RIBERA.
Well, it may pass ; but henceforth say thy matins
In thine own room. I know not 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.
