BUTLER. Silence that whelp!
FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!
JOHN TALBOT (catching NEWCOMBE by the shoulder). Newcombe! Kit
Newcombe!
NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!
JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!
NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not that!
JOHN TALBOT (stifling NEWCOMBE'S outcry with a hand upon his mouth). Wake! You're dreaming!
DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!
NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my brother—my brother—they beat out his brains—Cromwell's men—with their clubbed muskets—they—
(Clings shuddering to JOHN TALBOT.)