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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sion, 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 m.u.f.fled. What was this-- This tell-tale auburn curl that rippled down Over the black mantilla? Were I harsh, Suspicious, jealous, fearful, p.r.o.ne 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 pa.s.s? Whom have you spoken with?