Zar. Ha, ha, ha, what pity ‘tis you want a Hand.
Enter Osmin.
Phil. Osmin, sure thou wilt be so kind to kill me! Thou hadst a Soul was humane.
Osm. Indeed I will not, Sir, you are my King. [Unbinds him.
Phil. What mean’st thou?
Osm. To set you free, my Prince.
Phil. Thou art some Angel sure, in that dark Cloud.
Zar. What mean’st thou, Traitor?
Osm. Wait till your Eyes inform you.
Card. Good Gods! what mean’st thou?