Druses. Let Djabal rise!
(Enter Loys.—The Druses are silent.)
Loys. Who speaks of Djabal?—for I seek him, friends!
[Aside.] Tu Dieu! 'T is as our Isle broke out in song
For joy, its Prefect-incubus drops off
To-day, and I succeed him in his rule!
But no—they cannot dream of their good fortune!
[Aloud.] Peace to you, Druses! I have tidings for you,
But first for Djabal: where 's your tall bewitcher,
With that small Arab thin-lipped silver-mouth?