Spouts on my sword, and sanguine dies the plain.
[He strikes again: The Voice of Emmeline from behind.
Em. [from behind.] Forbear, if thou hast pity, ah, forbear!
These groans proceed not from a senseless plant;
No spouts of blood run welling from a tree.
Arth. Speak what thou art; I charge thee, speak thy being,
Thou, that hast made my curdled blood run back,
My heart heave up, my hair to rise in bristles,
And scarcely left a voice to ask thy name!
[Emmel. breaks out of the Tree, shewing her Arm bloody.