Rezon: 
  I know the way to quench that flame.  The cup,
  The parting cup your hand shall give to him! 
  What if the curse of Rimmon should infect
  That wine with sacred venom, secretly
  To work within his veins, week after week
  Corrupting all the currents of his blood,
  Dimming his eyes, wasting his flesh?  What then? 
  Would he prevail in war?  Would he come back
  To glory, or to shame?  What think you?

Tsarpi: 
          I? 
  I do not think; I only do my part. 
  But can the gods bless this?

Rezon: 
        The gods can bless
  Whatever they decree; their will makes right;
  And this is for the glory of the house
  Of Rimmon,—­and for thee, my queen.  Come, come! 
  The night grows dark:  we’ll perfect our alliance.

[REZON draws her with him, embracing her, through the shadows of the garden.  RUAHMAH, who has been sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened during the dialogue, and has been dimly visible in her white dress, behind the vines.  She parts them and comes out, pushing back her long, dark hair from her temples.]

RUAHMAH: 
  What have I heard?  O God, what shame is this
  Plotted beneath Thy pure and silent stars! 
  Was it for this that I was brought away
  Captive from Israel’s blessed hills to serve
  A heathen mistress in a land of lies? 
  Ah, treacherous, shameful priest!  Ah, shameless wife
  Of one too noble to suspect thy guilt! 
  The very greatness of his generous heart
  Betrays him to their hands.  What can I do? 
  Nothing,—­a slave,—­hated and mocked by all
  My fellow-slaves!  O bitter prison-life! 
  I smother in this black, betraying air
  Of lust and luxury; I faint beneath
  The shadow of this House of Rimmon.  God
  Have mercy!  Lead me out to Israel. 
  To Israel!

[Music and laughter heard within the palace.  The doors fly open and a flood of men and women, dancers, players, flushed with wine, dishevelled, pour down the steps, KHAMMA and NUBTA with them.  They crown the image with roses and dance around it.  RUAHMAH is discovered crouching beside the arbour.  They drag her out before the image.]

NUBTA: 
        Look!  Here’s the Hebrew maid,—­
  She’s homesick; let us comfort her!

KHAMMA:  [They put their arms around her.]
  Yes, dancing is the cure for homesickness. 
  We’ll make her dance.

RUAHMAH:  [She slips away.]
  I pray you, let me go! 
  I cannot dance, I do not know your measures.

KHAMMA: 
  Then sing for us,—­a song of Israel!

RUAHMAH: 
  How can I sing the songs of Israel
  In this strange country?  O my heart would break
  With grief in every note of that dear music.

A SERVANT: 
  A stubborn and unfriendly maid!  We’ll whip her.