Chapter XIII: Act I: Scene I.--A Hall in Nathan's House

Nathan, _returning from a journey_; Daja, _meeting him_.

DAJA.

'Tis he! 'Tis Nathan! endless thanks to Heaven
That you at last are happily returned.

NATHAN.

Yes, Daja! thanks to Heaven! But why at _last_?
Was it my purpose--was it in my power
To come back sooner? Babylon from here,
As I was forced to take my devious way,
Is a long journey of two hundred leagues;
And gathering in one's debts is not--at best,
A task that expedites a traveller's steps.

DAJA.

O Nathan! what a dire calamity
Had, in your absence, nigh befallen us!
Your house----

NATHAN.

Took fire. I have already heard.
God grant I may have learnt the whole that chanced!

DAJA.

Chance saved it, or it had been burnt to ashes.

NATHAN.

Then, Daja! we had built another house,
And a far better----

DAJA.

True--ay, true! but Recha
Was on the point of perishing amid
The flames----

NATHAN.

Of perishing? Who saidst thou? Recha?
I had not heard of that. I should not then
Have needed any house. What! on the point
Of perishing? Nay, nay; perchance she's dead--
Is burnt alive. Speak, speak the dreadful truth.
Kill me, but do not agonize me thus.
Tell me at once she's dead.

DAJA.

And if she were
Could you expect to hear it from these lips?

NATHAN.

Why then alarm me? Recha! O my Recha!

DAJA.

Your Recha? Yours?

NATHAN.

And can it ever be
That I shall cease to call this child my own?

DAJA.

Is all you have yours by an equal title?

NATHAN.

Nought by a better. What I else enjoy
Are Fortune's gifts, or Nature's. This alone--
This treasure do I owe to virtue.

DAJA.

Nathan!
How dearly must I pay for all your goodness!
If goodness practised for an end like yours
Deserves the name.

NATHAN.

An end like mine! What mean you?

DAJA.

My conscience----

NATHAN.

Daja, let me tell you first----

DAJA.

I say my conscience----

NATHAN.

Oh, the gorgeous robe
That I have bought for you in Babylon!
Costly it is and rare. For Recha's self
I have not bought a richer.

DAJA.

What of that?
My conscience can be silent now no more.

NATHAN.

I long to witness your delight, to see
The bracelets, earrings, and the golden chain
Which I selected at Damascus for you.

DAJA.

'Tis always so, you surfeit me with gifts.

NATHAN.

Accept them freely, as they are bestowed,
And silence!

DAJA.

Silence! Yes. But who can doubt
That you are generosity itself?
And yet----

NATHAN.

I'm but a Jew! Daja, confess
That I have guessed your thought.

DAJA.

You know my thoughts
Far better.

NATHAN.

Well, be silent!

DAJA.

I am dumb.
And henceforth all the evil that may spring
From this, which I cannot avert, nor change,
Fall on your head.

NATHAN.

Let it all fall on me!
But where is Recha? What detains her thus?
Are you deceiving me? Can she have heard
That I am here?

DAJA.

Yourself must answer that.
Terror still palpitates through every nerve,
And fancy mingles fire with all her thoughts.
In sleep her soul's awake; but when awake,
Is wrapt in slumber. Less than mortal now,
And now far more than angel, she appears.

NATHAN.

Poor child! how frail a thing is human nature!

DAJA.

She lay this morning with her eyelids closed--
One would have thought her dead--when suddenly
She started from her couch, and cried, "Hark, hark!
Here come my father's camels, and I hear
His own sweet voice again!" With that, her eyes
Once more she opened, and her arms' support
Withdrawn, her head droop'd softly on her pillow.
Quickly I hastened forth, and now behold,
I find you here. But marvel not at this.
Has not her every thought been long engrossed
With dreams of you and him?

NATHAN.

Of him! What him?

DAJA.

Of him who from the flames preserved her life.

NATHAN.

And who was he? Where is he? Name the man
Who saved my Recha?

DAJA.

A young Templar he!
Brought hither captive lately, and restored
To freedom by the Sultan.

NATHAN.

How? A Templar?
A captive, too, and pardoned by the Sultan?
Could not my Recha's life have been preserved
By some less wondrous miracle? O God!

DAJA.

But for this stranger's help, who risked afresh
The life so unexpectedly restored,
Recha had surely perished.

NATHAN.

Where is he?
Where is this noble youth? Where is he, Daja?
Oh, lead me to his feet! But you already
Have surely lavished on him all the wealth
That I had left behind; have given him all--
And promised more, much more.

DAJA.

How could we, Nathan?

NATHAN.

Why not?

DAJA.

He came we know not whence, he went
We know not whither. To the house a stranger,
And guided by his ear alone, he rushed
With fearless daring through the smoke and flame,
His mantle spread before him, till he reached
The spot whence issued piercing screams for help.
We thought him lost; when, bursting through the fire,
He stood before us, bearing in his arms
Her almost lifeless form. Unmoved and cold,
Deaf to our cries of thanks, he left his prize,
Passed through the wondering crowd, and disappeared.

NATHAN.

But not for ever, Daja, I would hope.

DAJA.

For some days after, 'neath yon spreading palms,
Which wave above our blest Redeemer's grave,
We saw him pacing thoughtful to and fro.
With transport I approached to speak my thanks.
I pleaded, begged, entreated that for once,
Once only, he would see the grateful maid,
Who longed to shed at her preserver's feet
Her tears of gratitude.

NATHAN.

Well?

DAJA.

All in vain!

Deaf to my warmest prayers, he poured on me
Such bitter taunts----

NATHAN.

That you withdrew dismayed.

DAJA.

Far otherwise. I sought to meet him daily,
And daily heard his harsh insulting words.
Much have I borne, and would have borne still more;
But lately he has ceased his lonely walk
Beneath the spreading palms that shade the grave
Of Him who rose from death; and no man knows
Where he may now be found. You seem surprised.

NATHAN.

I was considering how such a scene
Must work upon a mind like Recha's. Scorned
By one whom she can never cease to prize;
Repelled by one who still attracts her to him.
Her head and heart at strife! And long, full long
The contest may endure, without the power
To say if anger or regret shall triumph.
Should neither prove the victor, Fancy then
May mingle in the fray, and turn her brain.
Then Passion will assume fair Reason's garb,
And Reason act like Passion. Fatal change!
Such, doubtless, if I know my Recha well,
Must be her fate; her mind is now unhinged.

DAJA.

But her illusions are so sweet and holy.

NATHAN.

But yet she raves!

DAJA.

The thought she clings to most,
Is that the Templar was no earthly form,
But her blest guardian angel, such as she
From childhood fancied hovering o'er her path;
Who from his veiling cloud, amid the fire
Rushed to her aid in her preserver's form.
You smile incredulous. Who knows the truth?
Permit her to indulge the fond deceit,
Which Christian, Jew, and Mussulman alike
Agree to own. The illusion is so sweet!

NATHAN.

I love it too. But go, good Daja! go,
See what she does--if I can speak with her.
This guardian angel, wilful and untamed,
I'll then seek out--and if he still is pleased
To sojourn here a while with us--or still
Is pleased to play the knight so boorishly,
I'll doubtless find him out and bring him here.

DAJA.

You are too daring, Nathan.

NATHAN.

Trust me, Daja!
If fond delusion yield to sweeter truth--
For human beings ever to their kind
Are dearer after all than angels are--
You will not censure me, when you perceive
Our lov'd enthusiast's mind again restored.

DAJA.

You are so good, and so discerning, Nathan!
But see, behold! Yes, here she comes herself.

Scene II.

Recha, Nathan, _and_ Daja.

RECHA.

And is it you! your very self, my father?
I thought you had but sent your voice before you,
Where are you lingering still? What mountains, streams,
Or deserts now divide us? Here we are
Once more together, face to face, and yet
You do not hasten to embrace your Recha!
Poor Recha! she was almost burnt alive!
Yet she escaped----But do not, do not shudder.
It were a dreadful death to die by fire!

NATHAN.

My child! my darling child!

RECHA.

Your journey lay
Across the Tigris, Jordan, and Euphrates,
And many other rivers. 'Till that fire
I trembled for your safety, but since then
Methinks it were a blessed, happy thing
To die by water. But you are not drowned,
Nor am I burnt alive. We will rejoice,
And thank our God, who bore you on the wings
Of unseen angels o'er the treacherous streams,
And bade my angel bear me visibly
On his white pinion through the raging flames.

NATHAN (_aside_).

On his white pinion! Ha! I see; she means
The broad white fluttering mantle of the Templar.

RECHA.

Yes, visibly he bore me through the flames,
O'ershadowed by his wings. Thus, face to face,
I have beheld an angel--my own angel.

NATHAN.

Recha were worthy of so blest a sight.
And would not see in him a fairer form
Than he would see in her.

RECHA (_smiling_).

Whom would you flatter--
The angel, dearest father, or yourself?

NATHAN.

And yet methinks, dear Recha, if a man--
Just such a man as Nature daily fashions--
Had rendered you this service, he had been
A very angel to you.

RECHA.

But he was
No angel of that stamp, but true and real.
And have I not full often heard you say
'Tis possible that angels may exist?
And how God still works miracles for those
Who love Him? And I love Him dearly, father.

NATHAN.

And He loves you; and 'tis for such as you
That He from all eternity has wrought
Such ceaseless wonders daily.

RECHA.

How I love
To hear you thus discourse!

NATHAN.

Well, though it sound
A thing but natural and common-place
That you should by a Templar have been saved,
Is it the less a miracle for that?
The greatest of all miracles seems this:
That real wonders, genuine miracles,
Can seem and grow so commonplace to us.
Without this universal miracle,
Those others would scarce strike a thinking man,
Awaking wonder but in children's minds,
Who love to stare at strange, unusual things,
And hunt for novelty.

DAJA.

Why will you thus
With airy subtleties perplex her mind,
Already overheated?

NATHAN.

Silence, Daja!
And was it then no miracle that Recha
Should be indebted for her life to one
Whom no small miracle preserved himself?
Who ever heard before, that Saladin
Pardoned a Templar? that a Templar asked it--
Hoped it--or for his ransom offered more
Than his own sword--belt, or at most his dagger?

RECHA.

That argues for me, father! All this proves
That my preserver was no Templar knight,
But only seemed so. If no captive Templar
Has e'er come hither but to meet his death,
And through Jerus'lem cannot wander free,
How could I find one, in the night, to save me?

NATHAN.

Ingenious, truly! Daja, you must speak.
Doubtless, you know still more about this knight;
For 'twas from you I learnt he was a prisoner.

DAJA.

'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.

Pride, rank pride!
The iron pot would with a silver tongs
Be lifted from the furnace, to believe
Itself a silver vase! Well! where's the harm?
And "where's the good?" I well may ask in turn.
Your phrase, "It brings you nearer to the first
Mysterious cause!" is nonsense--if 'tis not
Rank blasphemy:--it works a certain harm.
Attend to me. To him who saved your life,
Whether he be an angel or a man,
You both--and you especially--should pay
Substantial services in just return.
Is not this true? Now, what great services
Have you the power to render to an angel!
To sing his praise--to pour forth sighs and prayers--
Dissolve in transports of devotion o'er him--
Fast on his vigil, and distribute alms?
Mere nothings! for 'tis clear your neighbour gains
Far more than he by all this piety.
Not by your abstinence will he grow fat,
Nor by your alms will he be rendered rich;
Nor by your transports is his glory raised,
Nor by your faith in him his power increased.
Say, is not all this true? But to a man----

DAJA.

No doubt a man had furnished us with more
Occasions to be useful to himself;
God knows how willingly we had seized them!
But he who saved her life demanded nought;
He needed nothing--in himself complete
And self--sufficient--as the angels are;

RECHA.

And when at last he vanished----

NATHAN.

How was that?
Did he then vanish? 'Neath yon spreading palms
Has he not since been seen? Or have you sought
Elsewhere to find him?

DAJA.

No, in truth we've not.

NATHAN.

Not sought him, Daja? Cold enthusiasts!
See now the harm: suppose your angel stretched
Upon a bed of sickness!

DAJA.

Sickness, what!

RECHA.

A chill creeps over me. I shudder, Daja!
My forehead, which till now was warm, becomes
As cold as very ice; come, feel it, Daja.

NATHAN.

He is a Frank, unused to this hot clime,
Young and unpractised in his order's rules,
In fastings and in watchings quite untrained.

RECHA.

Sick! sick!

DAJA.

Your father means 'twere possible.

NATHAN.

Friendless and penniless, he may be lying
Without the means to purchase aid.

RECHA.

Alas!

NATHAN.

Without advice, or hope, or sympathy,
May lie a prey to agony and death.

RECHA.

Where, where?

NATHAN.

And yet for one he never knew--
Enough for him it was a human being--
He plunged amid the flames and----

DAJA.

Spare her, Nathan!

NATHAN.

He sought no more to know the being whom
He rescued thus--he shunned her very thanks----

RECHA.

Oh, spare her!

NATHAN.

Did not wish to see her more,
Unless to save her for the second time--
Enough for him that she was human!

DAJA.

Hold!

NATHAN.

He may have nothing to console him dying,
Save the remembrance of his deed.

DAJA.

You kill her!

NATHAN.

And you kill him, or might have done at least.
'Tis med'cine that I give, not poison, Recha!
But be of better cheer: he lives--perhaps
He is not ill.

RECHA.

Indeed? not dead--not ill?

NATHAN.

Assuredly not dead--for God rewards
Good deeds done here below--rewards them hero.
Then go, but ne'er forget how easier far
Devout enthusiasm is, than good deeds.
How soon our indolence contents itself
With pious raptures, ignorant, perhaps,
Of their ulterior end, that we may be
Exempted from the toil of doing good.

RECHA.

O father! leave your child no more alone.--
But may he not have only gone a journey?

NATHAN.

Perhaps. But who is yonder Mussulman,
Numbering with curious eye my laden camels?
Say, do you know him?

DAJA.

Surely your own Dervise.

NATHAN.

Who?

DAJA.

Your Dervise--your old chess companion.

NATHAN.

Al-Hafi do you mean? What!--that Al-Hafi?

DAJA.

No other: now the Sultan's treasurer.

NATHAN.

What, old Al-Hafi? Do you dream again?
And yet 'tis he himself--he's coming hither.
Quick, in with you! What am I now to hear?

Scene III.

Nathan _and the_ Dervise.

DERVISE.

Ay, lift your eyes and wonder.

NATHAN.

Is it you?
A Dervise so magnificent!

DERVISE.

Why not?
Can you make nothing of a Dervise, Nathan?

NATHAN.

Ay, surely, but I've still been wont to think
A Dervise--I would say a thorough Dervise--
Will ne'er let anything be made of him.

DERVISE.

Well, by the Prophet! though it may be true
That I'm no thorough Dervise, yet one must----

NATHAN.

_Must_, Hafi! You a Dervise! No man _must_----
And least of all a Dervise.

DERVISE.

Nay, he must,
When he is much implored and deems it right.

NATHAN.

Well spoken, Hafi! Let us now embrace.
You're still, I trust, my friend.

DERVISE.

Why not ask first
What has been made of me?

NATHAN.

I take my chance,
In spite of all that has been made of you.

DERVISE.

May I not be a servant of the state
Whose friendship is no longer good for you?

NATHAN.

If you but still possess your Dervise heart
I'll run the risk of that. The stately robe
Is but your cloak.

DERVISE.

And yet it claims some honour.
But, tell me truly, at a court of yours
What had been Hafi's rank?

NATHAN.

A Dervise only--
Or, if aught else--perhaps my cook.

DERVISE.

Why yes!
That I might thus unlearn my native trade,
Your cook! why not your butler? But the Sultan--
He knows me better--I'm his treasurer.

NATHAN.

What, you?--his treasurer?

DERVISE.

Mistake me not,
I only bear his lesser purse; his father
Still manages the greater, and I am
The treasurer of his house.

NATHAN.

His house is large!

DERVISE.

Far larger than you think--all needy men
Are of his house.

NATHAN.

Yet Saladin is such
A foe to beggars!

DERVISE.

That he'd root them out,
Though he turned beggar in the enterprise.

NATHAN.

Bravo! I meant as much.

DERVISE.

He's one already.
His treasury at sunset every day
Is worse than empty; and although the tide
Flowed high at morn, 'tis ebb before the noon.

NATHAN.

Because it flows through channels such as we
Can neither stop nor fill.

DERVISE.

You hit the truth.

NATHAN.

I know it well.

DERVISE.

Ah! 'tis an evil case
When kings are vultures amid carcases,
But ten times worse when they're the carcases
Amid the vultures.

NATHAN.

Dervise, 'tis not so.

DERVISE.

Is that your thought? But, come, what will you give
If I resign my office in your favour?

NATHAN.

What are your profits?

DERVISE.

Mine? not much; but you
Would soon grow rich; for when, as oft occurs,
The Sultan's treasury is at an ebb,
You might unlock your sluices, pour in gold,
And take in form of interest what you please.

NATHAN.

And interest on the interest of the interest.

DERVISE.

Of course.

NATHAN.

Until my capital becomes
All interest.

DERVISE.

Well! is not the offer tempting?
Farewell for ever to our friendship then,
For I had counted on you.

NATHAN.

How so, Hafi?

DERVISE.

I thought you would have helped me to discharge
My task with credit; that I should have found
Your treasury ready. Ha! you shake your head.

NATHAN.

Let us explain. We must distinguish here.
To you, Dervise Al-Hafi, all I have
Is welcome; but to you, the Defterdar
Of Saladin--to that Al-Hafi, who----

DERVISE.

I guessed as much. You ever are as good
As you are wise and prudent. Only wait.
The two Al-Hafis you distinguish thus
Will soon be parted. See, this robe of honour,
Which Saladin bestowed, before 'tis worn
To rags, and suited to a Dervise back,
Will in Jerusalem hang from a nail;
Whilst I, upon the Ganges' scorching strand,
Barefoot amid my teachers will be found.

NATHAN.

That's like yourself!

DERVISE.

Or playing chess with them.

NATHAN.

Your greatest bliss!

DERVISE.

What do you think seduced me?
Hopes of escaping future penury,
The pride of acting the rich man to beggars,
Would this have metamorphosed all at once
The richest beggar to a poor rich man?

NATHAN.

No.

DERVISE.

But I yielded to a sillier whim.
For the first time I felt myself allured
By Saladin's kind-hearted, flattering words.

NATHAN.

And what were they?

DERVISE.

He said a beggar's wants
Are known but to the poor alone; that they
Alone can tell how want should be relieved.
"Thy predecessor was too cold," he said,
"Too harsh, and when he gave, 'twas with a frown.
He searched each case too strictly, not content
To find out want, he would explore the cause,
And thus he measured out his niggard alms.
Not so wilt thou bestow, and Saladin
Will not appear so harshly kind in thee.
Thou art not like that choked-up conduit-pipe,
Whence in unequal streams the water flows,
Which it receives in pure and copious stores.
Al-Hafi thinks, Al-Hafi feels like me."
The fowler whistled, and at last the quail
Ran to his net. Cheated, and by a cheat?

NATHAN.

Hush, Dervise, hush!

DERVISE.

What! is it not a cheat
To grind mankind by hundred thousands thus!
Oppress them, plunder, butcher, and torment,
And singly play the philanthropic part?
Not cheating, to pretend to imitate
That heavenly bounty, which in even course
Descends alike on desert and on plain,
On good and bad, in sunshine and in shower,
And not possess the never empty hand
Of the Most High! Not cheating----

NATHAN.

Dervise, cease!

DERVISE.

Nay, let me speak of cheating of my own,
How now? Were it not cheating to seek out
The bright side of impostures such as these,
That under colour of this brighter side
I might take part in them? What say you now?

NATHAN.

Fly to your desert quickly. Amongst men
I fear you'll soon unlearn to be a man.

DERVISE.

I fear so too. Farewell!

NATHAN.

What, so abrupt?
Stay, stay, Al-Hafi! Has the desert wings?
It will not fly away. Here, stay, Al-Hafi!
He's gone; he's gone. I would that I had asked
About that Templar; he must know the man.

Scene IV.

Daja (_rushing in_), Nathan.

DAJA.

O Nathan, Nathan!

NATHAN.

Well! what now?

DAJA.

He's there.
He shows himself once more.

NATHAN.

Who, Daja--who?

DAJA.

He--he!

NATHAN.

Where cannot he be found? But _he_
You mean, is, I suppose, the only _He_.
That should not be, were he an angel's self.

DAJA.

Beneath the palms he wanders up and down,
And gathers dates.

NATHAN.

And eats them, I suppose,
Just as a Templar would.

DAJA.

You mock me, sir!
Her eager eye espied him long ago,
When scarcely seen amid the distant trees.
She watches him intently, and implores
That you will go to him without delay.
Then go, and from the window she will mark
Which way his paces tend. Go, go; make haste!

NATHAN.

What! thus, as I alighted from my camel?
Would that be seemly? But do you accost him;
Tell him of my return. I do not doubt
You'll find the honest man forbore our house
Because the host was absent. He'll accept
A father's invitation. Say I ask him,
I heartily request him.

DAJA.

All in vain!
In short, he will not visit any Jew.

NATHAN.

Then use your best endeavours to detain him,
Or, with unerring eye, observe his steps,
And mark him well. Go, I shall not be long.

(Nathan _enters the house_. Daja _retires_.)

Scene V.

_A Place of Palms. The_ Templar, _walking to and fro; a_ Friar, _following him at some distance, as if desirous of addressing him_.

TEMPLAR.

It cannot be for pastime that this man
Follows me thus. See how he eyes my hands!
Good brother--or, perhaps I should say, father!

FRIAR.

No, brother; a lay brother, at your service.

TEMPLAR.

Well, brother, then, if I had anything--
But truly I have nothing----

FRIAR.

Thanks the same!
God will reward your purpose thousandfold.
The will and not the deed perfects the giver.
Nor was I sent to follow you for alms.

TEMPLAR.

Sent?

FRIAR.

From the convent.

TEMPLAR.

Where I even now
Was hoping to partake a pilgrim's fare.

FRIAR.

'Tis meal--time now, the tables all are full;
But if it please you, we will turn together.

TEMPLAR.

No matter, though I have not tasted meat
For many days; these dates, you see, are ripe.

FRIAR.

Be sparing of that fruit, sir, for too much
Is hurtful, sours the blood, and makes one sad.

TEMPLAR.

And what if sadness suits me? Though, methinks,
'Twas not to give this warning that you came.

FRIAR.

Oh, no! my mission was to question you--
To feel your pulse a little.

TEMPLAR.

And you tell
This tale yourself?

FRIAR.

Why not?

TEMPLAR.

An artful soul! (_aside_).
And has the convent many more like you?

FRIAR.

I know not. Mere obedience is my duty.

TEMPLAR.

And you obey without much questioning.

FRIAR.

Could it be rightly termed obedience else?

TEMPLAR.

The simple mind is ever in the right.--(_aside_).
But will you not inform me who it is
That wishes to know more of me? Not you,
I dare be sworn.

FRIAR.

Would such a wish become
Or profit me?

TEMPLAR.

Whom would it then become
Or profit to be thus inquisitive?

FRIAR.

Perhaps the Patriarch--'twas he that sent.

TEMPLAR.

The Patriarch? and does he know my badge
So ill?--The red cross on the snow-white robe.

FRIAR.

Why? I know that.

TEMPLAR.

Well, brother, hear me out.
I am a Templar--and a prisoner now.
Made captive with some others at Tebnin,
Whose fortress we had almost ta'en by storm
Just as the truce expired. Our hopes had been
To threaten Sidon next. Of twenty knights
Made prisoners there together, I alone
Was pardoned by command of Saladin.
The Patriarch now knows what he requires,
And more than he requires.

FRIAR.

And yet no more
Than he had learned already. He would ask
Why you, of all the captives doomed to die,
Alone were spared?

TEMPLAR.

Can I myself tell that?
Already with bare neck I had knelt down
Upon my mantle, to await the stroke,
When Saladin with steadfast eye surveys me.
Nearer he draws--he makes a sign--they raise me--
I am unbound--I would express my thanks--
I mark the tear-drop glisten in his eye--
We both stand mute--he turns and leaves the spot--
I stay. And now, how all this hangs together,
The Patriarch must explain.

FRIAR.

The Patriarch thinks
That Heaven preserved you for some mighty deed.

TEMPLAR.

Some mighty deed? To rescue from the flames
A Jewish maid! To lead to Sinai's mount
Bands of inquiring pilgrims--and the like!

FRIAR.

The time may come for more important tasks:
Perhaps the Patriarch has already planned
Some mighty business for you.

TEMPLAR.

Think you so?
Has he already given you a hint?

FRIAR.

Yes--but my task is first to sift a little,
To see if you are one to undertake----

TEMPLAR.

Well--sift away? (We'll see how this man sifts).

FRIAR.

The better course will be to name at once
What is the Patriarch's desire.

TEMPLAR.

It is----?

FRIAR.

To make you bearer of a letter.

TEMPLAR.

Me?
I am no carrier. Is that the office
More meritorious than to save from death
A Jewish maid?

FRIAR.

So, truly, it would seem.
The Patriarch says that this little note
Involves the general weal of Christendom,
And that to bear it to its destined hand,
Safely, will merit a peculiar crown
From Heaven--and of that crown, the Patriarch
Says none can worthier be than you.

TEMPLAR.

Than I!

FRIAR.

You have your liberty--can look around;
You understand how cities may be stormed,
And how defended, says the Patriarch;
You know the strength and weakness of the towers,
And of the inner rampart lately reared
By Saladin, and you could point out all
To the Lord's champions fully.

TEMPLAR.

May I know
Exactly the contents of this same letter?

FRIAR.

Of that I am not quite informed myself.
'Tis to King Philip; and our Patriarch--
I often wonder how that holy man,
Whose every thought would seem absorbed by Heaven,
Can stoop to earthly things, and how his mind
Can be so deeply skilled in human lore----

TEMPLAR.

Well, then, your Patriarch----

FRIAR.

Exactly knows
From secret sources, how, and with what force,
And in what quarter, should the war break out,
The foe and Saladin will take the field.

TEMPLAR.

Knows he so much?

FRIAR.

Ay, truly! and he longs
To send the urgent tidings to King Philip,
That he may better calculate if now
The danger be so great, as to demand
At every hazard that he should renew
The truce so boldly broken by the Templars.

TEMPLAR.

The noble Patriarch! He seeks in me
No common herald, but the meanest spy.
Therefore, good brother, tell your Patriarch,
That I am not--as far as you can sift--
The man to suit his ends. I hold myself
A captive still. I know a Templar's duty:
Ready to die, not live to play the spy.

FRIAR.

I thought as much. Nor can I censure you
For your resolve. The best has still to come.
Our Patriarch has learnt the very fort,
Its name, its strength, its site on Lebanon,
Wherein those countless treasures are concealed,
Wherewith the Sultan's prudent father pays
His troops, and all the heavy costs of war.
He knows that Saladin, from time to time,
Visits this fortress, by some secret way,
With but a few attendants.

TEMPLAR.

Well! what then?

FRIAR.

'Twould be an easy task, methinks, to seize
The Sultan thus defenceless--and to end him.
You shudder, knight! Two monks who fear the Lord,
Are ready now to undertake the task,
And wait a leader.

TEMPLAR.

And the Patriarch
Has pitched on me to do this noble deed?

FRIAR.

He thinks King Philip might from Ptolemais
Give aid in the design.

TEMPLAR.

Has pitched on me!
On me!--Say, brother, have you never heard
The boundless debt I owe to Saladin?

FRIAR.

Truly I have.

TEMPLAR.

And yet----

FRIAR.

The Patriarch
Says that is very well; but yet your order,
And vows to God----

TEMPLAR.

Change nothing; they command
No villainy.

FRIAR.

No. But the Patriarch
Says what seems villainy to human eyes,
May not appear so in the sight of God.

TEMPLAR.

Brother, I owe my life to Saladin,
And his shall my hand take?

FRIAR.

Oh, no!--But yet
The Patriarch maintains that Saladin,
Who is the common foe of Christendom,
Can never have a claim to be your friend.

TEMPLAR.

My friend? forsooth! because I will not be
A thankless wretch to him!

FRIAR.

'Tis so!--But yet
The Patriarch thinks gratitude is not
Before the eyes of God or man, a debt,
Unless, for our own sakes, some benefit
Has been conferred; and, says the Patriarch,
It is affirmed the Sultan spared your life
Merely because your voice, your look, your air,
Awoke a recollection of his brother----

TEMPLAR.

He knows all this, and yet?----Ah, were it true!
And, Saladin, could Nature form in me
A single feature in thy brother's likeness,
With nothing in my soul to answer it?
Or what does correspond, shall I belie
To please a Patriarch? No, surely Nature
Could never lie so basely! Nor, kind God,
Couldst thou so contradict Thyself! Go, brother,
And do not rouse my anger.

FRIAR.

I withdraw
More gladly than I came. And, pardon me:
A monk's first duty, sir, is to obey.

Scene VI.--_The_ Templar _and_ Daja.

(_She has been watching him from afar and now approaches_.)

DAJA.

Methinks the monk left him in no good mood,
But, spite of that, I must my errand risk.

TEMPLAR.

This hits exactly. As the proverb goes,
Women and monks are ever Satan's tools,
And I to-day am subject to them both.

DAJA.

Whom do I see? Thank God, our noble knight.
Where have you been so long? Not ill, I hope?

TEMPLAR.

No.

DAJA.

In good health?

TEMPLAR.

Yes.

DAJA.

We have all been grieved
Lest something should have ailed you. Have you been
Upon a journey?

TEMPLAR.

Fairly guessed.

DAJA.

Since when
Have you returned to us?

TEMPLAR.

Since yesterday.

DAJA.

Our Recha's father, too, is just returned,
And now may Recha hope at last.

TEMPLAR.

For what?

DAJA.

For what she has so often asked in vain.
Her father pressingly invites you too.
He lately has arrived from Babylon
With twenty camels, bearing precious stones,
And stuffs and fragrant spices, which he sought
In India, Persia, Syria, and China.

TEMPLAR.

I am no merchant.

DAJA.

He is much esteemed
By all his nation--honoured as a prince--
And yet to hear how he is named by all
Nathan _the Wise_, and not _the Rich_, seems strange.
It often makes me wonder.

TEMPLAR.

But to them
It may be, _wise_ and rich--both mean the same.

DAJA.

It seems to me he should be called _the Good_,
So rich a store of goodness dwells in him.
Since he has learned the weighty debt he owes
For service done to Recha there is nought
He would withhold from you.

TEMPLAR.

Well?

DAJA.

Try him, sir!

TEMPLAR.

What then? A moment passes soon away.

DAJA.

I had not dwelt with him so many years
Were he less kind. I know a Christian's worth,
And it was never o'er my cradle sung
That I to Palestine should wend my way,
Following a husband's steps, to educate
A Jewish maid. My husband was a page,
A noble page, in Emperor Frederick's court----

TEMPLAR.

By birth a Swiss, who earned the sorry fame
Of drowning in one river with his lord.
Woman! how often have you told this tale?
When will you cease to persecute me thus?

DAJA.

To persecute you!

TEMPLAR.

Ay, to persecute!
Now mark me. I will never see you more,
Hear you, nor be reminded of a deed
Performed at random. When I think of it,
I wonder somewhat, though I ne'er repent.
But hear me still. Should such a fatal chance
Again occur, you have yourself to blame
If I proceed more calmly, question first.
And let what's burning, burn.

DAJA.

Great God forbid!

TEMPLAR.

And now I have a favour to implore.
Know me henceforth no more. Grant me this grace,
And save me from her father; for with me
A Jew's a Jew; a Swabian blunt am I.
The image of the maid is now erased
Out of my soul--if it was ever there.

DAJA.

But yours remains with her.

TEMPLAR.

Well, and what then?

DAJA.

Who knows? Men are not always what they seem.

TEMPLAR.

They're seldom better. (_Going_.)

DAJA.

Stay a little while.
What need of haste?

TEMPLAR.

Woman! forbear to make
These palm--trees odious: I have loved their shade.

DAJA.

Then go, thou German bear! Yet I must follow him.
(_She follow him at a distance_.)