[Drawing his Knife.
I’ll strip this Fellow’s painted greasy Skull.
[Strips off the Scalp.
Honnyman. Now let them sleep to Night without their Caps,
[Takes the other Scalp.
And pleasant Dreams attend their long Repose.
Orsbourn. Their Guns and Hatchets now are lawful Prize,
For they’ll not need them on their present Journey.
Honnyman. The Devil hates Arms, and dreads the Smell
of Powder;
He’ll not allow such Instruments about him;
They’re free from training now, they’re in his Clutches.
Orsbourn. But, Honnyman, d’ye think this is not Murder?
I vow I’m shocked a little to see them scalp’d,
And fear their Ghosts will haunt us in the Dark.
Honnyman. It’s no more Murder than to crack a Louse,
That is, if you’ve the Wit to keep it private.
And as to Haunting, Indians have no Ghosts,
But as they live like Beasts, like Beasts they die.
I’ve killed a Dozen in this selfsame Way,
And never yet was troubled with their Spirits.