Who is she? RECHA. Who? A Christian, who took care of all my childhood. You cannot think how little she allowed me To miss a mother—God reward her for it— But then she has so teased, so tortured me. SITTAH. And about what? Why, how, when? RECHA. The poor woman, I tell thee, is a Christian—and she must From love torment—is one of those enthusiasts Who think they only know the one true road To God. SITTAH. I comprehend thee. RECHA. And who feel Themselves in duty bound to point it out To every one who is not in this path, To lead, to drag them into it. And indeed They can’t do otherwise consistently; For if theirs really be the only road On which ’tis safe to travel—they cannot With comfort see their friends upon another Which leads to ruin, to eternal ruin: Else were it possible at the same instant To love and hate the same man. Nor is ’t this Which forces me to be aloud complainant. Her groans, her prayers, her warnings, and her threats, I willingly should have abided longer— Most willingly—they always called up thoughts Useful and good; and whom does it not flatter To be by whomsoever held so dear, So precious, that they cannot bear the thought Of parting with us at some time for ever? SITTAH. Most true. RECHA. But—but—at last this goes too far; I’ve nothing to oppose to it, neither patience, Neither reflection—nothing. SITTAH. How, to what? RECHA. To what she has just now, as she will have it, Discovered to me. SITTAH. How discovered to thee? RECHA. Yes, just this instant. Coming hitherward We past a fallen temple of the Christians— She all at once stood still, seemed inly struggling, Turned her moist eyes to heaven, and then on me. Come, says she finally, let us to the right Thro’ this old fane—she leads the way, I follow. My eyes with horror overran the dim And tottering ruin—all at once she stops By the sunk steps of a low Moorish altar.— O how I felt, when there, with streaming tears And wringing hands, prostrate before my feet She fell SITTAH. Good child— RECHA. And by the holy Virgin, Who there had hearkened many a prayer, and wrought Many a wonder, she conjured, intreated, With looks of heartfelt sympathy and love, I would at length take pity of myself— At least forgive, if she must now unfold What claims her church had on me.