So they sang, and it was as though the fury of their anger would never end, as though the castle walls would never cease from echoing their interminable rage and the night never again know silence, when suddenly the chant stopped and the singers drew apart and formed themselves into a circle, every man holding his neighbours by the hand. Into the circle stepped three young Druzes with bare swords, and strode round the ring of eager boys that enclosed them. Before each in turn they stopped and shook their swords and cried:
"Are you a good man? Are you a true man?"
And each one answered with a shout:
"Ha! ha!"
The moonlight fell on the dark faces and glittered on the quivering blades, the thrill of martial ardour passed from hand to clasped hand, and earth cried to heaven: War! red war!
And then one of the three saw me standing in the circle, and strode up and raised his sword above his head, as though nation saluted nation.
"Lady!" he said, "the English and the Druze are one."
I said: "Thank God! we, too, are a fighting race."
Indeed, at that moment there seemed no finer thing than to go out and kill your enemy.