La Gloire. Upon conditions.

Ribau. What are they?

La Gloire. Very scurvy ones, my lord.—To save the city from sacking, six citizens must swing for it, in Edward's camp. But four have yet been found; and they are——

Ribau. Who?

La Gloire. Oh lord!—all of my own family.—There's John d'Aire, Jacque, and Pierre Wissant; my three good cousins german, my lord: and the fourth, who was the first that offered, is—is——

Ribau. Who, La Gloire?

La Gloire. [Wiping his Eyes.] I crave your pardon, my lord, for being thus unsoldier-like; but 'tis—'tis my own father.

Ribau. Eustache!

La Gloire. He, my lord! He! old Eustache de St. Pierre:—the honestest, kindliest soul!—I cannot talk upon't.—Grief plays the hangman with me, and has almost choked me already.

Ribau. Why, I am courted to't.—The time, example,