The House of Rimmon

Act I

Scene I

Night, in the garden of Naaman at Damascus. At the left, on a slightly raised terrace, the palace, with softly gleaming lights and music coming from the open latticed windows. The garden is full of oleanders, roses, pomegranates, abundance of crimson flowers; the air is heavy with their fragrance: a fountain at the right is plashing gently: behind it is an arbour covered with vines. Near the centre of the garden stands a small, hideous image of the god Rimmon. Back of the arbour rises the lofty square tower of the House of Rimmon, which casts a shadow from the moon across the garden. The background is a wide, hilly landscape, with a high road passing over the mountains toward the snow-clad summits of Mount Hermon in the distance. Enter by the palace door, the lady Tsarpi, robed in red and gold, and followed by her maids, Khamma and Nubta. She remains on the terrace: they go down into the garden, looking about, and returning to her.

Khamma	There’s no one here; the garden is asleep.
Nubta	The flowers are nodding, all the birds abed, And nothing wakes except the watchful stars!
Khamma	The stars are sentinels discreet and mute: How many things they know and never tell!
Tsarpi	Impatiently. Unlike the stars, how many things you tell And do not know! When comes your master home?
Nubta	Lady, his armour-bearer brought us word An hour ago, the master will be here At moonset, not before.
Tsarpi	He haunts the camp And leaves me much alone; yet I can pass The time of absence not unhappily, If I but know the time of his return. An hour of moonlight yet! Khamma, my mirror! These curls are ill arranged, this veil too low⁠— So⁠—that is better, careless maids! Withdraw⁠— But warn me if your master should appear.
Khamma	Mistress, have no concern; for when we hear The clatter of his horse along the street, We’ll run this way and lead your dancers down With song and laughter⁠—you shall know in time.
	Exeunt Khamma* and Nubta, laughing. Tsarpi descends the steps.*
Tsarpi	My guest is late; but he will surely come! Hunger and thirst will bring him to my feet. The man who burns to drain the cup of love⁠— The priest whose greed of glory never fails⁠— Both, both have need of me, and he will come. And I⁠—what do I need? Why everything That helps my beauty to a higher throne; All that a priest can promise, all a man Can give, and all a god bestow, I need: This may a woman win, and this will I.
	Enter Rezon quietly from the shadow of the trees. He stands behind Tsarpi and listens, smiling, to her last words. Then he drops his mantle of leopard-skin, and lifts his high-priest’s rod of bronze, shaped at one end like a star, at the other like a thunderbolt.
Rezon	Tsarpi!
Tsarpi	The mistress of the house of Naaman Salutes the keeper of the House of Rimmon.
	She bows low before him.
Rezon	Rimmon receives you with his star of peace;
	He lowers the star-point of the rod, which glows for a moment with rosy light above her head.
	And I, his chosen minister, kneel down Before your regal beauty, and implore The welcome of the woman for the man.
Tsarpi	Giving him her hand, but holding off his embrace. Thus Tsarpi welcomes Rezon! Nay, no more! Till I have heard what errand brings you here By night, within the garden of the man Who hates you most and fears you least in all Damascus.
Rezon	Rising, and speaking angrily. Trust me, I repay his scorn With double hatred⁠—Naaman, the man Whom the King honours and the people love, Who stands against the nobles and the priests, Against the oracles of Rimmon’s House, And cries, “We’ll fight to keep Damascus free!” This powerful fool, this impious devotee Of liberty, who loves the city more Than he reveres the city’s ancient god: This frigid husband who sets you below His dream of duty to a horde of slaves: This man I hate, and I will humble him.
Tsarpi	I think I hate him too. He stands apart From me, ev’n while he holds me in his arms, By something that I cannot understand, Nor supple to my will, nor melt with tears, Nor quite dissolve with blandishments, although He swears he loves his wife next to his honour! Next? That’s too low! I will be first or nothing.
Rezon	With me you are the first, the absolute! When you and I have triumphed you shall reign; And you and I will bring this hero down.
Tsarpi	But how? For he is strong.
Rezon	By these, the eyes Of Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon.
Tsarpi	Speak clearly; tell your plan.
Rezon	You know the host Of the Assyrian king has broken forth Again to conquer us. Envoys have come From Shalmaneser to demand surrender. Our king Benhadad wavers, for he knows His weakness. All the nobles, all the rich, Would purchase peace that they may grow more rich: Only the people and the soldiers, led By Naaman, would fight for liberty. Blind fools! Today the envoys came to pay Their worship to our god, whom they adore In Nineveh as Asshur’s brother-god. They talked with me in secret. Promises, Great promises! For every noble house That urges peace, a noble recompense: The king, submissive, kept in royal state And splendour: most of all, honour and wealth Shall crown the House of Rimmon, and his priest⁠— Yea, and his priestess. For we two will rise Upon the city’s fall. The common folk Shall suffer; Naaman shall sink with them In wreck; but I shall rise, and you shall rise Above me! You shall climb, through incense-smoke, And days of pomp, and nights of revelry, Glorious rites and ecstasies of love, Unto the topmost room in Rimmon’s tower, The secret, lofty room, the couch of bliss, And the divine embraces of the god.
Tsarpi	Throwing out her arms in exultation. All, all I wish! What must I do for this?
Rezon	Turn Naaman away from thoughts of war; Or purchase him with love’s delights to yield This point⁠—I care not how⁠—and afterwards The future shall be ours.
Tsarpi	And if I fail?
Rezon	I have another shaft. The last appeal, Before the king decides, is to the oracle Of Rimmon. You shall read the signs! A former priestess of his temple, you Shall be the interpreter of heaven, and speak A word to melt this brazen soldier’s heart Within his breast.
Tsarpi	But if it flame instead?
Rezon	I know the way to quench that flame. The cup, The parting cup your hand shall give to him! What if the curse of Rimmon should infect That wine with sacred venom, secretly To work within his veins, week after week Corrupting all the currents of his blood, Dimming his eyes, wasting his flesh? What then? Would he prevail in war? Would he come back To glory, or to shame? What think you?
Tsarpi	I? I do not think; I only do my part. But can the gods bless this?
Rezon	The gods can bless Whatever they decree; their will makes right; And this is for the glory of the house Of Rimmon⁠—and for thee, my queen. Come, come! The night grows dark: we’ll perfect our alliance.
	Rezon draws her with him, embracing her, through the shadows of the garden. Ruahmah, who has been sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened during the dialogue, and has been dimly visible in her white dress, behind the vines. She parts them and comes out, pushing back her long, dark hair from her temples.
Ruahmah	What have I heard? O God, what shame is this Plotted beneath Thy pure and silent stars! Was it for this that I was brought away Captive from Israel’s blessed hills to serve A heathen mistress in a land of lies? Ah, treacherous, shameful priest! Ah, shameless wife Of one too noble to suspect thy guilt! The very greatness of his generous heart Betrays him to their hands. What can I do? Nothing⁠—a slave⁠—hated and mocked by all My fellow-slaves! O bitter prison-life! I smother in this black, betraying air Of lust and luxury; I faint beneath The shadow of this House of Rimmon. God Have mercy! Lead me out to Israel. To Israel!
	Music and laughter heard within the palace. The doors fly open and a flood of men and women, dancers, players, flushed with wine, dishevelled, pour down the steps, Khamma and Nubta with them. They crown the image with roses and dance around it. Ruahmah is discovered crouching beside the arbour. They drag her out before the image.
Nubta	Look! Here’s the Hebrew maid⁠— She’s homesick; let us comfort her!
Khamma	They put their arms around her. Yes, dancing is the cure for homesickness. We’ll make her dance.
Ruahmah	She slips away. I pray you, let me go! I cannot dance, I do not know your measures.
Khamma	Then sing for us⁠—a song of Israel!
Ruahmah	How can I sing the songs of Israel In this strange country? O my heart would break With grief in every note of that dear music.
A Servant	A stubborn and unfriendly maid! We’ll whip her.
	They circle around her, striking her with rose-branches; she sinks to her knees, covering her face with her bare arms, which bleed.
Nubta	Look, look! She kneels to Rimmon, she is tamed.
Ruahmah	Springing up and lifting her arms. Nay, not to this dumb idol, but to Him Who made Orion and the seven stars!
All	She raves⁠—she mocks at Rimmon! Punish her! The fountain! Wash her blasphemy away!
	They push her toward the fountain, laughing and shouting. In the open door of the palace Naaman appears, dressed in blue and silver, bareheaded and unarmed. He comes to the top of the steps and stands for a moment, astonished and angry.
Naaman	Silence! What drunken rout is this? Begone, Ye barking dogs and mewing cats! Out, all! Poor child, what have they done to thee?
	Exeunt all except Ruahmah, who stands with her face covered by her hands. Naaman* comes to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.*
Ruahmah	Looking up in his face. Nothing, My lord and master! They have harmed me not.
Naaman	Touching her arm. Dost call this nothing?
Ruahmah	Since my lord is come.
Naaman	I do not know thy face⁠—who art thou, child?
Ruahmah	The handmaid of thy wife. These three years past I have attended her.
Naaman	Whence comest thou? Thy voice is like thy mistress, but thy looks Have something foreign. Tell thy name, thy land.
Ruahmah	Ruahmah is my name, a captive maid, The daughter of a prince in Israel⁠— Where once, in olden days, I saw my lord Ride through our highlands, when Samaria Was allied with Damascus to defeat Asshur, our common foe.
Naaman	O glorious days, Crowded with life! And thou rememberest them?
Ruahmah	As clear as yesterday! Master, I saw Thee riding on a snow-white horse beside Our king; and all we joyful little maids Strewed boughs of palm along the victors’ way; For you had driven out the enemy, Broken; and both our lands were friends and free.
Naaman	Sadly. Well, they are past, those noble days! The friends That fought for freedom stand apart, rivals For Asshur’s favour, like two jealous dogs That snarl and bite each other, while they wait The master’s whip, enforcing peace. The days When nations would imperil all to keep Their liberties, are only memories now. The common cause is lost⁠—and thou art brought, The captive of some mercenary raid, Some profitable, honourless foray, To serve within my house. Dost thou fare well?
Ruahmah	Master, thou seest.
Naaman	Yes, I see! My child, Why do they hate thee so?
Ruahmah	I do not know, Unless because I will not bow to Rimmon.
Naaman	Thou needest not. I fear he is a god Who pities not his people, will not save. My heart is sick with doubt of him. But thou Shalt hold thy faith⁠—I care not what it is⁠— Worship thy god; but keep thy spirit free. Here, take this chain and wear it with my seal, None shall molest the maid who carries this. Thou hast found favour in thy master’s eyes; Hast thou no other gift to ask of me?
Ruahmah	Earnestly. My lord, I do entreat thee not to go Tomorrow to the council. Seek the King And speak with him in secret; but avoid The audience-hall.
Naaman	Why, what is this? Thy wits Are wandering. Why dost thou ask this thing Impossible! My honour is engaged To speak for war, to lead in war against The Assyrian Bull and save Damascus.
Ruahmah	With confused earnestness. Then, lord, if thou must go, I pray thee speak⁠— I know not how⁠—but so that all must hear. With magic of unanswerable words Persuade thy foes. Yet watch⁠—beware⁠—
Naaman	Of what?
Ruahmah	Turning aside. I am entangled in my speech⁠—no light⁠— How shall I tell him? He will not believe. O my dear lord, thine enemies are they Of thine own house. I pray thee to beware⁠— Beware⁠—of Rimmon!
Naaman	Child, thy words are wild; Thy troubles have bewildered all thy brain. Go, now, and fret no more; but sleep, and dream Of Israel! For thou shall see thy home Among the hills again.
Ruahmah	Master, good night, And may thy slumber be as sweet and deep As if thou camped at snowy Hermon’s foot, Amid the music of his waterfalls And watched by winged sentries of the sky. There friendly oak-trees bend their boughs above The weary head, pillowed on earth’s kind breast, And unpolluted breezes lightly breathe A song of sleep among the murmuring leaves. There the big stars draw nearer, and the sun Looks forth serene, undimmed by city’s mirk Or smoke of idol-temples, to behold The waking wonder of the widespread world, And life renews itself with every morn In purest joy of living. May the Lord Deliver thee, dear master, from the nets Laid for thy feet, and lead thee out, along The open path, beneath the open sky! Thou shall be followed always by the heart Of one poor captive maid who prays for thee.
	Exit Ruahmah: Naaman* stands looking after her.*

Scene II

Time: The following morning.

The audience-hall in Benhadad’s palace. The sides of the hall are lined with lofty columns: the back opens toward the city, with descending steps: the House of Rimmon with its high tower is seen in the background. The throne is at the right in front: opposite is the royal door of entrance, guarded by four tall sentinels. Enter at the rear between the columns, Rakhaz, Saballidin, Hazael, Izdubhar.

Izdubhar	An excited old man. The city is all in a turmoil. It boils like a pot of lentils. The people are foaming and bubbling round and round like beans in the pottage.
Hazael	A lean, crafty man. Fear is a hot fire.
Rakhaz	A fat, pompous man. Well may they fear, for the Assyrians are not three days distant. They are blazing along like a waterspout to chop Damascus down like a pitcher of spilt milk.
Saballidin	Young and frank. Cannot Naaman drive them back?
Rakhaz	Puffing and blowing. Ho! Naaman? Where have you been living? Naaman is a broken reed whose claws have been cut. Build no hopes on that foundation, for it will upset in the midst of the sea and leave you hanging in the air.
Saballidin	He clatters like a windmill. What would he say, Hazael?
Hazael	Naaman can do nothing without the command of the King; and the King fears to order the army to march without the approval of the gods. The High Priest is against it. The House of Rimmon is for peace with Asshur.
Rakhaz	Yes, and all the nobles are for peace. We are the men whose wisdom lights the rudder that upholds the chariot of state. Would we be rich if we were not wise? Do we not know better than the rabble what medicine will silence this fire that threatens to drown us?
Izdubhar	But if the Assyrians come, we shall all perish; they will despoil us all.
Hazael	Not us, my lord, only the common people. The envoys have offered favourable terms to the priests, and the nobles, and the King. No palace, no temple, shall be plundered. Only the shops, and the markets, and the houses of the multitude shall be given up to the Bull. He will eat his supper from the pot of lentils, not from our golden plate.
Rakhaz	Yes, and all who speak for peace in the council shall be enriched; our heads shall be crowned with seats of honour in the processions of the Assyrian king. He needs wise counsellors to help him guide the ship of empire onto the solid rock of prosperity. You must be with us, my lords Izdubhar and Saballidin, and let the stars of your wisdom roar loudly for peace.
Izdubhar	He talks like a tablet read upside down⁠—a wild ass braying in the wilderness. Yet there is policy in his words.
Saballidin	I know not. Can a kingdom live without a people or an army? If we let the Bull in to sup on the lentils, will he not make his breakfast in our vineyards?
	Enter other courtiers, following Shumakim, a crooked little jester, in blue, green and red, a wreath of poppies around his neck and a flagon in his hand. He walks unsteadily, and stutters in his speech.
Hazael	Here is Shumakim, the King’s fool, with his legs full of last night’s wine.
Shumakim	Balancing himself in front of them and chuckling. Wrong, my lords, very wrong! This is not last night’s wine, but a draught the King’s physician gave me this morning for a cure. It sobers me amazingly! I know you all, my lords: any fool would know you. You, master, are a statesman; and you are a politician; and you are a patriot.
Rakhaz	Am I a statesman? I felt something of the kind about me. But what is a statesman?
Shumakim	A politician that is stuffed with big words; a fat man in a mask; one that plays a solemn tune on a sackbut full o’ wind.
Hazael	And what is a politician?
Shumakim	A statesman that has dropped his mask and cracked his sackbut. Men trust him for what he is, and he never deceives them, because he always lies.
Izdubhar	Why do you call me a patriot?
Shumakim	Because you know what is good for you; you love your country as you love your self. You feel for the common people⁠—as the wolf feels for the sheep.
Saballidin	And what am I?
Shumakim	A fool, master, just a plain fool; and there is hope of thee for that reason. Embrace me, brother, and taste this; but not too much⁠—it will intoxicate thee with sobriety.
	The hall has been slowly filling with courtiers and soldiers: a crowd of people begin to come up the steps at the rear, where they are halted by a chain guarded by servants of the palace. A bell tolls; the royal door is thrown open; the aged King crosses the hall slowly and takes his seat on the throne with the four tall sentinels standing behind him. All bow down shading their eyes with their hands.
Benhadad	The hour of royal audience is come. I’ll hear the envoys of my brother king, The Son of Asshur. Are my counsellors At hand? Where are the priests of Rimmon’s House?
	Gongs sound. Rezon comes in from the rear, followed by a procession of priests in black and yellow. The courtiers bow; the King rises; Rezon takes his stand on the steps of the throne at the left of the King.
	Where is my faithful servant Naaman, The captain of my host?
	Trumpets sound from the city. The crowd on the steps divide; the chain is lowered; Naaman enters, followed by six soldiers. He is dressed in chain-mail, with a silver helmet and a cloak of blue. He uncovers, and kneels on the steps of the throne at the King’s right.
Naaman	My lord the King, The bearer of thy sword is here.
Benhadad	Giving Naaman* his hand, and sitting down.* Welcome, My strong right arm that never failed me yet! I am in doubt⁠—but stay thou close to me While I decide this cause. Where are the envoys? Let them appear and give their message.
	Enter the Assyrian envoys; one in white and the other in red; both with the golden Bull’s head embroidered oh their robes. They come from the right, rear, bow slightly before the throne, and take the centre of the hall.
White Envoy	Stepping forward. Greeting from Shalmaneser, Asshur’s son, The king who reigns at Nineveh And takes his tribute from a thousand cities, Unto Benhadad, monarch in Damascus! The conquering Bull has come out of the north; The south has fallen before him, and the west His feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste; He pauses at your gate, invincible⁠— To offer peace. The princes of your court, The priests of Rimmon’s house, and you, the King, If you pay homage to your overlord, Shall rest secure, and flourish as our friends. Assyria sends to you this gilded yoke; Receive it as the sign of proffered peace.
	He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.
Benhadad	What of the city? Said your king no word Of our Damascus, and the many folk That do inhabit her and make her great? What of the soldiers who have fought for us? The people who have sheltered ’neath our shield?
White Envoy	Of these my royal master did not speak.
Benhadad	Strange silence! Must we give them up to him? Is this the price at which he offers us The yoke of peace? What if we do refuse?
Red Envoy	Stepping forward. Then ruthless war! War to the uttermost. No quarter, no compassion, no escape! The Bull will gore and trample in his fury Nobles and priests and king⁠—none shall be spared! Before the throne we lay our second gift; This bloody horn, the symbol of red war.
	He lays a long bull’s horn, stained with blood on the steps of the throne.
White Envoy	Our message is delivered. Grant us leave And safe conveyance, that we may return Unto our master. He will wait three days To know your royal choice between his gifts. Keep which you will and send the other back; The red bull’s horn your youngest page may bring; But with the yoke, best send your mightiest army!
	The Envoys* retire, amid confused murmurs of the people, the King silent, his head sunken on his breast.*
Benhadad	Proud words, a bitter message, hard to endure! We are not now that force which feared no foe; Our host is weakened, and our old allies Have left us. Can we face this raging Bull Alone, and beat him back? Give me your counsel.
	Many speak at once, confusedly.
	What babblement is this? Were ye born at Babel? Give me clear words and reasonable speech.
Rakhaz	Pompously. O King, I am a reasonable man; And there be some who call me very wise And prudent; but of this I will not speak, For I am also modest. Let me plead, Persuade, and reason you to choose for peace. This golden yoke may be a bitter draught, But better far to fold it in our arms, Than risk our cargoes in the savage horn Of war. Shall we imperil all our wealth, Our valuable lives? Nobles are few, Rich men are rare, and wise men rarer still; The precious jewels on the tree of life, Wherein the common people are but brides And clay and rubble. Let the city go, But save the cornerstones that float the ship! Have I not spoken well?
Benbadad	Shaking his head. Excellent well! Most eloquent! But misty in the meaning.
Hazael	With cold decision. Then let me speak, O King, in plainer words! The days of independent states are past: The tide of empire sweeps across the earth; Assyria rides it with resistless power And thunders on to subjugate the world. Oppose her, and we fight with Destiny; Submit to her demands, and we shall ride With her to victory. Therefore return This bloody horn, the symbol of wild war, With words of soft refusal, and accept The golden yoke, Assyria’s gift of peace.
Naaman	Starting forward eagerly. There is no peace beneath a conqueror’s yoke, My King, but shame and heaviness of heart! For every state that barters liberty To win imperial favour, shall be drained Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars To make the empire greater. Here’s the choice: We fight today to keep our country free, Or else we fight forevermore to help Assyria bind the world as we are bound. I am a soldier, and I know the hell Of war! But I will gladly ride through hell To save Damascus. Master, bid me ride! Ten thousand chariots wait for your command; And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash Of patience till you let them go; a throng Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset! O master, let me launch your mighty host Against the Bull⁠—we’ll bring him to his knees!
	Cries of “War!” from the soldiers and the people; “peace!” from the courtiers and the priests. The King rises, turning toward Naaman, and seems about to speak. Rezon* lifts his rod.*
Rezon	Shall not the gods decide when mortals doubt? Rimmon is master of the city’s fate; He reigns in secret and his will is law; We read his will, by our most ancient faith, In omens and in signs of mystery. Must we not hearken to his high commands?
Benhadad	Sinking back on the throne, submissively. I am the faithful son of Rimmon’s House. Consult the oracle. But who shall read?
Rezon	Tsarpi, the wife of Naaman, who served Within the temple in her maiden years, Shall be the mouthpiece of the mighty god, Today’s high-priestess. Bring the sacrifice!
	Gongs and cymbals sound: enter priests carrying an altar on which a lamb is bound. The altar is placed in the centre of the hall. Tsarpi follows the priests, covered with a long transparent veil of black, sewn with gold stars; Ruahmah, in white, bears her train. Tsarpi stands before the altar, facing it, and lifts her right hand holding a knife. Ruahmah steps back, near the throne, her hands crossed on her breast, her head bowed. The priests close in around Tsarpi and the altar. The knife is seen to strike downward. Gongs and cymbals sound: cries of “Rimmon, hear us.” The circle of priests opens, and Tsarpi turns slowly to face the King.
Tsarpi	Monotonously. Black is the blood of the victim, Rimmon is unfavourable, Asratu is unfavourable; They will not war against Asshur, They will make a league with the God of Nineveh. Evil is in store for Damascus, A strong enemy will lay waste the land. Therefore make peace with the Bull; Hearken to the voice of Rimmon.
	She turns again to the altar, and the priests close in around her. Rezon lifts his rod toward the tower of the temple. A flash of lightning followed by thunder; smoke rises from the altar; all except Naaman and Ruahmah cover their faces. The circle of priests opens again, and Tsarpi comes forward slowly, chanting.
	Chant. Hear the words of Rimmon! Thus your Maker speaketh: I, the god of thunder, riding on the whirlwind, I, the god of lightning leaping from the storm-cloud, I will smite with vengeance him who dares defy me! He who leads Damascus into war with Asshur, Conquering or conquered, bears my curse upon him. Surely shall my arrow strike his heart in secret, Burn his flesh with fever, turn his blood to poison, Brand him with corruption, drive him into darkness; He alone shall perish, by the doom of Rimmon.
	All are terrified and look toward Naaman, shuddering. Ruahmah* alone seems not to heed the curse, but stands with her eyes fixed on Naaman.*
Ruahmah	Be not afraid! There is a greater God Shall cover thee with His almighty wings: Beneath his shield and buckler shalt thou trust.
Benhadad	Repent, my son, thou must not brave this curse.
Naaman	My King, there is no curse as terrible As that which lights a bosom-fire for him Who gives away his honour, to prolong A craven life whose every breath is shame! If I betray the men who follow me, The city that has put her trust in me, The country to whose service I am bound, What king can shield me from my own deep scorn, What god release me from that self-made hell? The tender mercies of Assyria I know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers. Give up Damascus, and her streets will run Rivers of innocent blood; the city’s heart, That mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushed Beneath the brutal hooves of the wild Bull, Will cry against her captain, sitting safe Among the nobles, in some pleasant place. I shall be safe⁠—safe from the threatened wrath Of unknown gods, but damned forever by The men I know⁠—that is the curse I fear.
Benhadad	Speak not so high, my son. Must we not bow Our heads before the sovereignties of heaven? The unseen rulers are Divine.
Naaman	O King, I am unlearned in the lore of priests; Yet well I know that there are hidden powers About us, working mortal weal and woe Beyond the force of mortal to control. And if these powers appear in love and truth, I think they must be gods, and worship them. But if their secret will is manifest In blind decrees of sheer omnipotence, That punish where no fault is found, and smite The poor with undeserved calamity, And pierce the undefended in the dark With arrows of injustice, and foredoom The innocent to burn in endless pain, I will not call this fierce almightiness Divine. Though I must bear, with every man, The burden of my life ordained, I’ll keep My soul unterrified, and tread the path Of truth and honour with a steady heart! But if I err in this; and if there be Divinities whose will is cruel, unjust, Capricious and supreme, I will forswear The favour of these gods, and take my part With man to suffer and for man to die. Have ye not heard, my lords? The oracle Proclaims to me, to me alone, the doom Of vengeance if I lead the army out. “Conquered or conquering!” I grip that chance! Damascus free, her foes all beaten back, The people saved from slavery, the King Upheld in honour on his ancient throne⁠— O what’s the cost of this? I’ll gladly pay Whatever gods there be, whatever price They ask for this one victory. Give me This gilded sign of shame to carry back; I’ll shake it in the face of Asshur’s king, And break it on his teeth.
Benhadad	Rising. Then go, my never-beaten captain, go! And may the powers that hear thy solemn vow Forgive thy rashness for Damascus’ sake, Prosper thy fighting, and remit thy pledge.
Rezon	Standing beside the altar. The pledge, O King, this man must seal his pledge At Rimmon’s altar. He must take the cup Of soldier-sacrament, and bind himself By thrice-performed libation to abide The fate he has invoked.
Naaman	Slowly. And so I will.
	He comes down the steps, toward the altar, where Rezon* is filling the cup which Tsarpi holds. Ruahmah throws herself before Naaman, clasping his knees.*
Ruahmah	Passionately and wildly. My lord, I do beseech you, stay! There’s death Within that cup. It is an offering To devils. See, the wine blazes like fire, It flows like blood, it is a cursed cup, Fulfilled of treachery and hate. Dear master, noble master, touch it not!
Naaman	Poor maid, thy brain is still distraught. Fear not But let me go! Here, treat her tenderly!
	Gives her into the hands of Saballidin. Can harm befall me from the wife who bears My name? I take the cup of fate from her. I greet the unknown powers;
	Pours libation. I will perform my vow;
	Again. I will abide my fate;
	Again. I pledge my life to keep Damascus free.
	He drains the cup, and lets it fall.
	Curtain.