Than from it issu’d forced drops of blood:
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood:
More will I do—
Trumpet sounds without, R.
The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.
Exit, R.H.
[ Scene II.—THE FRENCH CAMP—SUNRISE.]
Flourish of trumpets.