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 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.
