Worshipful fiends, I have good store of gold,
Packed in my coffers, or loaned out to — Christians;
I give it you as free as night bestows
Her copious dews — my life shall seal the bond.
Have mercy on my race !
TETTENBORN.
No more, no more !
Go, bid your tribe make ready for their death
At sunset
RABBI JACOB.
Oh!
SÜSSKIND.
At set of sun to-day ?
Why, if you travelled to the nighest town,
Summoned to stand before a mortal Prince,
You would need longer grace to put in order
Household effects, to bid farewell to friends.
And make yourself right worthy. But our way
Is long, our journey difficult, our judge
Of awful majesty. Must we set forth,
Haste-flushed and unprepared? One brief day more,
And all my wealth is yours !
TETTENBORN.
We have heard enough.
Begone, and bear our message.
