NATHAN.
Ingenious! dextrous! Daya, come in aid.
It was from you I learnt he was a prisoner;
Doubtless you know still more about him, speak.
DAYA.
’Tis but report indeed, but it is said
That Saladin bestowed upon this youth
His gracious pardon for the strong resemblance
He bore a favourite brother—dead, I think
These twenty years—his name, I know it not—
He fell, I don’t know where—and all the story
Sounds so incredible, that very likely
The whole is mere invention, talk, romance.
NATHAN.
And why incredible? Would you reject
This story, tho’ indeed, it’s often done,
To fix on something more incredible,
And give that faith? Why should not Saladin,
Who loves so singularly all his kindred,
Have loved in early youth with warmer fondness
A brother now no more. Do we not see
Faces alike, and is an old impression
Therefore a lost one? Do resembling features
Not call up like emotions. Where’s th’ incredible?
Surely, sage Daya, this can be to thee
No miracle, or do thy wonders only
Demand—I should have said deserve belief?
DAYA.
You’re on the bite.
NATHAN.
Were you quite fair with me?
Yet even so, my Recha, thy escape
Remains a wonder, only possible
To Him, who of the proud pursuits of princes
Makes sport—or if not sport—at least delights
To head and manage them by slender threads.