With that a deadly shrieke she forth did throw, xxxviii That through the wood reecchoed againe, And after gaue a grone so deepe and low, That seemd her tender heart was rent in twaine, Or thrild with point of thorough piercing paine; As gentle Hynd, whose sides with cruell steele Through launched[467], forth her bleeding life does raine, Whiles the sad pang approching she does feele, Brayes out her latest breath, and vp her eyes doth seele. Which when that warriour heard, dismounting straict xxxix From his tall steed, he rusht into the thicke, And soone arriued, where that sad pourtraict Of death and dolour[468] lay, halfe dead, halfe quicke, In whose white alabaster brest did sticke A cruell knife, that made a griesly wound, From which forth gusht a streme of gorebloud thick, That all her goodly garments staind around, And into a deepe sanguine dide the grassie ground. Pittifull spectacle of deadly smart, xl Beside a bubbling fountaine low she lay, Which she increased with her bleeding hart, And the cleane waues with purple gore[469] did ray; Als in her lap a louely[470] babe did play His cruell sport, in stead of sorrow dew; For in her streaming blood he did embay His litle hands, and tender ioynts embrew; Pitifull spectacle, as euer eye did view. Besides them both, vpon the soiled gras xli The dead corse of an armed knight was spred, Whose armour all with bloud besprinckled was; His ruddie lips did smile, and rosy red Did paint his chearefull cheekes, yet being ded:[471] Seemd to haue beene a goodly personage, Now in his freshest flowre of lustie hed, Fit to inflame faire Lady with loues rage, But that fiers fate did crop the blossome of his age. Whom when the good Sir _Guyon_ did behold, xlii His hart gan wexe as starke, as marble stone, And his fresh bloud did frieze with fearefull cold, That all his senses seemd bereft attone:[472] At last his mightie ghost gan deepe to grone, As Lyon grudging in his great disdaine, Mournes inwardly, and makes to himselfe mone; Till ruth and fraile affection did constraine[473] His stout courage[474] to stoupe, and shew his inward paine. Out of her gored wound the cruell steele xliii He lightly snatcht, and did the floudgate stop With his faire garment: then gan softly feele Her feeble pulse, to proue if any drop Of liuing bloud yet in her veynes did hop; Which when he felt to moue, he hoped faire To call backe life to her forsaken shop; So well he did her deadly wounds repaire, That at the last she gan to breath out liuing aire.