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 gra.s.s, And left it sere. Why should his harsh words touch me?

The truth of yesterday is false to-day.

How could I know, dear G.o.d! 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 h.e.l.l is theirs Who suffer without hope! Even I, who hold So many dear a.s.surances, 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 n.o.ble love, forsooth! A blind, brute pa.s.sion, 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 G.o.d.

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 grat.i.tude 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.