University of Virginia Library

SCENE THIRD.

—A wild rocky desert, without trees or vegetation. At a small distance a cluster of low black tents.
Enter Selim, with a staff, scrip, and bottle for holding water, L.
Selim.
To think that my uncle takes pleasure to dwell
In a country whose heat the best spirit would quell!
'Tis true he's a thief, and of thieves the commander,
But his quarters would puzzle the best salamander.
A plague on these flints that have worn out my feet!
A plague on these rocks half calcined by the heat!
How dreadful these waterless vapours that make,
To torture the pilgrim, the farce of a lake!
Not a tree, not a spring has this wilderness in it.
My pulse beats two hundred and ten in a minute.
My tongue is on fire, and my brain in a muddle;
I would give all the world for a good draught of puddle
Then, when one least thinks of it, comes the Simoom,
And these sands will supply me a couch and a tomb!
Or, who can be sure but some merciful Shekh,
For the sake of my garments, may twist off my neck?—
Oh dear! I'm afraid!—I've a mind to turn back,
But I doubt that I never shall hit on the track—
And Fatima! Thou!—can I leave thee in thrall?
Cheer up!—a high spirit may scramble through all.
And—hurrah—I have found them! dark perch'd on the sand
Like a cluster of ravens, the tents are at hand.
And, sure, that's my uncle—

Enter Shekh, R.
Shekh.
Stand, infidel, stand!
Stand, slave, and deliver!

Selim.
'Tis vastly distressing,
That he won't recollect me! Kind uncle, your blessing

Shekh.
Ha, rascal! who art thou?

Selim.
Oh!—look not so grim!
The son of your sister, your nephew Selim!
Destroy not the seed of your father with fear!

Shekh.
Selim, by the prophet!—and what brings thee here?
Hast thou taken my counsel, and is it thy bent
To sojourn with us in the shade of the tent?
To cast in thy lot with thy friends, and to rear;
Dimly seen through the twilight, the long Arab spear?
To mark from some mountain where, patient and slow,
The rich-laden caravan circles below?
Then spring to thy courser, exulting and gay,
And swift as an eagle dart down on the prey!
Oh, blithe are my pastimes on desert and down,
Far, far from the smoke and the noise of the town;
And calm my repose when the carpet is spread,
'Twixt the steed of my bosom, and the wife of my bed,
When camel-bells tinkle, and embers burn bright,
And the tent-curtains flap in the breezes of night!
Though poor my apparel, though scanty my fare,
A cake on the hearth, and a mantle of hair,
How sweet is that morsel, how light is that vest,
And how rich do I feel of this sabre possest!

Selim.
This is charming, I own; in this tranquil retreat
You've the blessings of hunger, of thirst and of heat,—
May you long time enjoy them; for me, when I'm bent
To taste of these pleasures, I'll visit your tent.
But now for protection, dear uncle, I sue—
You know the Bashaw of Damascus?

Shekh.
I do.—

Selim.
The monster has borne off my beautiful bride.

Shekh.
He's perfectly right for himself to provide.

Selim.
Is my uncle in earnest?

Shekh.
I am, my Selim
And, thou wilt do right to assassinate him!

Selim.
By my beard! I intend it—but how shall do

Shekh.
Oh just so thou wilt, as thou fairly goest through it.—
Thou may'st shoot him, or stab him, or beat out his brain.

Selim.
But how to get at him?—your meaning explain.

Shekh.
I have spoken!—and he who hath purpose to slay,
If he have but the courage, will find out the way!
If thou diest, I'll avenge thee.

Selim.
Far rather defend me!
I hoped that the spears of Mount Hor would befriend me!
You have eaten our salt, have been warm'd at our fire,
And there flows in my veins the true blood of your sire.
To a castle in Hauran, if truth is in fame,
About Malek has borne my disconsolate dame.
The walls are not strong, and the garrison few,
What say you to singeing those whiskers of blue?
Will you aid my revenge?

Shekh.
I don't care if I do.
First come to the tent, share my bread and my water,
And the moon of to-morrow shall light us to slaughter.

Selim.
Oh, pause not a moment!

Shekh.
And why, my Selim?

Selim.
The ring on my finger! its ruby grows dim!
She dies,—she is bleeding,—I see by the stone!
Oh, haste, or I fly to her rescue alone!

Shekh.
By my head—a brave youth! I will lend thee a steed,
And I and my people will help at thy need.
And woe to these Turks when the whirlwind of war
Is gather'd in cloud on the summit of Hor!
When the locusts of Maon are dark on the blast,
And the leopards of Arnon—

Selim.
Oh, haste! uncle, haste!

(Exeunt, R.