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No; I hear no stories; I am a man withdrawn from worldly coil, Who hears or cares for nothing.

This is no mariner? and he speaks strangely.

The strangest thing is that he spoke at all. We took him up at sea from a small boat, Which, by the moonlight, we descried afar, Like a black cockle on the shimm'ring waves; But whether earth or hell had sent him to us, We doubted much.

Nay; when the hurricane wax'd to its pitch We scarcely doubted, and were once resolved To cast him overboard. Yet, ne'ertheless, He hath escaped; and, God be praised, we did not.

Hush! he returns again. Go on, poor souls, In lucky hour ye come; for in that wood Not many paces hence, amongst the trees, Donna Zorada takes her morning walk; You'll find her there. Come, I will lead you to her; And, as we go, there are some words of counsel Which I shall give to you. They may be useful;