s.
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,
A