HUGH TALBOT (smoking throughout). Good lads! The wise heads were saying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said: I can be trusting the young riders that are learning their lessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into their hands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll?
DRISCOLL. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding Cashala, even against the devil himself!
FENTON. Aye, well said!
HUGH TALBOT. Sure,'tis a passing good substitute for the devil sits yonder in Cromwell's tent.
NEWCOMBE (with a shudder). Cromwell!
HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you're like him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala.
NEWCOMBE. I—I—Will they let us keep our swords?
HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'll keep them or not.
FENTON. He means—we mean—on what terms, sir, do we surrender?
HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms?