'Tis but report indeed, but it is said That Saladin gave freedom to the knight, Moved by the likeness which his features bore To a lost brother whom he dearly loved, Though since his disappearance twenty years Have now elapsed. He fell I know not where, And e'en his very name's a mystery. But the whole tale sounds so incredible, It may be mere invention, pure romance. NATHAN. And why incredible? Would you reject This story, Daja, as so oft is done, To fix on something more incredible, And credit that? Why should not Saladin, To whom his race are all so dear, have loved In early youth a brother now no more? Since when have features ceased to be alike? Is an impression lost because 'tis old? Will the same cause not work a like effect? What, then, is so incredible? My Daja, This can to you be no great miracle; Or does a wonder only claim belief When it proceeds from you? DAJA. You mock me, Nathan! NATHAN. Nay, 'tis the very tone you use yourself. And yet, dear Recha, your escape from death Remains no less a miracle Of Him who turns the proud resolves of kings To mockery, or guides them to their end By the most slender threads. RECHA. O father, father! My error is not wilful, if I err. NATHAN. No, I have ever found you glad to learn. See, then, a forehead vaulted thus or thus, A nose of such a shape, and brows that shade The eye with straighter or with sharper curve, A spot, a mole, a wrinkle, or a line-- A nothing--in an European's face, And you are saved in Asia from the flames! Is that no wonder, wonder-seeking folk? What need to summon angels to your aid? DAJA. But, Nathan, where's the harm,--if I may speak-- In thinking one was rescued by an angel Rather than by a man? Are we not brought Thus nearer to the first mysterious cause Of our life's preservation? NATHAN.