"Morgiana!" again Iftikhar commanded. The song sank into wild moanings, dimmer, dimmer,—was gone. The strange singer now spoke, yet still in wild rhythm:—
"Wherefore, man, do you come to me, the blue-eyed maid of Yemen! See, the smoke-drug is strong; let me drink, drink, drink, and tread beyond the stars."
"Moon of the Arabs," spoke Iftikhar, softly, as though stepping delicately, "I heard your song; the power of the drug is upon you. I would have you speak before me and the Lord Kerbogha. Make known to us the way of the jinns. Reveal—is it written in the smoke that Barkyarok perish? that the Master of the Devoted be hailed Commander of the Faithful in Bagdad?"
The eye of the maiden was wandering, now on Zeyneb, now on Kerbogha—a long silence, then of a sudden:—
"My sight is dim; I see nothing; the smoke weaves no picture; I cannot see the sultan; my ears hear the question, my eyes are blind."
"Wait," whispered Iftikhar to Kerbogha, who, man of war that he was, felt the very air awe-laden.
Morgiana bent over the brazier, blew the smouldering leaves; again the smoke rose thickly. Twice she breathed it deep; when she raised her head, the fire glittered once more in her eyes.
"Behold! behold!" and she half started from the niche.
Iftikhar hung on each word. She continued, first slowly, then faster, faster, finally running in half song, half chant; arising the meantime with outstretched arms, shaking the flowing tresses as she swayed:—
"Again armies; tens of thousands, horseman and footman, in the armor of the Franks, the red cross of Issa upon their breasts; another host; Arab, Seljouk; tens of thousands; battle. Allah can number the slain, not man; death, death upon every wind!" She swayed still more wildly, as if mastered by the vapor.