‘Hark! the prophetess has changed her note; and yet she hears us not. The spirit of the Lord is truly with her. Come, Jabaster, I see thy heart is opening to thy people’s sufferings; thy people, my Jabaster, for art not thou our Judge? At least, thou shalt be.’
‘Can we call back the Theocracy? Is’t possible?’
‘But say the word, and it is done, Jabaster. Nay, stare not. Dost thou think there are no true hearts in Israel? Dost thou suppose thy children have beheld, without a thought, the foul insults poured on thee; thee, their priest, their adored high priest, one who recalls the best days of the past, the days of their great Judges? But one word, one single movement of that mitred head, and—— But I speak unto a mind that feels more than I can express. Be silent, tongue, thou art a babbling counsellor. Jabaster’s patriot soul needs not the idle schooling of a child. If he be silent, ‘tis that his wisdom deems that the hour is not ripe, but when her leader speaks, Israel will not be slack.’
‘The Moslemin in council! We know what must come next. Our national existence is in its last agony. Methinks the time is very ripe, Abidan.’
‘Why, so we think, great sir; and say the word, and twenty thousand spears will guard the Ark. I’ll answer for my men. Stout Scherirah looks grimly on the Moabites. A word from thee, and the whole Syrian army will join our banner, the Lion of Judah, that shall be our flag. The tyrant and his satraps, let them die, and then the rest must join us. We’ll proclaim the covenant, and, leaving Babylon to a bloody fate, march on to Zion!’
‘Zion, his youthful dream, Zion!’
‘You muse!’
‘King or no king, he is the Lord’s anointed. Shall this hand, that poured the oil on his hallowed head, wash out the balmy signet with his blood? Must I slay him? Shall this kid be seethed even in its mother’s milk?’
‘His voice is low, and yet his face is troubled. How now, sir?’
‘What art thou? Ah! Abidan, trusty, stanch Abidan! You see, Abidan, I was thinking, my good Abidan, all this may be the frenzy of a revel. Tomorrow’s dawn may summon cooler counsels. The tattle of the table, it is sacred. Let us forget it; let us pass it over. The Lord may turn his heart. Who knows, who knows, Abidan!’