NAPHTALI.
How fair she is ! Her hair has kept its gold
Untarnished still. I trace not either parent
In her face, clean cut as a gem.
BASUGH.
Her mother
Was far-off kin to me, and I might pass,
I 'm told, ungaessed in Christian garb. I know
A pretty secret of that scornful face.
It lures high game to Nordhausen.
NAPHTALI.
Baruch,
I marvel at your prompt credulity.
The Prince of Meissen and Liebhaid von Orb !
A jest for gossips and — Look, look, he comes !
BASUGH.
Who 's that, the Prince ?
NAPHTALI.
Nay, dullard, the old man,
The Rabbi of Chinon. Ah ! his stout staff.
And that brave creature's strong young hand suffice
Scarcely to keep erect his tottering frame.
Emaciate-lipped, with cavernous black eyes
Whose inward visions do eclipse the day,
