What a flash the light makes of him; nay, he burns;
And he's here on the quay all by himself,
Not even a slave to fan him!--Man, you're ailing!
You look like death; is it the falling sickness?
Or has the mere thought of the Indian journey
Made your marrow quail with a cold fever?
The Stranger: (to the Captain)
You are the master of this ship?
Captain: I am.
Stranger:
This huddled man belongs to me: a slave
Escaped my service.
Captain:
Lord, I knew not that.
But you are in good time.
Stranger:
And was the slave
For putting out with you? Where are you bound?
Captain:
To India. First he would sail, and then
Again he would not. But, my Lord, I swear
I never guesst he was a runaway.
Stranger:
Well, he shall have his mind and go with you
To India: a good slave he is, but bears
A restless thought. He has slipt off before,
And vexes me still to be watching him.
We'll make a bargain of him.
Captain:
I, my Lord?
I have no need of slaves: I am too poor.
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