_Serena._ I ask no more, Than leave of absence for a month on shore-- If, ere that time be passed, I don’t succeed, Then wreck him, or whate’er you please-- _Sub._ Agreed! [_Music._--_The SPIRITS form a group, and SERENA is seen darting up towards the earth as the scene closes._ SCENE II.--_Market Place in Stamboul, and Oriental Slave Bazaar._ _Cheering outside._--_Enter CORSAIRS, L._ _1st Cors._ Come lads, our Captain’s given us a holiday On shore to-day, and so let’s have a jolly day-- We’ve been of late so close to business sticking, We want some change. _2d Cors._ Let’s try some pocket-picking-- _1st Cors._ You’d find small change in that-- _2d Cors._ Yes, ’twould be strange, In people’s pockets not to find _small change_. _3d Cors._ But see, our noble Captain comes this way-- _1st Cors._ Three cheers for Conrad--Hip, hip, hip, hurray! _Enter CONRAD, L._ _Conrad._ There, that’ll do--Hip, hip, indeed--what stuff-- As if I’m not already hipped enough. [_Crosses R._ _1st Cors._ Cheer up, my hearty-- _Conrad._ Man! I’m not your hearty, And to cheer up, I’m not at all the party. _1st Cors._ Why is great Conrad ever sad? _Conrad._ Ah, why? Who can explain this secret grief; not I-- That secret kept so dark, none e’er saw through it-- I don’t believe that even Byron knew it. [_Crosses, L._ Go, go, poor giddy things, employ your leisure, In seeking what the thoughtless world calls pleasure. _1st Cors._ Say, is there aught you’d like, that we can bring, To soothe your grief-- _Conrad._ [L.] I don’t like anything; The gloomy spirit in this aching breast, Despises most things, and can’t bear the rest; Deems happiness an empty sound, no more; The world a humbug--life itself a bore-- There’s nothing in it! Leave me. [_They are going._ Tell me, though, Hast seen Birbanto our lieutenant? _1st Cors._ No. [_Exeunt, R._ _Enter BIRBANTO, L._ _Birb._ Behold him, here! What would great Conrad--Eh? Anything wanted in my little way? [_Drawing his dagger._ If so, just give your orders and it’s done-- From pitch and toss to manslaughter, all’s one. _Conrad._ Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats--