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It was the first night of the new moon, and the white beams of the
young crescent were just beginning to steal over the lately flushed
and empurpled scene. The air was still glowing, and the evening breeze,
which sometimes wandered through the ravines from the gulf of Akabah,
had not yet arrived. Tancred, shrouded in his Bedouin cloak, and
accompanied by Baroni, visited the circle of black tents, which they
found almost empty, the whole band, with the exception of the scouts,
who are always on duty in an Arab encampment, being assembled in the
ruins of the amphitheatre, in whose arena, opposite to the pavilion of
the great Sheikh, a celebrated poet was reciting the visit of Antar to
the temple of the fire-worshippers, and the adventures of that greatest
of Arabian heroes among the effeminate and astonished courtiers of the
generous and magnificent Nushirvan.
The audience was not a scanty one, for this chosen detachment of the
children of Rechab had been two hundred strong, and the great majority
of them were now assembled; some seated as the ancient Idumaeans, on the
still entire seats of the amphitheatre; most squatted in groups upon the
ground, though at a respectful distance from the poet; others standing
amid the crumbling pile and leaning against the tall dark fragments just
beginning to be silvered by the moonbeam; but in all their countenances,
their quivering features, their flashing eyes, the mouth open with
absorbing suspense, were expressed a wild and vivid excitement, the heat
of sympathy, and a ravishing delight.
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