JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale,
and--and James Talbot, my brother.
DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours.
HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy.
DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir.
HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (_At the voice_ NEWCOMBE _pulls himself
together._) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?
FENTON. 'Tis here, sir.
(_Offers his tobacco pouch._)
HUGH TALBOT (_filling his pipe_). Leave the window, Myles! They've
promised us a half hour's truce--and Cromwell's a man of his
word.
NEWCOMBE (_bringing a lighted candle_). He'll let us pass free now,
sir, will he not?
HUGH TALBOT (_lighting his pipe at the candle_). You're not afraid,
Kit?
NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now!
HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on your
feet. Give me to see that arm! (_As_ HUGH TALBOT _starts toward_
DRISCOLL, _his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back
hastily, covering his lighted pipe._) Jack Talbot! Who taught ye
to leave your powder uncovered, where lighted match was laid?
BUTLER. My blame, sir.
(_Covers the keg._)