Exalt thyself, O Hakeem! save thou her!
Nuncio. And the accursed Republic will arrive
And find me in their toils—dead, very like,
Under their feet!
What way—not one way yet
To foil them? None? [Observing Djabal's face.]
What ails the Khalif? Ah,
That ghastly face! A way to foil them yet!
[To the Druses.] Look to your Khalif, Druses! Is that face
God Hakeem's? Where is triumph,—where is ... what