DRISCOLL. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler.
BUTLEK (tying the last bandage). It's a stout heart you have in you, Phelimy Driscoll—you to be crying out for a scratch. It's better you would have been, you and the like of you, to be stopping at home with your mother.
(Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the fireplace.)
DRISCOLL. You—you dare—you call me—coward? Ye black liar! I'll lesson ye! I'll—
(Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests with his head upon the stool which BUTLER has quitted.)
BUTLER. A'Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging tune! Ha' done, Dick Fenton! We're not yet at the gallows' foot.
(Joins JOHN TALBOT at the shot-windows.)
FENTON. Nay, Myles, for us 'tis like to be nothing half so merry as the gallows.
BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue!
NEWCOMBE (crying out in his sleep). Oh! Oh!