Swindon.  What?

Burgoyne.  A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia to come here and arrange terms with us.

Swindon.  Oh, they are giving in.

Burgoyne.  They add that they are sending the man who raised Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing with an officer of importance.

Swindon.  Pooh!

Burgoyne.  He will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of—­guess what.

Swindon.  Their surrender, I hope.

Burgoyne.  No:  our evacuation of the town.  They offer us just six hours to clear out.

Swindon.  What monstrous impudence!

Burgoyne.  What shall we do, eh?

Swindon.  March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow at once.

Burgoyne (quietly).  Hm! (Turning to the door) Come to the adjutant’s office.

Swindon.  What for?

Burgoyne.  To write out that safe-conduct. (He puts his hand to the door knob to open it.)

Swindon (who has not budged).  General Burgoyne.

Burgoyne (returning).  Sir?

Swindon.  It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our giving way.

Burgoyne (imperturbable).  Suppose I resign my command to you, what will you do?

Swindon.  I will undertake to do what we have marched south from Boston to do, and what General Howe has marched north from New York to do:  effect a junction at Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces.

Burgoyne (enigmatically).  And will you wipe out our enemies in London, too?

Swindon.  In London!  What enemies?

Burgoyne (forcibly).  Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and Red Tape. (He holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice) I have just learnt, sir, that General Howe is still in New York.

Swindon (thunderstruck).  Good God!  He has disobeyed orders!

Burgoyne (with sardonic calm).  He has received no orders, sir.  Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch them:  he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe.  To avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position.

Swindon (appalled).  Impossible!

Burgoyne (coldly).  I beg your pardon!

Swindon.  I can’t believe it!  What will History say?

Burgoyne.  History, sir, will tell lies, as usual.  Come:  we must send the safe-conduct. (He goes out.)

Swindon (following distractedly).  My God, my God!  We shall be wiped out.