MARIA.
Secret!
May I not bid farewell? May I not tell him
Where we are bound? How soon he may have hope
To hear from me—to welcome me, thy Princess?
I dare not leave him without hope.
DON JOHN.
My child,
Thou art mad! We must be secret as the grave,
Else are we both undone. I have given out
That I depart in princely state to-morrow.
Far from the quay a bark awaiteth us.
I know my man. Shrouded by careful night,
We will set secret sail for Sicily.
Once in Palermo, thou mayst write thy father—
Sue for his pardon—tell him that, ere long,
When I have won by cautious policy
King Philip's favor, thou shalt be proclaimed
Princess of Austria.
MARIA (who has hung upon his words with trembling excitement,
covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears).
I cannot! no! I cannot!
DON JOHN (scornfully).
I feared as much. Well, it is better thus.
I asked thee not to front the "worst of ills
That envious fate could heap upon thy head"—
Only a little patience. 'T was too much;
I cannot blame thee. 'T is a loving father.
I, a mere stranger, had naught else to hope,
Matching my claim with his.
MARIA (looks at him and throws herself at his feet).
Oh, pardon, pardon!
My Lord, my Prince, my husband! I am thine!
Lead wheresoe'er thou wilt, I follow thee.
Tell me a life's devotion may efface
The weakness of a moment!
DON JOHN (raising her tenderly and embracing her).
Ah, mine own!
SCENE III.
Morning. The studio. Enter RIBERA.
RIBERA.
How laughingly the clear sun shines to-day
On storm-drenched green, and cool, far-glittering seas!
When she comes in to greet me, she will blush
For last night's terrors. How she crouched and shuddered
At the mere thought of the wild war without!
Poor, clinging women's souls, what need is theirs
Of our protecting love! Yet even on me
The shadow of the storm-cloud seemed to breed.
Through my vexed sleep I heard the thunder roll;
My dreams were ugly—Well, all that is past;
To-day my spirit is renewed. 'T is long
Since I have felt so fresh.
[He seats himself before his easel and takes up his brush and
palette, but holds them idly in his hand.]
Strange, she still sleeps!
The hour is past when she is wont to come
To bless me with the kiss of virgin love.
Mayhap 't was fever in her eyes last night
Gave them so wild a glance, so bright a lustre.
God! if she should be ill!
[He rises and calls.]
Luca!
Enter LUCA.
LUCA.
My lord?
RIBERA.
Go ask Fiametta if the mistress sleeps—
If she be ailing—why she has not come
This morn to greet me.
[Exit LUCA.]