The House of Rimmon

It was she alone who wrought
This wondrous work of love. She won the King
By the strong pleading of resistless hope
To furnish forth this company. She led
Our march, kept us in heart, fought off despair,
Offered herself to you as to her god,
Watched over you as if you were her child,
Prepared your food, your cup, with her own hands,
Sang you asleep at night, awake at dawn⁠— Naaman

Interrupting.

Enough! I do remember every hour
Of that sweet comradeship! And now her voice
Wakens the echoes in my lonely breast;
The perfume of her presence fills my sense
With longing. All my soul cries out in vain
For her embracing, satisfying love,
her eyes and called her my Ruahmah!

To his soldiers.

Away! away! I burn to take the road
That leads me back to Rimmon’s House⁠—
But not to bow⁠—by God, never to bow!

Scene II

Time: Three days later.

Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with huge pillars at each side. In the right foreground the seat of the King; at the left, of equal height, the seat of the High Priest. In the background a broad flight of steps, rising to a curtain of cloudy gray, embroidered with two gigantic hands holding thunderbolts. The temple is in half darkness at first. Enter Khamma and Nubta, robed as Kharimati, or religious dancers, in gowns of black gauze with yellow embroideries and mantles.

Khamma	All is ready for the rites of worship; our lady will play a great part in them. She has put on her Tyrian robes, and all her ornaments.
Nubta	That is a sure sign of a religious purpose. She is most devout, our lady Tsarpi!
Khamma	A favourite of Rimmon, too! The High Priest has assured her of it. He is a great man⁠—next to the King, now that Naaman is gone.
Nubta	But if Naaman should come back, healed of the leprosy?
Khamma	How can he come back? The Hebrew slave that went away with him, when they caught her, said that he was dead. The High Priest has shut her up in the prison of the temple, accusing her of her master’s death.
Nubta	Yet I think he does not believe it, for I heard him telling our mistress what to do if Naaman should return.
Khamma	What, then?
Nubta	She will claim him as her husband. Was she not wedded to him before the god? That is a sacred bond. Only the High Priest can loose it. She will keep her hold on Naaman for the sake of the House of Rimmon. A wife knows her husband’s secrets, she can tell⁠—
	Enter Shumakim, with his flagon, walking unsteadily.
Khamma	Hush! here comes the fool Shumakim. He is never sober.
Shumakim	Laughing. Are there two of you? I see two, but that is no proof. I think there is only one, but beautiful enough for two. What were you talking to yourself about, fairest one!
Khamma	About the lady Tsarpi, fool, and what she would do if her husband returned.
Shumakim	Fie! fie! That is no talk for an innocent fool to hear. Has she a husband?
Nubta	You know very well that she is the wife of Lord Naaman.
Shumakim	I remember that she used to wear his name and his jewels. But I thought he had exchanged her⁠—for a leprosy.
Khamma	You must have heard that he went away to Samaria to look for healing. Some say that he died on the journey; but others say he has been cured, and is on his way home to his wife.
Shumakim	It may be, for this is a mad world, and men never know when they are well off⁠—except us fools. But he must come soon if he would find his wife as he parted from her⁠—or the city where he left it. The Assyrians have returned with a greater army, and this time they will make an end of us. There is no Naaman how, 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.
	Chant. Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the whirl-storm, Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests, Hail, thou who roarest terribly in the darkness, Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens! Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest, In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal, Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations, Immeru, Addu, Barku, Rimmon! See we tremble before thee, low we bow at thine altar, Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us, Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice, Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon!
	Silence follows, all bowing down.
Rezon	O King, last night the counsel from above Was given in answer to our divination. Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave Assyria’s pardon, and a second offer Of the same terms of peace we did reject Not long ago.
Benhadad	Dishonour! Yet I see No other way! Assyria will refuse, Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus!
Rezon	Yet