Mrs. Sul. You shall kill me first!
Arch. I 'll die with you. [Carrying her off.
Mrs. Sul. Thieves! thieves! murder! [91]
Enter Scrub in his breeches, and one shoe.
Scrub. Thieves! thieves! murder! popery!
Arch. Ha! the very timorous stag will kill in rutting time. [Draws, and offers to stab Scrub.
Scrub. [Kneeling.] O pray, sir, spare all I have, and take my life!
Mrs. Sul. [Holding Archer's hand.] What does the fellow mean?
Scrub. O madam, down upon your knees, your marrow-bones! —he 's one of 'em. [100]
Arch. Of whom?