_Sebast._ On your lives, approach her not. _M. Mol._ How's this! _Sebast._ Sir, pardon me, And hear me speak.-- _Aim._ Hear me; I will be heard. I am no slave; the noblest blood of Afric Runs in my veins; a purer stream than thine: For, though derived from the same source, thy current Is puddled and defiled with tyranny. _M. Mol._ What female fury have we here! _Aim._ I should be one, Because of kin to thee. Wouldst thou be touched By the presuming hands of saucy grooms? The same respect, nay more, is due to me: More for my sex; the same for my descent. These hands are only fit to draw the curtain. Now, if thou dar'st, behold Almeyda's face. [_Unveils herself._ _Bend._ Would I had never seen it! [_Aside._ _Alm._ She whom thy Mufti taxed to have no soul; Let Afric now be judge. Perhaps thou think'st I meanly hope to 'scape, As did Sebastian, when he owned his greatness. But to remove that scruple, know, base man, My murdered father, and my brother's ghost, Still haunt this breast, and prompt it to revenge. Think not I could forgive, nor dar'st thou pardon. _M. Mol._ Wouldst thou revenge thee, trait'ress, hadst thou power? _Alm._ Traitor, I would; the name's more justly thine; Thy father was not, more than mine, the heir Of this large empire: but with arms united They fought their way, and seized the crown by force; And equal as their danger was their share: For where was eldership, where none had right But that which conquest gave? 'Twas thy ambition Pulled from my peaceful father what his sword Helped thine to gain; surprised him and his kingdom, No provocation given, no war declared. _M. Mol._ I'll hear no more. _Alm._ This is the living coal, that, burning in me, Would flame to vengeance, could it find a vent; My brother too, that lies yet scarcely cold In his deep watery bed;--my wandering mother, Who in exile died-- O that I had the fruitful heads of Hydra, That one might bourgeon where another fell! Still would I give thee work; still, still, thou tyrant, And hiss thee with the last. _M. Mol._ Something, I know not what, comes over me: Whether the toils of battle, unrepaired With due repose, or other sudden qualm.-- Benducar, do the rest. [_Goes off, the court follows him._ _Bend._ Strange! in full health! this pang is of the soul; The body's unconcerned: I'll think hereafter.-- Conduct these royal captives to the castle; Bid Dorax use them well, till further order. [_Going off, stops._ The inferior captives their first owners take, To sell, or to dispose.--You Mustapha, Set ope the market for the sale of slaves. [_Exit_ BEND. [_The Masters and Slaves come forward, and Buyers of several Qualities come in, and chaffer about the several Owners, who make their slaves do Tricks[1]._