Cur. Yes, Sir, and you are wounded. Guil. runs bawling out, they are both wounded.
Clo. Oh Heaven defend the Prince! She peeps.
Fred. I hear some coming, go, be gone,
And save thy self by flight. Frederick stands leaning on his Sword.
Cur. Sir, give me leave to stay, my flight will look like Guilt.
Fred. By no means, Curtius, thou wilt be taken here,
And thou shalt never charge me with that Crime of betraying
Thee: when we meet next, we’ll end it.
Cur. I must obey you then. Exit.
Enter Cloris.