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.