The banns are up in your name, and you shall walk into church, and the woman shall be married to Zebedee Minards.

Stop, don't say a word, or I'll repent and blow your brains out.

You want to know who I am, and what's to become of me.

Suppose I'm the Devil; suppose I'm your twin soul, and in exchange for my life have given you the half of manhood that you lacked and I possessed; suppose I'm just a deserter from his Majesty's fleet, a poor devil of a marine, with gifts above his station, who ran away and took to privateering, and was wrecked at your doors.

Suppose that I am really Zebedee Minards; or suppose that I heard your name spoken in Sheba kitchen, and took a fancy to wear it myself.