"...he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother..." Harry is flushed, glowing: nothing like the sly languid smiling prince of the Boar's Head. He looks, for once, quite happy. But now there's some other disturbance: a French herald, offering ransom.

Bidding the king mind his followers of repentance, that their souls may make a sweet retire from these fields where--wretches--their bodies must lie and fester.

It's obviously a continuation of something ongoing: "I pray thee, bid my former answer back," says Harry, "bid them achieve me and then sell my bones."

Good God, why should they mock poor fellows thus.