DON JOHN. 'T is much to me, Whose privilege has been in this rare hour, Beneath the master to discern the man, And thus add friendship unto admiration. [He presses RIBERA'S hand and is about to pick up his mantle and hat. LUCA springs forward, and, while he is throwing the cloak around the Princes's shoulders, enter hastily MARIA, enveloped in her mantilla, as she went to church.] MARIA. Well, father, an I veiled and swathed to suit you, To cross the Strada? [She throws off her mantilla and appears all in white. She goes to embrace her father, when she suddenly perceives the Prince, and stands speechless and blushing.] RIBERA. Child, his Royal Highness Prince John of Austria. DON JOHN. Good-day, signora. Already twice my gracious stars have smiled. I saw you in the street. You wore your mantle, As the noon sun might wear a veil of cloud, Covering, but not concealing. MARIA. I, sir, twice Have unaware stood in your royal presence. You are welcome to my father's home and mine. I scarce need crave your pardon for my entrance; Yourself must see how well assured I felt My father was alone. DON JOHN. And so you hoped To find him--shall I read your answer thus? RIBERA. Nay, press her not. Your Highness does her wrong, So harshly to construe her simpleness. My daughter and myself are one, and both Will own an equal pleasure if you bide. DON JOHN (seating himself). You chain me with kind words. MARIA. My father, sir, Hath surely told you our delight and marvel At the enchantments of your feast. For me The night was brief, rich, beautiful, and strange As a bright dream. DON JOHN. I will gainsay you not. A beauteous soul can shed her proper glory On mean surroundings. I have likewise dreamed, Nor am I yet awake. This morn hath been A feast for mind and eye. Yon shepherd-prince, Whom angels visit in his sleep, shall crown Your father's brow with a still fresher laurel, And link in equal fame the Spanish artist With the Lord's chosen prophet. RIBERA. That may be, For in the form of that wayfarer I drew myself. So have I slept beneath The naked heavens, pillowed by a stone, With no more shelter than the wind-stirred branches, While the thick dews of our Valencian nights Drenched my rude weeds, and chilled through blood and bone. Yet to me also were the heavens revealed, And angels visited my dreams. DON JOHN. How strange That you, dear masters, standing on the crown Of a long life's continuous ascent, Should backward glance unto such dark beginnings.