for his work;
Thus he, through gratitude and--love, hath watched
All night within our garden, while I danced;
And when I came to nurse my flowers--he spake.

RIBERA.
And you?

MARIA.
Am I not still beside you, father?
I will not leave you.

RIBERA.
Ah, mine angel-child!
I cannot choose but dread it, though I wait
Expectant of the hour when you fulfil
Your woman's destiny. You have full freedom;
Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank thee
For thy brave truthfulness. Be ever thus,
Withholding naught from him whose heart reflects
Only thine image. Thou art still my pride,
Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way,
Thy bearing equal in disdainful grace
To his who courted thee--thy sovereign's son.

MARIA.
Yea, so? And yet it was not pride I felt,
Nor consciousness of self, nor vain delight
In the world's envy;--something more than these,
Far deeper, sweeter--What have I said? My brain
Is dull with sleep. 'T is only now I feel
The weariness of so much pleasure.

RIBERA (rising).
Well,
Go we within. Yes, I am late to work;
We squander precious moments. Thou, go rest,
And waken with fresh roses in they cheeks,
To greet our royal guest.
[Exeunt.]

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA before his canvas. LUCA
in attendance.

RIBERA (laying aside his brush).
So! I am weary. Luca, what 's o'clock?

LUCA.
My lord, an hour past noon.

RIBERA.
So late already!
Well, one more morning of such delicate toil
Will make it ready for Madrid, and worthy
Not merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glance
Outvalues a king's gaze, my noble friend
Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.
Luca!

LUCA.
My lord.

RIBERA.
Hath the signora risen?

LUCA.
Fiametta passed a brief while since, and left
My lady sleeping.

RIBERA.
Good! she hath found rest;
Poor child, she sadly lacked it. She had known
'Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion;
Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine;
Her soft brow burned my lips. Could that boy read
The tokens of an overwearied spirit,