NEWCOMBE (cowering).  The butt of the muskets!

FENTON.  God!

(Deliberately BUTLER lays down his musket.)

JOHN TALBOT.  Take up your piece!

BUTLER.  Renounce me if I do!

FENTON.  I stand with you, Myles Butler.  Make terms for us, John
Talbot, or, on my soul, we’ll make them for ourselves.

JOHN TALBOT.  Surrender?

NEWCOMBE.  Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now?  Will he spare us?  Will he—­

FENTON.  ’Tis our one chance.

NEWCOMBE.  Give me that white rag!

(Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece.)

FENTON (drawing his ramrod).  Here’s a staff!

(Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce.)

JOHN TALBOT (struggling with BUTLER and DRISCOLL).  A black curse on you!

BUTLER.  We’ll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles!

JOHN TALBOT.  Your oaths!

BUTLER.  We’ll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at the last.

NEWCOMBE.  No!  No!  Not that!  Out with the flag, Dick!

FENTON.  A light here at the grating!

(NEWCOMBE turns to take a candle, obedient to FENTON’S order.  At that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds.)

JOHN TALBOT.  Hark!

DRISCOLL.  The bugle!  They’re upon us!

BUTLER (releasing his hold on JOHN TALBOT).  What was that?

JOHN TALBOT.  You swore to hold the bridge.

BUTLER.  Swore to hold it one day.  We’ve held it three days now.

FENTON.  And the half of us are slain.

NEWCOMBE.  And we’ve no water—­and no food!

JOHN TALBOT (pointing to the powder-keg).  We have powder in plenty.

DRISCOLL.  We can’t drink powder.  Ah, for God’s love, be swift,
Dick Fenton!  Be swift!

JOHN TALBOT.  You shall not show that white flag!

(Starts toward FENTON, hand on sword.)

BUTLER (pinioning JOHN TALBOT).  God’s death!  We shall!  Help me here, Phelimy!

JOHN TALBOT.  A summons to parley.  What see you, Fenton?

FENTON (at the shot-window).  Torches coming from the boreen, and a white flag beneath them.  I can see the faces. (With a cry) Look, Jack!  A’God’s name!  Look!

(JOHN TALBOT springs to the window.)

DRISCOLL.  What is it you’re seeing?

FENTON.  It is—­

JOHN TALBOT (turning from the window).  ’Tis Hugh Talbot comes! 
’Tis the Captain of the Gate!

BUTLER.  With them?  A prisoner?

JOHN TALBOT.  No, no!  No prisoner!  He wears his sword.

(BUTLER snatches up his piece and resumes watch.)

FENTON.  Then he’ll have made terms with them!  Terms!

NEWCOMBE (embracing DRISCOLL).  Terms for us!  Terms for us!