DAYA.
Ill! sure he is not.
RECHA.
A cold shudder
Creeps over me; O Daya, feel my forehead,
It was so warm, ’tis now as chill as ice.
NATHAN.
He is a Frank, unused to this hot climate,
Is young, and to the labours of his calling,
To fasting, watching, quite unused—
RECHA.
Ill—ill!
DAYA.
Thy father only means ’twere possible.