MARIA (starting).
Annicca!
My thoughts are bounden to no master yet;
They fly from earth to heaven in a breath.
Now are they all of earth. Hast heard the tidings?
ANNICCA.
Yea—of the Prince's ball? We go together.
Braid in thy hair our mother's pearls, and wear
The amulet ingemmed with eastern stones;
'T will bring good fortune.
MARIA.
Tell me, ere we go,
What manner of man is John of Austria?
ANNICCA.
Scarce man at all—a madcap, charming boy;
Well-favored—you have seen him—exquisite
In courtly compliment, of simple manners;
You may not hear a merrier laugh than his
From any boatman on the bay; well-versed
In all such arts as most become his station;
Light in the dance as winged-foot Mercury,
Eloquent on the zither, and a master
Of rapier and—
MARIA.
A puppet could be made
To answer in all points your praise of him.
Hath he no substance as of a man?
ANNICCA.
Why, sister,
What may that be to us?
MARIA.
He is our Prince.
ANNICCA.
The promise of his youth is to outstrip
The hero of Lepanto; bright and bold
As fire, he is the very soul, the star
Of Spanish chivalry; his last achievement
Seems still the flower of his accomplishments.
Musician, soldier, courtier, yea, and artist.
"He had been a painter, were he not a prince,"
Says Messer Zurbaran. The Calderona,
His actress-mother, hath bequeathed to him
Her spirit with her beauty, and the power
To win and hold men's hearts.
MARIA.
I knew it, sister!
His eye hath a command in it; his brow
Seems garlanded with laurel.
ANNICCA.
What is this?
You kindle with his praise, your whole heart glows
In light and color on your face, your words
Take wing and fly as bold as reckless birds.
What! can so rash a thought, a dream so wild,
So hopeless an ambition, tempt your soul?