Chapter 4

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.]