Captain:
Well, here's a marvel: 'Tis a king, for sure!
'Twould take the taxes of a world to dress
A man in that silken gold, and all those gems.
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.