Part 107 (1/2)

RECHA.

In truth I am.

DAJA.

Confess at least, dear Recha, That all this restlessness has brought you pleasure, And that you have to thank his want of ease For all the ease that you yourself enjoy.

RECHA.

I know not that, but I must still confess That to myself it seems a mystery How in this bosom, such a pleasing calm Can suddenly succeed so rude a storm.

His countenance, his speech, his manner have----

DAJA.

By this time satisfied you.

RECHA.

No, not that.

DAJA.

Well, satisfied your more impatient want.

RECHA.

Well, well, if you must have it so.

DAJA.

Not I!

RECHA.

To me he must be ever dear. To me He must remain more dear than life, although My pulse no longer flutters at his name, My heart no longer, when I think of him, Beats with a fuller throb. What have I said?

Come, Daja, to the window once again Which overlooks the palms.

DAJA.

I see 'tis not Yet satisfied, that more impatient want.

RECHA.

Now, I shall see the palm--trees once again; Not him alone amidst them.

DAJA.

Such a fit Of coldness speaks of fevers yet to come.

RECHA.