FENTON (_rising_). We all say it.
JOHN TALBOT. Even thou, Dick?
DRISCOLL. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not come!
FENTON. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've held it three
days now.
BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised?
JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He will
bring us aid.
FENTON. Aye, if he be living!
DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he--Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot's
dead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed!
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?