Yousef. That is well spoken, Biskra, and thou shalt do as thou hast said. My hate has withered like grass in the autumn since my eyes have had sight of thee. Take strength from me and be the arrow from my bow.
Biskra. Embrace me, Yousef; embrace me.
Yousef. Not here in the holy presence; not now—later, afterward—when thou shalt have earned thy reward.
Biskra. Noble sheikh! Noble man!
Yousef. Yes, the maid that shall bear my child under her heart must show herself worthy of the honor.
Biskra. I—none other—shall bear the child of Yousef. I, Biskra, the despised one, the ill-favored one, but the strong one.
Yousef. So be it. Now I will go down and sleep by the fountain. Need I to teach thee the secret craft which thou didst learn from the great Marabout Siddi sheikh, and which thou didst practice in the market-place since thou wast a child?
Biskra. That need’st thou not dot I know all the secret craft that one needs to frighten the life out of a craven Frank; the cowards who crawl before their enemies and send leaden pellets before them. I know all— even to speaking with the belly. And what my craft fails to wreak, that shall the sun do, for the sun is on the side of Yousef and of Biskra.
Yousef. The sun is the Moslem’s friend, but today is it passing great. Thou mayst get scorched, maid. Take first a drink of water, for I can see thy hands are parched. [He lifts up a mat and stoops down to a bowl of water, which he hands to BISKRA.]
Biskra. [Lifts the bowl to her mouth.] And my eyes begin to see red—my lungs to dry up. I hear—I hear—see thou, the sands run already through the roof, and there sings the string of the guitar. Simoon is here! But the Frank is not.
Yousef. Come down here, Biskra, and let the Frank kill himself.
Biskra. Hell first and death afterward. Don’t thou think that I flinch? [Pours out the water on a heap of sand.] I shall water the sand, that my revenge may grow! And I shall parch my heart. Grow, hate! Burn, sun! Blow, wind!
Yousef. Hail to thee, mother of the son of Yousef, for thou shalt bear Yousef’s son, the Avenger, even thou. [The wind increases, the curtain in front of the door flaps, a red light illumines the room, sand subsequently passes into gold.]
Biskra. The Frank comes—and Simoon is here! Go!
Yousef. See me again in a half-hour. Here is your sand water. [Points to a sandheap.] Heaven itself will measure out the time of the infidel’s hell.
SCENE II
BISKRA; GUIMARD, pale and staggering, confused, speaks in a faint voice.
Guimard. Simoon is here. What way do you think my men have gone?
Biskra. I guided your men to the left, toward the east. Guimard. To the left toward—the east. Let me see. Now I’ve got the east right, and the west. Put me in a chair and give me some water.
Biskra. [Leads GUIMARD to the sand hillock, and puts him on the ground, with his head on the sand hillack.] Art thou easy thus?
Guimard. [Looks at her.] I’m sitting a little crooked. Put something under my head.
Biskra. [Piles up the sand hillock under his head.] And now hast thou a cushion under thy head.
Guimard. Head? That’s my feet. Isn’t that my feet?
Biskra. Yea, surely.
Guimard. I thought so. Give me a stool, now, under my head.
Biskra. [Drags along an aloe-tree and puts it under GUIMARD’S knees.] There is a stool for thee.
Guimard. And water—water!
Biskra. [Takes the empty bowl, fills it with sand and hands it to GUIMARD.] Drink it while it is cold.
Guimard. [Sips from the bowl.] It is cold, but none the less it does not slake my thirst. I cannot drink. I abhor water, take it away.
Biskra. That’s the dog that bit thee.
Guimard. What dog? I have never been bitten by any dog.
Biskra. Simoon has shrivelled up thy memory. Beware of the phantoms of Simoon. Thou rememberest the mad wind-hound that bit thee on thy last hunt but one in Bab-el-Oued.
Guimard. I was hunting in Bab-el-Oued! That is right. Was it a bran-colored one?
Biskra. A bitch! Yes, see now! And she bit thee in the calf. Dost thou not feel the wound smarting?
Guimard. [Feels himself on his calf and pricks himself with the aloe.] Yes, I feel it. Water! Water!
Biskra. [Hands him the bowl of sand.] Drink, drink!
Guimard. No, I cannot! Blessed Virgin, Mother of God! I am panic-stricken!
Biskra. Be not afraid! I will cure thee and drive out the devils with the power of my music. Listen.
Guimard. [Shrieks.] Ah! Ah! No music! I cannot bear it. And what good does it do me?
Biskra. Music tames the treacherous spirit of the serpent. Dost thou think it is not equal to a mad dog’s bite? [Singing with guitar.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon! Simoon!
Yousef. [Underground.] Simoon! Simoon!
Guimard. What is that you were singing? Ah!
Biskra. Have I been singing? Look here, thou, now I put a palm leaf in my mouth. [Takes a palm leaf between her teeth. Song above.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra.
Yousef. [Beneath the ground.] Simoon, Simoon.
Guimard. What hellish nightmare is this?
Biskra. I am singing now. [BISKRA and YOUSEF together.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon.
Guimard. [Raises himself.] What devil are you that sings with two voices? Are you a man or a woman? Or both in one?
Biskra. I am Ali the guide. Thou dost not know me again, foe thy senses are wandering; but if thou wouldst save thyself from mad thoughts, and mad feelings, believe what I say and do what I bid.
Guimard. You need not bid me, for I find that all is as you say it is.
Biskra. Thou seest that it is so, thou idolater?
Guimard. Idolater?
Biskra. Yes. Take up the idol thou wearest on thy breast. [GUIMARD takes up a medallion.] Trample it under thy feet and call on God, the One, the Merciful, the Pitiful.
Guimard. [Hesitating.] St. Edward, my patron saint.
Biskra. Can he protect thee? Can he?
Guimard. No, he cannot! [Sitting up.] Yes, he can.
Biskra. Let us see then. [Opens the doors, the curtains flap and the grass whistles.]
Guimard. [Puts his hand before his mouth.] Close the door!
Biskra. Down with the idol!
Guimard. No, I cannot.
Biskra. See then. Simoon ruffles not a hair of my head, but thee, thou infidel, he kills. Down with the idol.
Guimard. [Throws the medallion on the floor.] Water, I am dying.
Biskra. Pray to the One, the Merciful, the Pitiful.
Guimard. What shall I ask?
Biskra. Say my words.