Skippon and myself. Colonel Ireton
and Whalley are with the horse. They are at your service.

_Cromwell_
(at the map):
Rupert will be there. Langdale, if I mistake not, will be there. That
road--is it good?

_Pemberton:_
Poor below Mill Hill, sir.

_Cromwell:_
Then that is the point; it may be decisive there. You take the left,
Henry.

_Ireton:_
Yes, sir.

_Cromwell:_
Let Whalley be on my left here--give him fifteen hundred. I have six
hundred. I'll take the right with them myself, Are you on the left, sir?

_Fairfax:_
Yes, and the second line.

_Cromwell:_
Good--can I have two of the best regiments down here behind me?

_Fairfax:_
Yes. Staines, let Spilsby see to that.

_Cromwell:_
Spilsby is good.

_Staines:_
If I might say it, would you choose him for that, sir? It is a great
responsibility, and he has been indiscreet. I thought not to use him
to-day.

_Cromwell:_
Indiscreet?

_Staines:_
In his utterances, sir. His belief is in some question.

_Cromwell:_
Surely you are not well advised to turn off one so faithful to the
cause, and so able to serve you as this man is. He is indiscreet, you
say. It may be so in some things; we all have human infirmities. Sir,
the state, in choosing men to serve it, takes no notice of their
opinions. If men be willing faithfully to serve it, that satisfies. Let
it be Spilsby.

_Staines:_
Yes, sir.

_Cromwell:_
Is the army well rested, sir?

_Fairfax:_
They are resting now. Till ten o'clock. We moved up at three.

_Cromwell:_
Three hours for my men. It is enough. The order to advance at eleven?

_Fairfax:_
At eleven.

_Cromwell:_
Is the word for the day chosen?

_Fairfax:_
Not yet.

_Cromwell:_
Let it be, "God our strength." Gentlemen.

(They all rise, and, bareheaded, together they repeat, "God our
strength.")

THE SCENE CLOSES

SCENE V

_The same tent. 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 no