I have read it in print—and the saying is true— That no one’s a prophet in his native land.— This position is very much more to my mind Than, my life over there ’mong the Charleston merchants. There was something hollow in the whole affair, Something foreign at the bottom, something dubious behind it;— I was never at home in their company, Nor felt myself really one of the guild. What tempted me into that galley at all? To grub and grub in the bins of trade— As I think it all over, I can’t understand it;— It _happened_ so; that’s the whole affair.— To be oneself on a basis of gold Is no better than founding one’s house on the sand. For your watch, and your ring, and the rest of your trappings, The good people fawn on you, grovelling to earth; They lift their hats to your jewelled breast-pin; But your ring and your breast-pin are not your Person.—[88] A prophet; ay, that is a clearer position. At least one knows on what footing one stands. If you make a success, it’s yourself that receives The ovation, and not your pounds-sterling and shillings.[89] One is what one is, and no nonsense about it; One owes nothing to chance or to accident, And needs neither licence nor patent to lean on.— A prophet; ay, that is the thing for me. And I slipped so utterly unawares into it,— Just by coming galloping over the desert, And meeting these children of nature _en route_. The Prophet had come to them; so much was clear. It was really not my intent to deceive——; There’s a difference ’twixt lies and oracular answers; And then I can always withdraw again. I’m in no way bound; it’s a simple matter—; The whole thing is private, so to speak; I can go as I came; there’s my horse ready saddled; I am master, in short, of the situation. ANITRA. [_Approaching the tent-door._] Prophet and Master! PEER. What would my slave? ANITRA. The sons of the desert await at thy tent-door; They pray for the light of thy countenance—— PEER. Stop! Say in the distance I’d have them assemble; Say from the distance I hear all their prayers. Add that I suffer no menfolk in here! Men, my child, are a worthless crew,— Inveterate rascals you well may call them! Anitra, you can’t think how shamelessly They have swind——I mean they have sinned, my child!—[90] Well, enough now of that; you may dance for me, damsels! The Prophet would banish the memories that gall him. THE GIRLS. [_Dancing._]