Sul. Nay, they fill my prisons every day with wretches, that dare whisper I am not the real Sultan, but a stranger. The secret, therefore, I myself safely relate in private: the danger is to him who speaks it again; and, with this caution, I trust, it is safe with you.
Has. It was, without that caution.—Now hear me.——Involved in deeds, in cruelties, which your better thoughts revolt at, the meanest wretch your camps or prisons hold, claims not half the compassion you have excited. Permit me, then, to be your comforter, as I have been theirs.
Sul. Impossible!
Has. In the most fatal symptoms I have undertaken the body's cure. The mind's disease, perhaps, I'm not less a stranger to—Oh! trust the noble patient to my care.
Sul. How will you begin?
Has. Lead you to behold the wretched in their misery, and then shew you yourself in their deliverer.——I have your promise for a boon—'tis this.—Give me the liberty of six that I shall name, now in confinement, and be yourself a witness of their enlargement.—See joy lighted in the countenance where sorrow still has left its rough remains.—Behold the tear of rapture chase away that of anguish—hear the faultering voice, long used to lamentation, in broken accents, utter thanks and blessings.—Behold this scene, and if you find the medicine ineffectual, dishonour your physician.
Sul. I will behold it.
Has. Come, then, to the governor's house this very night—into that council room so often perverted to the use of the torture; and there, unknown to them as their king, you shall be witness to all the grateful heart can dictate, and enjoy all that benevolence can taste.
Sul. I will meet you there.
Has. In the evening?