My own thought of the moment was not her guide.

The Moslem battle-cry had rung too often in my ears ever to be forgotten; but up to that moment I had never recalled to memory the words in which on my last field I retorted upon my Arab comrades, when flinching from a third charge against those terrible "sons of Eblis," whose stubborn courage had already twice hurled us back in confusion and disgrace with a hundred empty saddles.

At first her tone was one of simple amaze and horror.
It softened afterwards into wonder and perplexity, and the oft-repeated rebuke or curse was on its last recurrence spoken with more of pitying tenderness and regret than of severity:-- "What! those are human bosoms whereon the brute hath trod! What! through the storm of slaughter rings the appeal to God! Through the smoke and flash of battle a single form is shown; O'er clang and crash and rattle peals out one trumpet-tone-- 'Strike, for Allah and the Prophet! let Eblis take his own!' "Strange! the soul that, fresh from carnage, quailed not alone to face The unfathomed depths of Darkness, the solitudes of Space! Strange! the smile of scorn, while nerveless dropped the sword-arm from the sting, On the death that scowled at distance, on the closing murder-ring.
Strange! no crimson stain on conscience from the hand in gore imbrued! But Death haunts the death-dealer; blood taints the life of blood! "Strange! the arm that smote and spared not in the tempest of the strife, Quivers with pitying terror--clings, for a maiden's life! Strange! the heart steel-hard to death-shrieks by girlish tears subdued; The falcon's sheathless talons among the esve's brood! But Death haunts the death-dealer; blood taints the life of blood.
"The breast for woman's peril that dared the despot's ire, Shall dauntless front, and scathless, the closing curve of fire.
The heart, by household treason stung home, that can forgive, Shall brave a woman's hatred, a woman's wiles, and live.
"A woman's well-won fealty shall give the life he gave, Love shall redeem the loving, and Sacrifice shall save.
But--God heal the tortured spirit, God calm the maddened mood; For Death haunts the death-dealer; blood taints the life of blood!" Relaxing but not releasing her grasp of my own hand, she felt about with her left till Esmo gently placed his own therein.

Then, in a tone at first of deep and passionate anxiety and eagerness, passing into one of regretful admiration, and varying with the purport of each utterance, she broke into another chant, in which were repeated over and again phrases familiar in the traditions and prophetic or symbolic formularies of the Zinta:-- "Ever on deadliest peril shines the Star with steadiest ray; Ever quail the fiercest hunters when Kargynda turns at bay.
Close, Children of the Starlight! close, for the Emerald Throne! Close round the life that closeth your life within the zone! Rests the Golden Circle's glory, rests the silver gleam on her Who shall rein Kargynda's fury with a thread of gossamer.
He metes not mortal measure, He pays not human price, Who crowns that life's devotion with the death of sacrifice! Woe worth the moment's panic; woe worth the victory won! But the Night is near the breaking when the Stranger claims his own.
"Ever on deadliest peril shines the Star with steadiest ray; Ever quail the fiercest hunters when Kargynda turns at bay.
No life is worth the living that counts each fleeting breath; No eyes from God averted can meet the eyes of Death.
Vague fear and spectral terrors haunt the soul that dwells in shade, Nor e'er can crimson conscience confront the crimson blade.
From a cloud of shame and sorrow breaks the Light that shines afar, And cold and dark the household spark that lit the Silver Star.
The triumph is a death-march; the victor's voice a moan:--But the Powers of Night are broken when the Stranger wins his own! "Ever in blackest midnight shines the Star with brightest ray; Woe to them that hunt the theme if Kargynda cross the way! In the Home of Peace, Clavelta, can our fears thy spirit move?
Look down! whence comes the rescue to the household of thy love?
As the All-Commander's lightning falls the Vengeance from above! A shriek from thousand voices; a thunder crash; a groan; A thousand homes in mourning--a thousand deaths in one! Woe to the Sons of Darkness, for the Stranger wields his own! Oh, hide that scene of horror in the deepest shades of night! Look upward to the welkin, where the Vessel fades from sight ...
But the Veil is rent for ever by the Hand that veiled the Shrine; And, on a peace of ages, the Star of Peace shall shine!" Esmo listened with the anxious attention of one who believed that her every word had a real and literal meaning; and his face was overclouded with a calm but deep sadness, which testified to the nature of the impression made on his mind by language that hardly conveyed to my own more than a dim and general prediction of victory, won through scenes of trial and trouble.

But when she had closed, a quiet satisfaction in what seemed to be the final promise of triumph to the Star, at whatever cost to the noblest of its adherents, was all that I could trace in his countenance.
The sibyl fell back as the last word passed her lips, with a sigh of relief, into what was evidently a profound and insensible sleep.