SALADIN.
What, our Nathan’s daughter?
What ails her?
SITTAH.
Child, come to thyself, the sultan.
RECHA.
No, I’ll not rise, not rise, not look upon
The Sultan’s countenance—I’ll not admire
The bright reflection of eternal justice
And mercy on his brow, and in his eye,
Before—
SALADIN.
Rise, rise.
RECHA.
Before he shall have promised—