Dor. By all my wrongs,
                        [Aside, while the Emperor whispers Benducar.
’Tis he! damnation seize me, but ’tis he! 
My heart heaves up and swells; he’s poison to me;
My injured honour, and my ravished love,
Bleed at their murderer’s sight.

Ben. [Aside to Dor.] The emperor would learn these prisoners’ names; You know them?

Dor. Tell him, no;
And trouble me no more—­I will not know them. 
Shall I trust heaven, that heaven which I renounced,
With my revenge?  Then, where’s my satisfaction? 
No; It must be my own, I scorn a proxy. [Aside.

M.  Mol. ’Tis decreed;
These of a better aspect, with the rest,
Shall share one common doom, and lots decide it. 
For every numbered captive, put a ball
Into an urn; three only black be there,
The rest, all white, are safe.

Muf. Hold, sir; the woman must not draw.

M.  Mol O Mufti, We know your reason; let her share the danger.

Muf. Our law says plainly, women have no souls.

M, Mol. ’Tis true; their souls are mortal, set her by;
Yet, were Almeyda here, though fame reports her
The fairest of her sex, so much, unseen,
I hate the sister of our rival-house,
Ten thousand such dry notions of our Alcoran
Should not protect her life, if not immortal;
Die as she could, all of a piece, the better
That none of her remain. [Here an Urn is brought in; the Prisoners
                             approach with great concernment, and
                             among the rest, SEBASTIAN, ALVAREZ,
                            and ANTONIO, who come more chearfully.

Dor. Poor abject creatures, how they fear to die! 
These never knew one happy hour in life,
Yet shake to lay it down.  Is load so pleasant? 
Or has heaven hid the happiness of death,
That men may dare to live?—­Now for our heroes. [The Three approach.
O, these come up with spirits more resolved. 
Old venerable Alvarez;—­well I know him,
The favourite once of this Sebastian’s father;
Now minister, (too honest for his trade)
Religion bears him out; a thing taught young,
In age ill practised, yet his prop in death. 
O, he has drawn a black; and smiles upon’t,
As who should say,—­My faith and soul are white,
Though my lot swarthy:  Now, if there be hereafter,
He’s blest; if not, well cheated, and dies pleased.

Anton. [Holding his lot in his clenched hand.]
Here I have thee;
Be what thou wilt, I will not look too soon: 
Thou hast a colour; if thou prov’st not right,
I have a minute good ere I behold thee. 
Now, let me roll and grubble thee: 
Blind men say, white feels smooth, and black feels rough;
Thou hast a rugged skin, I do not like thee.