There is no Naaman now, and the Bull
will devour Damascus like a bunch of leeks, flowers and
all,--flowers and all, my double-budded fair one! Are
you not afraid?
NUBTA:
We belong to the House of Rimmon. He will protect us.
SHUMAKIM:
What? The mighty one who hides behind the curtain there,
and tells his secrets to Rezon? No doubt he will take
care of you, and of himself. Whatever game is played,
the gods never lose. But for the protection of the
common people and the rest of us fools, I would rather
have Naaman at the head of an army than all the sacred
images between here and Babylon.
KHAMMA:
You are a wicked old man. You mock the god. He will
punish you.
SHUMAKIM: [Bitterly.]
How can he punish me? Has he not already made me a fool?
Hark, here comes my brother the High Priest, and my
brother the King. Rimmon made us all; but nobody knows
who made Rimmon, except the High Priest; and he will
never tell.
[Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter REZON with priests, and the
King with courtiers. They take their seats. A throng of Khali
and Kharimati come in, TSARPI presiding; a sacred dance is
performed with torches, burning incense, and chanting, in
which TSARPI leads.
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