JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece!
BUTLER. Renounce me if I do!
FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, John
Talbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves.
JOHN TALBOT. Surrender?
NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Will he spare us? Will he—
FENTON. 'Tis our one chance.
NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag!
(Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece.)
FENTON (drawing his ramrod). Here's a staff!
(Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce.)