Not very long; my going was indeed Too much delayed. Troth, Conrade, this man’s fame Outstrips him not. His fame is but his shadow. But before all I have to tell you—
That he would speak with you, and that directly. First to my house, where I would give some orders, Then we’ll together to the sultan.
Nathan, I enter not thy doors again before—
Then you’ve been there this while—have spoken with her. How do you like my Recha?
Words cannot tell— Gaze on her once again—I never will— Never—no never: unless thou wilt promise That I for ever, ever, may behold her.
TEMPLAR (_falling suddenly upon his neck_).
Not son?—I pray thee, Nathan, Conjure thee by the strongest bonds of nature, Prefer not those of later date, the weaker.— Be it enough to thee to be a man! Push me not from thee!
Not son? Not son? Not even—even if Thy daughter’s gratitude had in her bosom Prepared the way for love—not even if Both wait thy nod alone to be but one?— You do not speak?
Do I surprise thee—thus surprise thee, Nathan, With thy own thought? Canst thou not in my mouth Know it again? Do I surprise you?
Ere I know, which of the Stauffens was your father?
What say you, Nathan?—And in such a moment Is curiosity your only feeling?
For see, once I myself well knew a Stauffen, Whose name was Conrade.
Well, and if my father Was bearer of that name?
Then thy father Was not my Conrade. He was, like thyself, A templar, never wedded.
And you are captious. Boots it then To be true-born? Does bastard wound thine ear? The race is not to be despised: but hold, Spare me my pedigree; I’ll spare thee thine. Not that I doubt thy genealogic tree. O, God forbid! You may attest it all As far as Abraham back; and backwarder I know it to my heart—I’ll swear to it also.
Knight, you grow bitter. Do I merit this? Have I refused you ought? I’ve but forborne To close with you at the first word—no more.
Whither? To thy house? No? there not—there not: ’tis a burning soil. Here I await thee, go. Am I again To see her, I shall see her times enough: If not I have already gazed too much.
Too much indeed— Strange that the human brain, so infinite Of comprehension, yet at times will fill Quite full, and all at once, of a mere trifle— No matter what it teems with. Patience! Patience! The soul soon calms again, th’ upboiling stuff Makes itself room and brings back light and order. Is this then the first time I love? Or was What by that name I knew before, not love— And this, this love alone that now I feel?