As in a picture. 'T was the master's hand,
I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art,
Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearls
Within her odd, bright hair.
[They pass on.]
DON JOHN.
Now hope, now fear
Reigned lord of my wild dreams. One name still sang
Like the repeated strain of some caged bird,
Its sweet, persistent music through my brain.
One vanishing face upon the empty air
Shone forth and faded night and day. And you,
Did you not find me hasty, over-bold?
Nay, tell me all your thought.
MARIA.
You know, my lord,
I am no courtier, and belike my thought
Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.
DON JOHN.
Speak on, speak on!
Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing
Rebeck and mandoline.
MARIA.
Is it not strange?
I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed,
If only from the simple garb of black,
And golden collar, 'midst the motley hues
Of our gay nobles. I know not what besides,
But this first won me. Be not angered, sir;
But, as I looked, I never ranked you higher
Than simple gentleman. I asked your name;
Then, when you Highness stooped to pick my flower,
My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor,
For it had fain discrowned you.
DON JOHN.
May God's angels
Reward such treason. Say me those words again.
Let the rich blush born of that dear confession
Again dye cheek and brow, and fade and melt
Forever, even as then.
MARIA.
We are watched, my lord.
This is no place, no hour, for words like these.
DON JOHN.
When, where then, may we meet?
[They pass on.]
SCENE II.
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 rep
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