MARIA.
It never beat less calmly at the sound
Of any voice till now. I laugh to think
This very morn I fancied it had met
Its master.
DON JOHN.
Ah!
MARIA.
Fear naught—a simple boy,
A pupil of my father's.
DON JOHN.
I was mad
To dream it could be otherwise. Forgive me;
I, a mere stranger in they life, am jealous
Of all thy present and thy past.
MARIA.
Listen, my lord;
You shall hear all. What hour, think you, he chose
To urge his cause? The same wherein I learned
Your Highness had commanded for to-night
Our presence. My winged thoughts were flying back
To Count Lodovico's; again I saw you,
My white rose at your lips, your grave eyes fixed
Most frankly, yet most reverently, on mine.
Again my heart sank as I heard the name,
The Prince of Austria; and while I mused,
He spake of love. Oh, I am much to blame!
My mood was soft;—although I promised naught,
I listened, yea, I listened. Good, my lord,
Do you not pity him?
DON JOHN.
Thanks, and thanks again,
For thy confession! Now no spot remains
On the unblemished mirror of my faith.
Since that dear night, I with one only thought
Have gained the sum of knowledge and opinions
Touching thine honored father, with such scraps
As the gross public voice could dole to me
Concerning thine own far-removed, white life.
Thou art, I learn, immured in close seclusion;
Thy father, be it with all reverence said,
Hedges with jealous barriers his treasure;
Whilst thou, most duteous, tenderest of daughters,
Breath'st but for him.
MARIA.
Dear father! Were it so,
'T were simple justice. Ah, if you knew him—
A proud, large, tameless heart. This is the cloister
Where he immures me—Naples' gayest revels;
The only bar wherewith he hedges me
Is his unbounded trust, that leaves me free.
Let us go in; the late night air is chill.
DON JOHN.
Yet one more dance?
MARIA.
You may command, my lord.
[Exeunt.]
Enter RIBERA.
RIBERA.
I lost them in the press. Ah, there they dance
Again together. I would lay my hands
In blessing on that darling, haughty head.
Like the Ribera's child, she bears her honors
As lightly as a flower. Yet there glows
Unwonted lustre in her starry eyes,
And richer beauty blushes on her cheek.
Enough. Now must I strive to fix that form
That haunts my brain—the blind, old Count Camillo,
The Prince's oracle. 'Midst the thick throng
My fancy singled him; white beard, white hair,
Sealed eyes, and brow lit by an inward light.
So will I paint mine Isaac blessing Esau,
While Jacob kneels before him—blind, betrayed
By his own flesh!
As RIBERA stands aside, lost in thought, enter DON JOHN and MARIA.