DAYA.
I? no.
RECHA.
To me he will be ever dear, will ever
Remain more dear than my own life; altho’
My pulse no longer flutters at his name,
My heart no longer, when I think about him,
Beats stronger, swifter. What have I been prating?
Come, Daya, let us once more to the window
Which overlooks the palms.
DAYA.
So that ’tis not
Yet satisfied—the more impatient craving.
RECHA.
Now I shall see the palm-trees once again,
Not him alone amid them.
DAYA.
This cold fit
Is but the harbinger of other fevers.