Speaking in the Palace, the words as if uttered by the Captain –
“Sublime King of the Pure Was, of magnificent people not less loved than all the East, we saw you search, so let us find in you that certain remedy we want. We are not troubadours passing weak careless cities. Iron and fire go killing, stealing the coveted farms. But magnificent Europe sailing, searching the separate lands for rich India, on a King’s errand. That hard barbaric generation forbade us the ports, only giving the hospice of desert sands. That armed with pretending bows they commanded to see us destroyed. But you who we trust to find more truth, O Benign King, certain aid we await. Your safe port we sail, Leader of the Interpreter, Holy Ghost. Clearly you are sincere, human and rare.”
And, not shaking his head, the Sultan is a modest sun –
“All you take off me – suspicion, hot fear – prints that your price and workmanship have the world in much esteem. He who made you modest cannot have gone. Not to leave people weighs me strangely. I have much obedience if the regime assents. Nor I to it will assent. In itself it speaks brazenly, only because my desire satisfies. However, just as light arrived, the World will be. I will go to the Fort to see Desire, He how has come of the wasted sea, of the furious wind. Here are clean thoughts: a Pilot and Ammunition.”
