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.] SCENE II. A room in DON TOMMASO'S HOUSE. DON TOMMASO and ANNICCA. DON TOMMASO. Truly, you wrong your sister; she is young, Heedless, and wilful, that is all; a touch Of the Ribera's spirit fired the lass. Don John was but her weapon of revenge Against the malice of our haughty matrons, Who hurled this icy shafts of scorn from heights Of dignity upon the artist's daughter. ANNICCA. I cannot think with you. In her demeanor, Her kindled cheek, her melting eye, was more Than sly revenge or cautious policy. If that was art, it overreached itself. Ere the night ended, I had blushed to see Slighting regards cast on my father's child, And hear her name and his tossed lightly round. DON TOMMASO. Could you not read in such disparagement The envy of small natures? ANNICCA. I had as lief Maria were to dance the tarantella Upon the quay at noonday, as to see her Gazed at again with such insulting homage. DON TOMMASO. You are too strict; your baseless apprehensions Wrong her far more than strangers' jests. ANNICCA. Not so; My timely fears prevent a greater ill And work no harm, since they shall be imparted Only to him who hath the power to quell them, Dissolving them to air--my father. DON TOMMASO. How! You surely will not rouse his fatal wrath? Annicca, listen: if your doubts were true, He whose fierce love guards her with sleepless eyes, More like the passion of some wild, dumb creature, With prowling jealousy and deadly spring, Forth leaping at the first approach of ill, Than the calm tenderness of human fathers; He surely had been keen to scent the danger. I saw him at the ball--as is his wont, He mingled not among the revellers, But like her shadow played the spy on her. ANNICCA. A word would stir less deeply than you dread.