Night--with torches and candles. An aide stands at the
tent opening. The sentries pass to and fro. It is after the action.
IRETON, severely wounded, is on a couch, surgeons attending him.
CROMWELL, himself battered and with a slight head wound, stands by the
couch._
_Cromwell:_
It is not mortal. You are sure of that?
_The Surgeon:_
He is hurt, grievously, but he will live now.
_Cromwell:_
The danger is gone?
_The Surgeon:_
Yes. But it will be slow.
_Ireton:_
Whalley--there--in God's name, man. Tell Spilsby to beat down under
General Cromwell. There's not a minute to lose. Whalley--that's
good--come--no man--left--left--now, once more. God is our strength.
_Cromwell:_
There, my son. Brave, brave. It is well.
_Ireton_
(himself):
How is it--out there?
_Cromwell:_
They are scattered.
_Ireton:_
Scattered. Write to Bridget.
_Cromwell:_
Yes--it is done.
_Ireton:_
Read.
_Cromwell_
(reading a letter from the table):
My dearest daughter,--
This in all haste. We have fought to-day at Naseby. The field at
all points is ours. They are destroyed beyond mending. Henry is hurt,
but he is well attended, and the surgeons have no fear. He shall be
brought to you by the first means.
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