Enter the Mufti alone, in a Slave’s Habit, like that of ANTONIO.

Muf. This it is to have a sound head-piece; by this I have got to be chief of my religion; that is, honestly speaking, to teach others what I neither know nor believe myself.  For what’s Mahomet to me, but that I get by him?  Now for my policy of this night:  I have mewed up my suspected spouse in her chamber;—­no more embassies to that lusty young stallion of a gardener.  Next, my habit of a slave; I have made myself as like him as I can, all but his youth and vigour; which when I had, I passed my time as well as any of my holy predecessors.  Now, walking under the windows of my seraglio, if Johayma look out, she will certainly take me for Antonio, and call to me; and by that I shall know what concupiscence is working in her.  She cannot come down to commit iniquity, there’s my safety; but if she peep, if she put her nose abroad, there’s demonstration of her pious will; and I’ll not make the first precedent for a churchman to forgive injuries.

  Enter MORAYMA, running to him with a Casket in her hand, and
  embracing him.

Mor. Now I can embrace you with a good conscience; here are the pearls and jewels, here’s my father.

Muf. I am indeed thy father; but how the devil didst thou know me in this disguise? and what pearls and jewels dost thou mean?

Mor. [Going back.] What have I done, and what will now become of me!

Muf. Art thou mad, Morayma?

Mor. I think you’ll make me so.

Muf. Why, what have I done to thee?  Recollect thyself, and speak sense to me.

Mor. Then give me leave to tell you, you are the worst of fathers.

Muf. Did I think I had begotten such a monster!—­Proceed, my dutiful child, proceed, proceed.

Mor. You have been raking together a mass of wealth, by indirect and wicked means:  the spoils of orphans are in these jewels, and the tears of widows in these pearls.

Muf. Thou amazest me!

Mor. I would do so.  This casket is loaded with your sins; ’tis the cargo of rapines, simony, and extortions; the iniquity of thirty years muftiship converted into diamonds.

Muf. Would some rich railing rogue would say as much to me, that I might squeeze his purse for scandal!

Mor. No, sir, you get more by pious fools than railers, when you insinuate into their families, manage their fortunes while they live, and beggar their heirs, by getting legacies, when they die.  And do you think I’ll be the receiver of your theft?  I discharge my conscience of it:  Here, take again your filthy mammon, and restore it, you had best, to the true owners.

Muf. I am finely documented by my own daughter!