SAL. How goes this gear? ha! foul fall so foul deed![330]
Poor chaste child of Fitzwater, dost thou bleed?
By God's bless'd mother! this is more than need;
And more, I tell you true, than I would bear,
Were not the danger of the camp so near.
Enter a MESSENGER.
MES. My lord, the foes have gathered head:
Lord Bruce, the father, joineth with the son.
SAL. Why, here's the matter: we must spend our time
To keep your nails from scratching innocence,
Which should have been bestow'd for our defence.
What shall we now do? Help me, holy God!
The foe is come, and we are out of rank.
[Skirmish: QUEEN taken, MATILDA rescued.
Enter OLD BRUCE wounded, led by his Son, and LEICESTER.
BRUCE. Is the field ours?
YOUNG B. Ay, thanks to noble Leicester.
BRUCE. Give God thanks, son: be careful to thy mother;
Commend me to Fitzwater; love thy brother,
If either arms or prayers may him recover.
LEI. How cheers old Bruce?