[Soldiers entering with whooping and shouts.]
Sound bugles! fall in! quick march!
[The Soldiers march round and fall in a line in perfect order, WILLIAM bringing up the rear, shouldering a bone.]
Ire. [To Arthur Walton.] See you now the bent of this? How he doth make them his own? I tell you that the day will come, this host shall follow him alone, ay! and perchance England—
Crom. [To Desborough, who has remained apart, indignant.] Come, Desborough! if thou hast digested thine indignation—[Taking Desborough's arm, kindly.]
Ire. As he will never his dinner.
Crom. Thou wilt unto my tent, where is store of wholesome food.
Enter HARRISON, L., hurriedly.
Har. I fear they will not sally forth; our host Meanwhile will melt away. Despondency Sits heavy on my soul.
[Firing is heard from the town.]