DAYA. How could we? NATHAN. Not? DAYA. He came, he went, we know not whence, or whither. Quite unacquainted with the house, unguided But by his ear, he prest through smoke and flame, His mantle spread before him, to the room Whence pierced the shrieks for help; and we began To think him lost—and her; when, all at once, Bursting from flame and smoke, he stood before us, She in his arm upheld. Cold and unmoved By our loud warmth of thanks, he left his booty, Struggled into the crowd, and disappeared. NATHAN. But not for ever, Daya, I would hope. DAYA. For some days after, underneath you palms, That shade his grave who rose again from death, We saw him wandering up and down. I went, With transport went to thank him. I conjured, Intreated him to visit once again The dear sweet girl he saved, who longed to shed At her preserver’s feet the grateful tear— NATHAN. Well? DAYA. But in vain. Deaf to our warmest prayers, On me he flung such bitter mockery— NATHAN. That hence rebuffed— DAYA. Oh, no, oh, no, indeed not, Daily I forced myself upon him, daily Afresh encountered his dry taunting speeches. Much I have borne, and would have borne much more: But he of late forbears his lonely walk Under the scattered palms, which stand about Our holy sepulchre: nor have I learnt Where he now is. You seem astonished—thoughtful— NATHAN. I was imagining what strange impressions This conduct makes on such a mind as Recha’s. Disdained by one whom she must feel compelled To venerate and to esteem so highly. At once attracted and repelled—the combat Between her head and heart must yet endure, Regret, Resentment, in unusual struggle. Neither, perhaps, obtains the upper hand, And busy fancy, meddling in the fray, Weaves wild enthusiasms to her dazzled spirit, Now clothing Passion in the garb of Reason, And Reason now in Passion’s—do I err? This last is Recha’s fate—Romantic notions— DAYA. Aye; but such pious, lovely, sweet, illusions. NATHAN. Illusions though. DAYA.