University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Mahomet's Pavilion.
Mahomet and Caab.
Maho.
No, Caab—If I forgive him!—
No more—his doom is seal'd; for on his head
My greatness can alone take future growth,
Or needs must wither. Didst thou mark?—

Caab.
I did—
The imbitter'd envy of his taunts, the insolence
Of his imagined triumph.

Maho.
Curse on his triumph! it shall sink him, Caab!—
My friend, I'll tell thee of this same Sopheian:
From the first pluming of my young ambition,
He check'd its flight; in war, in prophecy,
My deadliest lett! In vain I sought his friendship;
He mock'd my dreams, and vilified my person.
'Twas needful, yet, to win him by my arts,
Or crush him by my arms. The last was doubtful—
And, therefore, to retain within my hands
A certain pledge of our projected amity,
I seiz'd the lucky vantage of an hour,
And stole his children—

Caab.
Whom!

Maho.
Be secret then,
Till time shall speak—even Zaphna and Palmyra!—

Caab.
Say you, my lord, the children of Sopheian?

Maho.
The same; and for that purpose brought them up
With all due preference; nay, loved them, Caab—
And from the dawn of young Palmyra's beauties,
Won by I know not what of infant sweetness,
I mark'd her for my bed; a favourite consort,
To give age appetite. But now, my Caab,
I hate them both, the hostile progeny
Of that old canker'd stock! yet, for Palmyra,
There is a sort of malicious kindness,
That suits our hatred well. I must enjoy her—
I else come short of my own paradise,
A Prophet to no end.

Caab.
My lord!

Maho.
Say, Caab.

Caab.
Think you, but if Sopheian knew the honours
You did intend—

Maho.
No more! I see 'tis vain.
The fellow is in earnest; has ta'en up
Whims of I know not what, call'd truth and honesty—
A fool, and bigot!

Caab.
Yet, such weak propensities
Have mainly serv'd our Prophet.

Maho.
True, my oracle—
Though rancourous enemies when once attack'd,
They make fast friends. Why, what a deal of people
Have we religion'd into mischief, Caab—
To what the dictates of plain nature call
Theft, murder, rapine, sacrilege!—yet these
Have fashion'd all our heroes, set at gaze
The demigods of old.

Caab.
Now, from my soul,
I do adore you; worship you with heart
Of true recognizance. Your wisdom sums
Whate'er of power, or elevated attribute,
Is fabled in divinity.

Maho.
Mark, Caab!
Would'st thrive on earth, appear to look at Heaven,
As that were all thy bent; the seeming saint
Still makes the prosperous sinner.
'Tis therefore, that, Prometheus-like, I've robb'd
Heaven's altar of enthusiastic fire,
And have my fasts, my prayers, my zeal, and cant,
Spread hands, and whited eye-balls—morals too,
Good morals, Caab! that have made good men.
My godship to a bett, but I, hereafter,
May have my martyrs too—What say'st thou, Caab?
For, on my soul, I do begin to think,
I have but dream'd of sleighting on the world,
And that I am sent indeed.

Caab.
Most high and mighty!
'Tis better as it is—for Heaven, belike,
Had given less latitude.

Maho.
Say'st thou, old chronicle?
Ha, ha, ha, ha!—But to our theme, my friend.
What with Sopheian?

Caab.
Bring your army on.

Maho.
That has its hazard.

Caab.
Poison then—

Maho.
A dagger—

Caab.
A gentle cup—

Maho.
Blood, Caab, blood!

Caab.
My lord, you know I'm for the cabinet;
The sword's too bare a province.

Maho.
Yet, my Caab,
Thou couldst persuade—

Caab.
Whom?

Maho.
Ali—no—what thinkst of Abdoramen?

Caab.
It will not do; he's not enough of saint,
Nor yet of sinner for it—Say, 'twere Zaphna.

Maho.
Ha!—yes—I do conceive—O glorious mischief!—
Come to my arms thou prophet of thy prophet!—
Zaphna hath such a gallantry of zeal,
Bid him but on, and in the name of Heaven,
He'd strike at Heaven's Supreme—This way, this way,
More from the light—until I pour into thee,
The horrors that are brooding in my soul,
To whelm our foes withal.

Caab.
Pardon, my lord—
I did not think—this will be parricide.

Maho.
Out fool—the nobler vengeance!—Further, Caab,—
I have a lure to bow this youthful eagle,
A tempting lure—he loves Palmyra—so,
The sister's body for the father's blood!
It is a bargain seal'd—But ere he seize
His quarry, we must gorge him—there's thy task—
'Tis but the sweet'ning of the sacred chalice,
The cup of our commission, and all's safe—
Then Caab we shall mount as free as air,
To love and empire.

Caab.
I do think, my master,
If Zaphna does the feat, it were not safe
He live to rue; they both must fall together.

Maho.
Right—This once done, thou art thy master's master.
Ha! by my mission—to our wish—he comes—
Keep thee aside, my Caab.

[Caab retires.