FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir?
JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge.
HUGH TALBOT. You five—
JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale, and—and James Talbot, my brother.
DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours.
HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy.
DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir.
HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (At the voice NEWCOMBE pulls himself together.) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?
FENTON. 'Tis here, sir.
(Offers his tobacco pouch.)