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 shall surely 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,
    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.