Guimard.[Hesitating.] St. Edward, my patron saint.
Biskra. Can he protect thee? Can he?
Guimard. No, he cannot! [Sitting up.] Yes, he can.
Biskra. Let us see then. [Opens the doors, the curtains flap and the grass whistles.]
Guimard.[Puts his hand before his mouth.] Close the door!
Biskra. Down with the idol!
Guimard. No, I cannot.
Biskra. See then. Simoon ruffles not a hair of my head, but thee, thou infidel, he kills. Down with the idol.
Guimard.[Throws the medallion on the floor.] Water, I am dying.
Biskra. Pray to the One, the Merciful, the Pitiful.