itzwater's field is pitch'd
About some mile hence on a champain[333] plain.
Chester hath drawn our soldiers in array:
The wings already have begun the fight.

KING. Thither we will with wings of vengeance fly,
And win Matilda, or lose victory!

[_Exeunt_.

ACT IV., SCENE I.

_Enter_ LADY BRUCE _and her_ BOY _with_ BRAND.

LADY B. Why did my keeper put us in thy hands?
Wherein have we offended Blunt or thee?

BRAND. You need not make these words:
You must remove your lodging; this is all.
Be not afeard: come, come, here is the door.

LADY B. O God, how dark it is!

BRAND. Go in, go in; it's higher up the stairs.

LADY B. My trembling heart forbids me to go in.
O, if thou have compassion, tell me true,
What my poor boy and I must trust unto?

BRAND. I tell thee true, compassion is my foe;
Yet have I had of thee compassion.
Take in thy child: as I have faith or troth,
Thou and thy boy shall be but prisoners,
And I must daily bring you meat and drink.

LADY B. Well, thou hast sworn, and God so give thee light,
As in this dark place thou rememb'rest us.
Poor heart, thou laugh'st, and hast not wit to think
Upon the many fears that me afflict.
I will not in. Help us, assist us, Blunt!
We shall be murdered in a dungeon!

BRAND. Cry without cause? I'll have ye in, i' faith.

LADY B. O, let my boy and I but dine with Blunt,
And then I will with patience go in.

BRAND. Will ye or nill ye, zounds! ye must go in,
And never dine.

LADY B. What say'st thou I never dine!

BRAND. No--not with Blunt, I mean. Go in, I say;
Or by this hand ye get no meat to-day.

LADY B. My child is hungry: when shall he have meat?

BRAND. Why, and ye would go in, immediately.

LADY B. I will go in; but very much I doubt,
Nor I nor my poor boy shall e'er come out.

[_Exeunt. He seems to lock a door_.

BRAND. Ne'er, while ye live, i' faith! now are they sure.
Cry, till their hearts ache, no man can them hear.
A miserable death is famishment;
But what care I? The king commanded me.
[_Exit_.

SCENE II.

_Alarum within: excursions: enter_ FITZWATER, BRUCE.

FITZ. Now doth fair fortune offer hope of speed;
But howsoe'er we speed, good cousin Bruce,
March with three hundred bows and pikes to Windsor,
Spreading a rumour that the day is ours,
As ours it shall be with the help of heaven.
Blunt loves