BENHADAD:  [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 accept
    The golden yoke, Assyria’s gift of peace.

NAAMAN:  [Starting forward eagerly.]
    There is no peace beneath a conqueror’s yoke! 
    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,
    My King, we fight 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;
    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 mouth-piece of the mighty god,
    To-day’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, sown 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.]