Guimard. I was hunting in Bab-el-Oued! That is right. Was it a bran-colored one?
Biskra. A bitch! Yes, see now! And she bit thee in the calf. Dost thou not feel the wound smarting?
Guimard.[Feels himself on his calf and pricks himself with the aloe.] Yes, I feel it. Water! Water!
Biskra.[Hands him the bowl of sand.] Drink, drink!
Guimard. No, I cannot! Blessed Virgin, Mother of God! I am panic-stricken!
Biskra. Be not afraid! I will cure thee and drive out the devils with the power of my music. Listen.
Guimard.[Shrieks.] Ah! Ah! No music! I cannot bear it. And what good does it do me?
Biskra. Music tames the treacherous spirit of the serpent. Dost thou think it is not equal to a mad dog’s bite? [Singing with guitar.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon! Simoon!
Yousef.[Underground.] Simoon! Simoon!
Guimard. What is that you were singing? Ah!