Well, well, no more of this,
DAYA.
I shall be silent;
But what of sinful in the eye of heaven
Springs out of it—not I, not I could help;
It falls upon thy head.
NATHAN.
So let it, Daya.
Where is she then? What stays her? Surely, surely,
You’re not amusing me—And does she know
That I’m arrived?
DAYA.
That you yourself must speak to,
Terror still vibrates in her every nerve.
Her fancy mingles fire with all she thinks of.
Asleep, her soul seems busy; but awake,
Absent: now less than brute, now more than angel.
NATHAN.
Poor thing! What are we mortals—
DAYA.