.

FENTON.  Owen Bourke drained the last of it, God rest him!

BUTLER.  ’Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate will hit on some shift to fill our empty casks.

(DRISCOLL rises heavily.)

JOHN TALBOT.  Not the new Captain of the Gate.  The old Captain of the Gate—­Hugh Talbot.  He’ll be here this day—­this hour, maybe.

FENTON.  That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot.

JOHN TALBOT.  He swore he’d bring us succor.  He—­

(DRISCOLL tries to unbar the exit door.)