The Spagnoletto.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.     DON JOHN of AUSTRIA.     JOSEF RIBERA, the Spagnoletto.     LORENZO, noble young Italian artist, pupil of Ribera.     DON TOMMASO MANZANO.     LUCA, servant to Ribera.     A GENTLEMAN.     FIRST LORD.     SECOND LORD.     MARIA-ROSA, daughter to Ribera.     ANNICCA, daughter to Ribera, and wife to Don Tommaso.     FIAMETTA, servant to Maria-Rosa.     ABBESS.     LAY-SISTER.     FIRST LADY.     SECOND LADY.     Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Servants.     SCENE - During the first four acts, in Naples; latter part of the fifth act, in Palermo.    Time, about 1655.     ACT. I.     SCENE I.         The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA at work before his canvas. MARIA seated some distance behind him; a piece of embroidery is in her hands, but she glances up from it incessantly toward her father with impatient movements.     MARIA.     Father!     (RIBERA, absorbed in his work, makes no reply; she puts by her embroidery, goes toward him and kisses him gently. He starts, looks up at her, and returns her caress).     RIBERA.     My child!     MARIA.         Already you forget,     Oh, heedless father!    Did you not promise me     To lay aside your brush to-day at noon,     And tell me the great secret?     RIBERA.         Ah, 't is true,     I am to blame.    But it is morning yet;     My child, wait still a little.     MARIA.          'T is morning yet!     Nay, it was noon one mortal hour ago.     All patience I have sat till you should turn     And beckon me.    The rosy angels breathe     Upon the canvas; I might sit till night,     And, if I spake not, you would never glance     From their celestial faces.    Dear my father,     Your brow is    moist, and yet your hands are ice;     Your very eyes are tired - pray, rest awhile.     The Spagnoletto need no longer toil     As in the streets of Rome for beggars' fare;     Now princes bide his pleasure.     RIBERA (throws aside his brush and palette).          Ah, Maria,     Thou speak'st in season.    Let me ne'er forget     Those days of degradation, when I starved     Before the gates of palaces.    The germs     Stirred then within me of the perfect fruits     Wherewith my hands have since enriched God's world.     Vengeance I vowed for every moment's sting -     Vengeance on wealth, rank, station, fortune, genius.     See, while I paint, all else escapes my sense,     Save this bright throng of phantasies that press     Upon my brain, each claiming from my hand     Its immortality.    But thou, my child,     Remind'st me of mine oath, my sacred pride,     The eternal hatred lodged within my breast.     Philip of Spain shall wait.    I will not deign     To add to-day the final touch of life     Unto this masterpiece.     MARIA.          So! that is well.     Put by the envious brush that separates     Father from daughter.    Now you are all mine own.     And now - your secret.     RIBERA.          Mine?    'T is none of mine;     'T is thine, Maria.    John of Austria     Desires our presence at his ball to-night.     MARIA.     Prince John?     RIBERA.          Ay, girl, Prince John.    I looked to see     A haughty joy dance sparkling in thine eyes     And burn upon thy cheek.    But what is this?     Timid and pale, thou droop'st thy head abashed     As a poor flower-girl whom a lord accosts.     MARIA.     Forgive me.    Sure, 't is you Don John desires     The prince of artists -     RIBERA.          Art!    Prate not of art!     Think'st thou I move an artist 'midst his guests?     As such I commune with a loftier race;     Angels and spirits are my ministers.     These do I part aside to grace his halls;     A Spanish gentleman - and so, his peer.     MARIA.     Father, I am not well; my head throbs fast,     Unwonted languor weighs upon my frame.     RIBERA.     Anger me not, Maria.    'T is my will,     Thou shalt obey.    Hell, what these women be!     No obstacle would daunt them in the quest     Of that which, freely given, they reject.     Hold!    Haply just occasion bids thee seem     Unlike thyself.    Speak fearlessly child;     Confide to me thy knowledge, thy surmise.     MARIA (hurriedly).     No, father, you were right.    I have no cause;     Punish me - nay, forgive, and I obey.     RIBERA.     There spake my child; kiss me and be forgiven.     Sometimes I doubt thou playest upon my love     Willfully, knowing me as soft as clay,     Whom the world knows of marble.    In such moods,     I see my spirit mirror's first, and then     From thy large eyes thy sainted mother's soul     Unclouded shine.     MARIA.          Can I be like to her?     I only knew her faded, white, and grave,     And so she still floats vaguely through my dreams,     With eyes like your own angels', and a brow     Worthy an aureole.     RIBERA.          An earthly crown,     My princess, might more fitly rest on thine.     Annicca hath her colors, blue-black hair,     And pale, brown flesh, and gray, untroubled eyes;     Yet thou more often bring'st her to mind,     For all the tawny gold of thy thick locks,     Thy rare white face, and brilliant Spanish orbs.     Thine is her lisping trick of voice, her laugh,     The blithest music still this side of heaven;     Thine her free, springing gait, though therewithal     A swaying, languid motion all thine own,     Recalls Valencia more than Italy.     Like and unlike thou art to her, as still     My memory loves to hold her, as she first     Beamed like the star of morning on my life.     Hot, faint, and footsore, I had paced since dawn     The sun-baked streets of Naples, seeking work,     Not alms, despite the beggar that I looked.     Now 't was nigh vespers, and my suit had met     With curt refusal, sharp rebuff, and gibes.     Praised be the saints! for every drop of gall     In that day's brimming cup, I have upheld     A poisoned beaker to another's lips.     Many a one hath the Ribera taught     To fare a vagabond through alien streets;     A god unrecognized 'midst churls and clowns,     With kindled soul aflame, and body faint     Or lack of bread.    Domenichino knows,     And Gessi, Guido, Annibal Caracci -     MARIA.     Dear father, calm yourself.    You had begun     To tell me how you saw my mother first.     RIBERA.     True, I forgot it not.    Why, I AM calm;     The old man now can well be grave and cold,     Or laugh at his own youth's indignities,     Past a long lifetime back.    'T was vespers' hour,     Or nigh it, when I reached her father's door.     Kind was his greeting, the first cordial words     I heard in Naples; but I took small heed     Of speech or toe, for all my sense was rapt     In wonder at the angel by his side     Who smiled upon me.    Large, clear eyes that held     The very soul of sunlight in their depths;     Low, pure, pale brow, with masses of black hair     Flung loosely back, and rippling unconfined     In shadowy magnificence below     The slim gold girdle o'er the snow-soft gown.     Vested and draped about her throat and waist and wrists,     A stately lily ere the dew of morn     Hath passed away - such was thy mother, child.     MARIA.     Would I were like her!    But what said she, father?     How did she plead for you?     RIBERA.          Ah, cunning child,     I see thy tricks; thou humorest my age,     Knowing how much I love to tell this tale,     Though thou hast heard it half a hundred times.     MARIA.     I find it sweet to hear as you to tell,     Believe me, father.     RIBERA.          'T was to pleasure her,     Signor Cortese gave me all I lacked     To prove my unfamed skill.    A savage pride,     Matched oddly with my rags, the haughtiness     Wherewith I claimed rather than begged my tools,     And my quaint aspect, oft she told me since,     Won at a glance her faith.    Before I left,     She guessed my need, and served me meat and wine     With    her own flower-white hands.    The parting grace     I craved was granted, that my work might be     The portrait of herself.    Thou knowest the rest.     MARIA.     Why did she leave us, father?    Oh, how oft     I yearn to see her face, to hear her voice,     Hushed in an endless silence!    Strange that she,     Whose rich love beggared our return, should bear     Such separation!    Though engirdled now     By heavenly hosts of saints and seraphim,     I cannot fancy it.    What! shall her child,     Whose lightest sigh reechoed in her heart,     Have need of her and cry to her in vain?     RIBERA.     Now, for God's sake, Maria, speak not thus;     Let me not see such tears upon thy cheek.     Not unto us it has been given to guess     The peace of disembodied souls like hers.     The vanishing glimpses that my fancies catch     Through heaven's half-opened gates, exalt even me,     Poor sinner that I am.    And what are these,     The painted shadows that make all my life     A glory, to the splendor of that light?     For thee, my child, has not my doting love     Sufficed, at least in part, to fill the breach     Of that tremendous void?    What dost thou lack?     What help, what counsel, what most dear caress?     What dost thou covet?    What least whim remains     Ungratified, because not yet expressed?     MARIA.     None, none, dear father!    Pardon me!    Thy love,     Generous and wise as tender, shames my power     To merit or repay.    Fie o my lips!     Look if they be not blistered.    Let them smooth     With contrite kisses the last frown away.     We must be young to-night - no wrinkles then!     Genius must show immortal as she is.     RIBERA.     Thou wilt unman me with thy pretty ways.     I had forgot the ball.    Yea, I grow old;     This scanty morning's work has wearied me.     Once I had thought it play to dream all day     Before my canvas and then dance till dawn,     And now must I give o'er and rest at noon.     [Rises.]         Enter LUCA, ushering in LORENZO, who carries a portfolio.     LUCA.     Signor Lorenzo.     [LORENZO ceremoniously salutes RIBERA and MARIA.    Exit LUCA.]     LORENZO.          Master, I bring my sketch.     [Opens his portfolio and hands a sketch to RIBERA.]     RIBERA.     Humph! the design is not so ill-conceived;     I note some progress; but your drawing's bad -     Yes, bad, sir.    Mark you how this leg hangs limp,     As though devoid of life; these hands seem clenched,     Not loosely clasped, as you intended them.     [He takes his pencil and makes a few strokes.     Thus should it stand - a single line will mend.     And here, what's this?    Why, 't is a sloven's work.     You dance too many nights away, young gallant.     You shirk close labor as do all your mates.     You think to win with service frivolous,     Snatched 'twixt your cups, or set between two kisses,     The favor of the mistress of the world.     LORENZO.     Your pardon, master, but you do me wrong.     Mayhap I lack the gift.    Alas, I fear it!     But not the patience, not the energy     Of earnest, indefatigable toil,     That help to make the artist.     RIBERA.          'S death!    He dares     Belie me, and deny the testimony     Of his own handiwork, whose every line     Betrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will,     A brain that's bred to idleness.    So be it!     Master Lorenzo tells the Spagnoletto     His own defects and qualities!    'T were best     He find another teacher competent     To guide so apt, so diligent a scholar.     MARIA.     Dear father, what hath given thee offence?     Cast but another glance upon the sketch;     Surely it hath some grace, some charm, some promise.     RIBERA.     Daughter, stand by!    I know these insolent slips     Of young nobility; they lack the stuff     That makes us artists.    What! to answer me!     When next I drop a hint as to his colors,     The lengthening or the shortening of a stroke,     He'll bandy words with me about his error,     To prove himself the master.     LORENZO.          If my defect     Be an hereditary grain i' the blood,     Even as you say, I must abide by it;     But if patrician habits more than birth     Beget such faults, then may I dare to hope.     Not mine, I knew, I felt, to clear new paths,     To win new kingdoms; yet were I content     With such achievement as a strenuous will,     A firm endeavor, unfaltering love,     And an unwearying spirit might attain.     Cast me not lightly back.    Banish me not     From this, my home of hope, of inspiration!     MARIA.     What, my ungentle father!    Will you hear,     And leave this worthy signor's suit unanswered?     RIBERA.     Well, he may bide.    Sir, I will speak with you     Anon upon this work.    I judged in haste.     Yea, it hath merit.    I am weary now;     To-morrow I shall be in fitter mood     To give you certain hints.     [LORENZO bows his thanks and advances to address MARIA.    RIBERA silences and dismisses him with a wave of the hand.    Exit LORENZO.]     RIBERA.          Should I o'ersleep     Mine hour, Maria, thou must awaken me;     But come what may, I will be fresh to-night,     To triumph in thy triumph.     [Exit RIBERA.]     MARIA (alone).          Could I have told,     Then when he bade me?    Nay, what is to tell?     He had flouted me for prizing at such height     Homage so slight from John of Austria, even.     A glance exchanged, a smile, a fallen flower     Dropped from my hair, and pressed against his lips.     The Prince! my father gloats upon that name.     Were he no more than gentleman, I think     I should be glad.    I cannot tell to-day     If I be sad or gay.    Now could I weep     Warm, longing tears; anon, a fire of joy     Leaps in my heart and dances through my veins.     Why should I nurse such idle thoughts?    Tonight     We are to meet again.    Will he remember? -     Nay, how should he forget?    His heart is young;     His eyes do mirror loyalty.    Oh, day!     Quicken thy dull, slow round of tedious hours!     God make me beautiful this happy night!     My father's sleeping saint rebukes my thought.     Strange he has left his work, against his wont,     Revealed before completed.    I will draw     The curtain.     [She stands irresolute before the picture with her hand on the curtain.]          Beautiful, oh, beautiful!     The far, bright, opened heavens - the dark earth,     Where the tranced pilgrim lies, with eyelids sealed,     His calm face flushed with comfortable sleep,     His weary limbs relaxed, his heavy head     Pillowed upon the stone.    Oh, blessed dream     That visits his rapt sense, of airy forms,     Mounting, descending on the shining ladder,     With messages of peace.    I will be true     Unto my lineage divine, and breathe     The passion of just pride that overfills     HIS soul inspired.         While she stands before the canvas, reenter, unperceived by her, LORENZO.     LORENZO.          Oh, celestial vision!     What brush may reproduce those magic tints,     Those lines ethereal? -     MARIA (turns suddenly).          Is it not marvellous,     Signor Lorenzo?    I would draw the curtain,     But, gazing, I forgot.          You are the first,     After the master and myself, to look     Upon this wonder.     LORENZO (with enthusiasm, looking for he first time at the picture).          Ah, what an answer this     For envious minds that would restrict his power     To writhing limbs and shrivelled flesh!    Repose,     Beauty, and large simplicity are here.     Yes, that is art!    Before such work I stand     And feel myself a dwarf.     MARIA.          There, you are wrong.     My father even, who knows his proper worth,     Before his best achievements I have seen     In like dejection; 't is the curse of genius.     Oft have I heard the master grace your name     With flattering addition.     LORENZO.          'T is your goodness,     And not the echo of his praise, that speaks.     My work was worthless - 't was your generous voice     Alone secured the master's second glance.     MARIA.     Nay, signor, frankly, he esteems your talent.     Because you are of well-assured means     And gentle birth, he will be rude to you.     Not without base is the deep grudge he owes     To riches and prosperity.     LORENZO.          Signora,     Why do I bear such harsh, injurious terms     As he affronts me with?    Why must I seem     In mine own eyes a craven?    Spiritless,     Dishonorably patient?    'T is not his fame,     His power, his gift, his venerable years     That bind me here his willing slave.    Maria,     'T is thou, 't is thou alone! 'T is that I love thee,     And exile hence is death!     [A pause.    He kneels at her feet.    She looks at him kindly but makes no reply.]          At thy dear feet     I lay my life with its most loyal service,     The subject of thy pleasure.     MARIA (tenderly).          You are too humble.     LORENZO.     Too humble!    Do you seek mine utter ruin,     With words whose very tone is a caress?     I say all.    I love you! - you have known it.     Why should I tell you?    Yet, to-day you seem     Other than you have been.    A milder light     Beams from your eyes - a gentler grace is throned     Upon your brow - your words fall soft as dew     To melt my fixed resolve.     MARIA.          You find me, signor,     In an unguarded mood.    I would be true     To you; and to myself; yet, know no answer.     Anon, I will be calm; pray you withdraw.     LORENZO.     Till when?    Remember what mad hopes and fears     Meantime will riot in my brain.     MARIA.          To-morrow -     Farewell, farewell.     LORENZO (kisses her hand).          Farewell.     [Exit.]     MARIA.          A faithful heart,     A name untainted, a fair home - yea, these     Are what I need.    Oh, lily soul in heaven,     Who wast on earth my mother, guide thy child!         While MARIA sits rapt in thought, enter from behind her, ANNICCA, who bends over her and kisses her brow.     ANNICCA.     What, sister! lost in dreams by daylight?    Fie!     Who is the monarch of thy thoughts?     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?     MARIA.     Pray you, what thought, what dream, and what ambition?     I knew not I had uttered any such.     ANNICCA.     Nor have you in your speech; your eyes now veiled,     Where the light leaped to hear me voice his fame,     Your blushes and your pallor have betrayed     That which should lie uncounted fathom deep -     The secret of a woman's foolish heart.     MARIA.     And there it lies, my sibyl sister, still!     Your plummet hath not reached it.    Yes, 't is love     Flaunts his triumphant colors in my cheek,     And quickens my lame speech - but not for him,     Not for the Prince - so may I vaunt his worth     With a free soul.     ANNICCA.          Say on.     MARIA.          A gentleman,     Favored of earth and heaven, true and loving,     Hath cast his heart at my imperial feet;     And if to-morrow find me as to-day,     I will e'en stoop and raise it to mine own.     ANNICCA.     Signor Vitruvio?     MARIA.          Not he, indeed!     Did not I say favored of earth and heaven?     That should mean other gifts than bags of gold,     Or a straight-featured mask.    Nor will it be     Any you name, though you should name him right.     Must it not lie - how many fathom deep -     The secret of a woman's foolish heart?     ANNICCA.     Kiss me, Maria.    You are still a child.     You cannot vex me, wilful as you be.     Your choice, I fear not, doubtless 't will prove wise,     Despite your wild wit, for your heart is pure,     And you will pause with sure deliberate judgment     Before you leave our father.     MARIA.          Does love steal     So gently o'er our soul?    What if he come     A cloud, a fire, a whirlwind, to o'erbear     The feeble barriers wherewith we oppose him,     And blind our eyes and wrest from us our reason?     Fear not, Annicca, for in no such guise     He visits my calm breast; but yet you speak     Somewhat too sagely.    Did such cautious wisdom     Guide your own fancy?     ANNICCA.          Jest no more, Maria.     Since I became a wife, is much made clear,     Which a brief year ago was dark and vague.     Tommaso loves me - we are happier     Then I had dreamed; yet matching now with then,     I see his love is not that large, rich passion     Our father bore us.     MARIA.          You regret your home?     ANNICCA.     No, no!    I have no wish and no regret.     I speak for you.    His is a sovereign soul,     And all his passions loom in huger shape     Than lesser men's.    He brooks no rivalry     With his own offspring, and toward me his love     Hath ebbed, I mark, to a more even flow,     While deeper, stronger, sets the powerful current     Toward you alone.    Consider this, Maria,     Nor wantonly discrown that sacred head     Of your young love to wreathe some curled boy's brow.     MARIA.     Think you his wish were that I should not wed?     ANNICCA.     Nay, that I say not, for his pride aspires     To see you nobly mated.     MARIA (after a pause).          Him will I wed     Whose name is ancient, fair, and honorable,     As the Ribera's is illustrious -     Him who no less than I will venerate     That white, divine old head.    In art his pupil,     In love his son; tender as I to watch,     And to delay the slow extinguishing     Of that great light.     ANNICCA.          There spake his darling child!     MARIA.     What is't o'clock?    If he should sleep too late -     He bade me rouse him -     ANNICCA.          Haste to seek him, then.     'T is hard on sunset, and he looks for thee     With his first waking motion.    Till to-night.     [Exeunt severally.]     SCENE II.         A hall in RIBERA'S house.    Enter LUCA and FIAMETTA.     FIAMETTA.     But did you see her?     LUCA.     Nay, I saw her sister, Donna Annicca.     FIAMETTA.     Tush, man! never name her beside my lady Maria-Rosa.    You have lost the richest feast in the world for hungry eyes.    Her gown of cloth o' silver clad her, as it were, with light; there twinkled about her waist a girdle stiff with stones - you would have said they breathed.    Mine own hands wreathed the dropping pearls in her hair, and pearls again were clasped around her throat.    But no, I might tell thee every ornament - her jeweled fan, her comb of pearls, her floating veil of gauze, and still the best of all would escape us.     LUCA.     Thou speakest more like her page than her handmaiden.     FIAMETTA.     Thou knowest not woman truly, for all thy wit.    I speak most like a woman when I weigh the worth of beauty and rich apparel.    Heigh-ho! I have felt the need of this.    Thou, good Luca, who might have been my father, canst understand me?    HE was poor as thou.    Why shouldst thou be his lackey, his slave?    My hand were as dainty as hers, if it could but be spared its daily labor.     LUCA.     Yes, poor child, I understand thee, and yet thou art wrong.    He is more slave to pride than I am to him.    I know him well, Fiametta, after so many years of service, and to-day I pity him more than I fear him.    Why, girl, my task is sport beside his toil!    If my limbs be weary, I sleep; but I have seen him sit before his canvas with straining eyes and the big beads standing on his brow.    When at last he gave o'er, and I have smoothed his pillow, and served and soothed him, what sleep could he snatch?    His brain is haunted with evil visions, whereof some be merely of his own imaginings, and others the phantoms of folk who are living or have lived, and who rouse his jealousy or mayhap his remorse, God only knows!    If that be genius - to be alive to pain at every pore, to be possessed of a devil that robs you of your sleep and grants no space between the hours of grinding toil - I thank the saints I am a simple man!     FIAMETTA.     I grant thee thou mayst be right concerning him; he hath indeed a strange, sour mien.    I shudder when he turns suddenly, as his wont is, and bends his evil eyes on me.    The holy father tells me such warnings come from God.    No matter how slight the service he asks of me, my flesh creeps and my limbs refuse to move, till I have whispered an Ave.    But what of Lady Maria-Rosa?    Both heaven and earth smile upon her.    To-night she wears a poor girl's dowry, a separate fortune, on her head, her neck, her hands, yes, on her little jeweled feet.    One tiny shoe of hers would make me free to wed my lad.     LUCA.     If he have but eyes, I warrant thee he finds jewels enough in thy bright face.    Tell me his name.     FIAMETTA.     Nay, that is my secret.     LUCA.     He must be a poor-souled lad if he will wait till thou hast earned a dowry.     FIAMETTA.     A poor-souled lad! my good Vicenzo - ah! but no matter; thou knowest him, Luca, my Lord Lorenzo's page.    There! - is he poor, or mean, or plain, or dull?    He claims no dowry, he - but I have my pride, as well as the great ones.     LUCA.     May the saints preserve thee from such as theirs!    I am heartily glad of thy good fortune.    I am not sure whether thou or Lady Marie-Rosa be the most favored.    Well, the end proves all.     [Exeunt.]         Enter on one side ANNICCA and DON TOMMASO, attired for the ball; on the other side, RIBERA.     RIBERA.     What do ye here, my children?    Haste away!     Maria waits you for the ball; folk say     'T will be the bravest show e'er seen in Naples.     I warrant you the Spagnoletto brings     The richest jewels - what say'st thou, my son?     DON TOMMASO.     I who have robbed you of one gem, need scarce     Re-word, sir, how I prize it.     RIBERA.          Why, 't is true.     Robbed me, thou sayst?    So hast thou.    She was mine -     The balanced beauty of her flesh and spirit,     That was my garland, and I was her all,     Till thou, a stranger, stole her heart's allegiance,     Suborned - Forgive me, I am old, a father,     Whose doting passions blind.    I am not jealous,     Believe me, sir.    When we Riberas give,     We give without retraction or reserve,     Were it our life-blood.    I rejoice with thee     That she is thine; nor am I quite bereft,     I have some treasure still.    I do repent     So heartily of my discourteous speech,     That I will crave your leave before I kiss     Your wife's soft palm.     ANNICCA (kissing him repeatedly).          Why, father, what is this?     Can Don Tommaso's wife so soon forget     She is the Spagnoletto's child?     RIBERA.          Enough.     I can bear praise, thou knowest, from all save thee     And my Maria.    My grave son, I fear,     Will mock these transports.    Pray go in with me.     No one of us but has this night a triumph.     Let us make ready.     [Exeunt.]     ACT II.     SCENE I.         Ball in the Palace of DON JOHN.    Dance.    DON JOHN and MARIA together. DON TOMMASO, ANNICCA.    LORDS and LADIES, dancing or promenading.     1st LORD.     Were it not better to withdraw awhile,     After our dance, unto the torch-lit gardens?     The air is fresh and sweet without.     1st LADY.          Nay, signor.     I like this heavy air, rich with warm odors,     The broad, clear light, the many-colored throng.     I might have breathed on mine own balcony     The evening breeze.     1st LORD.          Still at cross purposes.     When will you cease to flout me?     1st LADY.          When I prize     A lover's sigh more dear than mine own pleasure.     See, the Signora Julia passed again.     She is far too pale for so much white, I find.     Donna Aurora - ah, how beautiful!     That spreading ruff, sprinkled with seeds of gold,     Becomes her well.    Would you believe it, sir,     Folk say her face is twin to mine - what think you?     1st LORD.     For me, the huge earth holds but one such face.     You know it well.     1St LADY.          The hall is overfilled;     Go we without.     [They pass on.]     2d LADY.          Thrice he hath danced with her.     She is not one of us - her face is strange;     Colored and carven to meet most men's desire -     Is't not, my lord?    Certes, it loses naught     For lack of ornament.    Pray, ask her name,     If but for my sake.     2d LORD.          I have already asked.     She is the daughter to the Spagnoletto,     Maria-Rosa.     2d LADY.          Ah, I might have guessed.     The form and face are matched with the apparel,     As in a picture.    'T was the master's hand,     I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art,     Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearls     Within her odd, bright hair.     [They pass on.]     DON JOHN.         Now hope, now fear     Reigned lord of my wild dreams.    One name still sang     Like the repeated strain of some caged bird,     Its sweet, persistent music through my brain.     One vanishing face upon the empty air     Shone forth and faded night and day.    And you,     Did you not find me hasty, over-bold?     Nay, tell me all your thought.     MARIA.          You know, my lord,     I am no courtier, and belike my thought     Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.     DON JOHN.          Speak on, speak on!     Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing     Rebeck and mandoline.     MARIA.          Is it not strange?     I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed,     If only from the simple garb of black,     And golden collar, 'midst the motley hues     Of our gay nobles.    I know not what besides,     But this first won me.    Be not angered, sir;     But, as I looked, I never ranked you higher     Than simple gentleman.    I asked your name;     Then, when you Highness stooped to pick my flower,     My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor,     For it had fain discrowned you.     DON JOHN.          May God's angels     Reward such treason.    Say me those words again.     Let the rich blush born of that dear confession     Again dye cheek and brow, and fade and melt     Forever, even as then.     MARIA.     We are watched, my lord.     This is no place, no hour, for words like these.     DON JOHN.     When, where then, may we meet?     [They pass on.]     SCENE II.         The Palace Gardens.    Interrupted sounds of music and revelry come though the open windows of the ball-room, seen in the background.    RIBERA, pacing the stage, occasionally pausing to look in upon the dancers.     RIBERA.     This is revenge.    Is she not beautiful,     Ye gods?    The beggar's child matched with a prince!     Throb not so high, my heart, 'neath envious eyes     Fixed on thy triumph!    Now am I well repaid     For my slow, martyred years.    Was I not wrung     by keener tortures than my savage brush,     Though dipped in my heart's blood, might reproduce!     No twisted muscle, no contorted limb,     No agony of flesh, have I yet drawn,     That owed not its suggestion to some pang     Of my    pride crucified, my spirit racked,     My entrails gnawed by the blind worm of hate,     Engendered of oppression.    That is past,     But not forgotten; though to-night I please     To yield to gentler influence, to own     The strength of beauty and the power of joy,     And welcome gracious phantasies that throng     And hover over me in airy shapes.     The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-night     For mastery within me; ne'er before     Have I been more the Spagnoletto, fired     With noble wrath, with the consuming fever     And fierce delight of vengeance.          From this point     I see her clearly - the auroral face     A-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised;     Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan,     Whose wing-like movement stirs above her brow     The fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heaven     Around her breathed.    He leads her 'midst the throng.     So, they have gone; but I will follow them,     And watch them from afar.     [Exit.]         Enter from the opposite side DON JOHN and MARIA.     DON JOHN.          I dread to ask     What quivers on my lips.    My heart is free,     But thine?     MARIA.     My heart is free, my lord.     DON JOHN.          Thank God!     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.     MARIA.          See the impatient day     Wakes in the east.     DON JOHN.          One moment here, signora,     Breathe we the charm of this enchanted night.     Look where behind yon vines the slow moon sets,     Hidden from us, while every leaf hangs black,     Each tender stalk distinct, each curling edge     Against the silver sky.     MARIA (perceiving RIBERA).          What, father! here?     RIBERA.     Maria! - Ah, my Prince, I crave your pardon.     When thus I muse, 't is but my mind that lives;     Each outward sense is dead.    I saw you not,     I heard nor voice nor footstep.    Yonder lines     That streak the brightening sky east warn us away.     For all your grace to us, the Spagnoletto     Proffers his thanks to John of Austria.     My daughter, art thou ready?     DON JOHN.          I am bound,     Illustrious signor, rather unto you     And the signora, past all hope of payment.     When may I come to tender my poor homage     To the Sicilian master?     RIBERA.          My lord will jest.     Our house is too much honored when he deigns     O'erstep the threshold.    Let your royal pleasure     Alone decide the hour.     DON JOHN.          To-morrow, then.     Or I should say to-day, for dawn is nigh.     RIBERA.     And still we trespass.    Be it as you will;     We are your servants.     MARIA.         So, my lord, good-night.     [Exeunt MARIA and RIBERA.]     DON JOHN (alone).     Gods, what a haughty devil rules that man!     As though two equal princes interchanged     Imperial courtesies!    The Spagnoletto     Thanks John of Austria!    Louis of France     Might so salute may father.    By heaven, I know not     What patience or what reverence withheld     My enchafed spirit in bounds of courtesy.     Nay, it was she, mine angel, whose mere aspect     Is balm and blessing.    How her love-lit eyes     Burned through my soul!    How her soft hand's slight pressure     Tingled along my veins!    Oh, she is worthy     A heart' religion!    How shall I wear the hours     Ere I may seek her?    Lo, I stand and dream,     While my late guests await me.    Patience, patience!     [Exeunt.]     SCENE III.         Morning twilight in RIBERA'S Garden.    During this scene the day gradually breaks, and at the close the full light of morning illuminates the stage.    LORENZO.         AUBADE.     LORENZO (sings).         From thy poppied sleep awake;         From they golden dreams arise;         Earth and seas new colors take,         Love-light dawns in rosy skies,     Weird night's fantastic shadows are outworn;     Why tarriest thou, oh, sister to the morn?         Hearken, love! the matin choir         Of birds salutes thee, and with these         Blends the voice of my desire.         Unto no richer promises     Of deeper, dearer, holier love than mine,     Canst thou awaken from they dreams divine.         Lo, thine eastern windows flame,         Brightening with the brightened sky;         Rise, and with thy beauty shame         Morning's regal pageantry,     To thrill and bless as the reviving sun,     For my heart gropes in doubt, though night be gone.     (He speaks.)     Why should I fear?    Her soul is pledged to mine,     Albeit she still withheld the binding word.     How long hath been the night! but morn breathes hope.     "I fain were true to you and to myself" -     Did she say thus? or is my fevered brain     The fool of its desires?    The world swam;     The blood rang beating in mine ears and roared     Like rushing waters; yet, as through a dream,     I saw her dimly.    Surely on her lids     Shone the clear tears.    As there's a God in heaven,     She spake those words!    My lips retain the touch     Of those soft, snow-cold hands, neither refused     Nor proffered.    Such things ARE, nor can they be     Forgotten or foreknown.    Yes, she is mine.     But soft!    Her casement opes.    Oh, joy, 't is she!     Pale, in a cloud of white she stands and drinks     The morning sunlight.     MARIA (above at the window).          Ah, how sweet this air     Kisses my sleepless lids and burning temples.     I am not weary, though I found no rest.     My spirit leaps within me; a new glory     Blesses the dear, familiar scene - ripe orchard,     The same - yet oh, how different!    Even I thought     Soft music trembled on the listening air,     As though a harp were touched, blent with low song.     Sure, that was phantasy.    I will descend,     Visit my flowers, and see whereon the dew     Hangs heaviest, and what fairest bud hath bloomed     Since yester-eve.    Why should I court repose     And dull forgetfulness, while the large earth     Wakes no lesser joy than mine?     [Exit from above.]     LORENZO.          Oh, heart!     How may my breast contain thee, with thy burden     Of too much happiness?         Enter MARIA below; LORENZO springs forward to greet her; she shrinks back in a sort of terror.     LORENZO.          Good-day, sweet mistress.     May the blithe spirit of this auspicious morn     Become the genius of thy days to come,     Whereof be none less beautiful than this.     Why art thou silent?    Does not love inspire     Joyous expression, be it but a sigh,     A song, a smile, a broken word, a cry?     Thou hast not granted me the promised pledge     For which I hunger still.    I would confirm     With dear avowals, frequent seals of love,     That which, though sure, I yet can scarce believe.     MARIA.     Somewhat too sure, I think, my lord Lorenzo.     I scarce deemed possible that one so shy     But yester-morn should hold so high a mien,     Claiming what ne'er was given.     LORENZO.          Maria!     MARIA.          Sir,     You are a trifle bold to speak my name     Familiarly as no man, save my father     Or my own brother, dares.     LORENZO.          Ah, now I see     Your jest.    You will not seem so lightly won     Without a wooing?    You will feign disdain,     Only to make more sweet your rich concession?     Too late - I heard it all.    "A new light shines     On the familiar scene."    What may that be,     Save the strange splendor of the dawn of love?     Nay, darling, cease to jest, lest my poor heart,     Hanging 'twixt hell and heaven, in earnest break.     MARIA.     Here is no jest, sir, but a fatal error,     Crying for swift correction.    You surprise me     With rude impatience, ere I have found time     To con a gentle answer.    Pardon me     If any phrase or word or glance of mine     Hath bred or nourished in your heart a hope     That you might win my love.    It cannot be.     LORENZO.     A word, a glance!    Why, the whole frozen statue     Warmed into life.    Surely it was not you.     You must have bribed some angel with false prayers     To wear your semblance - nay, no angel served,     But devilish witchcraft -     MARIA.          Sir, enough, enough!     I hoped to find here peace and solitude.     These lacking, I retire.    Farewell.     [Going toward the house.]     LORENZO.          Signora,     I will not rob you of your own.    Farewell to you.     [Exit.]     MARIA.     Where have you flown, bright dreams?    Has that rude hand     Sufficed to dash to naught your frail creations?     Sad thoughts and humors black now fill my soul.     So his rough foot hath bruised the dewy grass,     And left it sere.    Why should his harsh words touch me?     The truth of yesterday is false to-day.     How could I know, dear God!    How might I guess     The bitter sweetness, the delicious pain!     A new heart fills my breast, as soft and weak     And melting as a tear, unto its lord;     But kindled with quick courage to endure,     If I need front for him, a world of foes.     If this be love, ah, what a hell is theirs     Who suffer without hope!    Even I, who hold     So many dear assurances, who hear     Still ringing in mine ears such sacred vows,     Am haunted with an unaccustomed doubt,     Not wonted to go hand-in-hand with joy.     A gloomy omen greets me with the morn;     I, who recoil from pain, must strike and wound.     What may this mean?    Help me, ye saints of heaven     And holy mother, for my strength is naught!         She falls on her knees and bursts into tears.    Reenter LORENZO.     LORENZO (aside).     Thank heaven, I came.    How have I wrung her soul!     A noble love, forsooth! A blind, brute passion,     That being denied, is swift transformed to hate     No whit more cruel.    (To Maria.)    Lady!     MARIA (rising hastily).          Signor Lorenzo!     Again what would you with me?     LORENZO.          No such suit     As late I proffered, but your gracious pardon.     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.     RIBERA (rising).          Well,     Go we within.    Yes, I am late to work;     We squander precious moments.    Thou, go rest,     And waken with fresh roses in they cheeks,     To greet our royal guest.     [Exeunt.]     ACT III.     SCENE I.         The studio of the Spagnoletto.    RIBERA before his canvas.    LUCA in attendance.     RIBERA (laying aside his brush).     So! I am weary.    Luca, what 's o'clock?     LUCA.     My lord, an hour past noon.     RIBERA.          So late already!     Well, one more morning of such delicate toil     Will make it ready for Madrid, and worthy     Not merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glance     Outvalues a king's gaze, my noble friend     Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.     Luca!     LUCA.          My lord.     RIBERA.          Hath the signora risen?     LUCA.     Fiametta passed a brief while since, and left     My lady sleeping.     RIBERA.          Good! she hath found rest;     Poor child, she sadly lacked it.    She had known     'Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion;     Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine;     Her soft brow burned my lips.    Could that boy read     The tokens of an overwearied spirit,     Strained past endurance, he had spared her still,     At any cost of silence.    What is such love     To mine, that would outrival Roman heroes -     Watch mine arm crisp and shrivel in quick flame,     Or set a lynx to gnaw my heart away,     To save her from a needle-prick of pain,     Ay, or to please her?    At their worth she rates     Her wooers - light as all-embracing air     Or universal sunshine.    Luca, go     And tell Fiametta - rather, bid the lass     Hither herself.     [Exit Luca.]          He comes to pay me homage,     As would his royal father, if he pleased     To visit Naples; yet she too shall see him.     She is part of all I think, of all I am;     She is myself, no less than yon bright dream     Fixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.         Enter FIAMETTA.     FIAMETTA.     My lord, you called me?     RIBERA.          When thy mistress wakes,     Array her richly, that she be prepared     To come before the Prince.     FIAMETTA.          Sir, she hath risen,     And only waits me with your lordship's leave,     To cross the street unto St. Francis' church.     RIBERA (musingly).     With such slight escort?    Nay, this troubles me.     Only the Strada's width?    The saints forbid     That I should thwart her holy exercise!     Myself will go.    I cannot.    Bid her muffle,     Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantle     About her face and head.     [At a sign from RIBERA, exit FIAMETTA.]          Yes, God will bless her.     What should I fear?    I will make sure her beauty     Is duly masked.     [He goes toward the casement.]          Ay, there she goes - the mantle,     Draped round the stately head, discloses naught     Save the live jewel of the eye.    Unless one guessed     From the majestic grace and proud proportions,     She might so pass through the high thoroughfares.     Ah, one thick curl escapes from its black prison.     Alone in Naples, wreathed with rays of gold,     Her crown of light betrays her.    So, she's safe!         Enter LUCA.     LUCA.     A noble gentleman of Spain awaits     The master's leave to enter.     RIBERA.         Show him in.     [Exit LUCA.    RIBERA draws the curtain before his picture of "Jacob's Dream."]     RIBERA.     A gentleman of Spain!    Perchance the Prince     Sends couriers to herald his approach,     Or craves a longer grace.         Enter LUCA, ushering in DON JOHN unattended, completely enveloped in a Spanish mantle, which he throws off, his face almost hidden by a cavalier's hat.    He uncovers his head on entering.    RIBERA, repressing a movement of surprise, hastens to greet him and kisses his hand.     RIBERA.          Welcome, my lord!     I am shamed to think my sovereign's son should wait,     Through a churl's ignorance, without my doors.     DON JOHN.     Dear master, blame him not.    I came attended     By one page only.    Here I blush to claim     Such honor as depends on outward pomp.     No royalty is here, save the crowned monarch     Of our Sicilian artists.    Be it mine     To press with reverent lips my master's hand.     RIBERA.     Your Highness is too gracious; if you glance     Round mine ill-furnished studio, my works     Shall best proclaim me and my poor deserts.     Luca, uplift you hangings.     DON JOHN (seating himself).          Sir, you may sit.     RIBERA (aside, seating himself slowly).     Curse his swollen arrogance!    Doth he imagine     I waited leave of him?     (Luca uncovers the picture).     DON JOHN.          Oh, wonderful!     You have bettered here your best.    Why, sir, he breathes!     Will not those locked lids ope? - that nerveless hand     Regain the iron strength of sinew mated     With such heroic frame?    You have conspired     With Nature to produce a man.    Behold,     I chatter foolish speech; for such a marvel     The fittest praise is silence.     [He rises and stands before the picture.]     RIBERA (after a pause).          I am glad     Your highness deigns approve.    Lose no more time,     Lest the poor details should repay you not.     Unto your royal home 't will follow you,     Companion, though unworthy, to the treasures     Of the Queen's gallery.     DON JOHN.          'T is another jewel     Set in my father's crown, and, in his name,     I thank you for it.     [RIBERA bows silently.    DON JOHN glances around the studio.]     DON JOHN.          There hangs a quaint, strong head,     Though merely sketched.    What a marked, cunning leer     Grins on the wide mouth! what a bestial glance!     RIBERA.     'T is but a slight hint for my larger work,     "Bacchus made drunk by Satyrs."     DON JOHN.          Where is that?     I ne'er have seen the painting.     RIBERA.          'T is not in oils,     But etched in aqua-fortis.    Luca, fetch down     Yonder portfolio.    I can show your Highness     The graven copy.     [LUCA brings forward a large portfolio.    RIBERA looks hastily over the engravings and draws one out which he shows to DON JOHN.]     DON JOHN.          Ah, most admirable!     I know not who is best portrayed - the god,     Plump, reeling, wreathed with vine, in whom abides     Something Olympian still, or the coarse Satyrs,     Thoroughly brutish.    Here I scarcely miss,     So masterly the grouping, so distinct     The bacchanalian spirit, your rich brush,     So vigorous in color.    Do you find     The pleasure in this treatment equals that     Of the oil painting?     RIBERA.          All is in my mood;     We have so many petty talents, clever     To mimic Nature's surface.    I name not     The servile copyists of the greater masters,     Or of th' archangels, Raphael and Michael;     But such as paint our cheap and daily marvels.     Sometimes I fear lest they degrade our art     To a nice craft for plodding artisans -     Mere realism, which they mistake for truth.     My soul rejects such limits.    The true artist     Gives Nature's best effects with far less means.     Plain black and white suffice him to express     A finer grace, a stronger energy     Than she attains with all the aid of color.     I argue thus and work with simple tools,     Like the Greek fathers of our art - the sculptors,     Who wrought in white alone their matchless types.     Then dazzled by the living bloom of earth,     Glowing with color, I return to that,     My earliest worship, and compose such work     As you see there.     [Pointing to the picture.]     DON JOHN.          Would it be overmuch,     In my brief stay in Naples, to beg of you     A portrait of myself in aqua-fortis?     'T would rob you, sir, of fewer golden hours     Than the full-colored canvas, and enrich     With a new treasure our royal gallery.     RIBERA.     You may command my hours and all that's mine.     DON JOHN (rising).     Thanks, generous master.    When may I return     For the first sitting?     RIBERA.          I am ready now -     To-day, to-morrow - when your Highness please.     DON JOHN.     'T would be abuse of goodness to accept     The present moment.    I will come to-morrow,     At the same hour, in some more fitting garb.     Your hand, sir, and farewell.    Salute for me,     I pray you, the signora.    May I not hope     To see and thank her for her grace to me,     In so adorning my poor feast?     RIBERA.          The debt is ours.     She may be here to-morrow - she is free,     She only, while I work, to come and go.     Pray, sir, allow her - she is never crossed.     I stoop to beg for her - she is the last     Who bides with me - I crave you pardon, sir;     What should this be to you?     DON JOHN.          'T is much to me,     Whose privilege has been in this rare hour,     Beneath the master to discern the man,     And thus add friendship unto admiration.     [He presses RIBERA'S hand and is about to pick up his mantle and hat.    LUCA springs forward, and, while he is throwing the cloak around the Princes's shoulders, enter hastily MARIA,    enveloped in her mantilla, as she went to church.]     MARIA.     Well, father, an I veiled and swathed to suit you,     To cross the Strada?     [She throws off her mantilla and appears all in white.    She goes to embrace her father, when she suddenly perceives the Prince, and stands speechless and blushing.]     RIBERA.          Child, his Royal Highness     Prince John of Austria.     DON JOHN.          Good-day, signora.     Already twice my gracious stars have smiled.     I saw you in the street.    You wore your mantle,     As the noon sun might wear a veil of cloud,     Covering, but not concealing.     MARIA.          I, sir, twice     Have unaware stood in your royal presence.     You are welcome to my father's home and mine.     I scarce need crave your pardon for my entrance;     Yourself must see how well assured I felt     My father was alone.     DON JOHN.          And so you hoped     To find him - shall I read your answer thus?     RIBERA.     Nay, press her not.    Your Highness does her wrong,     So harshly to construe her simpleness.     My daughter and myself are one, and both     Will own an equal pleasure if you bide.     DON JOHN (seating himself).     You chain me with kind words.     MARIA.          My father, sir,     Hath surely told you our delight and marvel     At the enchantments of your feast.    For me     The night was brief, rich, beautiful, and strange     As a bright dream.     DON JOHN.          I will gainsay you not.     A beauteous soul can shed her proper glory     On mean surroundings.    I have likewise dreamed,     Nor am I yet awake.    This morn hath been     A feast for mind and eye.    Yon shepherd-prince,     Whom angels visit in his sleep, shall crown     Your father's brow with a still fresher laurel,     And link in equal fame the Spanish artist     With the Lord's chosen prophet.     RIBERA.          That may be,     For in the form of that wayfarer     I drew myself.    So have I slept beneath     The naked heavens, pillowed by a stone,     With no more shelter than the wind-stirred branches,     While the thick dews of our Valencian nights     Drenched my rude weeds, and chilled through blood and bone.     Yet to me also were the heavens revealed,     And angels visited my dreams.     DON JOHN.          How strange     That you, dear masters, standing on the crown     Of a long life's continuous ascent,     Should backward glance unto such dark beginnings.     RIBERA.     Obscure are all beginnings.    Yet I muse     With pleasing pain on those fierce years of struggle.     They were to me my birthright; all the vigor,     The burning passion, the unflinching truth,     My later pencil gained, I gleaned from them.     I prized them.    I reclaimed their ragged freedom,     Rather than hold my seat, a liveried slave,     At the rich board of my Lord Cardinal.     A palace was a prison till I reared     Mine own.    But now my child's heart I would pierce     Sooner than see it bear the least of ills,     Such as I then endured.     DON JOHN.          Donna Maria     May smile, sir, at your threat; she is in a pleasance,     Where no rude breezes blow, no shadow falls     Darker than that of cool and fragrant leaves.     Yea, were it otherwise - had you not reaped     The fruit of your own works, she had not suffered.     Your children are Spain's children.     RIBERA.          Sir, that word     Is the most grateful you have spoken yet.     Why are thou silent, daughter?     MARIA (absently).          What should I say?     The Prince is kind.    I scarcely heard your words.     I listened to your voices, and I mused.     DON JOHN (rising).     I overstep your patience.     MARIA.          You will be gone?     What have I said?     RIBERA.          You are a child, Maria.     To-morrow I will wait your Highness.     DON JOHN.          Thanks.     To-morrow noon.    Farewell, signora.     [Exit DON JOHN.]     RIBERA.     What ails you, daughter?    You forget yourself.     Your tongue cleaves to your mouth.    You sit and muse,     A statue of white silence.    Twice to-day     You have deeply vexed me.    Go not thus again     Across the street with that light child, Fiametta.     Faith, you were closely muffled.    What was this -     This tell-tale auburn curl that rippled down     Over the black mantilla?    Were I harsh,     Suspicious, jealous, fearful, prone to wrath,     Or anything of all that I am not,     I should have deemed it no mere negligence,     But a bold token.     MARIA.          Father you make me quail.     Why do you threat me with such evil eyes?     Would they could read my heart!     RIBERA.          Elude me not.     Whom have you met beside the Prince this morn?     Who saw you pass?    Whom have you spoken with?     MARIA.     For God's sake, father, what strange thoughts are these?     With none, with none!    Beside the Prince, you say?     Why even him I saw not, as you know.     I hastened with veiled eyes cast on the ground,     Swathed in my mantle still, I told my beads,     And in like manner hasted home to you.     RIBERA.     Well, it may pass; but henceforth say thy matins     In thine own room.    I know what vague cloud     Obscures my sight and weighs upon my brain.     I am very weary. Luca, follow me.     [Exeunt RIBERA and LUCA.]     MARIA.     Poor father!    Dimly he perceives some trouble     Within the threatening air.    Thank heaven, I calmed him,     Yet I spake truth.    What could have roused so soon     His quick suspicion?    Did Fiametta see     The wary page slip in my hand the missive,     As we came forth again?    Nay, even so,     My father hath not spoken with her since.     Sure he knows naught; 't is but my foolish fear     Makes monsters out of shadows.    I may read     The priceless lines and grave them on my heart.     [She draws from her bosom a letter, reads it, and presses it to     her lips.]     He loves me, yes, he loves me!    Oh, my God,     This awful joy in mine own breast is love!     To-night he will await me in our garden.     Oh, for a word, a pressure of the hand!     I fly, my prince, at thy most dear behest!     [Exit.]     SCENE II.         A room in DON TOMMASO'S HOUSE.    DON TOMMASO and ANNICCA.     DON TOMMASO.     Truly, you wrong your sister; she is young,     Heedless, and wilful, that is all; a touch     Of the Ribera's spirit fired the lass.     Don John was but her weapon of revenge     Against the malice of our haughty matrons,     Who hurled this icy shafts of scorn from heights     Of dignity upon the artist's daughter.     ANNICCA.     I cannot think with you.    In her demeanor,     Her kindled cheek, her melting eye, was more     Than sly revenge or cautious policy.     If that was art, it overreached itself.     Ere the night ended, I had blushed to see     Slighting regards cast on my father's child,     And hear her name and his tossed lightly round.     DON TOMMASO.     Could you not read in such disparagement     The envy of small natures?     ANNICCA.          I had as lief     Maria were to dance the tarantella     Upon the quay at noonday, as to see her     Gazed at again with such insulting homage.     DON TOMMASO.     You are too strict; your baseless apprehensions     Wrong her far more than strangers' jests.     ANNICCA.          Not so;     My timely fears prevent a greater ill     And work no harm, since they shall be imparted     Only to him who hath the power to quell them,     Dissolving them to air - my father.     DON TOMMASO.          How!     You surely will not rouse his fatal wrath?     Annicca, listen: if your doubts were true,     He whose fierce love guards her with sleepless eyes,     More like the passion of some wild, dumb creature,     With prowling jealousy and deadly spring,     Forth leaping at the first approach of ill,     Than the calm tenderness of human fathers;     He surely had been keen to scent the danger.     I saw him at the ball - as is his wont,     He mingled not among the revellers,     But like her shadow played the spy on her.     ANNICCA.     A word would stir less deeply than you dread.     DON TOMMASO.     Ah, there you err; he knows no middle term.     At once he would accept as fact the worst     Of your imaginings; his rage would smite     All near him, and rebound upon himself;     For, as I learn, Don John brings royal orders     For the Queen's gallery; he would dismiss     The Prince as roughly as a begging artist.     Make no such breach just now betwixt the court     And our own kindred.     ANNICCA.          Be it so, Tommaso.     I will do naught in haste.     DON TOMMASO.          Watch thou and wait.     A slight reproof might now suffice the child,     Tame as a bird unto a gentle voice.     ANNICCA.     My mind misgives me; yet will I find patience.     SCENE III.         Night in RIBERA'S Garden. DON JOHN alone.     DON JOHN.     In any less than she, so swift a passion,     So unreserved, so reckless, had repelled.     In her 't is godlike.    Our mutual love     Was born full-grown, as we gazed each on each.     Nay, 't was not born, but like a thing eternal,     It WAS ere we had consciousness thereof;     No growth of slow development, but perfect     From the beginning, neither doomed to end.     Her garden breathes her own warm, southern beauty,     Glowing with dewy and voluptuous bloom.     Here I am happy - happy to dream and wait     In rich security of bliss.    I know     How brief an interval divides us now.     She hastes to meet me with no less impatience     Than mine to clasp her in my arms, to press     Heart unto heart, and see the love within     The unfathomable depths of her great eyes.     She comes.    Maria!         Enter MARIA, half timid, half joyous.     MARIA.          My lord! you have been waiting?     DON JOHN.     Darling, not long; 't was but my restless love     That drove me here before the promised hour.     So were I well content to wait through ages     Upon the threshold of a joy like this,     Knowing the gates of heaven might ope to me     At any moment.     MARIA.          Your love is less than mine,     For I have counted every tedious minute     Since our last meeting.     DON JOHN.          I had rather speak     Less than the truth to have you chide me thus;     Yet if you enter in the lists with me,     Faith match with faith, and loyal heart with heart,     I warrant you, the jealous god of love,     Who spies us from yon pomegranate bush,     Would crown me victor.     MARIA.          Why should we compete?     Who could decide betwixt two equal truths,     Two perfect faiths?     DON JOHN.          The worship of my life     Will be slight payment for your boundless trust.     Look we nor forth nor back, are we not happy?     Heaven smiles above our heads with all her stars.     The envious day forced us apart, the wing     Of obscure night protects and shelters us.     Now like a pure, night-blooming flower, puts forth     The perfect blossom of our love.    Oh, lean     Thy royal head upon my breast; assure me     That this unheard-of bliss is no fond dream.     Cling to me, darling, till thy love's dear burden     Take root about my heart-strings.     MARIA (after a pause).          Did you not hear     A sound, a cry?    Oh, God! was it my father?     DON JOHN.     Naught save the beating of our hearts I heard.     Be calm, my love; the very air is hushed.     Listen, the tinkle of the fountain yonder,     The sleepy stir of leaves, the querulous pipe     Of some far bird - no more.     MARIA.          I heard, I heard!     A rude voice called me.    Wherefore did it come     To snatch me from that dream of restful love?     Oh, Juan, you will save me, you will help, -     Tell me you will - I have lost all for you!     DON JOHN.     To-morrow you will laugh at fears like these.     You have lost naught - you have but won my love.     Lose not your faith in that - your shield and weapon.     MARIA.     I tremble still in every limb.    Good-night,     I must be gone.    To-morrow when you come,     Be wary with my father; he is fierce     In love and hatred.    Listen and look, my lord.     If one dared say to me but yester-morn     That I would meet at night a stranger youth     In mine own garden, talk with him of love,     And hint a thought against the Spagnoletto,     I had smitten with this bauble such a one.     [Pointing to a jewelled poniard in her belt.]     Kiss me, my Juan, once again.    Good-night.     [Exit MARIA.]     SCENE IV.         The studio.    RIBERA and ANNICCA.     ANNICCA.     Has he come often?     RIBERA.          Nay, I caught the trick     Of his fair face in some half-dozen sittings.     His is a bold and shapely head - it pleased me.     I like the lad; the work upon his portrait     Was pastime - 't is already nigh complete.     ANNICCA.     And has Maria sat here while you worked?     RIBERA (sharply).     Why not?    What would'st thou say?    Speak, fret me not     With ticklish fears.    Is she not by my side,     For work or rest?     ANNICCA.          Surely, I meant no harm.     Father, how quick you are!    I had but asked     If she, being here, had seen the work progress,     And found it his true counterpart.     RIBERA.          Annicca,     There is something in your thought you hold from me.     Have the lewd, prying eyes, the slanderous mind     Of public envy, spied herein some mischief?     What hast thou heard?    By heaven, if one foul word     Have darkened the fair fame of my white dove,     Naples shall rue it.    Let them not forget     The chapel of Saint Januarius!     ANNICCA (aside).     Tommaso judged aright. I dare not tell him.     Dear father, listen.    Pray, be calm.    Sit down;     Your own hot rage engenders in my mind     Thoughts, fears, suspicions.     RIBERA (seating himself).     I am foolish, hasty; but it makes me mad.     Listen to me.    Here sits the Prince before me;     We talk, we laugh.    We have discussed all themes,     From the great Angelo's divinity,     Down to the pest of flies that fret us here     At the day's hottest.    Sometimes he will pace     The studio - such young blood is seldom still.     He brought me once his mandoline, and drew     Eloquent music thence.    I study thus     The changeful play of soul.    I catch the spirit     Behind the veil, and burn it on the plate.     Maria comes and goes - will sit awhile     Over her broidery, then will haste away     And serve us with a dish of golden fruit.     That is for me; she knows the sweet, cool juice,     After long hours of work, refreshes me     More than strong wine.    She meets his Royal Highness     As the Ribera's child should meet a Prince -     Nor over bold, nor timid; one would think     Their rank was equal, and that neither sprang     From less than royal lineage.     ANNICCA.          Why, I know it.     Here is no need to excuse or justify.     Speak rather of your work - is the plate finished?     RIBERA.     So nigh, that were Don John to leave to-morrow,     It might go with him.     ANNICCA.          What! he leaves Naples?     RIBERA.     Yea, but I know not when; he seems to wait     Momently, orders from his Majesty     To travel onward.     ANNICCA (aside).          Would he were well away!     RIBERA.     What do you mutter?    I grow deaf this side.     ANNICCA.     I spake not, father.    I regret with you     The Prince should leave us; you have more enjoyed     His young companionship than any strangers     These many years.     RIBERA.          Well, well, enough of him.     He hath a winning air - so far, so good.     I know not that I place more trust in him     Than in another.    'T is a lying world;     I am too old now to be duped or dazzled     By fair externals.         Enter MARIA, carrying a kirtle full of flowers.     MARIA.          Father, see! my roses     Have blossomed over night; I bring you some     To prank your study.    Sister, Don Tommaso     Seeks you below.     ANNICCA (rising).          I will go to meet him.    Father,     Until to-morrow.     [Embraces MARIA and exits.    MARIA sits by her father's side and displays her flowers.]     RIBERA.          Truly, a gorgeous show!     Pink, yellow, crimson, white - which is the fairest?     Those with the deepest blush should best become you -     Nay, they accord not with your hair's red gold;     The white ones suit you best - pale, innocent,     So flowers too can lie!    Is not that strange?     [MARIA looks at him in mingled wonder and affright.    He roughly brushes aside all the flowers upon the floors, than picks one up and carefully plucks it to pieces.]     I think not highly of your flowers, girl;     I have plucked this leaf; it has no heart.     See there!     [He laughs contemptuously.]     MARIA.          What have I done?    Alas! what mean you?     Have you then lost your reason?     RIBERA.          Nay, but found it.     I, who was dull of wit, am keen at last.     "Don John is comely," and "Don John is kind;"     "A wonderful musician is Don John,"     "A princely artist" - and then , meek of mien,     You enter in his presence, modest, simple.     And who beneath that kitten grace had spied     The claws of mischief?    Who!    Why, all the world,     Save the fond, wrinkled, hoary fool, thy father.     Out, girl, for shame!    He will be here anon;     Hence to your room - he shall not find you here.     Thank God, thank God! no evil hath been wrought     That may not be repaired.    I have sat by     At all your meetings.    You shall have no more;     Myself will look to that.    Away, away!     [Exit Maria.]     RIBERA (looks after her).     As one who has received a deadly hurt,     She walks.    What if my doubts be false?    The terror     Of an unlooked-for blow, a treacherous thrust     When least expected - that is all she showed.     On a false charge, myself had acted thus.     She had been moved far otherwise if guilty;     She had wept, protested, begged - she had not left     With such a proud and speechless show of grief.     I was too harsh, too quick on slight suspicion.     What did Annicca say?    Why, she said naught.     'T was her grave air, her sudden reticence,     Her ill-assumed indifference.    They play on me;     They know me not.    They dread my violent passions,     Not guessing what a firm and constant bridle     I hold them with.    On just cause to be angered,     Is merely human.    Yet they sound my temper;     They try to lead me like some half-tamed beast,     That must be coaxed.    Well, I may laugh thereat.     But I am not myself to-day; strange pains     Shoot through my head and limbs and vex my spirit.     Oh, I have wronged my child!    Return, Maria!     [Exit, calling.]     ACT IV.     SCENE I.         Night. RIBERA'S bedroom.    RIBERA discovered in his dressing-gown, seated reading beside a table, with a light upon it. Enter from an open door at the back of the stage, MARIA. She stands irresolute for a moment on the threshold behind her father, watching him, passes her hand rapidly over her brow and eyes, and then knocks.     MARIA.     May I come in, dear father?     RIBERA (putting down his book and looking at her affectionately).          Child, you ask?     MARIA (advancing).     You study late.    I came to bid good-night.     RIBERA.     Poor child, thou must be weary.    Thou art pale     Still from thy swoon.     MARIA (with a forced laugh).          I had forgotten it.     Nay, I am well again.     RIBERA.          But I forget it not,     Neither forgive myself.    Well, it is past,     Enough!    When the Prince left I sent for thee;     Thou wast still sleeping?     MARIA (with confusion).          Yes, I was outworn.     What didst thou wish of me?     RIBERA.          Merely to tell thee     Don John leaves Naples.    He expressed regret     Most courteously that thou wast suffering.     He had fain ordered us his parting thanks     For our kind welcome - so he deigned to say.     To-morrow he may steal a moment's grace     To see us both once more; but this is doubtful,     So he entrusted his farewells to me.     MARIA.     May peace go with him.     RIBERA.          We are alone -     Are we not, darling?    Thanks for the calm content     Wherewith thou biddest him farewell, to nestle     Once more in mine embrace.    Not long, I feel,     May these old horny eyes be blest with sight     Of thy full-flowering grace, these wrinkled lips     Be pressed against thy brow.    I am no more     What I have been; at times both hand and brain     Refuse their task.    Myself will follow soon -     The better part of me already dead.     So the worm claims us by slow torture, child.     Thou'lt bear with me, if as to-day I wrong     Thy gentle spirit?     MARIA.          Father, no more, no more!     You break my heart.     RIBERA.          Mine angel-child, weep not     So bitterly.    I thought not thus to move thee.     Still thou art overwrought.    I would have asked     At last a promise of thee.    I am selfish,     But I would sleep less startingly o'nights,     And bear a calmer soul by day, were I secure     That thou wilt bide with me until the end.     [A pause.]     To-night I will not press thee.    Thou art weary;     Thy nerves have scarce regained their tension yet;     But from thy deep emotion I can see     'T will cost thee less than I have feared.    To-morrow     We will talk of this again.     MARIA.          To-morrow!     RIBERA.          Now,     Good-night.    'T is time thou shouldst be sleeping.     MARIA.          Father,     I cannot leave thee!    Every word of thine     Gnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart.     What! thou shalt suffer, and thine own Maria     Will leave thee daughterless, uncomforted?     What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mine     Shall see the Spagnoletto's spirit broken?     RIBERA.     There, there, poor child!    Look up, cling not so wildly     About my neck.    Thou art too finely touched,     If thus the faint foreshadow of a grief     Can overcome thee.    Listen?    What was that?     MARIA (starts up, shudders violently, and, all at once, masters her emotion).     Why, I heard nothing, father.     RIBERA.          Yes, a sound     Of footsteps, and a stifled call.     [He goes toward the casement.    MARIA tries to detain him.]     MARIA.          Dear father,     Surely 't was naught.    Your ears deceive you.     The wind is rising, and you heard the leaves     Rustling together.     RIBERA.          Nay, I will look forth.     [He opens the casement and looks out in silence.    MARIA stands behind him, with her hands clasped in an agony of fear.]     RIBERA (calling).     Hist, answer!    Who goes there? (a pause.)    No sound.    Thou'rt right,     Maria; I see naught; our garden lies     Vacant and still, save for the swaying branches     Of bush and tree.    'T is a wild, threatening night.     A sultry breeze is blowing, and the sky     Hangs black above Vesuvius.    Yonder cloud     Hath lightnings in it.    Ah, a blinding bolt     Dims the volcano's pillared fire.    Enough.     [He closes the casement and returns to MARIA.]     Hark, how the thunder rolls!    My child, you tremble     Like the blown leaves without.     MARIA.          I am oppressed     By the same stormy influence.    Thou knowest     I dread the thunder.     RIBERA.          Thou, who art safely housed,     Why shouldst thou dread it?    Try to sleep, my darling;     Forget the terror of the tempest; morn     Will break again in sunshine.     MARIA.          Father, say     You love me and you trust me once again,     Before I bid good-night.     RIBERA.          If it will calm thee,     I love thee and I trust thee.    Thou art to me     My genius - thou, the breathing image still     Of thy saint-mother, whom the angels guard.     Even as thou standest now, vested in white,     With glowing eyes and pale, unsmiling face,     I see her as she stood the day her heart     Went forth from home and kin to bless the stranger     Who craved her father's alms.     MARIA.          Thanks, thanks.    Good-night.     God bless us through these wild, dark hours.     RIBERA.          Good-night.     SCENE II.         RIBERA'S garden.    Half the sky illuminated by an over-clouded moon, the rest obscured by an approaching storm.    Occasional thunder and lightning.    On on side of the stage a summer-house open to the audience, on the other side the exterior of the dwelling.    DON JOHN discovered waiting near the house.    The door opens, and enter MARIA.     DON JOHN (springing forward and embracing her).     At last! at last!     MARIA.          Juan, beware!    My father's fears,     I cannot guess by whom or what, are roused.     [She extends her arms gropingly to embrace him.]     Oh, let me feel thee near me - I see naught.     Follow me; here our voices may be heard.     [She hastens towards the summer-house, leaning upon his arm, and sinks upon a seat.]     Have not slow ages passed with crowding woes     Since we last met!    What have I not endured!     Oh, Juan, save me!     DON JOHN.          Dearest child, be calm.     Thou art strangely overwrought.    Speak not.    Await     Till this wild fear be past.     MARIA.          How great you are!     Your simple presence stills and comforts me.     While you are here, the one thing real to me     In all the universe is love.     DON JOHN.          And yet     My love is here, if I be far or nigh.     Is this the spirit of a soldier's wife?     Nay, fiery courage, iron fortitude,     That soul must own that dares to say, "I love."     MARIA.     And I dare say it.    I can bear the worst     That envious fate may heap upon my head,     If thou art with me, or for hope of thee.     DON JOHN.     Art sure of that?    Thou couldst not part from me,     Even for thy father's sake?     MARIA.          Talk you of parting?     For God's sake, what is this?    You love no more?     DON JOHN.     Rather I love so truly that I shrink     From asking thee to share a soldier's fate.     I tremble to uproot so fine a flower     From its dear native earth.    I -     MARIA (putting her hand on his lips).          Hush, no more!     I need no preparation more than this,     Your mere request.     DON JOHN.          There spake my heroine.     The King, my father, bids me to repair     Unto Palermo.     MARIA.          Shall we sail to-night?     DON JOHN.     My Princess!    Thou recoilest not from all     Thou must endure, ere I can openly     Claim thee my wife!     MARIA.          The pangs of purgatory     Were lightly borne with such a heaven in view.     I were content with one brief hour a day,     Snatched from the toils of war and thy high duties,     To gaze on thy dear face - to feel thy hand,     Even as now a stay and a caress.     DON JOHN.     Angel, I have no thanks.    May God forget me     When I forget this hour!    So, thou art firm -     Ready this night to leave thy home, thy kin,     Thy father?     MARIA (solemnly).          I am ready and resolved.     Yet judge me not so lightly as to deem     I say this with no pang.    My love were naught,     Could I withdraw it painlessly at once     From him round whose colossal strength the tendrils     Of mine own baby heart were taught to twine.     I speak not now as one who swerves or shrinks,     But merely, dear, to show thee what sharp tortures     I, nowise blind, but with deliberate soul,     Embrace for thee.     DON JOHN.          How can I doubt the anguish     So rude a snapping of all ties must smite     Thy tender heart withal?    Yet, dwell we not     On the brief pain, but on the enduring joys.     If Ribera's love be all thou deemest,     He will forgive thy secret flight, thy -     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.]     RIBERA (begins pacing the stage).         What fond fears are these     Mastering my spirit?    Since her mother died     I tremble at the name of pain or ill.     How can my rude love tend, my hard hand soothe,     The dear child's fragile -     [A confused cry without.]          What is that?    My God!     How hast thou stricken me!     [He staggers and falls into a chair.    Enter hastily FIAMETTA, weeping, and LUCA with gestures of terror and distress.]     FIAMETTA.          Master!     LUCA.          Dear master!     [RIBERA rises with a great effort and confronts them.]     RIBERA.     What is it?    Speak!     LUCA.          Dear master, she is gone.     RIBERA.     How?    Murdered - dead?    Oh, cruel God!    Away!     Follow me not!     [Exit RIBERA.]     FIAMETTA.          Help, all ye saints of heaven.     Have pity on him!    Oh, what a day is this!     LUCA.     Quiet, Fiametta.    When the master finds     The empty, untouched bed, the silent room,     His wits will leave him.    Hark! was that his cry?         Reenter RIBERA calling.     Maria! Daughter! Where have they taken thee,     My only one, my darling?    Oh, the brigands!     Naples shall bleed for this.    What do ye here,     Slaves, fools, who stare upon me?    Know ye not     I have been robbed?    Hence!    Ransack every house     From cave to roof in Naples.    Search all streets.     Arrest whomso ye meet.    Let no sail stir     From out the harbor.    Ring the alarum!    Quick!     This is a general woe.     [Exeunt LUCA and FIAMETTA.]          The Duke's my friend;     He'll further me.    The Prince - oh, hideous fear! -     No, no, I will not dream it.    Mine enemies     Have done this thing; the avengers of that beggar -     Domenichino - they have struck home at last.     How was it that I heard no sound, no cry,     Throughout the night?    The heavens themselves conspired     Against me - the hoarse thunder drowned her shrieks!     Oh, agony!     [He buries his face in his hands.    Enter ANNICCA; she throws herself speechless and weeping upon his neck.]          Thou knowest it, Annicca!     The thief has entered in the night - she's gone.     I stand and weep; I stir not hand or foot.     Is not the household roused?    Do they not seek her?     I am helpless, weak; an old man overnight.     The brigands' work was easy.    I heard naught.     But surely, surely, had they murdered her,     I had heard that - that would have wakened me     From out my grave.     ANNICCA.          Father, she is not dead.     RIBERA (wildly).     Where have they found her?    What dost thou know?    Speak, speak,     Ere my heart break!     ANNICCA.          Alas! they have not found her;     But that were easy.    Nerve thyself - remember     Thou art the Spagnoletto still.    Last night     Don John fled secretly from Naples.     RIBERA.          Ah!     Give me a draft of water.     [He sinks down on his chair.]     ANNICCA (calling).          Help, Tommaso!     Luca! Fiametta! Father, lookup, look up!     Gaze not so hollowly.         Enter DON TOMMASO and SERVANTS.          Quick! water, water!     Do ye not see he swoons?     [She kneels before her father, chafing and kissing his hands. Exit LUCA, who returns immediately with a silver flagon of water. ANNICCA seizes it and raises it to RIVERA'S lips.    He takes it from her hand and drinks.]     RIBERA.          How your hand trembles!     See, mine is firm.    You had spilt it o'er my beard     Had I not saved it.    Thanks.    I am strong again.     I am very old for such a steady grasp.     Why, girl, most men as hoary as thy father     Are long since palsied.    But my firm touch comes     From handling of the brush.    I am a painter,     The Spagnoletto -     [As he speaks his name he suddenly throws off his apathy, rises to his full height, and casts the flagon to the ground.]          Ah, the Spagnoletto,     Disgraced, abandoned!    My exalted name     The laughing-stock of churls; my hearthstone stamped     With everlasting shame; my pride, my fame,     Mine honor - where are they?    With yon spilt water,     Fouled in the dust, sucked by the thirsty air.     Now, by Christ's blood, my vengeance shall be huge     As mine affront.    I will demand full justice     From Philip.    We will treat as King with King.     HE shall be stripped of rank and name and wealth,     Degraded, lopped from off the fellowship     Of Christians like a rotten limb, proclaimed     The bastard that he is.    She shall go with him,     Linked in a common infamy, haled round,     A female Judas, who betrayed her father,     Her God, her conscience, with a kiss.    Her shadow     Shall be my curse.    Cursed be her sleep by night,     Accursed her light by day - her meat and drink!     Accursed the fruit of her own womb - the grave     Where she will lie!    Cursed -    Oh, my child, my child!     [He throws himself on the floor and buries his head among the cushions of the couch.    DON TOMMASO advances and lays his hand on RIBERA'S shoulder.]     DON TOMMASO.     Mine honored sir -     RIBERA (looks up without rising).          Surely you mock me, signor.     Honored!    Yes, honored with a rifled home,     A desecrated heart, a strumpet child.     For honors such as these, I have not stinted     Sweat, blood, or spirit through long years of toil.     I have passed through peril scathless; I was spared     When Naples was plague-stricken; I have 'scaped     Mine enemies' stiletto - fire and flood;     I have survived my love, my youth, my self,     My thrice-blest Leonora, whom I pitied,     Fool that I was! in her void, silent tomb.     The God of mercy hath reserved me truly     For a wise purpose.     ANNICCA.          Father, rise; take courage;     We know not yet the end.     RIBERA.          Why should I rise     To front the level eyes of men's contempt?     Oh, I am shamed!    Cover my head, Annicca;     Darken mine eyes, and veil my face.    Oh, God,     Would that I were a nameless, obscure man,     So could I bury with me my disgrace,     That now must be immortal.    Where thou standest,     Annicca, there she stood last night.    She kissed me;     Round mine old neck she wreathed her soft, young arms.     My wrinkled cheeks were wet with her warm tears.     She shuddered, and I thought it was the thunder     Struck terror through her soul.    White-bearded fool!     FIAMETTA.     I found this scrip upon the chamber-floor,     Mayhap it brings some comfort.     RIBERA (starts up and snatches the paper she offers him, reads it rapidly, then to ANNICCA wildly).          Look, look there -     'T is writ in blood: "My duty to my lord     Forbids my telling you our present port."     I would track her down with sleuth-hounds, did I not     Abhor to see her face.    Ah, press thy hands     Against my head - my brain is like to burst -     My throat is choked.    Help! help!     [He swoons.]     SCENE IV.         A street.    Enter LORENZO and a GENTLEMAN, meeting.    They salute, and LORENZO is about to pass on.     LORENZO.     Good-morning, sir.     GENTLEMAN.          Hail and farewell so soon,     Friend dreamer?    I will lay a goodly sum     The news that flies like fire from tongue to tongue     Hath not yet warmed thine ear.     LORENZO.          What's that?    I lay     A sum as fair thy news is some dry tale     Of courtly gossip, touching me as nigh     As the dissensions of the antipodes.     GENTLEMAN.     Done for a hundred florins!    In the night,     'Midst the wild storm whose roar must have invaded     Even thy leaden sleep, Prince John left Naples.     We should have had a pageant here to-day,     A royal exit, floral arches thrown     From house to house in all the streets he passed,     Music and guard of honor, homage fitting     The son of Philip - but the bird has flown.     LORENZO.     So!    I regret our busy citizens,     Who sun themselves day-long upon the quays,     Should be deprived of such a festival.     Your wager's lost - how am I moved by this?     GENTLEMAN.     Hark to the end.    'T would move all men whose veins     Flow not clear water.    He hath carried off     The Rose of Naples.     LORENZO.          What wouldst thou say?    Speak out!     In God's name, who hath followed him?     GENTLEMAN.          Ah, thou'rt roused.     Thy master hath been robbed - the Spagnoletto -     Maria of the Golden Locks - his daughter.     LORENZO.     How is this known?    'T is a foul slander forged     By desperate malice.    What! in the night, you say? -     She whose bright name was clean as gold, whose heart     Shone a fixed star of loyal love and duty     Beside her father's glory!    This coarse lie     Denies itself.    I will go seek the master,     And if this very noon she walk not forth,     Led by the Spagnoletto, through the streets,     To blind the dazed eyes of her slanderers, -     I am your debtor for a hundred florins.     GENTLEMAN.     Your faith in womanhood becomes you, sir.     (Aside.) A beggar's child the mistress of a Prince;     Humph! there be some might think the weight of scandal     Lay on the other side.    (To Lorenzo.) You need not forth     To seek her father.    See, he comes, alone.     I will not meddle in the broil.    Farewell!     [Exit Gentleman.]         Enter RIBERA, without hat or mantle, slowly, with folded arms and bent head.     LORENZO.     Oh heart, break not for pity!    Shall he thus     Unto all Naples blazon his disgrace?     This must not be (advancing).    Father!     RIBERA (starts and looks up sharply).          Who calls me father?     LORENZO.     Why, master, I - you know me not?    Lorenzo.     RIBERA.     Nor do I care to know thee.    Thou must be     An arrant coward, thus to league with foes     Against so poor a wretch as I - to call me     By the most curst, despised, unhallowed name     God's creatures can own.    Away! and let me pass;     I injure no man.     LORENZO.          Look at me, dear master.     Your head is bare, your face is ashy pale,     The sun is fierce.    I am your friend, your pupil;     Let me but guide my reverend master home,     In token of the grateful memory     Wherein I hold his guidance of my mind     Up the steep paths of art.     [While LORENZO speaks, RIBERA slowly gains consciousness of his situation, raises his hand to his head and shudders violently. LORENZO'S last words seem to awaken him thoroughly.]     RIBERA.          I crave your pardon     If I have answered roughly, Sir Lorenzo.     My thoughts were far away - I failed to know you -     I have had trouble, sir.    You do remind me,     I had forgot my hat; that is a trifle,     Yet now I feel the loss.    What slaves are we     To circumstance!    One who is wont to cover     For fashion or for warmth his pate, goes forth     Bareheaded, and the sun will seem to smite     The shrinking spot, the breeze will make him shiver,     And yet our hatless beggars heed them not.     We are the fools of habit.         Enter two gentlemen together as promenading; they cross the stage, looking hard at RIBERA and LORENZO, and exeunt.     LORENZO.          Pray you, sir     Let me conduct you home.    Here is no place     To hold discourse.    In God's name, come with me.     RIBERA.     What coupled staring fools were they that passed?     They seemed to scare thee.    Why, boy, face them out.     I am the shadow of the Spagnoletto,     Else had I brooked no gaze so insolent.     Well, I will go with thee.    But, hark thee, lad;     A word first in thine ear.    'T is a grim secret;     Whisper it not in Naples; I but tell thee,     Lest thou should fancy I had lost my wits.     My daughter hath deserted me - hath fled     From Naples with a bastard.    Thou hast seen her,     Maria-Rosa - thou must remember her;     She, whom I painted as Madonna once.     She had fair hair and Spanish eyes.    When was it?     I came forth thinking I might meet with her     And find all this a dream - a foolish thought!     I am very weary.    (Yawning.)    I have walked and walked     For hours.    How far, sir, stand we from the Strada     Nardo?    I live there, nigh Saint Francis' church.     LORENZO.     Why, 't is hard by; a stone's throw from this square.     So, lean on me - you are not well.    This way.     Pluck up good heart, sir; we shall soon be there.     [Exeunt.]     SCENE V.         Night.    A Room in RIBERA'S House.    ANNICCA seated alone, in an attitude of extreme weariness and despondency.     ANNICCA.     His heavy sleep still lasts.    Despite the words     Of the physician, I can cast not off     That ghastly fear.    Albeit he owned no drugs,     This deathlike slumber, this deep breathing slow,     His livid pallor makes me dread each moment     His weary pulse will cease.    This is the end,     And from the first I knew it.    The worst evil     My warning tongue had wrought were joy to this.     No heavier curse could I invoke on her     Than that she see him in her dreams, her thoughts,     As he is now.    I could no longer bear it;     I have fled hither from his couch to breathe -     To quicken my spent courage for the end.     I cannot pray - my heart is full of curses.     He sleeps; he rests.    What better could I wish     For his rent heart, his stunned, unbalanced brain,     Than sleep to be eternally prolonged?         Enter FIAMETTA.    ANNICCA looks up anxiously, half rising.     ANNICCA.     How now?    What news?     FIAMETTA.          The master is awake     And calls for you, signora.     ANNICCA.     Heaven be praised!     [Exit hastily.]     FIAMETTA.     Would I had followed my young mistress!    Here     I creep about like a scared, guilty thing,     And fancy at each moment they will guess     'T was I who led her to the hut.    I will confess,     If any sin there be, to Father Clement,     And buy indulgence with her golden chain.     'T would burn my throat, the master's rolling eyes     Would haunt me ever, if I went to wear it.     So, all will yet be well.     [Exit.]     SCENE VI.         RIBERA'S Room.    RIBERA discovered sitting on the couch. He looks old and haggard, but has regained his natural bearing and expression.    Enter ANNICCA.    She hastens towards him, and kneels beside the couch, kissing him affectionately.     ANNICCA.     Father, you called me?     RIBERA.          Aye, to bid good-night.     Why do you kiss me?    To betray to-morrow?     ANNICCA.     Dear father, you are better; you have slept.     Are you not rested?     RIBERA.          Child, I was not weary.     There was some cloud pressed here (pointing to his forehead) but that is past,     I have no pain nor any sense of ill.     Now, while my brain is clear, I have a word     To speak.    I think not I have been to thee,     Nor to that other one, an unkind father.     I do not now remember any act,     Or any word of mine, could cause thee grief.     But I am old - perchance my memory     Deceives in this?    Speak!    Am I right, Annicca?     ANNICCA (weeping).     Oh, father, father, why will you torture me?     You were too good, too good.     RIBERA.          Why, so I thought.     Since it appears the guerdon of such goodness     Is treachery, abandonment, disgrace,     I here renounce my fatherhood.    No child     Will I acknowledge mine.    Thou art a wife;     Thy duty is thy husband's.    When Antonio     Returns from Seville, tell him that his father     Is long since dead.    Henceforward I will own     No kin, no home, no tie.    I will away,     To-morrow morn, and live an anchorite.     One thing ye cannot rob me of - my work.     My name shall still outsoar these low, mirk vapors -     Not the Ribera, stained with sin and shame,     As she hath left it, but the Spagnoletto.     My glory is mine own.    I have done with it,     But I bequeath it to my country.    Now     I will make friends with beasts - they'll prove less savage     Than she that was my daughter.    I have spoken     For the last time that word.    Thee I curse not;     Thou hast not set thy heel upon my heart;     But yet I will not bless thee.    Go.    Good-night.     ANNICCA (embracing him).     What! will you spurn me thus?    Nay, I will bide,     And be to thee all that she should have been,     Soothe thy declining years, and heal the wound     Of this sharp sorrow.    Thou shalt bless me still,     Father -     [RIBERA has yielded for a moment to her embrace; but, suddenly     rising, he pushes her roughly from him.]     RIBERA.     Away!    I know thee.    Thou art one     With her who duped me with like words last night.     Then I believed; but now my sense is closed,     My heart is dead as stone.    I cast thee forth.     By heaven, I own thee not!    Thou dost forget     I am the Spagnoletto.    Away, I say,     Or ere I strike thee.     [He threatens her.]     ANNICCA.         Woe is me!    Help, help!     [Exit.]     RIBERA.     So, the last link is snapt.    Had I not steeled     My heart, I fain had kissed her farewell.     'T is better so.    I leave my work unfinished.     Could I arise each day to face this spectre,     Or sleep with it at night? - to yearn for her     Even while I curse her?    No!    The dead remain     Sacred and sweet in our remembrance still;     They seem not to have left us; they abide     And linger nigh us in the viewless air.     The fallen, the guilty, must be rooted out     From heart and thought and memory.    With them     No hope of blest reunion; they must be     As though they had not been; their spoken name     Cuts like a knife.    When I essay to think     Of what hath passed to-day, my sick brain reels.     The letter I remember, but all since     Floats in a mist of horror, and I grasp     No actual form.    Did I not wander forth?     A mob surrounded me.    All Naples knew     My downfall, and the street was paved with eyes     That stared into my soul.    Then friendly hands     Guided me hither.    When I woke, I felt     As though a stone had rolled from off my brain.     But still this nightmare bides the truth.    I know     They watch me, they suspect me.    I will wait     Till the whole household sleep, and then steal forth,     Nor unavenged return.     ACT V.     SCENE I.         A Room in DON TOMMASO'S House.    ANNICCA discovered, attired in mourning.    Enter DON TOMMASO.     DON TOMMASO.     If he still live, now shall we hear of him.     The news I learn will lure him from his covert,     Where'er it lie, to pardon or avenge.     ANNICCA (eagerly).     What news?    What cheer, Tommaso?     DON TOMMASO.          Meagre cheer,     But tidings that break through our slow suspense,     Like the first thunder-clap in sultry air.     Don John sets sail from Sicily, to wed     A Princess chosen by the King.    Maria -     ANNICCA.     Talk not of her - I know her not; her name     Will sear thy tongue.    Think'st thou, in truth this news     Will draw my father from his hiding-place?     No - teach me not to hope.    Within my heart     A sure voice tells me he is dead.    Not his     The spirit to drag out a shameful life,     To shrink from honest eyes, to sink his brow     Unto the dust, here where he wore his crown.     Thou knowest him.    Have I not cause to mourn     Uncomforted, that he, the first of fathers,     Self-murdered - nay, child-murdered - Oh, Tommaso,     I would fare barefoot to the ends of the earth     To look again upon his living face,     See in his eyes the light of love restored -     Not blasting me with lightnings as before -     To kneel to him, to solace him, to win     For mine own head, yoked in my sister's curse     The blessing he refused me.     DON TOMMASO.          Well, take comfort;     This grace may yet be thine.     SCENE II.         Palermo.    A Nunnery.    Enter ABBESS, followed by a Lay-Sister.     ABBESS.     Is the poor creature roused?     LAY-SISTER.          Nay, she still sleeps.     'T would break your pious heart to see her, mother.     She begged our meanest cell, though 't is past doubt     She has been bred to delicate luxury.     I deemed her spent, had not the soft breast heaved     As gently as a babe's and even in dreams     Two crystal drops oozed from her swollen lids,     And trickled down her cheeks.    Her grief sleeps not,     Although the fragile body craves its rest.     ABBESS.     Poor child!    I fear she hath sore need of prayer.     Hath she yet spoken?     LAY-SISTER.          Only such scant words     Of thanks or answer as our proffered service     Or questionings demand.    When we are silent,     Even if she wake, she seemeth unaware     Of any presence.    She will sit and wail,     Rocking upon the ground, with dull, wide eyes,     Wherefrom the streaming tears unceasing course;     The only sound that then escapes her lips     Is, "Father, Father!" in such piteous strain     As though her rent heart bled to utter it.     ABBESS.     Still she abides then by her first request     To take the black veil and its vows to-morrow?     LAY-SISTER.     Yea, to that purpose desperately she clings.     This evening, if she rouse, she makes confession.     Even now a holy friar waits without,     Fra Bruno, of the order of Carthusians,     Beyond Palermo.     ABBESS.          I will speak with him,     Ere he confess her, since we know him not.     Follow me, child, and see if she have waked.     [Exeunt.]     SCENE III.         A Cell in the Nunnery.    MARIA discovered asleep on a straw pallet.    She starts suddenly from her sleep with a little cry, half rises and remains seated on her pallet.     MARIA.     Oh, that wild dream!    My weary bones still ache     With the fierce pain; they wrenched me limb from limb.     Thou hadst full cause, my father.    But thou, Juan,     What was my sin to thee, save too much love?     Oh, would to God my back were crooked with age,     My smooth cheek seamed with wrinkles, my bright hair     Hoary with years, and my quick blood impeded     By sluggish torpor, so were I near the end     Of woes that seem eternal!    I am strong -     Death will not rescue me.    Within my veins     I feel the vigorous pulses of young life,     Refusing my release.    My heart at times     Rebels against the habit of despair,     And, ere I am aware, has wandered back,     Among forbidden paths.    What prayer, what penance,     Will shrive me clean before the sight of heaven?     My hands are black with parricide.    Why else     Should his dead face arise three nights before me,     Bleached, ghastly, dripping as of one that's drowned,     To freeze my heart with horror?    Christ, have mercy!     [She covers her face with her hands in an agony of despair.]         Enter a MONK.     THE MONK.     May peace be in this place!     [MARIA shudders violently at the sound of his voice; looks up and sees the MONK with bent head, and hands partially extended, as one who invokes a blessing.    She rises, falls at his feet, and takes the hem of his skirt between her hands, pressing it to he lips.]     MARIA.         Welcome, thrice welcome!     Bid me not rise, nor bless me with pure hands.     Ask not to see my face.    Here let me lie,     Kissing the dust - a cast-away, a trait'ress,     A murderess, a parricide!     MONK.          Accursed     With all Hell's curses is the crime thou nam'st!     What devil moved thee?    Who and whence art thou,     That wear'st the form of woman, though thou lack'st     The heart of the she-wolf?    Who was thy parent,     What fiend of torture, that thine impious hands     Should quench the living source of thine own life?     MARIA.     Spare me! oh, spare me!    Nay, my hands are clean.     He was the first, best, noblest among men.     I was his light, his soul, his breath of life.     These I withdrew from him, and made his days     A darkness.    Yet, perchance he is not dead,     And blood and tears may wash away my guilt.     Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far -     One solitary ray, one steadfast spark,     Beyond a million years of purgatory!     My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balm     Of comfortable grace.    One word, one word,     Or ere I perish of despair!     MONK.          What word?     The one wherewith thou bad'st thy father hope?     What though he be not dead?    Is breathing life?     Hast thou not murdered him in spirit? dealt     The death-blow to his heart?    Cheat not thy soul     With empty dreams - thy God hath judged ye guilty!     MARIA.     Have pity, father!    Let me tell thee all.     Thou, cloistered, holy and austere, know'st not     My glittering temptations.    My betrayer     Was of an angel's aspect.    His were all gifts,     All grace, all seeming virtue.    I was plunged,     Deaf, dumb, and blind, and hand-bound in the deep.     If a poor drowning creature craved thine aid,     Thou wouldst not spurn it.    Such a one am I,     And all the waves roll over me.    Wrest me from my doom!     Say not that I am lost!     MONK.          I can but say     What the just Spirit prompts.    Myself am naught     To pardon or condemn.    The sin is sinned;     The fruit forbid is tasted, yea, and pressed     Of its last honeyed juices. Wilt thou now     Escape the after-bitterness with prayers,     Scourgings, and wringings of the hands?    Shall these     Undo what has been done? - make whole the heart     Thy crime hath snapt in twain? - restore the wits     Thy sin hath scattered?    No!    Thy punishment     Is huge as thine offence.    Death shall not help,     Neither shall pious life wash out the stain.     Living thou'rt doomed, and dead, thou shalt be lost,     Beyond salvation.     MARIA (springing to her feet).          Impious priest, thou liest!     God will have mercy - as my father would,     Could he but see me in mine agony!     [The MONK throws back his cowl and discovers himself as the SPAGNOLETTO.    MARIA utters a piercing cry and throws herself speechless at his feet.]     RIBERA.     Thou know'st me not.    I am not what I was.     My outward shape remains unchanged; these eyes,     Now gloating on thine anguish, are the same     That wept to see a shadow cross thy brow;     These ears, that drink the music of thy groans,     Shrank from thy lightest sigh of melancholy.     Thou think'st to find the father in me still?     Thy parricidal hands have murdered him -     Thou shalt not find a man.    I am the spirit     Of blind revenge - a brute, unswerving force.     What deemest thou hath bound me unto life?     Ambition, pleasure, or the sense of fear?     What, but the sure hope of this fierce, glad hour,     That I might track thee down to this - might see     Thy tortured body writhe beneath my feet,     And blast thy stricken spirit with my curse?     MARIA (in a crushed voice).     Have mercy! mercy!     RIBERA.          Yes, I will have mercy -     The mercy of the tiger or the wolf,     Athirst for blood.     MARIA (terror-struck, rises upon her knees in an attitude of supplication.    RIBERA averts his face).          Oh, father, kill me not!     Turn not away - I am not changed for thee!     In God's name, look at me - thy child, thine own!     Spare me, oh, spare me, till I win of Heaven     Some sign of promise!    I am lost forever     If I die now.     RIBERA (looks at her in silence, then pushing her from him laughs bitterly).          Nay, have no fear of me.     I would not do thee that much grace to ease thee     Of the gross burden of the flesh.    Behold,     Thou shalt be cursed with weary length of days;     And when thou seek'st to purge thy guilty heart,     Thou shalt find there a sin no prayer may shrive -     The murder of thy father.    To all dreams     That haunt thee of past anguish, shall be added     The vision of this horror!     [He draws from his girdle a dagger and stabs himself to the heart; he falls and dies, and MARIA flings herself, swooning upon his body.]