Yes, just this instant. Coming hitherward
We past a fallen temple of the Christians—
She all at once stood still, seemed inly struggling,
Turned her moist eyes to heaven, and then on me.
Come, says she finally, let us to the right
Thro’ this old fane—she leads the way, I follow.
My eyes with horror overran the dim
And tottering ruin—all at once she stops
By the sunk steps of a low Moorish altar.—
O how I felt, when there, with streaming tears
And wringing hands, prostrate before my feet
She fell
SITTAH.
Good child—
RECHA.
And by the holy Virgin,
Who there had hearkened many a prayer, and wrought
Many a wonder, she conjured, intreated,
With looks of heartfelt sympathy and love,
I would at length take pity of myself—
At least forgive, if she must now unfold
What claims her church had on me.
SITTAH.
Ah! I guessed it.
RECHA.
That I am sprung of Christian blood—baptised—
Not Nathan’s daughter—and he not my father.
God, God, he not my father! Sittah, Sittah,
See me once more low at thy feet.
SITTAH.