MARIA.
Rise, sir, forgiven. I, too, have been to blame,
Although less deeply than you deemed. Forbear
To bind your life. I feel myself unworthy
Of that high station where your thoughts enthrone me.
Yet I dare call myself your friend.
[Offering him her hand, which LORENZO presses to his lips.]
LORENZO.
Thanks, thanks!
Be blessed, and farewell.
[Exit.]
Enter RIBERA, calling.
RIBERA.
Daughter! Maria!
MARIA.
Why, father, I am here (kissing him). Good-day. What will you?
RIBERA.
Darling, no more than what I always will.
Before I enter mine own world removed,
I fain would greet the dearest work of God.
I missed you when I rose. I sought you first
In your own chamber, where the lattice, oped,
Let in the morning splendor and smells
Of the moist garden, with the sound of voices.
I looked, I found you here—but not alone.
What man was that went from you?
MARIA.
Your disciple,
My lord Lorenzo. You remember, father,
How yester-morn I pleaded for his work;
Thus he, through gratitude and—love, hath watched
All night within our garden, while I danced;
And when I came to nurse my flowers—he spake.
RIBERA.
And you?
MARIA.
Am I not still beside you, father?
I will not leave you.
RIBERA.
Ah, mine angel-child!
I cannot choose but dread it, though I wait
Expectant of the hour when you fulfil
Your woman's destiny. You have full freedom;
Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank thee
For thy brave truthfulness. Be ever thus,
Withholding naught from him whose heart reflects
Only thine image. Thou art still my pride,
Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way,
Thy bearing equal in disdainful grace
To his who courted thee—thy sovereign's son.
MARIA.
Yea, so? And yet it was not pride I felt,
Nor consciousness of self, nor vain delight
In the world's envy;—something more than these,
Far deeper, sweeter—What have I said? My brain
Is dull with sleep. 'T is only now I feel
The weariness of so much pleasure.