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.]

THE END