BISKRA. Don't you know that the Simoom makes the brains of the white people dry as dates, so that they have horrible visions which disgust them with life and cause them to flee into the great unknown?
YUSUF. I have heard of such things, and in the last battle there were six Franks who took their own lives before the fighting began. But do not place your trust in the Simoom to-day, for snow has fallen in the mountains, and the storm may be all over in half an hour.—Biskra! Do you still know how to hate?
BISKRA. If I know how to hate?—My hatred is boundless as the desert, burning as the sun, and stronger than my love. Every hour of joy that has been stolen from me since the murder of Ali has been stored up within me like the venom back of a viper's tooth, and what the Simoom cannot do, that I can do.
YUSUF. Well spoken, Biskra, and the task shall be yours. Ever since my eyes first fell upon you, my own hatred has been withering like alfa grass in the autumn. Take strength from me and become the arrow to my bow.
BISKRA. Embrace me, Yusuf, embrace me!
YUSUF. Not here, within the presence of the Sainted one; not now—later, afterward, when you have earned your reward!
BISKRA. You proud sheikh! You man of pride!
YUSUF. Yes—the maiden who is to carry my offspring under her heart must show herself worthy of the honour.
BISKRA. I—no one but I—shall bear the offspring of Yusuf! I, Biskra—the scorned one, the ugly one, but the strong one, too!
YUSUF. All right! I am now going to sleep beside the spring.—Do I need to teach you more of the secret arts which you learned from Sidi-Sheikh, the great marabout, and which you have practised at fairs ever since you were a child?