lain.

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!

JOHN TALBOT. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh Talbot has come.

(_Goes to door._)

HUGH TALBOT (_speaks outside_). Open! I come alone, and in peace.
Open unto me!

JOHN TALBOT. Who goes there?

HUGH TALBOT (_outside_). The Captain of the Gate!

(JOHN TALBOT _unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entrance
of_ HUGH TALBOT. _The latter comes slowly into the room. He is a
man in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad in
much-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salute
him as he enters._)

HUGH TALBOT (_halts and for a moment surveys his followers_). Well,
lads?

(_The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unable
for the moment to speak._)

NEWCOMBE. We thought--we thought--that you--that you--

(_Breaks into childish sobbing._)

FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir?

JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge.

HUGH TALBOT. You five--

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_)