LER (_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._)

Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door!

(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door._)

DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis just
below--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but a
moment--and drink!

JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring.

DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth!

JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death.

BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here,
Captain Talbot?

DRISCOLL (_struggling with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I
tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go!

NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible
cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). God's
pity! No! no! no!

DRISCOLL (_shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself_).
God shield us!

BUTLER. Silence that whelp!

FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!

JOHN TALBOT (_catching_ NEWCOMBE _by the shoulder_). Newcombe! Kit
Newcombe!

NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!

JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not
that!

JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon his
mouth_). Wake! You're dreaming!

DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!

NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my
brother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell's
men--with their clubbed muskets--they--

(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALB