Fairfax:
Gentlemen, let us promise ourselves nothing.
(Ireton and Pemberton move into the tent at Fairfax's word. As they do so the voices outside break out into a great shout—"Ironsides—Ironsides—Ironsides is coming to lead us!" The scout comes in, glowing.)
Fairfax
(rising):
Yes?
The Scout:
General Cromwell is riding into the field with his Ironsides, sir, some six hundred strong.
Fairfax:
Thank God!