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.