Miriam. Perilous!
Saul. Prepare
Before thy teraphim. No harm, I swear,
Shall come of it. Bid Samuel appear.
The battle! its event!
Miriam (with a cry). I know thee now!
Saul! thou art Saul! the Terror!
Saul. Call him up.
Ready is it, the battle—but I am
Forsaken of all prophesy and dream,
Of voices and of priest and oracle,
To augur it.
Miriam. A doom's in this!
Saul. He must
Hold comfort, and the torrent of despair
Within me stay and hush.
Miriam. Then must it be.
(She turns to the teraphim, amid wind and pallid lightning prostrating herself.)
Prophet of Israel, who art beyond
The troubling and the terrifying grave,
Th' immeasurable moan and melancholy
Of ways that win to Sheol—Rise! Arise!
(She waits ... Only the wind gust. Then springing up, with wide arms, and wild blind eyes.)